The sound of bombs crackled over my head as I crawled through the trenches. Sticks and roots reached for my legs trying to hold me back from my task at hand which was to simply survive. I hear the sound of firing cannons and guns slow and turn what was once deafening noises into deafening silence. I begin to stand up to try and peer over the ledge of the trench to see why the firing had ceased. I am still at a low crouch when I feel a hand yank my shoulder down, causing me to collapse back into the muddy ground. The mud splashes everywhere and I hear shouts of disgust as the flying mud showers the surrounding people. I turn around to see the body that the hand belongs to that so violently reprimanded me. It is my superior and leader of my battalion.
“What do you think you were doing,” he interrogates me.
“Firing had ceased and I was checking to see if everything was clear, sir,” I responded as confidently as I could.
“That is no excuse. You could have been shot, not that your brain would have been missed or needed with that horrible logic,” he spat at me.
I nodded and tried to continue on but I was shaken mentally and my body was weak. I continued to push on as the shots being fired continued to get louder and more frequent. We began to pull ourselves through the mud faster as the shots became clearer and it was obvious to tell that the enemy was pushing closer and closer to us. I tried to focus my attention on what would be waiting for me when I finally exited this trench. I tried to imagine the family and friends I had at home but had so much trouble doing it. It is as if the war dug a trench in my heart that made it impossible for me to be positive or believe in the slightest possibility of survival.
All seems lost and I feel as if I will never leave this mud hole when I see the end. I try to press on faster as I bite at the heels of the guy in front of me simply wanting this to be over. I am a mere ten feet from the exit of this misery when I hear a loud bang and pop from behind me. Like we are taught to do I duck my head, slamming my face into the mud. I feel a searing heat crawl up my legs as people scream in agony behind me. When the commotion dies down a little I look back behind me to see the damage. It looks as if everything has been burnt to a crisp leaving behind a barren waste land I see my fellow soldiers behind me as crisp as the singed ground around them. My eyes are then drawn to the pain radiating from my legs. My pants are burnt to the knee leaving my freshly burnt skin exposed to the air and drying mud. This is it I thought as I allowed the pain to wash over me and lull me into a deep sleep, this is the Sunday, the bloody Sunday they spoke about.
