Mud. Mud and rain. Mud, rain and noise. This is my whole life now, along with the stench. I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been here now. Occasionally there’s a bit of activity between us and the Hun. Otherwise there’s little change. We all stink, we’ve been in our uniforms so long without a proper wash.

There’s no sanitation so the stench of urine and faeces mixes with the smell of mud and rain. I didn’t think I could ever get used to it but it’s amazing what I’ve come to accept as the norm.

What to do! Some of my pals try playing cards but the pack is so damp that it’s a job to hold the cards. Others, who, are a bit war weary, play hunt the rat on the pretext that it’s jerry. The rats are then bayoneted on the pretext that it’s enemy. The rats are almost tame there are so many of them and they’ve got used to us. Can’t say I’d like one as a pet though.

Wow! That’s another almighty bang when a jerry shell landed short of our trenches. I can smell the cordite above the other acrid smells. Thy do that from time to time, I guess they are as bored as we are. Occasionally, one or two of them will crawl through no mans land and take pot shots at us. That’s how I lost my pal Phil. He was on lookout duty and poor blighter, he took one right through the middle of his forehead. I miss him as we both arrived here together. I know a few of the other guys by name, mostly surnames, but it’s not wise to get too close for fear they might cop it at sometime.

Do I think about my own mortality? I guess not. It’s obvious that one day there will be one big push by either side. That’s when all hell will break loose and you don’t dare contemplate you’ll make it.

Officers, there’s some somewhere, safe in a deep bunker, with fresh tea and a decent shave. The thing of dreams, lucky the squaddie that gets to be their batman. There’s sergeants and sarn’t majors around occasionally, barking orders and letting us know they haven’t forgotten our names.

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That was before. I can’t smell mud now, it’s just a memory replaced by antiseptic smells in the air. I’m in a field hospital behind the lines now recovering from a leg wound and shrapnel damage. Bound for dear old Blighty, me.

The big push did come and not many of us survived. I expect by now it’s a status quo, the Brits and Jerries back in the same positions. What do I care, my war’s over now. Probably get a tin medal along with a supply of bandages to go with my demob suit. What’s more, the Kaiser will never ever know my name.