Second Annual .Org Writing Contest

It was a murderer's moon.
A crow perched on a solitary, decaying tree stump, glimpsing for some fresh carrion in a sea of yellow mud. Like everything else, it was silent. The birds had not sung here for several years and even the stutter of the machine guns and the thunder of the artillery which had turned these once green and pleasant pastures into a place of doom had gone, moved on to somewhere else. All that was left was Death.
Through this barren wilderness trudged a soldier in his khaki great coat, his hand clasping a bayonet hanging from his belt. Though in his early twenties, his hair had already begun to grey and he bore the harrowed look of a man twice his age. Nearing the top of a high knoll, he stopped surveyed this plain of death. The mud which spread all around him was not brown. Instead it was covered with a sickening yellow-brown slime, the residue of countless gas attacks. The stench of death was everywhere. Though all was silent, the man could still hear in his mind the bursts of machine gun fire, the yelps of his former comrades as they were mown down as so many cattle and the dying cries of the wounded as they slowly drowned in the mud.
The man decided to set off again. He had a mission to complete and dangers were everywhere. But above all, he wanted to leave this place of carnage. As he reached the bottom of the hillock, he glimpsed a rotting hand protruding from the mud. He hardly even paused in his stride. He had seen much, much worse. However, near the decaying tree stump, he stopped. Something was wrong. He felt a sharp tingle down his spine. He was a killer by profession and a killer always knows when something is not right. After a few minutes the tingle went away and he resumed his march. He did not notice the glint of the silver blade as the knife sliced through the air towards him