The Golden Oath
The muzzle of your Lee-Enfield is pressed hard against the German officer’s sternum, the cold steel biting into his tunic, and he is screaming your name, a sound that shatters the certainty of your duty. The mud of the Somme is a living thing, sucking at your boots, heavy and black, and the air tastes of cordite and wet iron. You are thirty years old, a sergeant, and your hands are steady, but...
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