It's a weird feeling, sitting in a trench for the first time. That nagging sense that you're next in line for slaughter, much like a pig and not the lamb. Not many people are inclined to feel anything towards a pig, why should they? The other folk here are rolling around in horrendous conditions just like them, the dirt is a murderous playground to the Enemy and a woeful obstacle to us.
I've been in a trench for the past three months, occasionally switching out for respite but it's lost the relief aspect, you dread the damp and the wind's howl funneling through the manmade pipelines lest you yearn for a harsh existence. I was yearning for my Edith's silken mousy hair and the way her cloudless sky blue eyes held me in time. The government had sent us away but home was still beckoning us back. The false hope of glory and prestige charged the core of many young men enlisting back home, London's churches, halls and pubs were stacked to the brim with droves of men looking to serve their country, not to mention the boys, barely out of school, jostling for a way to fight. Back home, it all seemed too glamorous compared to what was happening on the other side of the channel.
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