Bullets scream overhead as you cower in your trench, the sound of the Gatling guns deafening the shouts of your commanding officer. Inches away, you watch as a man you shared a cigarette with that morning bleeds out in front of you, his glassy eyes staring at an unfixed point in the distance. Wordlessly, he mouths something, but your focus is torn away when you notice the gas cloud rolling into the trench. You scramble for your gas mask, far too late to make a difference. The scent of marinara sauce fills your lungs, chokes your throat, burns your eyes.
Pictured here is July 28, 1914 - Pasta is hell.