Matches

Rifle fire over my head.

The stench of rotting corpses fills my nose,

"They are everywhere," the Sergeant said.

I try to pull myself together.

I reach for my pack of smokes.

Lucky Strikes they are called.

Unbuttoned my pocket to find my matchbox.

For the love of God!

The Matches are wet.

The Captain's flute signal sounds like a train's horn.

A train to the deep clutches of Hell.

"Be brave, lads," the Sergeant yelled.

Out of the trench into no-man's-land.

Objective is to kill the Huns.

The final signal has been given.

We embark upon our doom.

Maybe I am lucky to go down with one strike.

Why don't the Huns shoot me in the face and be done with it.

As I rushed towards into the enemy lines.

I felt a pain in my stomach.

Like a punch with an enormous force.

I felt to the ground.

And when I was lying on the ground dying.

For the love of God!

The matches are wet.