These are the first 100 for a short story I wrote called "Private Grey". Thoughts?
I loved the wet black of rainy night in No Man’s Land the best. There was a musk of mud, mold, gunpowder and fresh rain that covered everything like a blanket, like my carefully crafted poncho that absorbed the rain readily while repelling it from my frame.
About 40 yards away a scream fell and mortar burst, flinging mud across my back in heavy chunks. This too, pelted by rain, assimilated into me, or perhaps I into it, I do not know which for sure. We were one – the blood and lead-soaked mud and I – cast about by the ravages of war and occasionally given to vicious intent.