You are packed into a filthy trench in France along with thousands of your equally filthy mates. It has been three weeks since you had a hot meal, and a hot shower is something you can’t even remember clearly. You have lice, the skin is peeling off of your feet in sheets, and the rat you killed yesterday with your entrenching tool was as big as your mum’s housecat. Now word has filtered down that you are going over the top at dawn.
You huddle in the trench, clutching your rifle and jostled on all sides by lads who are comparably terrified. You run your hand over the familiar steel in the dark. The safety is on. The magazine cutoff is open. Despite the chill, the English walnut is slick with sweat.
You are packed into a filthy trench in France along with thousands of your equally…
by John Fasano / Jan 9, 2014