Sergent William W. Walker

There are few times in my life, where you think the world is ending. Today is the day for me. I am just standing here, listening to the crackle of the Huns' rifles, just waiting to receive my order to go over the top, into no-mans land, and to take the German trenches. It's pointless. We have been at a stalemate for almost 90 days, each day you hear the same, a gunshot, the thunk of a body, the whistle, the stampeding of men, then the ringing of thousands of gunshots, then silence, then groans, then the sounds of explosions from the artillery.

When this bloody war started, we were told it would be over by Christmas. I guess the top brass had massively over-estimated themselves, it's been two years, three months, and eleven days of brutal...bloody...war. We were told that it was sweet to die for the fatherland, it's far from it.

Hearing the whirring of an artillery shell, the boys and I ducked as we heard the roar of an explosion. Reaching down into my pocket, I grabbed my fathers stop-watch he gave me before I left for training, the same one he got during the Boer War. Flipping it open, I looked at the time 8:25 – five minutes. Flipping the watch closed and putting it into my front pocket, I grabbed my rifle and put it in both hands.

We all stood their silently, nervously eyeing each other, our Captain looking brave and stoic, but I know he is just as equally terrified, probably on the verge of pissing his pants. He to glanced at his watch, and I could almost see him try to swallow the knot in his throat, and him tighten his jaw.

Three minutes.

The boys were getting restless, the nerves were frayed, and the emotions were running high. One man I saw him kiss his cross as he prayed for the Lords help to survive. The new one's – the one's new to the frontlines were eager. They got the same message that I did, it was an honorable death, and your wife back home would be taken care of – that's if you had a wife to go home to. I sure as hell don't.

"All right boys, let's give them Hun's a true Scottish beatin'!" said the captain, as he tried to rial the spirts of my fellow soldiers and make them feel better – it didn't. The entire trench fell silent as the members staying back push themselves forward into their positions with the rifles ready.

Sixty seconds.

Thirty Seconds.

Fifteen seconds.

The others were bouncing on the balls of their feet, getting ready.

Ten seconds.

Eight seconds.

Six seconds.

One second.

With the blow of a whistle, we began to climb over the top – over into hell. As we ran forward, I watched the new blood next to me fall, his head thrown back and blown to pieces and his helmet flying off of what was left. My feet pounded into the ground as I watched another to my left drop dead, another blown to pieces by a grenade.

Eighty yards. We continue to push forward, one by one people fell as a wall of lead was fired at us.

More dead.

Sixty yards. We kept charging to our doom. All I could hear was the sounds of gunfire and explosions, and my own heartbeat and breath.

Fifty yards. Another dead.

Forty yards.

Thirty Yards. I kept running forward with my rifle in my hand, prepared to die as I saw the glint of a sniper rifle, my feet slammed into the ground, as a bullet whizzed by my head. Hearing a distinctive whistling sound I prepared for the worst – to be pink mist – not even enough of me left to recover.

I dodged left but kept running. Stopping meant I would die. Hearing the whistle I grimaced, though comforted with how painless it will be.

The last thing I remembered was the sound of an explosion and my body hitting the ground.