The smoke drifted up from the smoldering grass, into his nostrils and deep into his lungs. It burned. It wasn't hot. It wasn't even warm.
The air held a dirty haze - burnt and contaminated. The snow on the ground, still around after the blasts radiated a stone-ground mustard hue. This wasn't the cause of fire. It was the cause of gas.
It was hard for him to see, as he lazily trudged forward, eyes squinted, arm held above his face, trying to block the light from his tender pupils. His ears were ringing, blood oozing out of the right. His gas mask had been blown off during the initial blast, leaving him vulnerable.
Around him, men lay strewn amongst the stumps and twisted fences. Arms and legs stuck out of the dirt like devilish signs, pointing the way to more casualties.
The trenches were still caked in mud - the bottom being as deep as 4 feet. Who know what was below the dark surface, suspended in the goo.
His lungs burned for oxygen. Clean air. The mustard gas was seeping into his system, taking control.
This was trench warfare.
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