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The Trench. I awoke to the harsh wail of the sirens. I rolled over and swallowed a vile mouthful of muddy liquid. Bombs echoed deafeningly through the cold morning dawn, battered shells zooming overhead. I struggled to my feet, coughing as I forced air through my corrupted lungs. I walked slowly to the front line, savouring what I suspected would be the last hour of my life. Stretcher-bearers flashed past, men roughly flung on blood-stained canvass lengths between them, broken bodies lying limp from the ravages of war. The thought that I may soon be joining them sent a sharp chill down my spine. I was nearing the secondary trench, when, through the melee, I realised it had taken a direct hit from a shell, the trench's walls had virtually melted, its occupants were hardly distinguishable as their bodies, rather what was left of their bodies, lay bloodied and broken. A...

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