‘Go!‘ yells the officer, blowing his whistle.
Climb the trench-wall, troop-of-pals, moving as one. All you been through together, well, nothing parts you now.
Once up, your line maintains a steady walk. Fearing friends may fall in front, you struggle to keep up through quagmires. Ahead, splashes of spent bullets. Few steps more and fresh-air starts screaming.
Giant punches flatten you.
Walk on, grief-stricken.
Sit in crimson mud-pools, crying Mother.
Somehow reach enemy trenches – try and shoot.
Crazy, look for limbs lost in mud.
Sudden darknesses.
Carry home casualties.
Conduct silent roll-calls.
Hope for rescue out here beneath icy stars.
Image: The British Army
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