text: Soldier life is surprisingly boring. It's far from the rogue adventure you thought it would be. You hear the constant horror stories, of course. Horse-mounted calvary charges being cut down by machine gun fire in horrific massacres. Gas attacks releasing waves of poisonous chemicals, burning out lungs and brutally choking the life out of everyone there. Endless, hellish days of artillery raining down, sniper fire every moment striking down anyone they see, the worst nightmares come to life.
  
  After far too much training, you're finally sent out to fight. Unfortunately, there's a lot of patrolling and not a lot of actual combat. It's probably fortunate that you're kept out of war, kept safe, mostly left with patrolling and guarding trenches where miraculously, you aren't attacked once. The food is shit, the weather's awful, there's constant fear of diseases, and although you're safe, the role is just incredibly boring. Still, after about a year of boring work, you find yourself shipped to Turkey. It's not the Huns you were expecting, but the Ottomans are as important a part of the Central Powers as the Huns. You suppose in a way you're still protecting Belgium by hitting Germany's allies, although it feels more and more like you're just a pawn being used to battle the wars of an Empire rather than a real soldier fighting for a country's freedom.
  
  You find yourself walking along a muddy trench, a rifle in your hands as you creep forward. The trenches are filled with cold water and mud, enough of which has seeped into your boots that sepsis is a serious issue. The sound of machine gun fire and artillery shells is booming, as you move into the forward trench. Machine guns crackle around you, as you keep your head low. You've never even seen an enemy soldier, but according to your sergeant, you're to prepare for a charge soon enough.
  
  > talk to the other men around you
  "So, how are we feeling?" you grin, turning to your squad, trying to focus on that rather than the upcoming battle.
  
  "Tip fucking top," Private Macready, a young Donegal baker, grins, gently tapping his fingers against his rifle as he mentally prepares to fire it.
  
  "It's going to be a massacre. We shouldn't be here, man, we shouldn't fucking be here," Private Douglas, a Galway farmhand who, at his age, must've lied to get her, says. "We're going to get wiped out."
  
  "S-should we pray?" Private Whyte asks, the Cork man's pale hands fingering rosary beads that he runs through his hands.
  
  Fitzpatrick, a Dubliner like yourself, doesn't say a word, just gives a confident smirk.
  
  "We don't need prayer. We have the might of the British infantry," he says coolly.
  
  "Alright men! Listen up!" a voice roars, as an officer
  
  You stare at the officer, feeling envious. He won't be going over the trench with you. He'll be staying here, because his is the blood of officers and kings, not like you, a simple peasant from the countryside.
  
  "The Aussie's have diverted artillery fire, so we're going in solo! The Ottomans here haven't been trained, they're scared, they're nervous and if you smell the air, you can tell they've shit themselves at the thought of the Royal British Army coming over this trench! Who's ready?"
  
  There's a roar among the men, and the officer smiles.
  
  "Come on then, boys! For king! For country! For England! CHARGE!"
  
  The soldiers urge forward, and you grab the trench wall, pulling yourself over, heading straight into the thick of it.
  
  You find yourself transported into hell. You peer your head over the edge of the trench, staring out into the horrors of war. Barbed wire covers the muddy ground between the two trenches, covered in the scars of artillery strikes. Gas covers the battlefield, slowly spreading out like a yellow tide. Gunfire flashes from the enemy trench, and you watch as one of the charging men next to you explodes in a burst of crimson, writhing under the force of the bullets.
  
  "Charge! Charge!" the officer screams, as you rush forward. A soldier screams as he falls to the ground from a gut wound, as your men surge forward into the meat grinder.
  
  "It's a fucking massacre!" Fitzpatrick says, his cool facade breaking. "I don't...!"
  
  Fitzpatrick takes a bullet to the throat, as a huge, bleeding, gaping hole is blown through his neck. He collapses to the ground, bleeding to death in front of you.
  
  "Fitzpatrick!" you yell, before a soldier shoves you forward.
  
  "We can't stop, push forward!" the soldier screams.
  
  You look around, seeing a straight dash to the enemy trench, a path through the area the artillery is mainly striking and a partially covered path of barbed wire.
  
  Another hail of gunfire rips through the ranks of soldiers, as Douglas' leg is blown clean off. He falls to the ground, not even screaming, only staring at his leg in pure shock. You stand there, as the world goes silent, the bullets now just a gentle thudding in the back of your head. You stand there, staring at Douglas as the blood gushes out of his leg.
  
  After a brief moment, he begins to scream in horrific pain, bringing you back to reality. You look around frantically, seeing a straight dash to the enemy trench, a path through the area the artillery is mainly striking and a partially covered path of barbed wire. Douglas continues to sit on the ground, screaming.
  
  > sprint forward
  You charge forward alongside the main surge of men, as the bullets fly. You can't go back for Douglas, he won't survive his wounds. You need to stay with the mission, no matter what.
  
  The man next to you screams as a bullet slams into the man's arm, as another collapses as his legs are blown away. You think you see that it's Macready, although you can't slow down to tell.
  
  You keep pushing forward, legs hammering against the ground as fast as you can. Unfortunately, this is waves of fleshy bags up against machine guns. You don't stand a chance, and it's only a matter of time before one of the machine gunners targets you.
  
  A bullet slams into your leg as you collapse onto your knee with a scream. Another bullet slams into your chest, sending you falling backwards, before two more punch through your lungs. You scream as they begin to fill with blood, lying on the ground alongside the other men cut down alongside you. As the machine gun cuts through men like a butcher does to a freshly slaughtered pig, you close your eyes, your ears filled with the screams of those alongside you.