Dirt. But here we call it soil. Soil is a formal, clean, refined term for granular substance produced by millions of years of erosion. Soil is not as worthless, filthy, or dirty as dirt. Soil is simply something, a barrier between us and whatever lies beneath our feet. Dirt is what stains our clothes, blackens our faces, coats our mouths. It waits for us to rub our eyes, a feeble attempt to expell the tear makers, then sends more of its endless horde to squat in our delicate white houses.
My trench mates call ourselves the filthy five, as appropriate a moniker as there has ever been. Our trench has moved over ten cubic meters of soil in as many days. We have literally changed the shape of the mountain. Our soil is dumped off the edge of a ramp that steadily crawls outward, trying to bridge the gap between us and Italy. The mountain now has a scenic overlook protruding five meters straight out, like some ugly and unnatural ship’s prow, the figure-head a blackened robot pouring bucket after infinite bucket of dirt.