The Moors looked despondent and menacing, banks of darkness encompassing the town like a malevolent archangel.
The whistles are terrible at dawn. They summon the start of yet another day of slaughter. Often I lay among the broken sandbags in the bottom of the trench just simply aching with fatigue.
He knew the river as one does finally a friend; knew it when it was black, guarding at night time all the lights of London in its depths, and seeming in its vast silence...
It was a Sunday morning, wet and cheerless. Along the street the merriment of the church bell of ‘The Immaculate Conception of the Virgin Mary’ ding donged its way to 5am.