The morning mist lay heavy over the trenches, a shroud of damp earth and despair. Men stood silent, huddled against the chill, faces etched with lines of fear and fatigue. The whistle had not yet blown, but its shrill call hung in the air, an unspoken promise of what was to come.
He stood among them, rifle clutched in hands that trembled despite his best efforts. The mud was thick, clinging to his boots, a testament to the endless days of rain and shellfire. Overhead, the sky was a bleak expanse of gray, indifferent to the suffering below.
