Nicolas York, private second class, military friend and man of God, rotting next to me in a trench. Time of death was around 0815. Cause of death: major blood loss due to a bullet wound through the carotid artery, no exit wound. He died within seconds of gurgling in a bath of his own blood. This would be our 17th day in combat since we arrived on the 31st of October, 1917, in France.

We had been drafted into the the expeditionary force to combat the Central Powers in Europe. We endured basic training together and had made friends with a good part of our unit. We knew of the horror of the conflict at this point so most of us made our amends with our creators before we deployed. Still, we clinged to the hope of chanting drunken chimes after the war. Although no one expressed it, there was a slight knowing within our hearts that our hope was vain.

I couldn’t quite seem to figure what liquids laid in the cesspool I sat in. A mixture of blood and piss coupled with the rain made for quite a foul mixture, not to mention the constant stench of death which at this point was all too familiar to my nostrils. The death of all my friends had long stained my nose as well as my eyes. I often have haunting memories of their deaths playing in my mind, until the gnashing of my own teeth ceases, and I become numb. I have become so accustomed to death that it has become comforting somehow. I almost envied my fallen comrades, for they no longer had to suffer. I have walked down the border of life and death for so long I can’t tell which side I have traversed.