Pvt Morgan Goodsmith. 1917

The sky above the hellish trench filled Morgan's eyes as he watched a plane fly above, it was his brith day today? Right, right, he turns sixteen today,

"Happy brith day, eh.." He looked down, and into the mud coloured trench with its faded browns and faded greys. He sighed, grabbing his Lee Enfield, loading it and turning to face the ladder behind him.

"Ready frost wave!" yelled the Officer behind him as Morgan gripped the ladders sides, over the top, his face was calm he had done this enough times. He hid his fear.

"Climb!" The officer bellowed and blow into a whistle, Morgan climbed upwards into certain death.

He stepped up into the muddy field, its once level ground was now dotted by shell craters, blown apart trees and the half rotted killed dead. In death it did not matter if you were British, German, French or Belgian, you were dead and left to rotted in the crater filled fields of Northern France.

He felt the sudden rush of adrenaline as the first shell exploded above the Trench he was meant to walk towards, he felt as if he was energized for the first time in his life. And it felt good as he took the first step forwards.

The air was filled with the sounds of shells exploding, the yells of men and the booming bangs of a German MG sending 7.92x57mm rounds into the stream of men marching towards the MGs.

"Damn artillery!" Morgan cursed aloud, the artillery must have been sloppy they were meant to have already destroyed all MGs nests, they seamed to have failed.

Then he saw the muzzle flash from the trench in front of him, he suddenly felt the world spinning as the ground become sky as his back slammed into the mud. It shallowed him almost, mud filled every dent in his uniform and every exposed hole.

The adrenaline started to leave his mind as his ears rang, he felt as if he was getting colder. He reached down and felt something warm, and watery, he brought his hands to his eyes and saw it was stained red.

He soon joined the half rotten bodies.