The regiment rustles and writhes with its own life and body 15 kilometres away from the front. Lorries rumbled like purring cats along the chalky road, bringing man to and fro with the soft growling of engines. They transport the remains of a long gone unit, and in the distance, Wilhelm can almost spot the stacks of oak coffins, the bottoms soaked dark with congealed blood, excretion, and rot. Four, five, six men exit out of the first, those capable beginning to remove the stacks of coffins they had sat beside moments ago, that they fought beside, laughed beside, breathed in the same air as.

Wilhelm chewed on the filter of an unlit cigarette idly, sitting in the grass and letting the Sun shine Her warm rays on his skin, bring his flesh to life with Her glow, keep him alive when others died. The long hay grass brushed at his arms, sleeves rolled up to reveal pale, childish arms. They were gently dappled with marks and thin around the wrists. Albert would muse to him, Willi, you must eat more. You would be better as a rake on a farm than a soldier on the front, he says. It always lead to Wilhelm flushing. He was the youngest of their group, the older, more experienced men guiding him. There beside him sat Klaus, the man with a gray beard and a dark head of hair. He lay in the grass, asleep and snoring with his mouth wide as a fish's. Albert and Joachim were down bullying the mess officer for food. His friends were five years older than him at the youngest and eleven at the oldest. I hope, Wilhelm would think on the odd day, I hope I grow to be old. Old as them. Go to my home and find a wife.

After an hour, the lorries were emptied of their coffins and rumbled off again towards the thunder of the distant horizon—the front—the men crept slowly to the field hospital. Joachim came trudging up the hill. He wore a grin, he knew something we did not, and carried a mess tray of bread and a tin of corned beef. Klaus stirred at the sound of the shifting grasses, the gentle vibration of footsteps, threw his arm over his face and called out, “is that Albert? If he does not have my food, I do not want it.” Wilhelm felt his mouth twitch up.

“No, it is not Albert. He will not be up for a moment,” Joachim hums, setting down the bread and tin. Such food was savoured, sought after, more valuable than ammunition or a lovers kiss. The corned beef was brought back from the front, the bread made same day with a soft crust flaked with cooked flour still. Wilhelm felt his mouth fill with saliva at the sight.

“Well, where has he gone?” Klaus questioned, removing his hand from over his eyes and sitting up. The sun glowed on his aged features, thirty years old but older with a life stolen from him by the war. He was an old trench-hog, he told stories of his tales and killings that made Wilhelm shift. Of course, he has been on the front, but he has never seen action as Klaus has. Wilhelm sees killings, hides, cowers, flees. Far unlike the actions of Klaus.

“Do not tell him I told you this,” Joachim begins, tearing open a loaf of bread with nails black with dirt, “but he was attacked by another mess officer after he punched von Dieter. It was the new man, the ginger one. Albert will either come soon or reside in the hospital for a day.” he retold, shoving a piece of bread in his maw and moaning.

“Of course. That little snake had it coming for him,” Klaus smiled faintly, moustache twitching.

They sat there for long into the day until the Sun made Her decent beneath the Land, the two kissing faintly at the Horizon before parting and leaving Night. His children, Stars, gently winked and sent whispers of wind through the trees, clouds covering their mother, Moon, as they ate bread and beef and drank old cognac late into the night.

---

The thicket was dense, trees looming over Wilhelm. They stormed by with each pounding, thundering step, each crack of gun, each deep thunk as the screaming ammunition landed in the soil, in the bark of the trees, in his thigh. He stumbled, eyes going wide as the agony speared through his whole body and sent him tipping to the ground. It was an ever returning memory—the fall, the stabbing, the clinging to life as he wailed and shrieked and clutched the cot as forceps dug into his thigh and fished the bullet out. His arm was worse, almost severed with the deep lacerations of the saw bayonet.

The memory came drifting over him on occasion, sending him into a quiet, reserved stupor.

---

Now, they were headed to the front. The lorries were loud, chattering even on the road as it shook and trembled with holes and careened around pits where artillery had dug deep holes for corpses and rats that feasted until bone was pale and bleached by sunlight. They were long and fat, ugly faces and nude tails making men in Wilhelm's unit squirm and kick. There were some in the hole, spotting the lorry and crawling out to try and catch a fleeting ride. They were crushed under the tires with a squelch that made a nearby recruit whimper. “I used to have a pet rat at my home. Maybe it was a mouse. I can not see them being slaughtered like this,” he choked out, fair and still bearing child fat. Klaus, sitting between Wilhelm and the boy, grunted. "Shut up."

By nightfall, they were on the front again, Wilhelm meeting Joachim and Joachim meeting Albert and Albert meeting Klaus. The faint shells of light gleamed over the dark front, the Moon shying and averting Her Gaze from the Land to some other distant place. The artillery grumbled throughout the night, continuing on their trenches despite their own resistance. A murmur creeped throughout the trenches, Attack tomorrow, we must attack tomorrow, over the trench, into the land of no man, into the gunfire, attack. Klaus stood sentry through the night, separated from their band. Joachim, closest in age to Wilhelm, mumbled softly as he slept on his shoulder, fair complexion darkened further by shadow. Albert gnawed on old bread parallel to them, tossed a piece to a rat. The terrible creature scampered for it, eating the piece and creeping closer towards Albert for more, only to receive a sharp kick and run off squealing like swine, it's thick skin-toned tail dragging in the dirt. At some point, Wilhelm fell asleep too, lulled by Joachim's breaths on his neck and the pauses between artillery.

---

It was raining again. They were retreating. Many a man stumbled in the mud, tripped over hidden rocks, fell into pits and bundles of wire, were shot and drowned. The rain didn't stop when it began, not for long. Albert was somewhere behind them, Klaus scrabbling through the mud even as his leg bled profusely through deep slits and punctures from the wire. The same wire Wilhelm rolled as a recruit was killing his brothers, allowing the French to find them and stab them through the bellies, where the bayonets were easiest to pull out and didn't get caught like they did in the ribs. Joachim ran beside Wilhelm, sending mud spewing out under his boots and on Wilhelm's legs, seeping into his socks, his flesh, his very bones, freezing him to the core.

Wilhelm risked a foolish glance over his shoulder, oh how he regretted it, feeling a bullet from the attacking French explode into his pelvis. He wailed, fell, rolled into a deep pit. Joachim ran on without him. The liquid squelch of bodies beneath him filled his ears, the catch of wire as it dug into his face, his chest, his arms, caught him like a bug in a net. He was face down in the mud, the rain pouring in and threatening to fill the very pit he screamed and writhed in, doing nothing to help him escape the claws of the wire enclosing him and the agony of his lower half that spread like a virus through his body and made his mind wail in agony, stop, stop, make the pain end, I need help, please, even as the mud filled his mouth and the French closed in.

His mouth sealed shut as he heard men pound past the hole, stare down at his still body while he held his breath and begged, please, please, please. Please, please, please. The Sun had risen when he came to his senses, Her glow peering dimly through the clouds and beginning to part them. Wilhelm had crawled towards the edge of the artillery hole, had dragged the wire and tore his skin as he did so. It was too exhausting to scream now, even as he heard the rats exploring the newly stocked pits beside them and feast on flesh. Flies droned around him, landing on the hole that incapacitated him, biting at the flesh and pus. He barely had a mind to swat them away, barely a mind to call out for help as the French were pushed farther again in a cruel game of back and forth, to and fro, back and forth, to and fro.

---

It was the second night of being in the trench. The rats were exploring his now. He heard the soft splashes of water as they feasted on rotting corpses with bellies sliced open, dragging out the long, dark spirals of intestines and devouring them. Wilhelm heard movement above, the squish of mud escaping boots. A rat gnawed at one of his fingers. He struggled to jerk it away. Wilhelm sat on his back, gazing up blearily at the Sky, gray and dim. A figure approached, he no longer tried to hide from them. Wilhelm sat there, eyes fluttering shut as they loomed over the deep, muddy pool. He heard the squishing, the rats scurrying away as the shadow of a figure fell over Wilhelm, he could sense it. Something waved dangerously close to his face, the metallic click of razor wires being cut free from him.

Hands patted at his sides—empty pockets, always empty, always hungry—found the old, partially drunk cognac from a week before on his belt. He'd been saving it for some occasion. This would be a good one. They took it before he could even try to move. He felt their hands creep up to his neck, reach in for his tags only to pause when they felt the strange sensation of warm skin on a damp body.

His eyes flickered open. They caught onto a face. A man's, grimy and exhausted and different, as if he'd know him at some distant, long ago time. He blinked slowly, taking in all of his face, all of his strange, different uniform, before letting his eyelids slide shut again over dark pools going glassy.

He was silent.