Mirch pet his rifle and pulled the bolt back.

        “Oy, Luv, what you think them Brits do in their trenches?”

        “Fuck if I know. Prob’ly suckin’ each other off.”

        Mirch didn’t agree. He contemplated while chewing on his left hand.

        “They might have something – is all. A sort of war mechanic that could benefit us.”

        “Tell you what, Mirch. The next Brit cocksucker that falls, you take his uni’, then cross enemy line. You’d see firsthand.”

        “Yea, not bad.”

        Mirch lifted his hundred-pound machinegun and trotted toward the most forward trenches.

        “Mirch! Hold on,” Luv said.

        “Yea, buddy?”

        “Here, take me rifle with bayonet. You’d be dead in seconds trying to lug that fucker any distance.

        “Life saver, Luv.”

        “Yea, be sure to stab one for me.”

        “Done fuckin’ deal.”

        Mirch crouched and darted across the open field. Figures in the distance pointed and fired. Mirch stayed low, pushing himself off the ground with his left hand. Bullets grazed his helm and tore through his flesh.

        He dived into the enemy trench and hugged the dirt ground. His eyes widened as he realized his German outfit.

        “This won’t do,” he said, stripping his clothes and covering his naked flesh in caked mud. He cupped his forehead with his left hand and waltzed dizzily to the Britain’s back trenches.