The sergeant called out his name, sharp and thin, cutting through the wet noise of the trench. "Thorne! Get up here. The Colonel’s waiting."

October 12, 1912.

I am writing this by the light of a stub of candle that costs two shillings in the canteen, a price that makes the bread taste like sawdust. My shoulder aches, a dull throb that matches the rhythm of the rain hitting the mud outside. I have written to the War Office three times. Three forms, stamped and filed, asking for medical discharge. My brother, Arthur, is dying of the consumption. The doctor in our village said he has a month, maybe less. I need to be there. I need to hold his hand. I need to make sure he does not die alone in that cold house. But the Colonel, a man who looks like a boiled shrimp, told me yesterday that the war effort requires my presence. He did not look at me when he said it. He looked at the filing cabinet behind him, where my request sat in a manila folder, ignored and dusty.

I wear the locket. It is silver, worn smooth by my thumb over the years. Inside is a picture of Margaret. She died in 1909, the fever took her in the night. I keep it on a chain around my neck, under my tunic. It is cold against my skin, a constant reminder of what I have lost and what I am fighting to protect, though I am not sure what that is anymore. It is just a piece of metal now. A weight.

October 15, 1912.

Miller is dead. A shell landed in the duckboard three feet from where we were smoking. The explosion was not loud; it was a thud, like a heavy bag dropped on the floor. Then the silence. Then the screaming. Miller’s head was gone. I saw the blood on the mud, bright and wet. I wanted to scream, but I could not. I just stood there, holding my rifle, feeling the vibration in my teeth.

Captain Halloway came out of the dugout. He was clean. His uniform was dry, his boots polished. He ordered a retreat. "Fall back," he said. "Secure the line." He did not look at Miller’s body. He did not look at any of us. He turned and walked back into the dugout. We left the men behind. I saw their faces in the dark, eyes wide, mouths open. I did not go back. I obeyed. I am a sergeant. I obey.

I feel sick. I have vomited into the mud twice today. The taste of bile is better than the taste of fear.

October 18, 1912.

I was wounded yesterday. A piece of shrapnel took my shoulder. It did not stop me, but it slowed me down. I am in the field hospital now, a tent that smells of carbolic and sweat. Dr. Aris is treating me. He is old, with hands that shake when he is not working. He is kind. He does not ask me if I am afraid. He does not talk about glory.

"You are a part of the machine," he said, as he stitched the wound. His needle was silver, bright in the dim light. "The machine grinds you up. It does not care if you are brave or cowardly. It only cares if you are useful."

"Is that all I am?" I asked.

"Survival is the only victory," he said. "Do not mistake duty for honor. Duty is a form they make you fill out. Honor is something you keep for yourself."

I looked at my shoulder. The bandage was white, stark against the dirt. I thought about Arthur. I thought about the locket. I am beginning to wonder if I am wrong. If the regiment is not worth my life. If I should just let them take me, let the machine grind me down.

October 22, 1912.

They sent me back. I am fit, they say. I am not fit. I am tired. I went to see Halloway. I found him in his office, a small room with a desk and a chair. He was writing. He did not look up.

"About the retreat," I said. "The men left behind."

He stopped writing. He looked at me. His eyes were cold. "You were ordered to fall back. You did."

"I saw them."

"War is messy, Sergeant. Do not make it personal." He pushed a paper across the desk. It was a form. A reprimand. "You are insubordinate. I will file this. You are a coward, Thorne. You are afraid of your own feelings."

I took the paper. I did not argue. I walked out.

I realized then that the system does not care. It does not care about Miller. It does not care about Arthur.

It does not care about me. It only cares about the numbers. And I am a number.

I am a form.

I decided to stay. Not because I love the regiment. Not because I believe in the war. But because I will not be defeated. I will not let them say I am a coward. I will stay and I will endure. I will make them pay for my pain, if I can.

October 25, 1912.

A new order came down today. A counter-attack at dawn. The ground is soft. The enemy has machine guns in the woods. We know it is a trap. We all know it. But we will go.

I tried to warn the men. I stood in the middle of the trench and I told them. "It’s a trap," I said. "They are waiting for us."

They looked at me. Their eyes were empty. They were too afraid to listen.

They were too afraid to think. They just wanted to be told what to do. I am alone.

My devotion to them is a burden. I carry it like a stone in my chest.

I checked my rifle. The wood was slick with rain. I touched the locket.

It was cold. I wondered if I should throw it away. If I should let it go.

But I could not. It was the only thing that was mine.

October 26, 1912.

The attack began at five o’clock. The sky was grey. The mud was deep.

We climbed over the parapet. The guns opened up. The sound was deafening.

I saw Halloway in the rear. He was standing under a tree, smoking. He was safe.

He was dry.

I wanted to kill him. I wanted to run back and shoot him. But I did not.

I ran forward. I protected the men. I pulled Private Jenkins out of the mud.

I carried Corporal Smith for a hundred yards. My shoulder bled. I did not feel it.

I lost my rifle in the mud. It sank to the bottom. I did not stop to get it. I kept running. I kept protecting them. It was the only thing I could do.

October 27, 1912.

The attack failed. We were scattered. I was captured.

I am in a cell. It is small. The floor is stone. I am cold. I have no food. I have no water. I am waiting.

I tried to find the locket. It is gone. I must have lost it in the mud. I searched my pockets. Nothing. It is gone.

I am free. I am free from the weight of it. I am free from the memory of Margaret. I am free from the guilt of leaving Arthur. I am just a man in a cell.

I think about Arthur. Is he dead? I do not know. I hope he is. I hope he is at peace. I hope he did not suffer.

I think about Halloway. I hope he is afraid. I hope he knows what it is to be alone.

I am not afraid. I am tired. I am very tired. November 1, 1912. They are coming for me. I can hear their boots on the stairs.

I am not angry. I am not sad. I am just calm.

I look at the sky through the small window. It is grey. The same grey as the sky over the Somme. The same grey as the mud. The same grey as the machine.

I have not been defeated. I have accepted my fate. I have kept my dignity. The system cannot take that from me.

The door opens. The light is bright.

I close my eyes.

The grey sky is the last thing I see.