There I was, cowering in a trench like a child, covered in mud and blood. A mighty explosion threw debris high into the air, masking the sun’s light. It threw me off my feet, smashing me into the opposite wall of the trench. I raised my arm to check if it was still there and thankfully it was, but that meant that this blood… wasn’t my own. I trembled down to my very bones.

So many voices all at once overwhelmed me. I just sank further into my coat to block it out, but no coat could ever shield me from the noise and the smell. The acrid scent of gunsmoke and rot. Then, an enormous force slammed down on my right shoulder, startling me out of my mindless, fearful stupor.

“Heinrich,” a voice began, “get off your ass and get out there!”

I lifted my head out of my coat; my hair plastered to my forehead with sweat and dirt. My helmet sat askew on my head, practically hanging from one ear. He was a very angry-looking man with bulging veins, a thick neck, and wholly blind in one eye. The iris sat there, devoid of life or colour, just like the battlefield mere feet above my head. The man’s mouth was set in a gritted sneer, exposing his grey teeth. He spat out obscenities like a used wad of chewing gum as an explosion rocked the trench a couple of yards away. He shook me by the shoulders again, rattling the various buttons and whistles that hung from my bland green uniform. His grip was strong and his breath was hot and smelled of cigarettes, stale beer, and a hint of some kind of meat. His eyes stared into my own. They burned with a fire that spoke of a man who had seen the depths of despair and still managed to find the will to keep fighting.

“Come, Heinrich, come!”

I was jostled to my feet and shoved toward the nearest firestep, whence he forced me to grip the ladder that led up and over. I was filled with a sense of dread as I was firmly shoved against the ladder, knowing that I was being sent to join the battle - a battle that I had little chance of surviving.

“Now, up!”

He left me, stomping away, barking orders and blowing his whistle incessantly. Standing near me was a soldier I knew very well. We had attended school together, passed through boot camp together and then got separated. I thought he had died! His name was Hans Albrecht, 20 years old.

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“Hans?” I ran up to him, grasping his sleeves.

He turned to me slowly, his body shaking like the ground during a barrage. His gaze swept right through me, almost. His eyes no longer held their usual enthusiastic glimmer; it had been replaced by an animalistic drive, a desire to fly or fight for the sake of his own life. A primal fear.

“Heinrich… you’re alive?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yes, but maybe not for much longer.” He trailed off. “We’ll do this together, yeah?”

His body froze in place at the sound of another explosion, which dumped mud into the trench and onto us. Nodding, he took a deep breath.

“I’ll go first."

Hans turned around and, slinging his rifle across his back, gripped the rickety ladder that led up and out. He climbed up, up, up, to the top, one leg over, then-

Four spurts of blood erupted from his chest.

He fell back, bashing his head against the opposing parapet and hitting the slushy ground below, unmoving. Four splotches of dark red slowly spread across his chest. 

“Hans?! Hans, are you okay? Hans?”

I shook him. No response. His helmet had slid off and partly lay over his face, casting a grim shadow over his eyes and nose.

“Hans…?”

I reached out with a trembling hand and brushed the helmet away, sending it clattering to the ground. His eyes were closed, and his face was pale. I knew he was dead.

Then, our commanding officer returned. He was red in the face and had a stream of blood traveling from his forehead down his cheek. In one hand, he carried a small pistol, pointing it skyward, shaking violently. He completely ignored Hans' body, and rushed up to me.

"Heinrich, why are you still here?! I told you, get up and go!"

In utter terror, I grabbed the ladder and didn't look back. I climbed up and over and-

Boom .