This is a compelling war tale set amidst the endless conflict known as the Border Scourge. It follows Ren, a farmhand turned soldier, thrust into the brutal machinery of war. This story strips away the veneer of heroism to reveal the raw, visceral experience of the front lines – a relentless cycle of fear, violence, and the desperate fight for survival. Witness a journey through mud-choked trenches and ash-filled skies, where every sunrise might be the last.
Chapter 1: The Cart
The cart wheels groaned. Ren felt every bump. Stones jabbed through the thin wood. He sat hunched. Other boys sat with him. Their faces were pale. Fear was a cold stone in his gut.
Home was far behind. Fields of green. The smell of rain on soil. Now, only dust. The smell of sweat. Unwashed bodies pressed close.
Men in faded grey uniforms marched beside the cart. Their boots kicked up dust. Rifles rested easy on their shoulders. They looked tired. Old before their time. Ren watched them. Were they scared too? They didn’t show it.
A boy beside Ren sobbed quietly. Tears tracked lines through the grime on his face. Ren looked away. He didn’t want to see it. He didn’t want to feel it.
The Sergeant rode a horse near the front. A big man. Scar across his cheek. He barked orders. His voice was rough gravel. “Keep moving! No stopping!”
They were going east. Towards the Border Scourge. Towards the fighting. Ren knew the stories. Mud. Blood. Men dying in ditches. He squeezed his eyes shut. Tried to think of the farm. The quiet stream. His mother’s smile.
The images blurred. Replaced by the rumble of the cart. The Sergeant’s shouts. The silent fear of the boys around him.
The sun beat down. Dust coated everything. His throat was dry. His canteen was almost empty. He took a small sip. Warm water. It did little.
Hours passed. The landscape grew bleaker. Trees were sparse. Twisted shapes against a pale sky. The ground was churned. Old tracks. Scars of wagons. Armies had passed this way before.
Ren gripped the wooden side of the cart. His knuckles were white. This was real. Not a story. He was going to war.
Chapter 2: Grey Uniforms
They reached a camp. Tents sprawled across muddy ground. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. Smoke rose from cook fires. The air smelled of damp canvas, smoke, and something else. Something metallic. Unpleasant.
The cart stopped. “Out! All of you!” The Sergeant’s voice.
Ren stumbled out. His legs were stiff. He almost fell. Others pushed past him. Eager to be off the jolting cart.
They stood in a ragged line. Mud clung to their boots. Their civilian clothes looked thin. Pathetic.
Uniformed men watched them. Veterans. Their eyes held no welcome. Only assessment. Cold. Hard.
“New meat,” one muttered. He spat onto the ground.
Another Sergeant appeared. This one leaner. Meaner eyes. He carried a short stick. Tapped it against his leg. Rhythmically. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Listen up, maggots!” His voice cut through the noise of the camp. “You’re not farmers anymore. You’re not boys. You’re soldiers. Property of the Crown.”
He walked the line. Stick tapping. Stopping in front of Ren. Looking him up and down. Ren stared straight ahead. Tried not to breathe.
“Scared, boy?” The Sergeant leaned close. His breath smelled sour.
Ren didn’t answer.
The Sergeant grunted. Moved on. “You’ll learn fear. You’ll learn obedience. Or you’ll learn pain.”
They were herded towards a large tent. Inside, piles of grey cloth. Rough spun tunics. Trousers. Thick socks. Heavy boots.
“Strip,” someone ordered.
Ren fumbled with his worn shirt. The familiar cloth felt strange now. A relic of another life. He pulled it off. Shivered in the cool air of the tent.
He was given a bundle. The grey uniform. It smelled musty. Stiff. He pulled it on. The trousers were too long. The tunic too wide. The boots heavy. Clumsy.
He looked around. The other boys were ghosts in grey. Their faces still pale. Their eyes wide. Lost.
He was one of them now. A grey uniform. A number. A soldier.
Chapter 3: The Drill Ground
Dawn was grey. Cold. Mist clung to the ground. A whistle shrieked. Piercing. Insistent.
“Out! On the line!” Voices shouted. Boots thudded.
Ren scrambled from the rough bunk. Pulled on the stiff boots. Fumbled with the laces. He ran out into the mud. Lined up with the others. Shivering.
The lean Sergeant stood before them. Stick in hand. Tap. Tap. Tap.
“Today, you learn how to march. How to obey. How to kill.” His eyes swept over them. Hard. Unforgiving.
Hours followed. Marching. Turning. Stopping. Starting. Back and forth across the muddy field. The Sergeant yelled. Cursed. His stick lashed out. Striking legs. Backs. Anyone slow. Anyone clumsy.
Ren’s muscles ached. His feet burned in the heavy boots. Mud splattered his uniform. His face.
“Left! Right! Left! Right! Keep the line straight, you slugs!”
They were given rifles. Heavy things. Cold steel. Longer than Ren was tall. Almost.
“This is your wife!” the Sergeant barked, holding one up. “You sleep with it. You eat with it. You die with it!”
They learned to hold them. To aim them. To load them. Clumsy fingers fumbled with cartridges. Powder spilled. Sergeants corrected with shouts. Sometimes blows.
Ren learned. He focused. Shut out the aches. The fear. He mimicked the movements. Loaded the rifle. Aimed at the battered targets. Empty sacks stuffed with straw.
“Fire!”
The recoil slammed his shoulder. Harder than he expected. Smoke filled the air. Acrid smell. His ears rang.
He looked at the target. No hole. He had missed. Badly.
He reloaded. Hands shaking slightly. Aimed again. Tried to steady his breath.
“Fire!”
Again, the kick. The roar. The smoke.
This time, a small tear appeared near the edge of the sack. A hit. Sort of.
He worked through the drills. March. Load. Aim. Fire. Again. Again. The sun climbed higher. Burned off the mist. Beat down on the field. Sweat ran into Ren’s eyes. Mixed with the mud.
By midday, he was exhausted. Every muscle screamed. His shoulder was bruised raw. But he could load the rifle faster. His aim was steadier.
This was soldiering. Endless repetition. Pain. Noise. Fear pushed down. Deep inside.
Chapter 4: The Trenches
The march to the front was long. Days turned into a blur of mud and rain. The sounds of war grew louder. A distant rumble at first. Then sharper cracks. Occasional booms that shook the ground.
The air changed. It smelled of smoke. Rot. Something chemical. Sharp. Unpleasant.
They passed ruined villages. Burned skeletons of houses. Fields cratered by shells. A landscape of destruction. Silent testament to the fighting.
The veterans grew quiet. Their faces grim. The new recruits, Ren included, looked around with wide eyes. Fear gnawed at them.
Finally, they reached it. The Line.
Not a line, really. A scar. A wound upon the earth. Trenches snaked across the landscape. Muddy ditches. Deeper than a man was tall. Barbed wire rusted in tangled webs. The ground was churned. Devastated. Shell holes filled with stagnant water.
They were led down narrow communication trenches. Walls of wet earth pressed close. The sky a narrow slit above. The smell was overpowering. Mud. Stale water. Latrines. Death.
They reached the front trench. Men huddled there. Grey uniforms stained dark with mud and grime. Faces gaunt. Eyes haunted. They looked at the newcomers without interest. Just more bodies.
A whistle blew somewhere nearby. A sharp, urgent sound. Then shouting. The crackle of rifle fire intensified. A sudden, deafening roar made Ren flinch. Dirt rained down from the trench wall.
“Incoming!” someone yelled.
Men ducked lower. Pressed against the muddy walls. Ren copied them. Heart pounding. The ground shook. Another explosion. Closer this time.
This was it. The front. The place where men died.
He was assigned a section of the trench wall. A firing step cut into the earth. He peered cautiously over the top.
No Man’s Land. A churned expanse of mud, craters, and wire. Broken remnants of trees. Things that might have been bodies lay half-buried. Smoke drifted lazily. An eerie silence settled between the bursts of gunfire.
A veteran beside him, an older man named Borin, nudged him. “Keep your head down, boy. Unless you want to lose it.”
Ren ducked back. His hands gripped his rifle. The cold steel felt strangely reassuring. And terrifying.
Chapter 5: First Blood
Days bled together in the trench. Cold seeped into bones. Rain turned the dirt floor into thick sludge. Rats scurried in the darkness. Bold. Fat.
Food was scarce. Hard biscuits. Thin stew. Never enough. Sleep came in snatches. Huddled on the firing step. Or in shallow dugouts carved into the trench wall. Always interrupted. By shelling. By alarms. By the gnawing cold.
The enemy was unseen. Across No Man’s Land. In their own network of trenches. Sometimes, figures darted between shell holes. Distant grey shapes. Rifles cracked. Machine guns chattered. A deadly conversation across the wasteland.
One morning, the whistle shrieked. Different this time. Longer. More insistent.
“Stand to!” The Sergeant’s voice. Rough. Urgent. “They’re coming!”
Ren scrambled onto the firing step. Rifle ready. Heart hammering against his ribs. He peered over the parapet.
Figures emerged from the morning mist. Grey shapes moving across No Man’s Land. Running low. Bayonets fixed. Dozens of them. Then hundreds. Pouring from the enemy trenches. A wave of grey.
“Fire!”
The trench erupted. Rifles roared. Machine guns hammered. Ren aimed. Fired. Reloaded. Fired again. His shoulder screamed with each recoil. He didn’t notice.
The grey wave faltered. Men fell. Some writhed on the ground. Others vanished into shell holes. But more kept coming. Closer now. Their shouts audible. A guttural roar.
Ren saw faces. Straining. Grim. Determined. He fired. A man stumbled. Fell forward. Didn’t move.
Ren felt nothing. Only cold efficiency. Load. Aim. Fire. The drills taking over. His mind numb.
A grenade exploded nearby. Dirt and shrapnel flew. Ren ducked instinctively. Someone screamed. A high, thin sound. Cut off abruptly.
He looked up again. The enemy was close. Very close. Throwing grenades into the trench. Scrambling over the barbed wire.
“Bayonets!” The Sergeant bellowed.
Ren fumbled. Fixed the long knife to his rifle barrel. His hands were slick with sweat. Or mud. He couldn’t tell.
A grey figure jumped into the trench. Right in front of him. Wild eyes. Mud-streaked face. Bayonet aimed at Ren’s chest.
Time slowed. Ren reacted without thinking. Thrust his own bayonet forward. A grunt. A sickening resistance. The man crumpled. Fell at Ren’s feet. Eyes wide. Staring at the muddy sky.
Ren stared down. Bile rose in his throat. He had killed a man. Up close.
There was no time to think. More enemy soldiers poured in. The trench became a chaotic mess. Men fought hand-to-hand. Shouting. Grunting. The clash of steel. The crack of pistols.
Ren fought like an animal. Parried a blow. Thrust again. Stepped back. Fired his rifle point-blank. The noise was deafening. The smell of blood thick in the air.
Chapter 6: The Cost
The attack was beaten back. Slowly. Brutally. The enemy retreated. Leaving their dead and wounded behind. Silence fell. Heavy. Broken only by the moans of the injured.
Ren leaned against the trench wall. Shaking. His uniform was torn. Spattered with mud and blood. Not his own. Mostly. A cut on his arm throbbed dully.
He looked around. The trench was a wreck. Bodies lay everywhere. Grey uniforms. Enemy grey. Friendly grey. Twisted limbs. Empty eyes. The ground was slick.
Borin lay nearby. His eyes closed. A dark stain spreading across his chest. He wasn’t moving.
Ren felt a hollow ache. Borin had shared his biscuit yesterday. Told him stories of his farm. His daughters. Now he was just another casualty.
Medics moved through the trench. Grim-faced. Doing what they could. Triage. Bandages for the living. Ignoring the dead.
Ren watched them work. Felt detached. Like watching a play. A horrible, grotesque play.
The Sergeant appeared. His face streaked with grime. A fresh cut on his forehead. He surveyed the scene. His jaw tight.
“Alright, clean this mess up!” he ordered. Voice hoarse. “Clear the firing step! Rebuild the parapet!”
No time for grief. No time for shock. Only work. Repairing the defenses. Preparing for the next attack. Or the next shelling.
Ren helped carry the wounded. Stumbled over the dead. He avoided looking at their faces. He piled sandbags. Dug deeper. His movements mechanical. His mind blank.
The image of the man he had killed kept flashing back. The wild eyes. The grunt. The fall. He pushed it away. Buried it deep.
Later, as dusk fell, he sat alone. Chewing on a hard biscuit. Staring into the deepening shadows. The numbness was wearing off. Replaced by a chilling coldness. A part of him had died today. The farm boy was gone. Replaced by something harder. Something emptier.
War wasn’t about glory. It wasn’t about courage. It was about survival. About killing before being killed. About losing pieces of yourself in the mud and the blood. He understood that now. The cost was steep. Paid in mud and ash.
Chapter 7: The salient
Weeks turned into months. The seasons changed. Rain gave way to biting wind. Snow dusted the edges of the trenches. Froze the mud solid. Then thawed it into a deeper morass.
The fighting continued. Not always big attacks. Often, just shelling. Random. Terrifying. Or sniper fire. Picking off anyone careless enough to show their head. Raids across No Man’s Land under cover of darkness. Brief, brutal clashes in the wire and craters.
Ren survived. He learned the rhythms of the trench. When to keep low. When to move fast. How to read the sounds of incoming shells. How to ignore the rats. The lice. The constant damp. The smell of decay.
He became leaner. Harder. His eyes held the same weary look as the other veterans. He spoke less. Laughed rarely. The fear was still there. A constant companion. But buried deeper now. Under layers of exhaustion and grim routine.
He was moved with his unit. Shifted along the line. To different sectors. Some quieter. Some hotter. One place was called the Thorn Salient. A bulge in the line. Jutting out towards the enemy. Exposed on three sides.
It was hell.
Shelling was constant. Day and night. The ground trembled perpetually. Dugouts collapsed. Trenches caved in. Casualties were high. Every day, men were carried out. Wounded. Dead. Replaced by new faces. Pale. Scared. Just like Ren had been. He rarely learned their names. It was easier that way.
The enemy trenches were closer here. So close you could hear voices sometimes. Coughing. Shouted orders. The occasional snatch of music from a harmonica. Eerily human sounds from the unseen foe.
One night, under a sliver of moon, they were ordered on a raid. Small group. Ten men. Ren was chosen. Sergeant Mikhel led them. The lean, mean one from training. Still lean. Still mean. Maybe meaner.
Their mission: cross No Man’s Land, probe the enemy wire, snatch a prisoner if possible. Bring back information.
Ren’s heart pounded. Raids were dangerous. Intimate. Deadly. He checked his rifle. His grenades. Tucked a heavy trench knife into his boot.
They crawled out of the trench. Into the darkness. The ruined landscape looked spectral under the weak moonlight. Craters gaped like open mouths. Broken wire clawed at the sky.
They moved slowly. Carefully. Soundlessly. Mud sucked at their boots. Water filled shell holes. Cold. Stagnant. Ren focused on Mikhel’s silhouette ahead. Followed his movements.
Gunfire flickered in the distance. Far off. Here, an unnatural quiet reigned. Broken only by their own stealthy progress. The rustle of clothing. The soft squelch of mud.
They reached the enemy wire. A thick tangle. Rusted barbs gleaming faintly. Mikhel produced wire cutters. Began snipping strands. Slow. Patient work. Each snap echoed loud in the stillness. Ren held his breath. Scanned the darkness ahead. Listening.
Chapter 8: Close Quarters
A flare shot up. Hissing. Bursting high overhead. Bathing No Man’s Land in harsh, white light.
“Down!” Mikhel hissed.
They froze. Pressed themselves flat against the mud. Praying the shadows of craters would hide them. Ren’s face was buried in cold slime. He could taste grit.
Machine guns opened up. From the enemy trench. Sweeping beams of tracer fire cut through the night. Ripping across the ground. Thudding into the mud around them.
Ren didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Waiting for the tearing impact. The flare sputtered. Began to descend. Light fading.
“Move! Now!” Mikhel scrambled forward. Through the gap in the wire.
Ren followed. Scrabbling through the mud. The wire snagged his tunic. Ripped it. He yanked free. Rolled into a shallow crater just beyond the wire. Others tumbled in beside him. Hearts pounding.
Gunfire still raked the area. But less focused now. Searching.
“Two men hit,” someone whispered. Back by the wire. No time to check. No time to help.
Mikhel peered towards the enemy trench. Only yards away now. A dark line against the slightly less dark ground. “Grenades,” he ordered softly.
Ren pulled a grenade. Pulled the pin. Counted. Threw. Others did the same. Arcs through the dark. Followed by muffled explosions. Shouts. Confusion from the enemy line.
“Go!” Mikhel yelled. Charging forward. Rifle blazing.
Ren was up. Running the last few yards. Firing from the hip. He jumped. Landed feet first in the enemy trench. Stumbled. Nearly fell.
Chaos. Dark shapes moving. Muzzle flashes. Shouting in a foreign tongue. Ren swung his rifle like a club. Connected with something solid. A grunt. He fired. Point blank. Recoil slammed his shoulder.
He saw Mikhel. Grappling with a large enemy soldier. Knife flashing. A choked cry. Mikhel stood up. Breathing hard.
The fight was short. Brutal. Savage efficiency born of desperation. They cleared a small section of the trench. Found two enemy soldiers cowering in a dugout. Pulled them out. Hands raised. Eyes wide with terror. Prisoners.
“Back! Move!” Mikhel ordered. Pushing the prisoners ahead of them.
They scrambled out of the enemy trench. Back towards the wire. Flares went up again. Machine guns hammered. Bullets zipped past. Kicking up mud.
One of the prisoners screamed. Fell. Clutching his leg. Mikhel didn’t hesitate. Shot him. No time for wounded. Enemy wounded.
They dragged the remaining prisoner through the wire. Ran. Stumbled. Crawled. Back across the ravaged ground. Friendly machine guns opened up. Covering their retreat. Laying down fire towards the enemy line.
Ren’s lungs burned. His legs felt like lead. Adrenaline dump left him shaking. He kept moving. Focused only on reaching their own trench. Safety. Such as it was.
He tumbled over the parapet. Fell into the familiar mud. Safe. For now. Mikhel landed beside him. Dragging the terrified prisoner.
Of the ten who went out, six came back. Plus one prisoner. A successful raid, by the brutal calculus of war. Ren felt sick.
Chapter 9: The Big Push
Rumors circulated. Whispers in the dark corners of the trench. A big push was coming. A major offensive. Designed to break the stalemate. Punch through the enemy lines.
Supplies arrived more frequently. Ammunition boxes piled high. Crates of grenades. New guns. Fresh troops marched in. Young faces. Too clean. Too naive. They replaced the weary veterans shifted elsewhere. Or the ones who didn’t need replacing anymore.
The artillery bombardment began. Days before the planned attack. A relentless, deafening roar. Thousands of guns. Firing constantly. Day and night. The ground shook without pause. The air vibrated. Dirt rained down endlessly in the dugouts. Sleep was impossible. Nerves frayed raw.
The goal was to obliterate the enemy defenses. Cut the wire. Destroy the machine gun nests. Shatter their morale.
Ren huddled in a deep dugout. Tried to block out the noise. The constant vibration. He cleaned his rifle. Sharpened his bayonet. Checked his grenades. Routine actions. Keeping the fear at bay.
He saw the new recruits. Their eyes wide with terror. Some prayed. Some wept silently. Some just stared blankly. Shell shock setting in even before the attack began.
The night before the assault was strangely quiet. The guns fell silent. An eerie stillness settled over the battlefield. More unnerving than the bombardment. Anticipation hung heavy in the air. Thick. Suffocating.
Orders were passed down. Zero hour was dawn. They would go over the top in waves. Cross No Man’s Land. Take the enemy’s front trench. Then the support trench. Push forward. Keep pushing.
Ren sat with a few others from his original group. Scarred veterans now. They shared a hoarded bottle of rough spirit. Passed it around without speaking. Each lost in his own thoughts. What were the chances? Survival seemed unlikely. A lottery of mud and steel.
Dawn broke. Grey. Cold. A thin whistle sounded down the line. Shriller than the usual warnings. This was it.
“Fix bayonets!” The order echoed. Cold steel rasped against rifle barrels.
“Over the top!” Sergeants yelled. Climbing ladders. Blowing whistles.
Ren took a deep breath. Clambered up the muddy steps. Heaved himself over the parapet. Into the grey light. Into No Man’s Land.
Chapter 10: No Man’s Land
The world erupted.
As soon as they left the trench, the enemy artillery opened up. Shells rained down. Geysers of mud and fire erupted across the landscape. The ground bucked and kicked. The noise was physical. A solid wall of sound that hammered the senses.
Machine guns started their deadly chatter. Sweeping fire across the advancing lines. Men screamed. Fell. Disappeared into craters. Blown apart by shells. Cut down by bullets.
Ren ran. Head down. Rifle held tight. Mud sucked at his boots. Tried to pull him down. He stumbled over unseen obstacles. Wires. Debris. Bodies.
He didn’t look left or right. Didn’t look for his comrades. Just ran. Blindly. Towards the enemy line. A vague dark smudge in the smoke and chaos ahead.
Survival instinct took over. Pure animal need to move. To get across the killing ground. He jumped into a shell crater. Gasped for breath. The air thick with cordite and smoke. And the metallic tang of blood.
Others tumbled in beside him. Pale faces. Wide eyes. One clutched a mangled arm. Sobbing.
A Sergeant landed heavily. Mud-caked. Face grim. “Out! Keep moving! Don’t stop!”
Ren pushed himself up. Scrambled out of the crater. Ran again. Shells shrieked overhead. Exploded nearby. He flinched. Kept running.
He saw the enemy wire ahead. Mangled by the bombardment. But still there. Gaps blown in it. He aimed for a gap. Tripped. Fell hard. Wind knocked out of him.
Lay there for a second. Stunned. Mud pressed against his face. The roar of battle filled his ears. He had to get up. Had to move. Or die here.
He pushed himself up. Staggered forward. Reached the wire. Picked his way through a gap. Barbs snagged his clothes. Tore his skin. He ignored it.
The enemy trench was just ahead. Figures moved there. Firing. Throwing grenades.
Ren raised his rifle. Fired. Missed. Fired again. Saw a helmeted head disappear. He didn’t know if he hit him. Didn’t care. Just kept firing. Kept moving.
He reached the edge of the trench. Jumped.
Chapter 11: Breaking Point
The enemy trench was worse than his own. Deeper mud. More bodies. The defenders fought fiercely. Desperately. Cornered animals.
Ren bayoneted a man climbing out of a dugout. Fired into another group huddled further down. Grenades exploded. Smoke filled the narrow space. Choking. Blinding.
He fought his way along the trench. Part of a ragged group. Pushing forward. Clearing dugouts. Shooting anything that moved. It wasn’t fighting. It was butchery. Raw. Primal.
They took the first trench. Section by section. At terrible cost. Ren saw men he knew fall. Saw faces contorted in agony. Heard screams that would haunt his sleep. If he ever slept soundly again.
They paused. Reorganized. What was left of them. Panting. Covered in blood and grime. Nerves screaming.
Orders came. Push on. To the support trench. Across another stretch of open ground. Less devastated than No Man’s Land. But just as dangerous.
They went again. A smaller group now. Running across cratered earth. Towards the next line of defense. Artillery still fell. Machine guns still fired.
Ren felt numb. Operating on instinct. Load. Fire. Run. Load. Fire. Run. His mind couldn’t process the horror. Shutting down. Focusing only on the next step. The next target.
He saw the support trench. Saw the enemy waiting. Saw the muzzle flashes. He kept running. Firing.
Something hit him. Hard. In the leg. Like being kicked by a horse. He went down. Tumbled into the mud. Pain flared. Hot. Intense.
He looked down. Blood soaked his trouser leg. Dark red against the grey cloth. Spreading quickly.
He tried to stand. His leg wouldn’t hold him. Collapsed back into the mud. Pain washed over him in waves. Making him dizzy. Sick.
The attack swept past him. Men running. Shouting. Disappearing into the smoke towards the enemy trench. Leaving him behind.
He lay there. Alone. In the mud. Between the lines. The sounds of battle raged around him. But seemed distant now. Muffled.
He was bleeding. Badly. He fumbled for his field dressing. Tried to wrap it around the wound. His fingers clumsy. Slick with blood.
Panic started to set in. Cold. Clawing. He was wounded. Exposed. He would bleed out here. Die alone in the mud.
He closed his eyes. Grit his teeth against the pain. No. He wouldn’t die here. He had survived too much. He had to get back.
He started crawling. Dragging his wounded leg. Pain screaming with every movement. Back towards his own lines. A long way off. An impossible distance.
Mud. Blood. Pain. That was all there was. He crawled. Inch by agonizing inch. The world reduced to the struggle to move. To survive.
Chapter 12: The Return
Time lost meaning. He crawled. Rested. Crawled again. The battlefield was a nightmare landscape. Shell holes. Wire. Corpses. The dead stared with empty eyes. Accusingly. Or perhaps indifferently.
He saw other wounded men. Some crawling like him. Some lying still. Moaning softly. Or silent. He couldn’t help them. Could barely help himself.
Thirst consumed him. His canteen was long empty. His throat raw. Pain was a constant fire in his leg. He felt weak. Lightheaded. Blood loss. Shock.
Darkness fell. Bringing cold. And rats. Scurrying shapes in the gloom. He swatted at them weakly. They were bold. Not afraid.
He kept crawling. Guided by instinct. By the distant, fainter sounds of fighting behind him. Towards safety. Towards the faint hope of survival.
He didn’t know how long it took. Hours. Or an eternity. He eventually reached familiar ground. The churned earth near his own lines. He saw the dark shape of the trench parapet.
“Help,” he croaked. His voice barely a whisper.
He tried again. Louder. “Help me!”
A head peered over the edge. A silhouette against the dark sky. “Who’s there?”
“Wounded,” Ren gasped. “Friend.”
Hands reached down. Grabbed his arms. Pulled him up. Rough hands. Strong hands. Hauled him over the parapet. Dumped him unceremoniously onto the trench floor.
He lay there. Sobbing with relief. And pain. Safe. Back in the relative sanctuary of the trench.
Faces looked down at him. Dimly lit by a flickering lantern. Strange faces. Replacements. He didn’t recognize anyone.
A medic knelt beside him. Cut away his bloody trouser leg. Examined the wound. Probed gently. Ren hissed in pain.
“Bad one,” the medic muttered. “But you’ll live. Lucky.”
Lucky. Lying wounded in a muddy trench. Surrounded by death. Ren didn’t feel lucky. He felt broken. Empty. The farm boy was long dead. The soldier was wounded. What was left? Just a survivor. Covered in mud and ash.
They gave him water. Bandaged his leg tightly. Lifted him onto a stretcher. Started carrying him back. Away from the front line. Towards the rear. Towards a hospital. Away from the killing.
As they carried him through the communication trenches, he looked up at the narrow strip of sky. Dark. Starless. He had survived the big push. But the war wasn’t over. For him, maybe this part was. But the Scourge would grind on. Chewing up men. Spitting out survivors. Or corpses.
He closed his eyes. Exhaustion claimed him. He drifted into darkness. Carrying the weight of the mud. The smell of the ash. The images burned into his mind. The cost of survival.
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