I do occasionally refer to trench warfare as though some small element of what we do at work and in life mirrors some of that anguish. And yet.
Imagine the wait. The months of preparation and the constant thrill of the chase as you are told your enemy awaits for total annihilation. The old soldiers in the camp know what’s next and keep wise counsel. The youthful ones stare wide eyed with wonder at the prospect of stories they imagine they will re-tell for time memorium down in The Wagon to the envy of all those who were not here.
Days to weeks to months and then at last they wait for the whistle over the top and the dance of oblivion that awaits them.
For the few who made it through the Somme, they would do it again until they too could join their brothers of the dead.
Unspeakable horror. I salute them, each and every one, whilst despising those who sent them to a hideous and early grave.