The last time I wrote was when I was a wee lad of 9-10.. Maybe 11. That was nearly 5-7 years ago now. My love for History has not dimmed, though my love for the Sonic franchise has (but only slightly). I checked, and once, a long time ago, I actually spotted a comment on one of my now missing stories asking for more. Now, in 2021, with some reluctance and hesitation (and, indeed, I cringe slightly reading this), here is a rough sketch of something I began writing last year while in lockdown and bored. I did not finish it, and I do not know if I truly intend to do so. However, for now, here is what I have got. Won't lie, as opposed to older posts I've made, this one is a BIT graphic in it's descriptions.

In short, you might not particularly like what you read here for any number of reasons, just remember that I am rusty.

A French Village, 1916..

In a sleepy village, in some lonely corner of the countryside, a letter is shoved through a slot in the door of a small farm house. It is dark, and cold. Yet it's occupants, of whom the winters of 40 years has made accustomed to this unpleasant temperature, and of whom had their whiskers whitened by the snows of these winters, picked the letter up and tore it open.

The figure, a tall, gangly figure of Blue, who's ears stood above his head and twitched with great interest, raised the letter "My dear girl! Come, it is from Miles. You know him, the fellow who left for the war. We went to school together! He has written!"

The man's wife, a somewhat shorter woman with a wonderful shade of Pink fur, walked in from the adjacent room. She got to work with breakfast first, before finally realizing that this man of hers was awaiting a response. "Yes, yes, go on then. Read it out! You know I have yet to learn to read properly."

"Of course, of course." The couple were married, both of them rather late in life.. In their 40s. Through good fortune and his work as a farmer, old Sonic had the great luck of not being called up to serve. His neighbor and childhood friend, nicknamed "Tails", a name he first embraced but soon began to think of scornfully, was not so lucky. He had been a hobbyist flight enthusiast as a boy, but was eventually forced to work a trade, as hobbies don't make money. He eventually became the town's Cobbler, a job he stated was boring, but money is money. Thus, he was not essential to the war effort as farmers or shepherds, and was called up in 1914. Due to an illness (of which the doctor never could identify), his recruitment was postponed until December of 1915, over a year after the start of this bloody conflict. And alas, he was still new to it at the time the letter had been written. What sent shivers down the spines of this peaceable farmer and his beloved wife, however, was the very first line of the letter, which spilled out from between Sonic's lips and into the cold air.

"I am here. Writing from Verdun."

Verdun, the great slaughterhouse. Verdun, the furnace. Verdun, where the martyrdom has become so great and terrible that it was often overlooked in the papers, as it was simply the norm now.

"I can not write much, as there is little paper."

Oh, how there is little of everything! You poor boy, you must contend with little of everything while also in a hellish landscape.

"I have been up the line for six days now, and there have been quite the fireworks."

Oh, how the noise must be! You poor boy, living amongst weapons of terrible destruction. It is too early for you to lose your hearing to these unfeeling machines of death.

"The food is low. As is water. The rationers have not been back in two days. They are likely dead."

Oh, how hungry and thirsty you must be! You poor boy, unable to eat. Yet here we can at least eat, where you must starve and grow weak.

"I can not explain the misery here. Everybody is afraid."

Oh, how terrified you must be up there! My poor young lad, just shy of your 20th birthday. You have yet to live yet you are seeing life yanked away.

"I will write in more detail, whenever I can."

Oh, how stressed you must be to not write! Young one, you used to love to write, but now you can only scribble short, sloppy lines of barely readable words. The old farmer, Sonic, folds the letter up and sets it aside.

"I was expecting more. He used to always write at home."

"Yes, but he probably hasn't even a table to eat at, nevermind write." Responds she, the fair aged but stunning Amy Rose, of whom had set the plates of food on the table.

The two sit and eat in silence. A third empty chair remained, for their own child, who had been killed in the first few weeks of the war, at the Marne. The report stated he died peacefully. A letter from a comrade told the fatality was from an explosive bullet to the face, which blasted out his cheeks and left his tongue hanging down his chin. Why must they tell two mourning parents how terribly their child died! And will they be given the death notice of young Miles, too? He had no family, and had, on his enlistment papers, named them his contact should he die, for they were all he had.

At The Front

The sinister rumble of hundreds, perhaps thousands of cannons fill the cold air. Frost coats the blood soaked ground, where thousands have already given their lives. Poor young Miles, who swatted at his fur as lice and fleas crawled about in the matted layer of brown-orange, where crusted mud fell from as it dried, was sprawled out in a trench. His pack, heavy with cartridges, rations, wet socks, and bombs, acted as a pillow. His rubber tarp, of which he had nicknamed "The Bodybag", was pulled under him, then wrapped around his front like a cacoon, acted as a blanket and sleeping bag. Further down the trench, a soldier had had his dugout caved in. His right arm stuck out from where the entrance once was, as if he had tried to crawl out. It was cold and pale, the clammy fist locked around another dead man's leg

"Help me, damn you! Please!" Bellows a hoarse, pained voice from the killing fields of No Mans Land.

With slow indifference, the young fox who could be mistaken for a piece of the Earth rising from the ground, slowly clambered from his rest and got to his feet. He drops the tarp from around him and on the ground, wiping his eyes. He peers through the periscope, spotting a poor old soldier, likely a Reservist, tangled in coils of barbed wire. His intestines spilled from his guts like white spaghetti or strings of sausages, and with every move, they were punctured by the prickly wire. He screeches and squeals with every sharp pain, and thus moved some more.

"Get me free! Please! I don't want to die out here!"

The fox weighed his options. Rush out and risk his life for this man, who likely would die in a hospital, and he himself be killed by a sniper's bullet, or he could put the man out of his misery. He chooses the latter, and grabs hold of his Lebel. He pulls it up to his shoulder and rests the barrel on the parapet. He set his sights on the trapped soldier, and eased his finger on the trigger.

"Cut me loose! Cut me loose-" The voice is cut off by the dry crack of a rifle

Miles racked the bolt of his rifle, and slowly brought it down to his side. His eyes, which peered out from under the brim of his dented helmet, slowly fixated on the dead soldier. The corpse's skullcap had been blasted off by the shot he had fired. Suddenly, the indifference he felt was overtaken by one of guilt and remorse. He shoves his head under the parapet and sits on the firestep. The first man he had ever killed with his rifle was a comrade, a wounded brother, a merciful death. Who was he? How old was he? Was he married, or single? Did he have children? Did his mother, father, or friends await him back home? He shakes himself free of these thoughts.

There is more thunderous booms, then a torrential downpour of rain. Cold and sharp. The soft clay walls of the trench slowly began to slide down, and the floor of the trench began to pool with puddles of water in its deepest crevices. Slowly, it begins to spill out into the higher parts of the trench, and slowly it began to flood.