An Encounter

It is an uneventful stroll to the back trenches. I needn't even lift my firearm for quite sometime. Thus far, the only inhabitants of this trench are rats, and there were a lot of them. Through rats alone, one can reasonably deduce the logistic operations of a trench to an approximative degree. They are slightly smaller than the ones back at our trench, which might indicate their rations are amply stored throughout the skirmish. A contradictory sight, though, is the number of rats. They were smaller, but numerous. I can't fathom a way for these rats to proliferate to such extent without growing in size.

The planks keeping the trench together, or apart rather, look worn out. I wonder when was the last time this trench has seen maintenance; the last time engineers have had the chance to replace them, or even just look at them. Perhaps they have looked at them, but reasoned that since it will switch side regardless, let us have it. A parallel thought process also happens to our sappers, and thankfully just the sappers. Imagining the connective trenches just collapsing in the climax of charges is a nightmare.

Nothing in their bunkers piqued my interest. Some of them had oil lamps, which came in handy since most of their bunkers were dug quite deep and that made it extremely dark. I rummage the bunkers thoroughly, ensuring that every piece of document is properly assessed. It's a tedious process because the dimly lit bunkers force me to collect first, then read them outside.

I'm not proficient enough in their language to meticulously decide whether what's written on the papers have military benefits or just a letter to or from home. From highest to lowest priority, I archive papers with drawings or sketches on them, particularly of maps or formations. Next, wide pieces of paper, which are usually decrypted messages from the far rear through their communication lines. Lastly, the ordinary letter-shaped-and-sized papers, usually written by servicemen or families to talk to one another. I wonder if I myself have received anything from home. I don't even know if the people back home have received my letters at all.

Only a handful of these papers voice worth, and it's not as if I'm able to carry more than a few without crumpling them in my backpack. As tidy as I could sort them and off I depart yet again.

----

At the end of the line, I eventually reach my destination. As expected, the trenches run deeper and wider. There are a lot more sub-trenches that lead to various parts of a support line, such as makeshift dressing stations, machine-gun and mortar emplacements, ammunition storage, and just to name a few.

The most surprising polarisation between the front is that there has actually been signs of combat here. The encounter seemed to have happened recently. I see more of theirs than our guys lying in and around the trenches, so this group is probably not too far ahead. I have yet to hear nearby gunshots though, just the constant bellows of distant artillery. There were possibly exchanges that I accounted off as far ambience. Not too sure.

Regardless, this means a close-quarters firefight is nigh. I fix my bayonet and tread carefully. Every unchecked corner leaves room for an immediate end to my career. Any gunshots that go ignored might bring me to a surprising gunfight, or even not all.

I crouch whilst moving forward aimlessly, waiting for any sort of auditory cue to advance towards. Maybe by doing so I might be able to group up with others. In hopes of that, I keenly listen to my surrounding for any faint noises of boots against the floor, the rattling of objects hung on a backpack, or preferably gunshots. Moments pass and nothing is heard. I feel as if I'm expecting something that won't come soon. Despite that, there isn't a better alternative, so I'll just have to follow it through and hope this assumption comes into fruition.

----

The trench begins to elevate, the revetments aren't even supported by beams or planks anymore, and no sandbags lay on the parapet nor parados. I'm already in the rear. Worse still, I haven't found any of my comrades yet. How far have they went? Or have they already reached a cathartic final rest somewhere in the trenches? The unnerving serenity of my surroundings doesn't help either. What am I supposed to expect from this situation?

This time, I dare not leave the trenches. I'd rather stay in here and wait until Lady Luck runs me into a friend or a squad. Walking into a flat and open field is essentially similar to asking to be fired upon.

I go back into the trenches and walk briskly to another part of the trench. The forward group may have been fighting along the stretch, rather than the depth of it. It made sense in my thoughts, considering I'm desperate for mates at this point and the purposeless wanderings resulted in nothing. Adding another futile journey to my itinerary surely shouldn't be impactful.

----

Parallel down the trench, nothing is out of the ordinary. The usual owner-less guns and backpacks, the near collapse of a trench, or shell casings. Signs of activity but I keep my expectations low.

It's rare for a charge to only come in one wave, and then all active fights cease. A common offensive looses waves of infantry with a slight delay between each wave. It would be typically deafening, even when you're in the last wave. Once a trench is taken, either a flare or runner is used to report its capture. Although, the odds of there being a runner in one wave is stupendously low so that's probably out of the question. Flares? Haven't seen nor heard any.

I thought about running back to report the capture, except I haven't even seen a single person ever since I got in the trenches. I'd only base it off the absence of a single person. An evidence that isn't even concrete would just be ignored by command, for a good reason, too.

As I complain about my situation, there it is. A gunfire. I nearly dismissed it as background fighting again, but it was the first of many shots to be heard. The exchange is satisfyingly loud. They must be nearby. Excited, I run and pant my way to the heap of the battle. The potential comrades to be found and the action to be a part of is near. I've longed for this moment.