Trench War

         The day was cold and the sky a dreary grey as the sound of mortars spit fiery iron filled the air, and great clouds of dust rose up behind a battered trench. Old and frail, the trench lay full with flesh and steel. Steep in the front and low bearing in the rear, the trench was fortified by a wood and meal bag parapet, made to protect the soldiers from enemy fire. The trench was full of men, old and young, all tired souls waiting for the so called inevitable. The men were dressed in grey coats and were armed with long rifles, many of which still held their bayonets.
Cries of dying men could be heard within and outside the trench, wounded souls left to die in bloodied dust. Those many alive within the trench sat slumped in the soft, black dirt their faces devoid of care and pale of warmth. And only few times would they raise their heads up when hearing the thunder and whistling of mortar shot. The incessant slam of the iron against the frozen ground would leave their souls hollow, and the world would be silent for what would seem an eternity till the next volley.

         Just then, however, in the eternity of silence a man rose up from the dirt. Dressed in a dirtied white coat, the man rose up and looking through the parapet, he yelled; “Alright men! Here they come, fix your bayonets and check magazines.” And like a horrid curse being unveiled the hollow souls rose up and in great speed they were affixed with fury. The men rushed back and forth between positions, many rushed to the ammo boxes to fill their magazines while others made that last grinding of their bayonets on a whetstone. But in mere moments all the trench was in attention, their rifles jutting out through the parapet. While many others were waiting at the low bearing ramps at the fronts of the trenches, readied with their bayonets they waited for the enemy’s or their own hopeless charge.

         And it was in mere moments the final hour seemed to come and from the enemy trench there came pouring out a blue coated swarm. The enemy, charging, let cry their voices in the wind hurrying across the no man’s land, their bayonets gleaming in the cold air. And in moments of reaching the hundred yard mark the rifles sang with thunder and heated lead. Scores of enemies dropped, thrown by the unending volley of rifle fire. But their numbers were great and many made it to the trench, where the men awaiting them cut them down as they flew into the trench. Their bodies filled the openings and ramps, and as they were forced back by the rifled spears the men began to give way to route. The men who, moments ago were hollow and pale, were heated and fiery with rage as they pushed back the enemy following them out of the trench they made their very own charge. Their thundering feet stomped across the field as they made after the fleeing remnants of the enemies charge. And just as they did, the enemy rifles sang with fire from their trench, and like the enemy the grey coated soldiers dropped in drives. But their charge was strong, stronger than any other and they made into the enemy trench. Stabbing, thrusting their bayonets flooded the trench and blood ran in springs. The day was then done, the enemy trench taken and there stood the man in the dirtied white coat. Standing amongst the dead of his foes and his own, he said to the few still living; “We’ve taken the trenches, we’ve pressed forward, and praise be god and virtue men!” “We’ve done it, we have victory.”

         “To what end?” a wounded man next to him asked, whose eyes were pale and his voice harsh. “But another beginning . . . we never needed this damn ground.”