HE

In the dim light of dawn, the trenches lay
Shrouded in a heavy mist, a ghostly reminder
Of the world beyond war. He waited, a young man
Of just 19, huddled in the waterlogged trench,
His uniform soaked through, the fabric clinging
To his skin like a second, uncomfortable skin.

The trench, a maze of mud and misery,
Was infested with rats that scurried over his boots,
Indifferent to the human plight.

His breaths came out in short, visible puffs
As he tried to steady his nerves. The cold seeped
Into his bones, a constant companion that whispered
Of the death that lingered just beyond the parapet.
His fingers, numb and clumsy, fumbled with the safety catch
On his rifle, a Lee-Enfield that felt as heavy
As the world upon his shoulders.

The wait was the worst part, the quiet before the storm.
It was in these moments that the mind wandered,
That the heart ached for home, for the soft warmth
Of a bed, for the tender touch of a mother’s hand.
He thought of his family, of his little sister’s laughter,
A sound so pure and joyful it seemed impossible
Amidst the cacophony of war.

He glanced at the men around him, each lost
In their own world of silent contemplation.
Some prayed, their lips moving in hushed supplication
To a God they hoped still listened. Others stared blankly
At the muddy walls, their eyes glazed with the fatigue
Of endless conflict. And there were those who wept silently,
The tears indistinguishable from the rain that dripped
From the rim of their helmets.

The lieutenant walked past, his boots squelching in the mud,
His face set in grim determination. “Steady, lads,” he murmured,
Though his voice trembled just enough to betray his own fear.
“Remember your training. Remember why we’re here.”

Why were they here? He pondered the question,
The answer elusive as the morning fog. For king and country?
For honor? For freedom? The words felt hollow,
Echoes of a life before the war, before the world
Had turned to shades of grey and brown.

A rat scurried across his hand, and he jerked away,
Disgusted yet too weary to feel the full extent
Of his revulsion. He envied the creature its ignorance,
Its simple quest for survival. How he wished he could burrow
Into the earth and wait out the madness that had consumed humanity.

The whistle. The sound pierced the air, shrill and commanding,
The signal for which they had all been waiting. His heart leapt
Into his throat, pounding against his ribcage with the force
Of a drum. This was it—the moment of truth, the point of no return.

He rose, as did the others, a line of soldiers with bayonets fixed,
A wall of flesh and steel about to crash against the enemy’s defenses.
The German positions loomed ahead, a dark line that promised
Death and destruction.

As he climbed over the top, the world exploded into chaos.
Gunfire rattled, machine guns chattered, and the air filled
With the screams of men and the roar of artillery. He ran,
His legs pumping, his lungs burning, his mind singularly focused
On the ground ahead.

The emotions that had plagued him in the trench were gone,
Replaced by a primal instinct to survive, to keep moving, to not fall.
He dodged craters, leapt over barbed wire, and charged through
The smoke and debris.

Around him, men fell, their bodies crumpling to the earth,
Their cries fading into the cacophony. But he kept running,
Kept fighting, kept hoping. For in the midst of hell,
Hope was all they had left—a fragile thread that tethered them
To life, to the possibility of a world without war.

And as the battle raged on, as the sun climbed higher into the sky,
He fought with every fiber of his being, not for king or country,
But for the chance to see another dawn, to return to the embrace
Of those he loved, to find peace in a world torn asunder
By the ravages of war.