Sé Dunne

A man talks about his war experience.

Rene: (lights cigarette): Right...well, as we speak I can hear Pinkers from behind that wall there, a whistle from that wall, shovels from that wall, and I can hear archie’s making crump-holes behind that one. I feel the lice in my hair, the damp, soiled, crunchy uniform coated in mud flakes. Socks cold and clinging, blackening our feet and laughing at us when the saws came out. We were always on iron rations. One day we’d eat rice, another day barely. We’d sit in our trenches, not daring to look over on the chance we’d get pinned in the helm. Rats were our most unwelcome friends there, scurrying with their pitter-patter, and their squealing, squealing, squealing. When we’d peppered their lines, we’d hear it. (Whistles). One. Up the ladders the soldiers go, and down in the dirt they fall. Pillars of grit, wood, and s**t sprout from random places. Another day, we hear it again. (Whistles). Two. Up they go, some make it farther this time. And you wonder when it will be your turn to see the faces of gods. (Whistles). Three.