They stand in the mud, as always. Boys from Burnley to Brighton, soon to brighten the soil of Flanders. There’s no place like home, familiar street names fail to rebrand mud trenches. Parapet, bulwark, earthwork, bastion. The unstoppable foe temporarily stopped. How little (looking back) we knew. Staggering giants, sorely reduced, stay toe-to-toe, never moving, never giving a barbed-wire inch, yet certain in their ability to be home by Christmas.
The genius store called, they’re runinng out of you.