Broken blades lay scattered across the thick, concrete-like mud; water, flecked with grime and chunks of debris, pooled in the depths of each crater.

A rotten carcass had entwined and tangled its decaying flesh into the sharp teeth of the rusting wire. The length of wire stretched as far as one could see, placing its traps into a meticulous maze of tetanus-filled metal. The body was only a few feet from where the soldier sat, perched and peering through one eye into No Man's Land.

The uniform, once a sign of prestige and hope, lay in tatters; the sharp shape of his bones stuck out through the too-thin fabric.

He could remember receiving this uniform back home; the package was dressed all fancy from the recruiters as they sent him away with a congratulations.

At the time it had felt right – serving his country.

So it was with childish elation that he hopped onto the train and took off to training. With each ache, each cut, each tear, he reminded himself of his purpose to fulfil.

There was a boy back home, sun-kissed face and sandy hair, whose face melted the hostility in the barracks. All the men, young and old, were reminded of their shared goal – they would all wear the same blood in the end.

Thus, when that letter finally came – sturdy parchment decorated elegantly with a roaring crest – a similar roar exploded in the barracks.

His weight shifted, favouring his left side as the sun slowly rose, revealing the men scattered amongst broken blades.

Amongst the wire, the sun shone down, sun-kissing his face once more from where he fell days ago.

"Lieutenant, sir!"

He turned, hand poised to grab the letter in the private's hand.

A letter with the next deaths ordered.