The sound shattered the silence. The noise they had all feared; the noise they all knew would catch up with them eventually. Shrill whistles rang and the harrowing was come. Upon the wind, the sound galloped, assembling a mighty force to what was almost certainly a meaningless death. Men lined up in an endless line along the base of the mound they would soon ascend. Some shed a tear, while some clutched their rifles in their shaking hands. Others made one last plea to God to save them from their state, though the devil had seemingly usurped His power leaving chaos to envelop the world. Again the whistle rang, snapping all who had hoped to allow their minds to wander away back into the present, the oncoming storm of steel and copper. Patiently, they waited, standing ready for their onslaught. Then the third, final whistle rang. Officers screamed in an incomprehensible cacophony, revolvers drawn and cocked. That piercing final screech echoed in the void which had once housed the brain: all now was instinct, no thought could save them now. The first line of men rose, many going no further than a yard. One officer liked to believe that they would continue rising to the gates of Heaven, though now it mattered not: the gates were closed and sealed, humanity’s fate was assured. Mud dug into fingertips as men grabbed for grip, their hands now shivering in an uncontrollable attack on the nerves. The air began to fill with the stench of iron from bloodsoaked bullets; the sky began to darken as if it was attempting to block the view of the massacre. Some made it over the top into mortar-rent pits, hiding from the batteries bursting bloodthirsty bullets randomly into their opposition. Perhaps those who died first were lucky: they were not forced to lay their eyes upon the utter ruin of their forces, their men, their friends. A mountain of bodies was seared into the soldiers’ souls. One man came across an unlucky soldier whose body was gnawed by metal, begging to be killed, though the man could not raise his rifle quickly enough to steal the kill from death. And yet still the battle went on. No time for reflection, nor the opportunity to say a word of remembrance. A life gone in the blink of an eye, and nothing. The world continued turning, on a self destruction course with itself. Morning was grim for the injured, even grimmer for those sent to replace the unfathomable number lost. That distinctive taste of iron still bittered the air, and the sun remained shrouded in dark clouds, daring not to look upon the death of the day prior. For a while, nobody spoke. Then whispers started, trickling down the trenches like a wave gaining speed. Rumours of another offensive. Had they not learned? Had they no remorse? The soldiers knew it was not for them to decide; their job was to do and die. They realised something that the previous soldiers had not: this was no trench - it was a tomb, they had no life - they were expendable. Life had no meaning, thus their death would have none either. They would await the whistles to sound the coming of their death, following orders as good soldiers do.