The Distant Crown
The rain fell in sheets. It hammered against the tin roof of the watchtower. Thomas sat in the dark. He held his rifle. His hands shook. The enemy was close. He could hear them. Boots on mud. Low voices. They were coming up the hill. Thomas knew the drill. He knew the order. Hold the line. Wait for the signal. He waited. The night was thick. It smelled of wet earth and iron. Thomas closed his...
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