It was the same old lie it always was.
"The day after tomorrow, this will all be over."
Of course it would. And tomorrow morning, someone would say it again. And the day after that. And the day after that.
Tomorrow may never come, but the day after tomorrow? Not a chance. Not a glimmer of hope.
The days all ran together anyway, here - there was nothing that set any one day apart from another. The air would be thick with tension, the trench would be cold, somebody would get injured, another would die. It was the same every day.
He'd been hopeful, at the beginning. He'd been positive, believed that the war really might be over by Christmas. If they saw him now they wouldn't recognise him - the light was gone from his eyes, his skin was pale and wan, he wasn't eating properly. Compared to his troop, though, he was the picture of health.
There was nothing to look forward to, except maybe that bullet, the one they said had your name on it.
Maybe that was what they meant when they said it would all be over.