Dawn Knox
hot, sweet, tea with a dash or rum
Passchendaele.
Whisper it.
Doesn’t it sound like a gentle
breath of wind?
But in August 1917 there was
nothing gentle about it.
Not when shells were dropping
into the quagmire, exploding and sending up columns of muddy, bloody
water.
Not when bullets whistled
overhead or struck home.
Not when screams filled my
ears.
Only dead men were silent.
And of course the
mud.
That sticky, stinking ooze which
sucked the unfortunate into its depths.
Not many who slipped into the
mire escaped its inexorable pull, and unless eager, desperate hands were able to
drag them out, they are there still.
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