The Wistful Silence
The mud sucked at his boots with a wet, tearing sound that echoed in his skull, louder than the distant thud of the big guns. Elias Thorne adjusted the strap of his rifle, the leather worn smooth and frayed at the edge where it rubbed against his shoulder. He was thirty-four, old enough to know that survival was a matter of arithmetic, not luck, yet the numbers were against him. The German...
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