I'm not anywhere close to finnishing my writing but I just wanted to make sure I'm going in the right direction. I tired not to go over the top with another All Quiet On The Western Front but it is pretty dramatic.

1: December 1914, western front.
They trudged through the awfulness of the late night march to a new sector in witch they would fill. Their clothes were too thin, and the cold had overtaken their thoughts. They were unable to talk either, all because of orders. Every man endured it as well as he could. The silence, with the cold, was still enough to bear. But, the botch Germans could be just around the next tree on this road, ready to pounce on these unsuspecting British soldiers. Private Mitchell held his anger, fear, and thoughts of home tightly in the back of his mind. He couldn’t think of that. Every private new that. So instead he focused on the back of the man in front of him. He felt his patience becoming slimmer, and slimmer by every second. Come on walk faster you laggard. But immediately following the thought he scolded himself. Regain control of your actions! Just because the weather has fallen badly upon you doesn’t mean you don’t act like a soldier. Now get it right. Mitchell was fine now, marched silently. He felt he was alone. Almost all of his friends had died, all accept for 1, Haig. Haig had gotten shot in the foot. Last Mitchell heard he had had his foot amputated. And now barely any of the “veterans” were still alive. Mitchell sank. This wasn’t supposed to happen; we are supposed to be home by now. Home by Christmas. It was my responsibility to help them. Help one another. But I let them die. What do I tell their parents? Do I tell them that their son was an excellent and brave soldier? Cover them with rubbish? Will I even make it home to see them? No. It’s not my responsibility to talk to them. It’s the Captain’s. But he never new them, he never new Jackson, Digbey, Cambell, and all the others like I did. Hah. Me and Digbey had only lived a block away as kids. So it is my responsibility.
There was a loud scarce whisper, “Okay, Botch land is about 3 miles away from us now. No talking, no loud noises. Those boys need us alive.”
Boch land. Would we even make a difference if we make it? Mitchell thought. We’ll go so fast they won’t even know we were there.
Mitchell had never acted like this before he was sent to France. To him, army was glory, glory is faith, and army is fame. They had been huddled off the ships to cheering crowds of civilians. And as they moved inland, they were even more welcomed with flowers, hugs, and even kisses from the young French girls. And then reality set in. On September 5 Germany and the allies had finally gotten into a large scale confrontation. Mitchell watched in horror as wave after wave of Germans rolled through the open field right into their lines. And Mitchell had no choice but to kill. In those days of early fighting Mitchell had lost 2 cherished friends, Digbey, and the sergeant who had taught him everything he needed to know, Simmons. A sniper’s bullet went right through his skull. Same thing happened to Digbey the next day. Eventually they dug a long narrow ditch to protect themselves. And others followed. It was what every man in every platoon now lived in. And it was not pleasant. Immediately it became known of the lice, rats, and diseases that were down there in the mud. And some of the boys simply ran off, couldn’t bear it. Most were saw deserters, and that brought terrible consequences.
“Okay almost there. Stay alert. Remember, once you hear a shell get your faces into the ground quick.”
It was routine. Daily, the mortars would fall aimlessly behind the line. And if they had any clue reinforcements were coming, you were in for trouble.
The captain and other officers suddenly went out of the line, met with a man standing silently in the muddy field. Their voices were too low to hear, and Mitchell ignored the conversation, focused on his job. He didn’t know how far the front lines were, he couldn’t even see farther than 30 feet. He felt blind. None of the officers would ever tell the situation to the men who would be attacking the enemy head on. But, they’ll get you to where you need to be. That’s all they do. The rest of the time you’ll see the officers in their dugouts sipping a bottle of wine.
The officers went back in line and the march resumed. The trench line soon came into sight. And the officer turned to them, and said, “Okay were here. Get into the trench and find a dugout. Give these men room to get out of here.”
He needed to say no more. The men began to jump into the trench. Mitchell included. He went through the reserve trench, moved over as the nervous French soldiers, Poilous, moved through and out of the trench. Mitchell eventually found an empty dugout in the reserve trench. It was dark, cramped, and brought an awful stench of death. But Mitchell fought through it, unloaded his supplies and tried to keep himself occupied. Eventually others came and settled themselves. Cower, a skinny and shy man was among them. His boyish freckled face seemed so peaceful, so calm. But they all new no one was calm in this war. And then there was Montgomery. He, unlike Cower, was the cockiest person Mitchell had ever met. His body was that of a lumberjack, and he often bragged that he was the strongest and sometimes best soldier in the company. He often got into fights with the other soldiers, most of the time he won. But he was always frowned upon. He had once admitted how alone he felt to Mitchell, and he had attempted to have a slight friendship with Montgomery. And so far it was going well.
Cower retrieved the last item out of his bag, a canteen for water. He said nothing, was silent. Mitchell could sense the tension in the dugout, no one in the mood for a discussion after a tiring march, and Mitchell said, “So Cower How’s the family?”
Cower simply looked at him, then looked back at the items he had just emptied. It wasn’t unusual. Not many people wished to discuss anything after the horror they had seen. Mitchell understood, slumped into a corner. He pulled out a note from his bag. It was from his father, dated almost 3 months ago when he first arrived in France. It was the only letter he had received from his family. His brother was still in school, his mother was dead, and his father was a drunk. Mitchell’s father had abandoned him when he was 6 years old. He couldn’t support him. Mitchell was taken to an orphanage and was eventually adopted. But he never forgave his father, and ever since their relationship was non existent. He analyzed the text once again, something he had done over 100 times. It had been the first time his father had talked to him in over 11 years. It came unexpected and unwanted. But, for some reason he couldn’t put the letter down. Something in his brain made him read it again and again. It became clear that he still loved his father.

Dear Mitchell,
It has been so long since I have seen you. I can only remember the boy who dreamed of fighting in the infantry, the boy who was always the most grateful, the only boy who loved school and always tried to make things right. And here you are, just where you have wanted to be for most of your childhood. The great cause you used to refer the infantry as. I’m sure you still see it that way. I think of you every day. You’re always in my heart. I’m doing well so don’t worry about me. Do well.
Dad.
It had been short, and obviously he had all been said before. He knew most of the letter was a lie. But what had surprised him was that his dad had taken the time to write to him. Mitchell suddenly had a growing interest in the life of his father. Was he alright? Was he at least sober? He tried to get in contact with his father, would write 3 letters to him. But none came answered. And then he received a letter right before his company’s first large scale battle. But it was not from dad, it was from his brother. It brought with it the unthinkable. His dad had been found dead in the backstreets of London, their home town. He had been heavily intoxicated, and was in one too many bar fights. A knife wound was right through his heart.


The last of the French troops had left, the position now completely taken over by them. Morning had come, and thus every man was on watch. There was not much to see, the countryside was a complete wasteland. It seemed eerie, barely any sounds outside of their trench was heard, no sounds seeming to come from the German’s trench. The morning’s rays seemed to bring back thoughts of home, those mornings of gathering your books and rushing across the 1 mile walk to the nearest school house. And the mornings of sickness, where you had to miss the outdoors, and instead felt confined as you stared out that old foggy window. But it was not to last, a morning barrage of artillery was launched by the Germans first, every shell hitting far behind the line. And the Allies shot back, with the same affect, virtually nothing. By 9 A.M it was snowing, everyone wanted to be safe in there dugouts because of this. But it was not to be. Work was to be done.
“God the waters still up to my chest, how long will this take?”
The sergeant’s stern words rolled through Mitchell and the other men pumping out the water from the trench like a thousand trains. His grumpiness disgusted, considering how back breaking the job was.
“Sir, it takes time. We’ll have it done within half an hour.”
“We don’t have that time; the botch could be looking at us right now and getting ready to take their shots.”
He knew it was a lie, the man just looking for something to gripe about.
“Ten minutes at the most sergeant Beasley.” One of the men stated, Kreft.
The sergeant seemed satisfied, “It better.”
The sergeant was gone now, the job now continuing as usual. Mitchell held the tube tight, watch as the water slowly entered it. The job was dreaded by them all. It was antagonizing, tedious, and tiring.
“God, I can’t do this any more. Of all the people he chooses us out of the blue. We aren’t that big, not that powerful, why us, why not Montgomery?”
“Because you can’t rely on Lumberjack for everything.”
Kreft was a complainer, no doubt about it. He was older than most, had been in the infantry more than almost anyone. But promotions did not come to him, angering him. Some of his old classmates, who had joined at the same time, were no Captains, while he was still a Private.
“Still doesn’t make sense.”
There was a ping, and a sandbag near them flew up and then back down.
“Darn snipers. Can’t hit anything and yet they still try. Mitchell said annoyed.
“Let them have their fun. They haven’t caused much harm lately.”
“Tell that to the dead.”
The mood suddenly darkened for a second. But it was only briefly. They had grown accustomed to the words of death. A few months ago it had not been like that. Death was devastating to all of them. But by now it was accustomed.
There was another ping, but this time farther off, down the trench line, another target likely to be wound free. But something was different this time, shouts. He became curious, suddenly wandered off to where the shouting had come, Kreft doing the same. A large crowd had gathered, all staring at a single thing on the ground. Mitchell worked his way around this crowd, could get a good view of what the scene was. It was a dead Montgomery.
Someone beside him asked, “Did you know him well?”
“We all did.”
“I sure didn’t. Cocky idiot nearly got me killed. Never want to see him again.”
Mitchell said nothing, didn’t have anything to say.
“Grab his belongings from his dugout. Make sure his family gets them”
“Yes sir.”
Mitchell held his head low; it will take more than belongings to understand what happened, he thought.
There were no tears, no anger, and no fear. It was usual. Not a tear was to fall. He simply went back, and finished draining the trench.

Night had come, the dugout seeming eerie without the presence of Montgomery. No one dared speak of him, tried to act as if he never existed. But both Cower and Mitchell both knew, sooner or later, one would break the ice. Cower was first.
“He was a good man.”
Mitchell looked at him, “yes.” And then looked back at his journal. It became silent again. But Cower would speak again only minutes later.
“So um…what you writing?”
“It’s a journal entry.”
Mitchell wanted to say more, but could not seem to. He simply focused on his writing. His journal entries were never long, at the most 10 sentences. But this time, all he could come up with was one. Today was a decent day. He scolded himself, that’s a lie. The journal was kept to show his family what the war was like, give them a half decent insight. He knew he couldn’t lie like that. But he had no choice.
“You know you can’t avoid me.”
Mitchell turned, was surprised, let himself spill out his thoughts.
“What is there to talk about? I just lost a friend today. You think I want to just sit here and talk about it?”
Cower sat still, ashamed. “I just thought…”
“Well screw your thoughts. All you know how to do is irritate everyone around you and get yourself killed faster than anyone here.” He said more than he wanted, but he didn’t think of that now, didn’t think of anything. “You don’t know him like did. All you saw him as was a half bitter idiot, who only made enemies, but no. That was not him. No one will know him like I did.”
“He was my friend too…”
“Don’t lie.”
The dugout was once again silent. And this time it stayed that way.
Mitchell erased what he wrote in his journal.
Today was an awful day.
End of 1











The rations had found their way to the line, and now the trenches were a long line of hungry men. It was a tediously boring experience. But nothing was exciting here. Mitchell stood next to a fairly new man, Coldin. He had come as a replacement only a month before, but by now he was considered a veteran, had gone over the top. He was certainly a bright man, was often seen with a smile. The 24 year old was already a credited author of one science fiction novel. To Mitchell, it seemed like the right time to get some advice on his creativity.
There was a loud explosion to the left, and a giant mound of dirt flung up in the center of no mans land.
“Us?” Mitchell asked.
“No.” Coldin replied.
Another explosion was heard, and this time it was far behind the line.
“Curse these morning barrages.”
Coldin laughed, “At least it wakes us up in the morning.”
“That’s a good thing?”
The barrage was routine now, so routine no one paid attention to it, and this day was no exception. There was a strong itch on Mitchell’s left leg; it was singled out fast as cooties.
“Oh god, anyone have a lighter?”
No one responded.
“I can’t wait to burn those god for saken things.”
Coldin laughed. “You know they’re only going to come back no matter what you do. They’re going to keep laying eggs in your cloths whether you burn them with your lighter or not.”
“Well at least I’ll have some piece for about a minute.”
“Try about…30 seconds.”
They were at the front of the line now, met with the man handing out the rations. He gave them two canteens each, canned beef. They went to their own dugouts now, didn’t speak again for the rest of the day.

“Okay I need 4 men. Who’s coming?”
The Lieutenant’s voice was crackly and steep. He scanned the men who had gathered, 5. It was normal; no one wanted to go on voluntary missions, especially repairing barbed wire at night. But Mitchell still was the one always volunteering. He needed to make himself useful; he was going to die anyway.
“Alright, I’ll take Holdin, Mitch, Jefferson, and Evans. Sorry Luke.”
“No problem sir.” Luke said wondering away.
“Alright. For the rest of you we go in ten minutes. It’s the main line. Boch blasted it away this morning. Any questions?”
“No sir.”
“Alright dirty up your helmets and bayonets and whatever the rest of you got to do.”
It was the first thing he did, rub dirt on his helmet and bayonet. The moon had a strong reflection on the steel, deadly at night. It was learned quickly, and when no replacement came, they had a new job every night. Mitchell then pulled out his journal, knew it was most likely he would not come back, and thus he wrote the day’s notes early.
Fine day, going out on a night mission, don’t worry, I’ll be fine.
Next came his silent goodbyes, something he simply needed to do. Goodbye Cower, goodbye Coldin, goodbye…mother…dad…brother.
“Okay 3 minutes.”
Mitchell pulled out a half empty canteen of the canned beef which had been passed out in the morning, and swallowed it whole in one gulp.
“Mitch, you alright?” It was Evans.
“Never better.”
“Alright, you just seem, worked up.”
Mitchell turned to him, “Aren’t you?”
Evans paused, and then admitted it,” Yes, who isn’t?”
Evans was the sportsman of the group, a fisherman, soccer player in school, whatever you named, he played. He was kind, gentle, and seemed to understand where all of them had come from. He wasn’t afraid to admit such things as his fear. He was liked all around, and Mitchell was always one of the fans.
“Alright we done?” The Lieutenant asked impatiently.
“Yes sir.” They said in a rhyme.
“Alright, we all know where this is. Stay close and follow me. Jefferson and Evans will place the pole for the engineers. The rest of us will cover them.”
“Yes sir.”
“Alright, up up up.” The Lieutenant’s voice was a scarce whisper now, something that alarmed Mitchell as he went over the trench walls.
They went past the puddles, the mud, and the dead carcasses. An awful stench met them, and they had to use their power to refrain from coughing. It was the first time they had seen the French troops that had been left behind, their old, dirty, rangy uniforms still shone through someone’s spirit, but not them, not tonight. The scene was simply, indescribable to Mitchell, and everyone else. No matter how many times they had seen it, the death and despair; it was still new in a way.
They reached the barbed wire, the Lieutenant silently instructing them to lay down the pike. It was not their job to repair it, they were not the engineers. Evans placed the front of the pike into the ground, Jefferson pushed with all his might into the back, within seconds it was done. They now prepared to go back, but the mission seemed too routine, too usual, something was eerie, something was not right. They all sensed it, but paid little attention to it. They ran in a crouched position, made as little a sound as possible, there were puddles all around them, melted snow perhaps, and they could not go through them, had to take an alternate route, making this place seem like a mine field. The Lieutenant was the first to step into one of the puddles, making a loud splashing noise. Immediately they were met with rifle fire, loud cracks, one, two, 3, and then four rifles began to fire aimlessly into the darkness. They hit nothing at first, and then a loud scream came from Evans, who immediately rolled on the ground as if in agonizing pain. Mitchell pulled him up, lifted him to his feet. “Where is it, where are you hit?”
“They got my hand…ah.”
“Alright come on now, the trench is only a few feet away.” Although he said feet, it seemed more like miles. Now every gun was on them, loud streaks flared all around them, it was a terrifying spectacle of the power of the Germans weapons.
They were met by someone, unknown, who grabbed Evans from his arm,” I got him.”
They all together walked back into the trench.
Once Mitchell was in he felt terrified, tried to speak, the sounds of guns still above him. “Where’s Jefferson, and Lieutenant James, I lost them.”
Coldin was there, “Calm down, we’ll find them, they were only a few feet behind you.”
“Yes but Evans, Evans I had to get him-“Mitchell’s quick and hastily voice was cut off by Coldins ever assuring voice once again. “Yes, but they’ll be here, just wait a second.”
“We found Jefferson!” Someone shouted.
“What about James?” Coldin asked him.
“No sign of him yet.”
“My god, we have to go back!”
“Mitch, he’ll come, wait a second.”
Mitchell was in tears, stared at Coldin for a long moment, whispered tearfully, “No…No…No…”
Coldin stared at him with a relaxing expression, said nothing.
In a flash, without even thinking about it, Mitchell flung himself over the trench walls and ran toward the German trench screaming, “NO! NO! NO!” In a long piercing scream. He didn’t get very far before Coldin pinned him to the ground, and would not let him go. “Stop this!”
Mitchell swarmed, was so fearful and yet so full of rage. But here Coldin confined him back to his senses. Soon he began to drag him back, still held him close to the ground. The bullets still flung over them, and it was wonder Coldin wasn’t shot. Mitchell was more relaxed now, sat quietly. Soon there was another yell, “We found him!”
“Who James?” It was Mitchell asking this time.
“Yes, god he doesn’t look too well.”
Mitchell ran over to the man; saw he was holding James by the shoulders. He looked pitiful, his pants were a mix of blood and dirt, he couldn’t open his eyes, and he seemed as if he had passed out.
“I-is he still alive?” Mitchell began to break down, tears. James had been his Lieutenant for a month. They were never close, but it was simply the thought that he was their leader.
“I’m not sure.”
The man shook James’s head, then his pulse, said without any remorse, “No, I don’t think so.”
Mitchell sank, a lump in his throat appeared, and he just stared at James’s face. He was like that for several minutes, and then went back to his dugout. Where he sat for the rest of the night, he didn’t sleep, didn’t read, didn’t do anything, and just stared at the walls. Cower was surprisingly absent, but he could hear him outside a few times, “He’s just taking it hard, leave him be like I am.”
Mitchell for some reason could not even understand what that meant at the moment.

5:45 A.M


The officer sat in his dugout, 10 feet below the ground. He had heard of James’s death, would now have to make sure his belongings got home. There would be no letter, no grief, no time for that. He had also heard of the others who had went out on the wire marking mission, Evans who had a clean bullet hole through his palm, Jefferson who had came out unskaved, then came Mitchell, who had helped Evans get back to the trench and had taken James’s death hard. He had hopes for Mitchell; something simply told him the boy would succeed. He couldn’t get the hopes out of his head, and by now it had come too far, he had to let the hopes control.

Mitchell walked slowly down the spiral staircase into the HQ dugout. He was tired, hadn’t slept all night, and nearly lost his footing. But he managed to get down the stairs. The head officer stood stiffly as he watched Mitchell descend the stairs, meaning that Mitchell was here for something serious. He couldn’t think of what, couldn’t think of anything, instead he followed his senses as best he could. When he finally reached the bottom of the stairs he walked over to the officer, stood exactly like him, stiffly, hands behind his back, and face toward him.
The officer spoke quickly, hastily, “How are you private?”
“Decent.” Mitchell said it with no expression.
“Alright. I’ll tell you Private Mitchell, I have faith in you.”
Mitchell noticed the officer was calling him by his name now, releasing some of the pressure, but, only by a slight margin.
The officer continued, “Being able to still be brave enough to go on a night mission with only three other men, and in the end carry a wounded man back here is one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen in a man.”
“Sir?” Mitchell had no clue where the captain was going with this, but he knew he was about to be rewarded in some way.
“Private Mitchell, I’m promoting you to Corporal. Having this rank you will watch over the men by keeping a order, lead men not only simply places around the dugout, but you will officially have control over a small batch of men. Any questions?”
Mitchell suddenly felt overwhelmed, all of this hugely unexpected. He had so many questions, so many comments. He suddenly felt energetic, the tiredness suddenly gone. He was ready, wanted to start his new duty now.
“T-thank you sir, this is really unexpected, when do I start?”
“Your rain as corporal does not officially come until Friday, but feel free to start Tuesday.”
“Um, Tuesday is today sir.”
The officer simply smiled, then said, “Alright, I need to see Private Jefferson, I’m sure you know him.”
“Yes sir.”
“Well get going.”
Mitchell ran out of the dugout, felt free, energetic, and felt important for once in his life. And for a second, he forgot about Lieutenant James.

A Lieutenant who had been sitting by a table turned to the officer, “Why did you promote him?”
“Because I’m not going to have my men losing their sanity.”
End of 2
The promotion had been better than Mitchell had expected. He felt like a king able to lay down the orders on a portion of the men. The idea that others were also controlling him hadn’t crossed his mind yet, not much of anything had. He somehow had always remembered to report for his orders at the exact time as specified, 3 A.M. The promotion had completely changed his mood, and his views. He couldn’t even remember the Lieutenant who’s loss had struck him dearly, he didn’t remember many others either. He only looked to the future now, the past never sneaking up on him as it had before.

Mitchell took the cigarette from Coldin’s hand, heard another complaint from him, “God, don’t smoke my whole pack.”
Mitchell had been a heavy smoker for as long as he could remember. He started smoking when he was only ten years old, but was caught most of the time, and finally after several beatings he gave up the smoking. He had only done it because of his friends; a fun game of dare led him into it. But when he was thirteen he had started again, and never looked back.
“I would love to not smoke your whole pack Cole, but I can’t help myself.”
“Well what a pile of cow’s crap that is.” Coldin said leaning onto the dugout’s walls, “I’m going to sleep.”
“What? It’s not that late.”
“To me Ten at night time is late, now goodnight.” Coldin jumped onto his barracks, said nothing.
Mitchell had never seen Coldin like this before, the man would go to sleep later than most, never vise versa. Mitchell felt an angry bitterness turning inside him, wanted to curse him out. But he managed to hold himself in, and said nothing as he walked out of the dugout.
He trudged through the mud in the trench, up to his knees. Good, usual. But he didn’t pay much attention to the mud levels, couldn’t get Coldin out of his head. Is he just bitter, or has he always seem to hate me? It never seemed like it until now. He’s just bitter, who wouldn’t be?
His thoughts were interrupted by a loud wail, high above him. He looked up, saw nothing. But then, another sound, a loud crack, and then a mound of dirt, only yards away. He was pushed to the ground, was oblivious to what was happening for a moment, and then regained control of himself. He looked heard the scream of someone, unknown, “Get into a dugout now!”
Mitchell jumped up, ran for any cover he could find, stepped over shaken mounds of dirt. More loud wails were above him, hitting behind him, far behind him. He found a dugout, dark and slightly caved in. But he didn’t pay attention to that, simply jumped in, and let himself fall to the ground. The dugout was too dark to see anything, and he just leaned on the dugout wall, only the sound of yelling was heard now. No more wails. But only seconds later a loud thump came into the dugout, “God, they got Coldin, you alright Mitch?”
Mitchell didn’t personally know the man, more and more people seemed to know his name now ever since the promotion. Mitchell shook his head, “Yes, I’m fine, you?”
“Yeah, god I haven’t seen a shelling like this since September.”
“What happened to Coldin?”
“Don’t know, but I saw his dugout cave in, I think he’s dead.”
“Well a pity there, I think the Germans are going to assault us.”
“I’ll agree with you there.”
Mitchell took a deep breath, was still regaining his stamina. “What’s your name private?”
“Ingram.”
“Okay Ingram, you stay here, I’m going to go see if everyone’s alright, sounds like the shelling has stopped.”
“Alright, see you soon.”
Mitchell climbed out of the dugout, was now met with the freezing air of the outdoors. The shelling hadn’t stopped like he thought, but the shells were hitting far behind the line now. He ran up and down the trench asking everyone he came across if they were alright. He wasn’t the only one up; several other corporals were doing the same. He saw very few bodies, a relief. But when he got to Coldin’s dugout, a wave of sadness over swept him. “Coldin, Coldin you in there?
Only silence responded.

Looking forward to your thoughts!

OMG this is really good keep going i want to see more!