The wind attacked the men at their most vulnerable points. Their fingers were numb and turning blue; their teeth chattered uncontrollably, their breath appeared to them as frosty mist in their faces. They hugged themselves tight, perched on benches clutching whatever belongings they had to their chests; heads bowed low shielding themselves from the chill. At first they had come down brimming with excitement and enthusiasm, matching uniforms, youthful faces, happily marching brothers in arms. Back home their families and friends applauded and threw flowers. They merrily clapped each other on their backs, cheering, laughing, singing, ready for the challenge they were going to face together. They kissed their old lives goodbye and left their homes as unconscious boys, blissfully unaware of the dark horrors that lay ahead, oblivious to the cruel nightmares they were about to be thrown into. Plunged into the pit from where they’d never escape.

Two years had passed since those days of excitement which promised so much, they crouched in their own small corner of an unfamiliar land; some muttered half-forgotten prayers like grotesque obscenities while others stayed silent. Some were close by one another; one boy had his head rested on another man’s lap, half asleep. The man stroked the boy’s head running his fingers between the locks of chestnut hair and over the boy’s cheek. Neither of them spoke but each felt the comfort of having the other nearby. Another man was holding a photograph to his face; tears gathered in his eyes as he stared at a smiling baby girl, he was smiling; he seemed oblivious to his surroundings. They were all a long way from home, buried deep in French soil, coffined in tightly together.

One lonely boy sat on his fire step squatted into a protective ball; his rifle was stuck into the dirt as he held it for support. It had rained the night before and the bottom of the trench was filled with mud. The planks of wood, specifically used to help the men walk, were beginning to sink. He rubbed the nape of his neck and crossed one arm over his chest, pulling his helmet low over his face and holding his rifle tightly, pulling it close to him. Jean Luc Barnette held his head down as he felt chunks of dirt clatter over the top of his helmet. His fingers loathe and cold, but the strong whisky burnt his throat, he liked the feeling, it gave him a sense he was still alive. His trench was overrun by rats and saturated in mud; the stench of death was everywhere.

They hadn’t come to collect the dead for days. The bodies from No-Mans-Land were usually placed side by side at the bottom of the dugout, but the number of the dead was far more than anticipated and the bodies were piled up high like hay stacks in August. Beside them were masses of Adrian Helmets, most punctured with bullet holes. Rats scurried in and out, chewing and nibbling on rotten flesh. Jean Luc watched one rat scamper by him; it carried an ear in its teeth. The putrid smell of death penetrated everyone’s noses and the sight scarred their eyes. Corporal Louvian’s arm was stuck out of the stack; Jean Luc had been staring at it for two days, he recognised his wedding ring. What would Margret think if she could see her beloved in such a state? Would his corpse make it back home to her? “God save us all, because no one else f*****g will” He looked up slowly at the sky and at the very edge of the trench, he could see a glimpse of No-Mans-Land, the ground had been churned up completely, there was no more grass. He used to live here, within three miles of this place, years ago, before they were evacuated when the war hit.

He lived here with his parents, older brother and sister. They used to go fishing in the River Somme, back when it was clear and reeds caressed the banks, small daisies hidden between the shrubs. He remembered Lisette sitting under the old willow tree making daisy chains with their mother, while he and Patrice were out by the edge of the water with their father, throwing their rods into the river, watching the colourful fish temp closer to the bait. In his memories it was always so sunny and warm, the grass was always lush; the trees were tall and mighty and the river shimmered in the light of the sun. Jean Luc remembered their last fishing trip, he had caught four trout that day, he remembered their cook Hilda making salt-crusted trout with lemon-dill beurre blanc in the evening, and he could still taste it on his tongue, the thought made his stomach ache. He remembered that night, his father read the local paper; he talked about the Russo-Japanese war and the Kaiser. He remembered Patrice listening intently, while he and Lisette were in the kitchens looking for Hilda’s secret supply of Bree. Perhaps it was because of Patrice’s interest in world affairs that made him the first to enlist from their hometown in the Somme valley. He was a hero to everyone, but no one more than Jean Luc wanted to enlist with him.

But now this land was a stranger to him. The Battle of the Somme had stained his home with the blood of thousands, Patrice’s included. He was somewhere out there was amongst them, but there was nothing left of him to be buried, no body to mourn over. The old river was thick and murky now, not shimmering anymore but black and gloomy like a swamp, poisoned by rusted barbed wire and shell cases, suffocating it. The once mighty trees were shattered by bullets and ripped from the earth, like the men who had marched over and never returned. The old willow tree was gone; its long thin leaves lost amongst the mud, there were no more daises now, no hint of their white petals.

It seemed impossible that in a few short years the place he has grown up had become a wasteland, a No-Mans-Land; this had been his land, his family’s land. His memories and childhood had been gunned down before him, now he could only see the slow mass of soldiers on their endless march towards the machine guns. Young boys mowned down while the whistles were still blowing.

He had been told it was sweet and fitting to die in battle, that it would be an adventure and heroic to kill the Germans, but now he knew it was lie. War was nothing but a growing pile of dead boys, too many to count, too many to bury, too many to remember. The Somme was no longer his home; it was a massacre, thousands upon thousands of lives obliterated. Earth’s open graveyard.

The whistles were blowing sharply. The rumble of the guns shook the earth; the heavy soil began to crumble into the trench. Boys were beginning to shriek and scream. Light shattered in metal explosions, blasting the walls of the dugout. Dismembered limbs and blood splattered the trench soaking the mud. Raggedy mutilated bodies fell screaming, torn apart. The photo of a smiling baby was crushed underfoot, soaked in the thick blood turning red. The boy and the man, one minute ago in some kind of peace filled the trench with anguished screams. Shrapnel stabbed and clawed at their flesh, their own intestines scattered around them. Jean Luc picked up his rifle and put them out of misery, he stared once again at the sky, filled with failing burning stars. Everything seemed in slow motion he could only hear screams, the fear caught in his throat. Chaos confined round him in this small trench. In a desperate attempt to shield himself from the horror, he buried himself in the trench wall, clinging to his rifle, curling up in the foetal position. There was a burst of light against him, shrill metal cut his body, he screamed in pain and agony. Tears stung in his eyes as he stared down, his body was disfigured beyond repair. He turned away and gasped seeing the old willow tree standing tall, beautiful and bright in hell. He could feel no more pain.
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