The Wistful Silence
The mud in the trench is not merely wet earth but a living, breathing thing that sucks at your boots with a tenacity that feels personal, a grasping hand that refuses to let you go, and you are standing there in the middle of it, your rifle still raised, the wood of the stock slick with sweat and the rain that has been falling for three days straight, a relentless gray curtain that blurs the...
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