Tracers flashed across the field. The soldier sat in his trench, miserable.

The soldiers had been

fighting for what seemed like ages. The truth, it had been almost a year.mortar shells screamed
over his head in what felt like a never ending series of screams.

A flare popped overhead and bathed the no-mans land in an eerie reddish pink light. He
peered over the edge of the trench. All he saw was twisted bodies of the dead. Some screamed
still, their calls for mothers of for salvation downed out by the occasional thud of artillery striking.
There was no attack. Only jumpy lieutenants. He sat down. He was tired. The shells screaming
and the bark of machine guns slowly drifted further and further away until he was home with his
wife again.

His favorite meat pie was on the table and his daughters laughed with him as he told stories
at the table. He could taste the sweet tea in his glass and feel the warmth of the home he fought
for, and longed for.

It was later when he awoke. The warm happy feeling that had almost broght tears to his
eyes replaced with freezing cold and discomfort as the bottom of the trench he sat in filled with
water from the rain that fell in thick sheets.

That day was like many others, and he felt his heart grow one step closer to dying. So
much death. So much needless violence over a field that didn't matter. Lives were being wasted
over tacts of dirt now blasted into uselessness by a million shells. Not a building could be raised
nor plow be pulled in what was now a grey, brackish, burning hell.

In the overcast sun he saw burning hulks of tanks sent to die, and saw the bodies of the
crews lay dead on and around them. He levelled his rifle onto the edge of the trench. He was in
hell, but he was determined to taste his wife's cooking again. To hold his daughters. He was a
patriot, and the horrors of Abbadon and Mephisto would not make cold his heart. Despite this,
he still felt hollow. He always slept, but never rested. He ate, but the food had no taste. He lived,
but only survived. His soul lay in tatters held together by pride he refused to swallow and a
stubbornness set deep within him. He was broken, not defeated.

After the day was through he sat in his usual place in the trench. He looked down at his
feet in a vain attempt to drown out what was going on around him. His mind drifted to when he
had first sat here. His comrades, a platoon strong, had sat shoulder to shoulder. Singing songs
and cracking wise. Their rifles gleamed with polish and their uniforms were well pressed. Proud
young men. Now he sat alone. So music but the savage drums of a thousand shells, and the
staccato sounds of gunfire. His uniform was worn, faded, and torn. His rifle was dirty, but well
maintained. The metal dulled almost to rust if not for the user's care, and the wood faded and
the varnish stressed and faded from its original color. He couldn't tell if he was crying, or if the
rain just ran down his face. He was too numb to care. Now he just sat there. A tired soldier. His
feet were torn and bloodied, the boots in tatters from constant use. His hands bore bandages
loosely to cover old burn wounds. His face bore scars and injuries. As memories of his laughing
comrades drift, he finds himself back home again. This time it was empty. He looked around it
and only saw old photos. There was still a lived in comfort, but no lights were on. It was evening.
He was alone.

He awoke in the morning warm. The sun had dried him off. He looked around the trench in
the pre-dawn glow in confusement. There were no shells. No crackling guns. No pop of
ammunition. He stood and looked to no man's land. What he saw he almost couldn't
comprehend. The rolling craters were filled with flowers and grass. As the dawn light cracked
the sky he saw beautiful fields of flowers stretching for miles. He saw other soldiers standing up,
and from across the killing zone he could make out enemy soldiers standing and staring as well.
They couldn't believe what lay before them. Men from both sides stood and left the trenches,
slowly at first, but more and more men came. They stumbled towards each other as even
officers stood baffled.the flowers grew as telegrams reached offices informing that the battle
was over. No side had one. The war was over. Almost in celebration the earth itself bore new
life to softly cover the men who now slept forever in this field.

They stood around, unsure of what to do as the news was passed from man to man in
silence. He hadn't started it, but someone from behind the line began to hum an old church
hymn. It spread like a disease amongst the men, only taking a few moments before a new fistful
of men joined the growing choir. Still, others stayed silent. they only stumbled about like lost
children looking for their mothers.

The man shuffled forwards and dropped his rifle, collapsing to his knees as he looked
around. Had a round found his head? A mortar shell struck the trench or the trench wall
collapsed from a field gun to crush him? Was he still sleeping? He softly wept at the sight. Two
armies that had been locked like two rutting beasts now sat amongst each other for company in
silence as transport trucks began to take men home.

He pressed a poppy in his journal and stood up. The next few days blurred past too quickly
for him to remember. All he knew was that he was walking down a familiar dirt road.the road
stretched through a small bit of woods that he remembered. As he rounded the bend, he saw
her. His beautiful wife who had waited for him. He dropped his duffel and rushed to meet her in
a tight embrace. He could feel his daughters hug onto his legs and heard them joyously call to
him. He lost himself.in that moment as he felt his empty heart burst finally. But instead of being
colder, it shed the empty shell it had taken and warmed. He felt warm and truly happy that he
was home.

As he held her in the tight embrace and listened to her joyful and tear filled greeting, he
found himself softly humming that ancient hymn. He had done it. He was home.

-END