The Golden Circuit
The mud of the Ypres Salient did not smell of death, as the poets back in London would have it, but of wet iron and old sewage, a thick, cloying scent that clung to the wool of my uniform and seeped into the pores of my skin. I am writing this from a dugout that is currently flooding, my back pressed against a wall that weeps cold water, and my hand is unsteady not from the cold, but from the...
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