Dawn crawled through the trenches, across the ground, pockmarked by yesterday’s mortars, rattling the skeleton-branches of oaks.
Sergeant Harper coughed, the claws of mustard gas ripping his throat.
Was he lucky to survive?
One year ago when joining the war he would have thought so.
Now he knew that soldiers don’t have beliefs, only obedience.
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm, the lieutenant had said just before he stepped over the edge just to be hit by the sniper’s bullet.
At least he had his name on a grave, not like his friends who were buried when their tunnel caved in under no man’s land.
Was it luck being alive?
Maybe today he would cross over, if not it was two weeks until his next two days relief with Claire at the village.
Sergeant Harper loaded his rifle again.
Today we write Prosery at Dverse with Ingrid. Today we have to fit the following line into a piece of prose (of less or equal than 144 words) from William Blake’s poem ‘The Chimney Sweeper:’So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm
September 13, 2016.