Grease covered my brow mixing with the sweat. My ears rang, the booms resonating in my head, pounding with my heartbeat. Twenty down. One thirty four remaining myself included. My boots were covered in feces, grimy and thick like a black ocean made by the devil himself. Maybe this was hell. The pointed ears of the demons evolved into horned hats. Red faced monsters with no soul actually just normal men, with pale faces. Maybe this is hell. All monsters are human. Johnny slipped down the trench wall, puppet like, no one pulling his strings. I called for him.
“Johnny, Johnny!. My voice however is drowned out, three more explosions engulfing any other caring word. Mark ran over, and held him. The puppet string weren’t there anymore, they were cut. Johnny wouldn’t become a painter.
We didn’t have time to mourn. Mark stayed to long. The gas that enveloped our trench raced down the sides, coming straight for us. I slipped away, leaning on the mud wall. Mark didn’t leave Johnny. He tried carrying him.
“Tommo! Tommo! Grab my gun!” I turned at this, his last few words sounding choked and hoarse, turns out it was. He was speaking I think. But it sounded like gargling. I turned around and kept gaseous beast nipping at my heels. Mark wouldn’t see his newborn son. Fifty-eight down. Ninety six remaining, including myself.
Rossi gripped my shoulder and yanked me forward. He was running. Good old Rossi. He would keep watch for me when I tried to sleep. The gargling sound isn’t an aid like counting sheep was. Rossi told me that. On his trek before our company’s joined, he passed through a farm. The cattle were slaughtered and the sheep. They were stripped of wool and bloody, the farmers next to them, choking on their own blood. War was dirty.
When the gas dissipated, we were exhausted, we felt empty, like corpses; dead. But we weren’t continuing to fight for someone. We aren’t sure anymore. Rossi says it doesn’t matter, “‘cause people who aren’t supposed to die are dyin’ and we’re the assholes who have to do it”. My dad was wrong I guess. I don’t feel the glory. I feel the dirt, the guilt, the vibrations, and the pure unfiltered agony. “Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori...” My dad use to say that. Said some brilliant bird man knew right. I don’t think I agree. And I don’t think it will matter, ‘cause I will be dead soon.
One hundred twenty two down.  Seventy remaining, I don’t know who it includes.