Sun swollen reddening as it sank that brutal ****** disc scored by church steeples and chimney stacks almost lost in the drifting haze of sulphurous yellow and char-black smoke.
Duck boards dip into the sodden earth as men ***** along in conga lines holding tight the pack of the man in front, lest they should slip lose quick their footing be ****** down and smothered by mud.
The walls of the tunnels are packed earth rich with blood and bone bits and pieces of human anatomy dangle and hang as if posed by an artist with a strange and cruel eye for detail.
The scrabble for fox holes and rough scraped ditches, anywhere, below the line of fire. The ting and ****-bang of a night of action The whistle, the dash and the forward push counted more in men than metres.