text: The sound of shelling and gunfire rings throughout the trench. Soldiers scream for their lives as they suffer the wrath of man’s cruelest creations. Uniform and language blur into one as the war machine rages. In the chaos of the inferno, one’s identity becomes second only to their innate instinct to survive, and in the hellish landscape of battle, it is kill, or be killed. Thick black smoke bellows through the narrow corridors of the trench, as flames engulf all that they touch. Thick splatters of blood paint the walls of the trench, and the squelch of wet mud tangled with the distorted remains of mangled corpses can be heard underfoot. The resulting cacophony of sound is both deafening and blinding. Disoriented men stumble through the smoke and mud, thickened further by the blood of our fallen comrades. The finest, most stoic of us are reduced to the likes of children as we call for our mothers, cowering from the onslaught that we find ourselves entwined with. Injured men crawl and flail, helplessly grabbing the ankles of those still standing, hoping for some form of divine intervention. However, their fate is now in God’s hands, as they are left for dead in the cold, wet trench, some even drowning, as the unforgiving, relentless sludge fills their lungs, it's hardly the ‘glory of battle’ we were promised when joining. The smell of smoke, decay, disease, and filth fill my nose, as the metallic taste of my own blood, and the earthy, gritty taste of dirt fill my mouth. It is almost impossible to breathe, as the air becomes hot and thick with toxic smoke, and the exploding bombs knock the wind out of my chest, like a cruel beating drum. A repetitive cycle. Boom. Boom. Boom. The order for a retreat is shouted down the line. As men turn and run from the slaughter, the horrific choir of weaponry continues to play as the order is relayed. Many men fail to hear the orders over the ear-piercing sound. If they are not deaf, they are in no conscious state of mind to comprehend the order, frozen and shocked by the horrors in front of them. Human beings were not designed for this level of bloodshed. As the retreating men fall like dominoes, cut down by relentless machine guns, a low yet powerful tremor can be felt throughout the battlefield. Through the smoke emerges 5 beastly machines, monotonous in their tone, relentless in their advance. Unphased by traditional deterrents such as barbed wire or entrenchments, they continue their march, mercilessly rolling over injured men, burying them deep into the all-consuming dirt. Our men, no, our boys, could not have possibly imagined such devices, used to inflict such cruelty. As we watch our friends be desecrated without remorse by the ever-advancing enemy, we are helpless in our resolve. Many men accept that these are their last moments on Earth. They say goodbye to their families and pray that God watches over them in their absence. They make peace with themselves, accepting their fate before they are brutally gunned down in cold blood, for this is no place for remorse, prayer, or reflection. The front is a barren, godless wasteland, for if God were real, surely he would not allow such cruelty. There is no humanity here. As the trench is overrun by an insurmountable enemy, I take one last look at the sky. A small sliver of the delicate, blue, French sky is visible through the mat of grey and black clouds separating us from the rest of the world as if we were within some form of hellish, twisted arena. The sky reminds me of home, where I would seldom admire its beauty, however now, more than anything, I wish I could be back on home soil doing nothing but exactly that. I look at my hands, covered in thick, black dirt, and blood of unknown origin. Is it my own? Or that of the enemy... Perhaps my comrades? I am not sure, nor will I ever know. It’s amazing how intimate killing can be, yet ever so distant at the same time, never truly knowing your enemy. You see a uniform, and you kill the wearer, as if you were some primal hunter praying on another animal outside of your pack. None of that matters now though. I stand still, waiting to return to the land from whence I came. &#x200B; &#x200B; **2 September, 1939** It has been 21 years since The Great War ended now, yet the memory still lingers in my mind like an ailment, unshakable, relentless in its persistence, almost as if it were the enemy itself. As I bathe, I watch the water drain, finding myself lost in the trickling sound. I see flashes of memory before my very eyes, memories of my friends bleeding and flailing like wounded animals, eerily reminiscent of the trickling I hear before me now. Whilst I am forced to endure the psychological torment of my own mind, I see the water draining start to become filth ridden, resembling the same drab brown colour of water within a flooded trench. I look at my hands, covered in thick, black dirt, as well as viscous crimson blood. As a wave of helplessness washes over me and I am reverted to my primal fears, I scrub harder than ever before. I want to be rid of the dirt.