hot, sweet, tea with a dash or rum
Doesn’t it sound like a gentle breath of wind?
But in August 1917 there was nothing gentle about it.
Not when shells were dropping into the quagmire, exploding and sending up columns of muddy, bloody water.
Not when bullets whistled overhead or struck home.
Not when screams filled my ears.
Only dead men were silent.
And of course the mud.
That sticky, stinking ooze which sucked the unfortunate into its depths.
Not many who slipped into the mire escaped its inexorable pull, and unless eager, desperate hands were able to drag them out, they are there still.
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