The Wistful Saga
The mud was not merely wet but alive, a slick, sucking entity that pulled at the boots of Sergeant Elias Thorne as he trudged up the hillside, his left hand clamped tightly over the gaping, ragged hole in his side where the shrapnel had entered, the pain a dull, throbbing drumbeat in his temples that synchronized with the slow, labored rise and fall of his chest. He was a man of forty-three,...
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