He ran. Not out of favour for his country. Not out of pride. Not out of some kind of hate for the others. He ran. He could see his shoes touching the ground. His comrades running next to him. Some falling. He ran. He could hear his ragged breath. He could hear his footsteps touching the muddy ground. He ran. He was reminded of his home. So peaceful. So quiet. He ran. Razor wire in front of him. Safety behind him. Gunshots around him. He ran. He ran while fearing a stray bullet might hit him. He ran while hearing the sounds of the others guns. He ran. He ran. He ran... The last thing he is to see is the other trench. His eyes closed...
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