Battle of the Marne
Michael Flanders peered over the top of the trench and was rewarded with a bullet inches from his nose. Cursing, he stumbled backwards to slam bodily into one muddy trench wall. His head jerked to the right, to where Eric Smithee was crouched in the mud like an animal, his uniform soiled. “Them damn Germans just won’t give in!” Michael gasped. It seemed almost heresy to talk in the midst of the screams of bullets and dying men, but it seemed an almost different kind of heresy to remain silent. He had to use every second of the life he had, and use it well. It was ironic how he had come to realize the value of human life while destroying that very state for others.
“Goddamnit!” He swore again, just to give his mouth something to do. Eric was looking at him sadly from the bottom of the trench. His gun was lying in the mud.
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