The Wistful Skyline
"Colonel, the mud is up to my waist and my left hand is cracking at the knuckles, but I need to get back to see my mother before the winter sets in." I wrote that line and stared at it, the ink bleeding slightly into the rough paper of the notebook I had salvaged from a dead clerk in the third trench. It was October, 1912, and the air in the Somme was thick with a wet, rotting smell that seemed...
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