text: [Themes: edutainment]
  
  "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.
  
  > head for the barbed wire
  You dive to the ground, crawling forward into a nestle of barbed wire. Bullets whistle overhead, but you keep your head pressed into the dirt, hoping they don't hit you. You reach out a hand, grabbing into the bud to try find a grip, before you crawl ahead, pulling yourself forward. Your boot catches on a strand of barbed wire ,the metal thorn cutting through your pants leg and slicing a long but thankfully shallow cut on your leg. Thanks to the adrenaline mixed with terror that has taken you, you move on, refusing to stop as you hurry on.
  
  You shake your boot free of the barb, moving forward until there's no path through the barbed wire ahead. You manage to crawl forward, looking around as you're shown a wide range around you.
  
  There's a straight dash forward to the enemy trench. If you're fast, and you have to be fast, you could make it. You could also skirt through spots of cover to avoid the machine gun fire, although it'll avoid narrowly being out of the artillery range and still at an obvious risk. You could also crawl amongst the dead and dying in order to keep cover and remain unnoticed, moving towards the trench.
  
  > sprint forward
  You quickly stumble forward, crawling ahead as you break into a sprint, charging forward as you quickly hurry towards the trench. Bullets flash around you, cutting down the few soldiers who burst forward along your side. 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 keep pushing forward, before you near the trench. Refusing to slow down, you continue to charge forward, swinging your rifle through the air as you dive towards the trench. With only one option, you prepare to dive into the trench.
  
  > Into the trench
  You rush forward, jumping into the ditch. You smack into the muddy wooden earth. Your rifle is held so tightly in your hands that that the knuckles have turned white. You slowly raise the rifle, aiming it down the trench as you take a deep breath. Thankfully, the trench's zigzagging pattern means that you can't see ahead.
  
  Suddenly, a dark-skinned Ottoman solider arrives, charging down the hallway. He wears an olive uniform stained with mud, and a startlingly white turban fitted tightly to his head. He lets out a terrified scream, before babbling something terror-filled in a strange, foreign language, fumbling with his rifle and he tries to raise it.
  
  Having only a few seconds, you try to react.
  
  > fire your rifle
  You grit your teeth, raising your heavy rifle as you press it to your shoulder. You aim down the iron sights, staring at the Ottoman's terrified face. With a squeeze and a whimper, you pull the trigger.
  
  The gun clicks uselessly, its barrel jammed from the mud.
  
  You lower your rifle as the Ottoman realizes what's happened. Seeing his opportunity and with a terrified yell, he raises his bayonet and charges. You try to dodge, before he slams into you, smacking you against the trench wall as the bayonet slips into your chest. Your rifle drops to the ground, blood bursting through as it soaks through your uniform. He jams his bayonet into your chest again as he screams, before you're stabbed again and again and again as his bayonet plunges into your heart, your throat, your lungs and your stomach. You let out a pitiful, dying scream as the soldier stabs you to death.