We stand along the revetment, waiting for the whistle to blow. Waiting to climb the ladders, over the parapet and into the open field. We wait with a white knuckled grip on our rifles, anticipating the horrors we would soon face. It won’t be an easy task taking the German trenches. The enemy had almost a month of preparation done by the time we got here.

Barbed wire, machine guns creating perfect kill zones, and artillery loaded and fully stocked. Yes, it won’t be an easy fight; it never has been. I joined on the premise of swift victory, glorious combat and let’s be honest, the uniforms are just badass. Only one third of the vision planted in my mind came true, and it wasn’t the most important part.

Quick wins? What a laugh -the last battle took weeks to advance one hundred meters.

Glorious combat? This isn’t some play or moving picture, where the hero fights and defeats scores of enemies on his own. When we attacked this very trench two days ago, we lost an estimated 1230 men, and killed what? A hundred or so of the Fritz?

My thoughts are interrupted by a piercing shriek. That’s the whistle. That’s the sign that it's time to do my “duty” and die for my country. One by one we approach the ladder. One by one we climb and one by one, we charge towards death.

Rain from the previous three days had turned the ground beneath us into deep, thick mud. As I run, I notice the guy next to me had lost a boot. I can feel me legs already tiring from being weighed down by the sludge. We all stop in our tracks at the whumpf of a cannon. We aren’t in range for the Germans’ rifles, but we’re still easy pickings for their artillery.

“Scatter! Don’t bunch up and continue the advance!” cries an officer. As the shells fall from the sky, they create a sound similar to that of a kettle, but deepening in pitch as they draw closer to the earth. Everyone crouches down, or drops to the ground. But the shells land to the east, sending a tide of soil, rock and roots from trees gone by. This is followed by a growing cloud of pale yellow gas. The wind pushes the deadly fog towards us, creeping over the land in a silent, menacing manner.

“Masks on now, unless you want to see what the inside of your lungs looks like!” It’s the same officer. I take my helmet in one hand while pulling my mask on with the other, the helmet going over top. Now we have low visibility on top of the poor mobility.

“March on men! We have a war to win!” says the officer, voice now muffled by his gas mask. We march on. We draw closer and closer to the German trenches, but with the mustard gas inhibiting our sight there is no way of knowing how close we are to them. We can’t tell, not until shapes start to appear in the fog. Dark, lumpy shapes that gained form the closer we get to them. Dark human shapes. Human shapes with guns. Germans with guns.

All at once the air erupts with deafening noise. The whumpf of artillery cannons raining God’s wrath upon us. The ratatatata of Vicker machine guns pouring unholy amounts of hot lead into our lines. The crack of Germans firing their rifles with divine accuracy. I thought God was supposed to be on our side. In twos, threes, fours, fives my friends and comrades drop to the ground with seeping wounds.

I’m lying in the mud, using my old highschool teacher as shelter from the storm of bullets and to steady my rifle. He was a magnificent man, whos unbridled passion for his work and students, propelled us towards greatness. He had once equated his life to that of a sharpening stone, a tool to be used so that we could grab hold of life's various opportunities. Now he lies face first in a mixture of mud and gore; indeed a tool, but not one that I could use enthusiastically.

“Mount bayonets! Storm the trenches! Show these Jerries we mean business!” Christ, that officer is still alive? I unsheath my bayonet and fix it to the end of my Enfield. Specially outfitted soldiers had made a hole in the German defences with grenades, allowing us to surpass machine guns and overrun their position. I hop down into the trench and there is chaos to either side of me. Let’s go right.

There is no confusing who is who, with us Canadians wearing our saucer shaped helmets and the Germans their pickelhaube. Two canadians tackle a single Fritz to the ground, stabbing him with their trench knives. A German boy thrust his rifle/spear skywards, impaling an invading Canadian through the bottom of his jaw. With no time to retrieve his rifle the boy draws his broomhandle pistol and aims it at me. My rifle jerks in my hand as I instinctively shoot. It’s a gut shot. The boy doubles over and collapses, and as I walk over him to move on, I see streaks of tears flowing from his dying eyes.

As I press further into the trenches, the combat becomes more brutal. I come across a German who was smashing in the head of an unlucky ally. Unlucky because the German’s baynet had snapped, forcing him to use the butt of his rifle to cave in his skull. With each swing, the soldier’s face becomes more and more of an unrecognizable pulp. The Jerry stands eying his handywork, when a fellow of mine runs up behind him and kills him with a single blow to the head. It’s with a spiked club he had fashioned. One of the nails stuck right into the base of the German’s skull, dropping him instantly.

This fellow wasn’t always so violent. He was the librarian in my hometown. He wouldn’t even raise his voice when he got angry. Now he makes crude weapons and kills with them. This war does disgusting things to us. What was I even like? Before I signed up for this Hell? This is my undoing. Thinking too much. I’m shoved from behind but not hard enough to knock me down. Why can’t I move? If I don’t I’ll be killed!

Warmth spread around my abdomen I look down to see a shining object protruding from my stomach. Oh dear. I grasp hopelessly at the blade and my hands are cut as my attacker pulls it out of me. I fall to my knees and stare at my bloody hands. So that’s that. No dying in a blaze of glory for me. I’m just going to be another name on a very long list of names. And anyone reading that list will see my name and think nothing. I roll onto my side, pain shooting through my entire body. Did the fighting stop? Why is it so quiet? No... I can still hear it. The screams, gunshots and explosions. But it’s getting quieter, and I’m getting more tired. My heavy eyelids close for the last time, and I fade from the battlefield.