The distant sound of gunshot echoes through the sky. Each time the sound is louder and more intense. Over the corrugated iron trench, I can catch glimpses of blood red poppies carpeting the battlefield. The sweet smell of summer blossoms fill my nostrils, momentarily blotting out the stench of illness, death and disease. I could have been there back home, in the summer meadows. My daze of nostalgia is broken up by the shattering sound of a bomb hit our trench. Each time a shell lands I think of the life lost. Who they were. A father, a son..............or a lover. My heart stops dead. The sergeant gives the order and we have to go over on the count of three. Three, two.......
