text: We wait. Snow flakes flutter down, like ash from a burning forest. Breath coalesces in the air, swirling and enveloping me. The cheap khaki only comes in two sizes, too big or too small. My own uniform compacts my form, and I struggle for every breath. The cold bites off toes, noses, fingers, and pierces already sloughing lungs. I remember - who was it now? - shouting at me to get up, to man the fire-step. He's not here now, somewhere else. There is no one else. The trench snakes for miles across a diseased land, weaving in and out of the pockmarked landscape. Every now and then, artillery thuds. We can't see where it lands. We have been told to wait, so we do. For king, honour and country, we wait. I chew a stale biscuit, which breaks into thick clumps. Most of the food is gone now, eaten by rats, or men. Or both at the same time. Hunger wracks my body, like a fever. My guts clench and unclench. I remember someone, their name eludes me, who gnawed off his own finger. Got there before the cold did. I have no idea why we are here. Only that if we were not, we'd be disgracing ourselves. Funny thing, patriotism. Sends men into holes in the ground, human excrement up to your thighs; that's on a good day. The only thing that is reasonably dry is our rifle, which protrude like extra limbs, jutting out awkwardly in oilskin cases. I often see an old friend, who only ever has his back to me now, face down, trying to swim in the mire. Doesn't look like much fun. Everyone avoids him as he careers around - sometimes he knocks into the walls of the trench. I yell at him as he passes, tell him to watch where he's going. Everyone else stares at me. With blank, piercing eyes, they shake their heads sullenly. They begin to mutter. I feel something digging uncomfortably into my ribs, right over my heart. It's a piece of paper - a blotched, frayed picture of smiling woman in white, hugged up close to a young, handsome man. Tears streak down my grimy face, passing cuts, bruises, scars. I try to remember who this depicts, but flies away from my stumbling grasp. It's cold. Sometimes, the mire freezes, and we have solid ground to pace along. I see my friends face in the mire, a bellowing laugh on his face. He's enjoying himself now. Then a murmuring begins, and dull thuds shake the earth, disturbing clumps of snow that patters down. Men, before just milling around in the cramped walls, jump up, and yell raucously. A new cloud, otherwise alone in the clear expanse of the sky, drifts towards us. More rain, more soggy biscuits. Someone something over my head, and I fall over, startled and shouting. I want to rip the contraption from my head, but it distorts my vision. I tear at it, but my movements are slow and awkward. I get up, angry at this unnecessary attack. I peer over the barbed wire, cowed by the sudden obscurity of my senses. Shadows approach in the gloom the discoloured cloud. Reinforcements! I wave my arms hysterically and scramble out of the trench to which we have been confine for so long, snagging my legs on the thorns of wire. A red smile grins at me from my leg. I scream louder and louder, and go to say my name, but it catches in my throat, my tongue cloyed by a coppery fluid. I feel warmth spread down my neck, across my chest, painting the picture scarlet. For once, it's warm enough for me to lie down. I crawl back to my friend, see my colleagues make the sign of the cross, a mutter their condolences - but I want to sleep. I close my eyes next to my old friend: now I swim to, but with a smile.