The Pale Banner
The mud of the trench was not brown but grey, a fine, powdery substance that clung to your boots with the tenacity of wet cement. You were Elias Thorne, a surveyor of thirty years, and your hands trembled as you adjusted the theodolite, the brass instrument cold against your palm. The fog rolled in from the east, a pale, viscous curtain that erased the horizon line, erasing the enemy, erasing...
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