Creative Writing: All Quiet On The Western Front

The long, peculiar note of a bugle sounded, borne to us on the raw morning air to interrupt our conversation. It rose with a low, clear, warble, and seemed to float in the gray sky like the note of a lark. As it died away, I perceived that the atmosphere had changed; despite the equilibrium established by the storm, it was dynamic. The men thrust forward their heads, expanded their eyes and clenched their teeth. They breathed arduously, as though strangled by yanking at the leash.
“Hoof it.” The source of the order remains an enigma to me, however, the men marched in subordination towards the source of the bugle.
In moments we had left the solitary haven that had so miraculously escaped the desolation of battle, and now the indications of the