Jenkins scrambles into the shell crater, his left hand holding his helmet steady. He dare not remove the flimsy protection it offers, even though the sweat stings his eyes. He is shaking with the adrenalin coursing through his veins. He is quaking with terror.

He has had enough. He is weary of the roar of high explosives, aimed at him and his comrades; he is sickened by the shouting, the screaming, the dying; he is disgusted by the orders that compel him to put himself into harm's way. He is nauseous of the smell of cordite, of seared flesh, of mud, of sweat and blood and vomit. He has had more than enough of the sight of bodies torn apart by the barbarous tools of rampant civilisation; of the faces of mortal enemies never met, frozen by the automatic rifle in his hands. This is Hell. This is insanity. Dear God, this has to stop!

He struggles to gain control again of his breathing. The bullets continue to fly above his head, only to kill his friends before him, but Jenkins doesn't care. The only thing that matters is staying alive to see his family again. That is what he is fighting for. He is not fighting for the platitudes of freedom and democracy the chain of command feeds him. His mother, newly widowed, needs his help now on the farm. His wife of the last ten months wants and needs her husband. Their beautiful son, who will celebrate his first birthday in six months, needs his father. Fighting through is the only possibility he has of fulfilling the family's common dream of reunion.

He doubts he will survive the week, though. If not killed today, then he probably will be tomorrow, and no doubt about it the day after. But at least he has a chance of survival if he fights. A slender chance it is, to be sure, but shells quite often strike twice in the same place. Staying in the crater is certain death.

Stealing himself, taking one or two deep breaths to clear his mind, he tightens his helmet, checks his gun and ammunition supply, crawls out of the crater, and charges again with heavy feet towards his fate.