It’s five months into a conflict so devastating they’ll call it the Great War and — at least for the next twenty years — the war to end all wars.
Memories of home are still relatively fresh. If you try hard enough you can still conjure up the taste of a Sunday roast, the comfort of a soft bed, the smell of your lover’s hair.
You shouldn’t have to rely on memory. This was all supposed to be over by Christmas.
Yet here you are. It’s Christmas. And it doesn’t look like you’re going home any time soon.
There’s no manual for this kind of war. For want of ground to be gained, both sides dig in. Literally dig…
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