The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

another to FRED at the door. FRED tries hungrily to bite it.

ROBBIE, still smoking his cigarette, offers a portion of bread to the dog. The dog sniffs the bread, looks at Robbie, turns away. Robbie takes off his shoes, peels back wet socks. His feet are muddy and blistered.

There is a sudden eruption of gunfire. DAVID’S eyes flash open. We see, through the doorway, the fireworks of battle on the horizon. The noise is terrific. The ragged explosions a contrast to Debussy’s music.

Looking back into the farmhouse, we see the faces of the three men, eyes wide, reflections exploding across their cheeks.

Finally, the guns fall silent and the bright light dies. Their faces are in shadow again. The record ceases playing.

FRED (still watching the distant battle field)

Poor buggers.

DAVID

They’ll be crawling over no-man’s-land now. Those that are left. Collecting the bodies.

FRED (shuddering)

Makes a man feel guilty. Not being there to help. And glad.

ROBBIE stands, walks to the doorway.

ROBBIE

I’ll take over. You’re tired.

FRED

No more or less than you. Can’t think you’ve slept in days; not since he (indicating DAVID) pulled you out of that trench. Still don’t know how you got out of there ali-

ROBBIE (quickly)

I’m fine.

FRED (shrugging)

All yours, mate.

FRED moves and sits by DAVID on the floor. He arranges one of the blankets over his legs, still hugging his gun to his chest. DAVID pulls a deck of cards from his bag.

DAVID

Come on, Fred. Quick game before you turn in?

FRED

Never could say no to a game. Keeps a fellow’s mind off things.

DAVID hands the deck to FRED. Indicates his own bandaged hand.

DAVID

Deal us up then.

FRED

What about him?

DAVID

Robbie doesn’t play. Doesn’t want to land the ace of spades.

FRED

What’s he got against the ace of spades?

DAVID (plainly)

Death card.

FRED begins to laugh, the trauma of the past weeks manifesting as a sort of hysteria.

FRED

Superstitious bastard! What’s he got against death?

All the world’s dead. God’s dead. Only him below left now. And the three of us.

ROBBIE is sitting in the doorway, looking out toward the front. The dog has crept over to lie by him.

ROBBIE (to himself, quoting William Blake)

We’re of the Devil’s party without knowing it.

FRED (overhearing)

We know it all right! A fellow only need set foot on this Godforsaken land to know the Devil’s running the show.

As DAVID and FRED continue to play cards, ROBBIE lights another cigarette and pulls a small notebook and pen from his pocket. As he writes, we see his memories of battle.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)

The world has gone mad. Horror has become ordinary. Men, women, children daily slaughtered. Left where they remain, or vaporised so that nothing remains. Not a hair, or a bone, or the button from a shirt… Civilisation is surely dead. For how can it now exist?

The sound of snoring. ROBBIE stops writing. The dog has moved his head onto ROBBIE’S leg and is fast asleep, eyelids quivering as he dreams.

We see ROBBIE’S face, lit by candle, as he watches the dog. Slowly, cautiously, ROBBIE extends a hand, lays it gently on the dog’s side. ROBBIE’S hand is trembling. He smiles faintly.

ROBBIE (VOICE-OVER)

And yet, amid the horror, the innocent still find solace in sleep.

EXT. DESERTED FARMHOUSE-MORNING

It is morning. Weak sunlight breaks through the clouds. The night’s rain clings in drops to the surrounding trees and the ground is thick with new mud. The birds have emerged from hiding and call to one another. The three SOLDIERS stand outside the farmhouse, kits on their backs.

DAVID holds a compass in the hand that is not bandaged. He looks up, points in the direction of the shellfire from the night before.

DAVID

Due east. Must be Passchendaele.

ROBBIE nods grimly. Squints toward the horizon.

ROBBIE

Then we head east.

They set off. The dog hurries after them.

Full Report of the Tragic Death of Capt. David Hartford

OCTOBER 1917

Dear Lord Ashbury,

It is my dreadful duty to inform you of the sad news of the death of your son, David. I understand that in such circumstances words do little to temper your sorrow and grief, but as your son’s immediate superior officer, and as one who knew and admired him, I want to extend to you my sincere sympathy for your tremendous loss.

I thought, also, to inform you of the brave circumstances of your son’s death, in the hopes that it might bring you and your family some consolation to know that he lived and died like a gentleman and a soldier. On the night he was killed, he commanded a group of men on a particularly vital piece of reconnaissance to locate the enemy.

I have been informed by the men who accompanied your son that between three and four o’clock, on the morning of 12 October, as they were returning from their mission,