The muck clung to every gap. The constant deafening rattle of artillery in the distance was a grim constant that life here was fragile. We huddled together, searching for strength in each other's faces. The silence between the barrages of fire was more oppressive than the chaos itself. Every noise could be an foe, every shadow a hidden assailant. S
Sounds from the Front Lines
The mud clung to every crack. The constant shrill rattle of artillery in the distance was a grim harbinger that life here was precarious. We huddled together, hoping for solace in each other's company. The silence between the barrages of fire was more oppressive than the chaos itself. Every whisper could be an enemy, every shadow a hidden killer. S