Descriptive Essay: All Quiet On The Western Front

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December 28th, 1944, near Humain, Belgium.
For most of my life introductions were a rarity. I lived on a small farm about fifteen kilometers away from the nearest town, one which we only visited for school, supplies and church. Everyone knew everyone, and if you were a stranger you were not one for long. My life up until just a few months ago had been spent surrounded by people I knew, whether that is a blessing or a curse I’m not sure. However, the numerous gentlemen about to announce their presence to us were Germans, bent on slaughtering the likes of us like cattle.
The German front was about four hundred yards North, across a snow and fog covered valley. The fog was incredibly dense, and the sky, soon to be painted with unfamiliar constellations, was getting darker and darker as time went by. I sat silently in our two man foxhole gripping my rifle tightly. We were waiting for the orders to attack the enemy, our objective
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I knew better than to think that he and the rest of poor souls here weren’t scared of dying. He was afraid. It wasn’t hard to tell by his shaking hands and wavering voice when he clapped me on the back and told me not to worry, seeing my solemn expression. I nodded and rested my head back against the dirt wall. I didn’t look down on him for it, or tell him to toughen up, that this was what we had been trained to do. We were all scared, myself included, and any man who says any different is a liar.
We sat there for a few more minutes when our platoon leader came up to us. He was about to place barbed wire around our defense positions, so he ordered me to contact the platoon to our right while he contacted the platoon to our left. I did as I was told, crawling out of the foxhole and walking carefully towards the other platoon. I had to go slow, and think about where I put my foot before each step. If I startled anyone, I could be mistaken for the enemy and blown to
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