• October 4, 1916. River Somme, Northern France. The cracks of rifles sounded in the misty air. Turrets swayed left and right, fire bursting out their barrels. Tank treads rolled over sandbags and trenches, their guns launching bullets and bombs into the trenches. Carcasses of soldiers lay strewn across the battlefield.
    The rain beat down on Pierre’s weathered face. He sat up against the muddy trench wall, staining his back. The cold metal of his gun froze his hands. He counted off the time in a silent whisper. Sixteen...fifteen...fourteen...His forehead was drenched with sweat and rain. Eight...seven... six... He sat up. Three...two...one...Pierre jumped over the trench. His feet padded across the sodden dirt as he sprinted across the French frontier. The padding of his feet soon became a chorus of drums as squads joined in the charge across the open ground.
    Just as the lines of the French army broke through the fog, rifles and turrets spewed bullets into the wave of charging men from their hollow barrels. Soldiers catapulted backwards, bullets burrowed deep in their body. The soldiers dove behind their dead comrades, taking cover from the oncoming surge of rifle shells. Pierre slumped down behind the remains of a soldier as a bullet streaked into his calf. Blood, sweat, and rain mingled in his mouth as he tore off a piece of cloth with his teeth. As he tightened it around his leg, a surge of pain erupted from his bullet wound. He could feel an immense heat wave as an explosion erupted near him, and bodies, shrapnel, and dirt flew over him. The gas and smoke gagged Pierre. He crawled forward, ready to serve his country.