The Pale Dance
The mud of the Somme does not merely wet the boot; it consumes it, a thick, sucking clay that turns every step into a negotiation with the earth itself, and in this autumn of 1912, you are Sergeant Elias Thorne, thirty-four years old, a man whose spine has been straightened by twenty years of drill and whose heart has been hollowed out by a grief that has become indistinguishable from...
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