The wave hit. Thomas didn't think; he just acted. He shoved his bayonet forward, adrenaline replacing terror, as the world dissolved into a blur of iron, mud, and screams.

Hours later, the roar had faded to a low hum, replaced by the moan of the wounded and the slow ticking of a broken pocket watch someone had dropped near him. Thomas sat against the same stone wall, which now felt less like protection and more like a tombstone.

Through the smoke, they appeared—a wave of gray coats surging up the slope toward their position. Thomas’s hands shook, making it impossible to ram the cartridge down the barrel of his rifle. He watched Miller, who had been yelling seconds ago, fall silently, clutching his chest.

He huddled behind a fractured stone wall on the second day, the air thick with smoke that tasted of copper and black powder. His sergeant, a stern man named Miller, was trying to rally them. "Keep your heads down, keep loading!" Miller roared, though his own voice was raw.