It's February 1917 in northern France.

In a trench on the western front of the Great War, a British soldier is propped up against

a six foot pile of sandbags firing his rifle over the top of the enemy.

The deafening roar of shelling and explosions has been relentless all afternoon, and the

stench of death hangs in the cold morning air.

The soldier stomps his leather boots on the frozen muddy ground.

He can't remember the last time he felt his toes.

He's still haunted by the cries of his friend who endured trench foot for weeks before

going to hospital.

He never came back.

Now the soldier's gun jams and he ducks down trying to fix it.

But his mind is a mess.

He could barely concentrate on what his fingers are doing.

It's not just the noise, it's the terror.

In the yesterday, another friend died in his arms after being hit by enemy fire.

In this corner of France, you've seen more misery than any 19-year-old should ever have to.

As the shelling dies down, the officers shout to the soldiers to get some rest, so they're

ready to face the enemy fire that will surely return after sunset.

The young soldier turns his back on the deadly swirls of barbed wire littering no man's

land and heads through the warrant of trenches to a shelter a little further back.

As he walks, he thinks of his parents and sisters at home on the family farm in the Yorkshire

Dales.

...