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This page is wrote by Raniero R, and they'd prefer it if you didn't edit this without their consent - thank you!

DisclaimerEdit

I am not responsible for any disturbance or disgust you may encounter reading this story, so be warned, contains extremely violent themes and realization of a real-war-case setting. Thank you for your consideration, now let the story Begin! :D


Introduction:

It’s Christmas Eve and we’re dying down here within the trenches. The German's line pushes closer each day, they are relentless. Winter is currently gripping this grotesque war and we can only tuck ourselves into our coats and our trenches, take our minds away within the thick of much suffering. It has been a long, cruel season and, for those of us who survive this day, we'll see a lot more crimson before this conflict ends.

Trauma Edit

WW1 Britsh Trenches

I do my best to tend to the injured, however here I am no healer. At best, I was a makeshift stopgap until they're pulled from the field or buried below it. Another shell burst close, another soldier is separated, another shower of frosty dirt and blood. I don’t flinch. I keep my hands steady as I sew the torn shin of a soldier’s leg. A cry from a soldier calls out for me; though I never find the plea's location. Men pile within the trench next to me, Pvt. Boycott grips a magazine, faucets it on his helmet and reloads. Sgt. Taylor squats against the wall. He pulls off his boot and shows me what’s left of his foot. It’s putrefying, gangrene has set in. If he’s lucky, he’ll simply lose his toes. I don’t place much faith in luck out here. I tell him to keep his boot on. Keep it dry. "Raniero! Help me now!" screeches another medic. I trudge over a few dead friends on my arrival to the plea. "Hold him steady!" he commands.

Horror Edit

Raniero Helps Medic

Pinning him to the dirt I let the medic work on his injury, a ghastly rip skewered across his chest, we can't stop the bleeding! "Move on to somebody you can help!" I command. I see Boycott empty his magazine when a shot rebounds off his helmet. He pulls it off and slowly clutches his head. Dropping to the dirt as crimson flows between his blunt fingers. Frustrated, Gibbons yells commands. "Jesus! We need to move-" He is riddled with stray bullets. He tumbles awkwardly next to me, showing no feeling or expression on his face. I feel discouraged from the sight. I climb the ladder to peek over at the field, my arms slightly shaking as I gaze over. I stare in terror at my sight, it's plagued by the bodies of my squad-mates. I scan them, wanting to help. A soldier cries inside a blasted crater, his arms tied around his legs, he flinches when he is hit by a stray enemy shot, and slumps lifelessly. A flamethrower tank explodes next to him, sending flames spurting in all directions. These men are beyond my help.

Wounds Edit

Buckley Carrying Jeff

A bullet rings my ears! My cheek is covered in blood and I feel around. It's not my blood, it's from the man next to me, his brain spurts out from his skull. A man appears at the top of the trench. Buckley. He’s got my brother Jeff strung over his back, still firing at the Germans. I try to help them down, but incoming fire shreds them! Both men tumble down onto me. Buckley’s stuck in a stare, mouth agape, dead. Jeff's breathing shallow and he’s got a dent in his helmet. "Are you hit brother?" I carefully remove it but when I do, blood spills out onto his face. His limbs dance in violent spasms, his eyes turn in and he quenches his final breath. "Shell!" screams a soldier as a mortar lands in our trench, I am hit by the blast, joining the stricken soldiers on the trench floor.

This page is wrote by Raniero, and they'd prefer it if you didn't edit this without their consent - thank you!

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