April, 1917. Europe has been at war for three long years. Russia has abandoned the war effort. The rains never stop. Mud and bodies choke the trenches.
In this new age of industrial death, there is little one person can do to make a difference. Men die by the thousands to guns and gas without a meter of scarred earth changing hands. To even peer over the top of your trench is to invite your end, sudden and unseen.
You're going over the top. soon, out into that blasted hellscape. But not in a wave of anonymous soldiers, walking pointlessly into machine-gun fire. No, you are going at night, just you are your closest comrades. You will leave your rifle behind, taking only grenades and a pickaxe handle. You will move silently under the wire and through pools of fetid water, your face blackened with soot, only your breathing to accompany you in the dark. You will be one with the scurrying rats and the wizzing shells.
Tonight, you will bring terror and death at the point of a blade, and drag shivering captives back for your officers.
You are a trench raider, and this is your last night on earth.