John lay pressed up against the wall of the trench, his heart pounding inside his chest.

Around him, the sharp reports of rifles coalesced with the harrowing screams of maimed
soldiers and thundering explosions of mortar shells to form a discordant cacophony that
assaulted his ears. Ominous clouds of noxious fumes hung far above the battlefield,
smothering the ordinarily azure blue sky and bathing the bleak and barren landscape in a
dull sepia tone. The stench of stale sweat mingled with the copper-like odour of blood and
gunpowder to form a pungent smell that permeated the air and seared his nostrils. Any
sense of hope or happiness seemed to be oppressed by the chaos and destruction around
him.

They had just received word that they were to charge across the battlefield to the next
trench, a few hundred meters away to advance their position. However, the Turkish
soldiers were scattered across the hills overlooking them, meaning that they would be
laughably easy targets to pick off as they ran. It was a catastrophic situation and no
doubt, hundreds of them would die in the process. The order was to come any second now.
John reached into a pocket of his uniform, his hand trembling in fear and pulled out a small
wooden box with ornate carvings. He opened it and looked at the picture of his wife and
children inside. He closed his eyes, trying to imprint the picture in his mind wondering if he
would ever be able to see them again.

Suddenly, the sergeant screamed out the order to charge. John thrust the box back into
his pocket, scrambled over the edge of the trench and began to run for his life. At once,
he was plunged into a nightmare. The sharp cracks of rifles sounded from the hills and
were soon followed by the agonizing screams of his comrades as they fell under the
onslaught of gunfire. John sprinted across the landscape, fear coursing through his veins,
veering desperately from side to side to avoid the bullets. Sweat ran in rivulets down his
forehead, cutting through the layer of grime on his face and stinging his eyes, obscuring
his vision. He looked up briefly and saw the body of one of his friends lying in the dirt. It
was riddled with bullets and his eyes lay open staring lifelessly at the sky, his face a mask
of abject terror. Before John even had a moment to feel sadness, an explosion sounded
right next to him and the world felt as though it had split in two. He lost his footing and
tumbled head first losing all sense of direction, rolling haphazardly across the ground until
he finally fell clumsily into a trench, his breath rushing out of his body.

John slowly opened his grit-filled eyes, his entire body aching. Somehow, miraculously, he
had made it across without any serious injuries. Beside him, he heard a strained wheeze
and looked across in surprise to see a Turkish soldier lying next to him, his pants drenched
in crimson blood from a bullet wound in his thigh. Without stopping to think, John reached
into his pockets and withdrew a bandage which he then proceeded to wrap around the
mans thigh to stop the bleeding. The man looked up at him, his eyes wide with surprise, not
understanding why John would help him. John held out his hand which was stained with his
own blood and placed it near the bandage which had specks of blood on it. The man seemed
to understand what John was trying to say. They both bled the same colour, how could
they be any different? John was sure that this man had his own wife and children back in
his own country who would feel the same pain that his family would if he died. Exhausted,
he sat back against the trench and closed his eyes. It was all a lie. There was no glory in
war. None at all. It was the most senseless thing he could think of and who knew how long
this hell would last.