Fight In The Trenches Creative Writing

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I hope the rations for bread have finally arrived. We have just driven the Huns back east temporarily, but it has been a dreadful past few weeks in the trenches. I have truly seen hell on earth.
Wherever we trod, our legs sink into the repulsive mud and grime up to our waist, we are sinking in the muck, dying in the dirt. Daily we hunker within the labyrinth of trenches, hiding from the barrage of arcing shells and live in a suspense of uncertainty. If a round comes, we can duck, but that is all; we neither know nor can determine where it will fall and who it will kill. Our trenches were momentously infested. Lice and leeches found their way into our undergarments and into our pozzies and gippos. At night the cuinchy bred rats fed on the plentiful corpses. One night I was horrified to find two rats on my blanket tussling for the possession of a severed hand.
However, what was worse than the trenches was the malevolent toxic gas the Fritz’s were using. We first encountered it while retreating and I had already made it safely to the other trench but my commander was the last to fall back as he was laying down cover fire for us and was caught in the gas cloud.
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His hoarse gasps for oxygen, distinct against the background of gunfire. Time seemed to slow down as he collapsed onto all fours, foaming green froth from the corners of his mouth as he was coughing and spitting a pool of blood, dirt and saliva. He lifted his head to make a final attempted to stand up and get to safety but his body could take no more and he slumped backward face up into the dirt. His eyes wide open, with the look of agony etched across his

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