The church clock ringed the hour, its resonating tone resounding over the town. Out there dim smoke twisted over the hedgerows as the tank engine peaked the ascent from Dorset. As it drew closer viaduct, the engine driver gave a short blast on the shriek and began to slow the train to stop at the Stratton Halt. There was one and only traveler sitting tight for the 16:10 train to Yeovil. Captain Walter Boyle was coming back to his battalion in France, after a brief time of leave. He joined the Gloucestershire Regiment in 1914 and served bravely in some of the bloodiest battle of the war. Walter had lived an enchanted life yet he harbored a profound internal pain, as he lost two of his brothers in this war.
His elder brother Arthur Boyle was a subaltern in the Welch Regiment and had been killed in December 1914, he was eighteen months his senior. James Boyle, his youngest sibling was additionally in the Welch Regiment, had passed on subsequent to being shot by a sniper in March 1917, two months prior. He was nineteen years of age.
This had been an extremely traumatic and painful period for Walter Boyle and he had lost confidence in God. He despised the God for allowing this is to happen to him. A part of him was happy to be getting away from this torment by rejoining his regiment for what was hopefully being termed as the 'last big push'. Anyway, he had heard this before and knew the truth would be to a degree different. Actually, he covertly despaired the mass killing. The train gradually pulled far from Stratton Halt and his town vanished into the abyss as the train started to get speed. His train was held up for 10 minutes on the busy Yeovil Junction. He now had 35 minutes to wait for his train to Waterloo where he had planned to spend the night before proceeding with his excursion to Southampton the following day. He needed to visit his shirt maker in Jermyn Street before getting the early afternoon train.