The Golden Suspect
The mud of the Somme does not merely wet the boot; it devours the man, pulling at the leather, the bone, the very will to stand, and you, Sergeant Elias Thorne, are currently being pulled. It is November, 1912, a date that will later be erased from the official histories because the war had not yet found its true, terrible rhythm, yet the rain here is a permanent, industrial downpour that turns...
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