It's a long bumpy ride home in the trailer. The war has ended, finally. I had been in the front line for 2 days. People will always say I'm lucky and a hero. When I get home, all the town will respect me because I have been through absolute hell. It doesn't appeal to me as much as you would have thought. It will churn up old memories every time someone asks me about the war or says well done.
             Tomorrow I will arrive at my house, 1 Meadow Lane and go inside and greet my waiting wife and two children. I will return to my old job as an accountant and my life will be back to it's cosy, routine form. I will come into the office and my co-workers will be saying, "Welcome back", and my life will be normal again, it will not have the impending thought that the next shell could have my name on it, or that tomorrow I may go over the top, but thoughts like, "I wonder what's for supper?" and, "where did I leave my newspaper?" it is such a pleasant contrast. As we were driving along we hit a dip in the road, the whole thing shuddered and we almost fell over. It was like a shell landing behind our trench like it did last week.
             Oh! Last week. I woke up at 5:15am to take my sentry post. I walked to the post knee deep in muddy sludge with chunks of flesh and bone strewn around like a stew. I get there and watch the deathly still no-man's-land do nothing for three hours whilst constantly trying to stay awake and ready for an attack. I was thinking of home, dreading the next shell coming next to me. It nearly did. It landed about 10 meters directly behind our trench. I don't think it injured anyone but it didn't half give us a fright! I was in my clothes for 6 days in a row, my trousers were soaked the whole time and I only took off my shoes three times. The worst thing was the waiting. It would have been fine if we were always on our feet and doing something, but we were waiting...