Why?

Seven months.

It had been seven long months since we first set foot on the battlefield. Seven months of endless mud, blood, and fighting. Seven months of holding on to each other, watching men fall, and wondering if we'd be next. We had lost friends, buried brothers, and survived attacks that seemed impossible. But through it all, we had stayed together.

We weren't the same boys who had signed up for glory. The dream of Paris, the hope for victory, even the idea of a quick end—all of that had faded into the background. Now, we fought to stay alive, for the man beside us, and for the small hope that we'd make it out of this war in one piece.

The trench had become our home, as much as we hated it. The smell of damp earth and sweat never left us. The cold, the mud, and the endless rain seemed to define our world. But after seven months, we had learned to live with it. We had no choice. The sound of gunfire and explosions was just part of the day, something you got used to like the cold.

But one thing we never got used to was the loss. Every death left a mark. And no matter how much time passed, it didn't get easier. Every time we lost someone, the pain hit hard. And no one knew it better than us.

One cold morning, after what seemed like an endless rain, James stood at the trench edge, scanning the horizon. The enemy hadn't made any major moves in weeks, but none of us trusted the silence anymore.

"It's too quiet again," James muttered, his breath visible in the chilly air.

"Yeah," Sam said, looking uneasy. "Feels like they're waiting for something."

"They probably are," I added. "That's what scares me."

The air felt heavy, like something was about to snap. The stillness in the air didn't bring any comfort; it just made us tense. We had learned from the last attack that silence often came before disaster.

Will leaned against the trench wall, his rifle resting across his knees. "We should be ready for anything. It's been too long since their last attack."

"How do you get ready for something you can't see coming?" Henry asked, his voice tense. He had grown quieter over the months, his boyish energy drained by the war.

"You don't," James said, eyes still focused ahead. "You just stay alert."

I tried to shake off the feeling of unease, but it clung to me like the cold. Seven months in this place had taught me to trust my instincts, and right now, they were screaming that something was wrong.

It happened fast...

Just as the day began to fade into evening, we heard it—the low rumble of footsteps, muffled at first, but growing louder by the second.

"Ambush!" James shouted, pulling his rifle up as we scrambled to get into position.

Out of the fog and rain, enemy soldiers emerged, charging at us from the flanks, from the front, from every direction. It was chaos. The crack of gunfire exploded in the air, and the trench became a blur of noise and confusion.

I barely had time to register what was happening before I was firing. The enemy was close—too close—and their numbers were overwhelming. They had planned this well, sneaking up on us in the cover of the mist, catching us off guard.

"Hold the line!" James yelled, his voice raw with effort. But it was nearly impossible. They were everywhere, coming at us from angles we hadn't expected. Bullets whizzed past my head, the ground around me exploding in puffs of dirt and smoke.

I turned to look at Sam, who was a few feet away, his rifle raised as he fired shot after shot into the advancing enemy. His face was pale but determined, his usual grin replaced by a look of fierce concentration. I could hear him muttering under his breath, as if talking to himself was the only thing keeping him grounded in the chaos.

"Sam!" I shouted, ducking as a bullet grazed past my shoulder.

He looked at me, gave a quick nod, and kept firing. "They're pushing hard," he called back, his voice strained. "We're not ready for this!"

"Just keep them back!" I yelled, but I could see it in his eyes—the fear. We weren't ready, and we were getting overrun.

The next few minutes were a blur. The noise was deafening, the trench filled with smoke and shouting. I fired until my rifle clicked empty, then fumbled to reload, my hands shaking from the cold and adrenaline. All around me, men were falling, the ground turning slick with mud and blood.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him—Henry.

He was too far from cover, caught in the open, his back turned as he struggled to get into position.

"Henry!" I shouted, panic gripping me as I saw what was coming.

The enemy soldier emerged from the smoke, his rifle raised, and before any of us could react, he fired.

The sound of the shot rang out clear, cutting through the noise of battle like a knife. Henry jerked back, his body going limp as he crumpled to the ground.

"Henry!" Will screamed, but it was too late.

Everything seemed to slow down after that. I rushed to him, the battle fading into the background as I dropped to my knees beside him. His face was pale, his eyes wide with shock as he lay there, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

"Henry, stay with me," I whispered, pressing my hand against the wound in his chest, but the blood was flowing too fast. Too much.

He looked up at me, his eyes glassy, his mouth opening as if he was trying to speak. "I… I didn't see him coming," he whispered, his voice weak.

"It's okay," I said, though it wasn't. "Just hang on, we'll get you out of here."

But deep down, I knew it was a lie. The wound was bad, too bad. He wasn't going to make it.

Will dropped to his knees beside us, his face contorted with grief. "Henry, please, hold on."

Henry's breathing grew shallow, and his eyes fluttered. "I don't want to die here," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Not like this…"

"We're here with you," I said, my voice breaking. "You're not alone."

He gave a small, weak nod, his eyes closing as his breathing slowed.

And then, just like that, he was gone.