During our first week in the trenches, seven of us made a pact, when we died we’d each put in a good word for the others in heaven.
We reasoned that given the sheer number of people dying in this bloody war, heaven would soon fill up, and the last of us to die would struggle to get in, unless our friends had put in a good word for us.
So, the first of us to die would do everything they could to plug the merits of the other six.
It seems a long time ago now that we made that pact. That first week we thought we’d seen a lot of death, but it was nothing to what we’d see.
One by one my comrades fell, and I survived well into the war, in fact against all odds, it was only in the final months that I succumbed to the inevitable.
When I arrived in heaved, I didn’t believe the sight that awaited me. There was bunting, balloons and tinsel, every one was lined up waving banners welcoming me to heaven, angels, popes, presidents, plebs and professors.
Saint Peter was there to shake my hand, and god had prepared a special welcome speech.
Well, I’m not actually dead yet, but the other six are, so this is what I’m expecting, after all they’ve all had a lot of time to put in a word for me. Frankly, I’d be disappointed with anything else.