The Faded Frequency
The rain had turned the earth of the Somme into a thick, sucking paste that swallowed boots and rifles alike, and as I write this from the damp shell of a dugout that smells of wet wool and old blood, I find my hands trembling not from the cold, but from the terrible, quiet realization that the war has changed its face. I am Sergeant Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, with twenty years of...
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