War Stories from 9ENA

This term we have been looking at the language of propaganda in WW1 as well as comparing contrasting war poems by Jessie Pope and Wilfred Owen. In response to this, our class have produced some creative writing that focuses on events, characters and other aspects of WW1. We spent some time researching our stories like real authors, using both fiction and non-fiction texts provided by our friendly school librarian!

Bluebird

By Amy Burton

The hospital hummed with the sounds of war as Edie jumped from bed to bed, each time dealing with an utterly different case with the situation of patients ranging from critical (broken bones, multiple flesh wounds and trauma) to stable (typically smaller wounds or the early stages of recovery). Admittedly, it had never been easy for her after the eight hour trip overseas to heart of the war in France from Canada, but despite the long hours and stomach-churning tasks that were thrust upon her each and every day; she managed to get through for one reason. After finally succeeding in stitching a large gash on a very clearly traumatised old Frenchman’s arm who seemed to believe she was a German in disguise, Edie swept over to the next bed, carefully taking the time to tip toe over the patients lying on the floor, trying hard not to inhale as she passed a soldier with shell shock who had blatantly urinated himself. Hopefully, one of the young volunteers would clean it up, however their inexperience and lack of understanding when it came to nursing at war rendered them more of a hindrance than a help. Drawing the moth-eaten rag aside, Edie found a young boy of eight curled up asleep in his bed, the blankets only just covering his dusty socks. Smiling slightly at his peacefully blank face, Edie remembered the first day she met young Nicholas.

It had been a rushed day, one of the busiest and most horrifically unorganised in fact, when through the whirling mass of blue, white, khaki green and flushed pink. Edie spotted him standing there, dirty blonde hair, icy blue eyes and a ragged straw hat, clutching his right shoulder which was bleeding profusely. He stood lopsided on what appeared to be a broken leg (judging by the splintered bone that stuck out from the side of it). He had made no fuss as she had swept him out from the stampede of fumbling doctors and nurses into a wet, and most likely soiled, bed before tightly binding his shoulder and trying to replace the bone with a splint trying with all her might to control her red, shuddering hands. To her surprise however, he did no more than smile sweetly and whisper, as comfortingly as Edie thought possible,“Merci Madame, merci beaucoup.”  Before swiftly plunging his hand into the pocket of his tweed shorts and producing from it a strawberry bon bon, which Edie (after some persuasion and the dusting off of various pieces of thread and fluff) kindly accepted.

Since then, Edie had grown to love this young boy and relished the moments when, gruesome though they were, she was given the ‘task’ of removing and replacing the soaked, green and yellow  bandages which had been loosely slung around his leg by yet another one of the teenage volunteers. Slinging her medical bag onto the bottom of the bed, Edie paused to admire the features of Nicholas’ face, owing to the fact that previous attempts had been foiled by his attempts to imitate her Canadian accent every time she appeared. Until then, Edie had not yet begun to appreciate the remarkable resemblance between him and her brother Caleb who had recently sent her a letter revealing to her that he had ran off to join the army. Of course, Edie had been furious at this sudden revelation for the past three weeks since receiving it, but looking at the tousled, messy hair strewn with dust and muck, and the dusty rose cheeks that illuminated his pale, flawless face, reminded her painfully of the brother she had. The brother she HAD. She’d seen enough in the hospital to know that the war was no place for a young man of 17. There was no such thing as a front line soldier who came back with minor wounds, only those with ruptured lungs from gas attacks, or men whose legs were carelessly amputated by their comrades in a desperate effort to stop the bleeding. To Edie, there seemed to be no future, for her or for Nicholas, not now. Already the hospital’s water supply had been corrupted by poison poured by the hands of undercover German troops, claiming more than thirty lives and the hospital was often exposed to the relentless fear of screeching shells that tore through the air barely a kilometre from where they stood now.

Still worrying about the absence of a newly written letter from her brother, Edie continued to unwind the now blood clotted bandage. With each loop around little Nicholas’ leg, Edie could see the true extend of his now infected wound, through the stretched fabric realising that something had to be wrong. Faster she unwound and by the time she had the whole leg in view, her mouth had already fallen into a petrified cry. Unable to close her eyes she took in every millimetre of what now could not be recognised as a leg. The wound had burst open, milky green, gunky pus still oozing from the centre of it and settling round the edge to create a grotesque glue upon it, the bone protruding still and covered in clumps of thick, curdled dark blood from (beneath the pus) rotting pink flesh. The smell of rotten flesh and the metallic taste of the red sludge sent Edie into gagging as she recoiled from it, sobbing uncontrollably. Mind in hysterics, she rushed into a fluster, knowing that everything she had once known had now disappeared in an instance to leave her head spinning. Grabbing an antibiotic and holding her breath, she threw herself towards his limp arm and fumbled to slide the needle just below the skin without penetrating one of his veins. She then hurtled out of the cubicle into the hugely populous room and howled to all that could hear; “Help! Please help him, he’s dying!” But despite how hard she cried, only one tiny blonde head turned towards her in the crowd. The young French volunteer’s eyes enlarged instantaneously as she caught sight of Nicholas over Edie’s trembling shoulder and began to run through the blur of blue and white women as fast as her thin, pale legs could carry her. As soon as the girl entered the cubicle she whispered in a terrifyingly ghostly voice; “He’s not breathing.” Sweeping her now tear glazed, red eyes towards his chest, Edie realised her first and most inferior mistake that was sure to ruin not only her career, but her conscience. Urgently, she thrust herself upon his tiny, doll like chest and with all her might began to push against it with the sweaty palms of her hands. “1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4,” each word a broken whimper, Nicholas’ tiny arm flopped about, dangling down from the side of the bed, lifeless. She carried on, “1, 2, 3, 4,” staring hopefully at the blank, blood drained face of the boy she once loved. She didn’t even feel the arms that seized her own as she was dragged, kicking and screaming, his tiny, soft, cold, hand slipping gently from her desperate grip. The doctor now slipping a blood stained sheet over his angelic face. The other nurses tried to comfort her, “He wasn’t getting any better Edie. It was going to happen anyway, have a rest, and you’ll feel better in the morning.” The words slipped by her, empty like the ghostly echo. She was alone now, nothing to live for. The last ounce of blood that rushed through her veins was now pointless to her. For the next two days she lay there, unblinking, a ceaseless rapid of bitter salt water that streamed down her cheeks and onto the cadaverous earth.

On the 29^th of April 1915, the young French volunteer, Rosa Bellamy, walked into the cubicle once occupied by young Nicholas Beaumont to discover Edie Jones, apparently asleep, with her hands still clutching the wet scalpel, above her bleeding wrists.

Last Supper with Benito Mussolini

By Bertie Carter-Semenczuk

The candles were flickering in the centre of the table. The table was set and the aromas were flowing. It was a salmon pink sunset on a warm May evening in the comforting heart of Italy. This was set to be a classic Italian supper with family, friends and lots of vino. Alessandro Mussolini was cooking a feast in the kitchen for his son’s last night of normality before he was sent to the death ridden darkness of the trenches of Ypres.  This was whilst Benito’s loving mother was preparing what to say that would console her sons mind and heart on the edge of a fierce war. But, this was a family like no other, this was the Mussolini family; a strong family that gave the meaning to ‘Italian Stallion’; they were the prancing horses of the whole of Italy.

“Good evening Benito how are you?”

“You know perfectly well how I am Papa. I am going to have my last supper with my family and friends leaving my beloved country to fight for a cause that I may lose my life for.”

“Now come, come inside and have the meal of your life!”

They went inside through the grand door and into the dining room where they sat at the solid oak polished table in the company of the whole family and one of Benito’s lifelong friends, his name was Gianfranco Di Cassano.

“Ah Franco It’s lovely to see you I have missed you”

Franco greeted Benito with the firm hand shake and slip past the cheek that showed two men who had great respect for each other.

“You’ve aged well Benito; it’s marvellous to see you too.”

Benito Mussolini was a striking figure. He had aged well but he was still young. His hair was Raven black and he had a perfect moustache with not a hair out of place it had taken months to perfect but Mussolini was finally happy with the facial hair that slithered across his upper lip like a large hairy slug. His skin was dark, tanned like the leather on the seats that surround the table and flanked the hallway.

They both sat down and munched at the hot freshly baked loaf of bread and drank the fruity mellowed red wine. They discussed politics and how the socialist party was no longer at favour with Benito after his agreement with the War. The discussions were soon halted as the starter of olives, focaccia, Parma ham, Prosciutto and a wide array of pungent cheeses were served out onto the olive patterned ceramic plates. The candle wax was slowly melting onto the hard surface of the table it was as if the river Arno had turned into a solid yellow wax.

The conversations turned to the newspaper that Benito had made ‘Il Popolo D’Italia’. It was a controversial topic around the table of the Mussolinis’ as Benito’s uncle strongly disagreed with the ideas the newspaper set forward. The conversation matter was changed deliberately by Benito’s father to what the plans would be tomorrow when the time had come for Franco, Benito and the rest of the army to meet in Milano and set off via a long tension full train journey where you could rip through the atmosphere with a rifle.

The grand main course of local Venison with a red wine sauce was brought and the fantastic smell spread throughout the whole of Italy delighting the nasal passage of even cows grazing on fresh grass filled fields. After a heavy layering of matured Parmesan the venison was a fantastic send off to both Franco and Benito. Every single mouthful tasted like a piece of food gold, Alessandro Mussolini had worked wonders in the kitchen and he got a wealth of complements from his adoring son Benito.

Gianfranco and Benito got talking about what they wanted to do in their future. They discussed Gianfranco’s ideas of being a journalist or politician. Gianfranco’s view on life was a good one he had been brought up in Firenze but had moved with Benito to Switzerland to avoid fighting for the military but; this plan had failed miserably when war had broken out.

Benito wanted to be a leading editor of his newspaper and eventually be a politician he looked on life in a very frank and straight faced way; he was blunt and honest when speaking to people he didn’t agree with the prospect of lying to spare ones feelings.

Dessert finally came and it was homemade Gelato a Limon. It had a citrus burst but it was sweet at the same time, it melted to a perfect consistency on your delighted tongue. Sticking out of the tall coned glass were two honeyed crunchy biscuits in the shape of towers. They went with the smooth ice cream like guns go with war and like pain comes with death.

The supper was over and it had been a fantastic success. It was the perfect ‘Last Supper’; this was a send-off like no other but little did anyone know what would become of both Benito and Gianfranco?

Ten years had gone by since the fiery hell that was WW1; it had consumed millions of men. Benito was in a different state of mind and a different physical state. Since the war had gone by his parents had died and he had become a successful politician. His goal had been achieved; he was now the Fascist leader of his beloved nation of Italy. In the war Benito’s thoughts and ideas had darkened and sharpened like the steel flip knife he had in his smooth suit pocket. He was now at the helm of the pioneering political party IL facisto. He was a brutal and angry character.

Benito was holding a sort of party, but, it was no normal party he was now a politician and a successful one at that. This party was a way of spreading his political views to his closest friends, like spreading thick sumptuous butter onto chunky rugged bread; it takes lots of skill and charisma to change the views of a strong minded human. The supper would have to be perfect but Benito did not worry about the food, no, as it would be prepared and served by one of the best chefs in the whole of the food loving nation. Benito did worry however, about what Gianfranco Di Cassano would think. They had been great friends for the whole of their lives, from their piccolo bambino days to their fight and strength in the war. These were the moments that would either make or break a lifelong friendship.

“Hi Benito it’s great to see you… what’s your news?”

“Franco how fantastic, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you… and my news, well, you’ll find out when everybody gets here.”

They had both aged so rapidly both were bald and both had widened significantly. Benito’s brow seemed lower to the eye as his face looked almost in a constant frown and Franco’s face was mellow; he looked like he had had a tough unforgiving life. He was paler than Benito and he still had some random tufts of grey hair on an otherwise bald egg shaped head.

The guests had arrived, the alcohol was flowing and the cigars were being smoked. Franco and Benito sat adjacent to each other in large leather armchairs they had been inseparable for the whole evening. As they sat there for what seemed like days smiles were plenty and laughter was often heard from the amazed and surprised guests at the change of Benito’s behaviour around an old pal. They agreed on all of Benito’s unique ideas; Benito’s forthright and angered views were winning over Gianfranco and Franco’s ideas were spinning off into the bizarre brain of Benito Mussolini.

The main course had just been finished and the chef rightfully complemented it was an amazing night and enjoyable one at that. As dessert was being served Benito and Franco’s smirks across the table were becoming even more frequent it was now becoming strange. Desert, to absolutely nobody’s surprise was a magnum opus, also to nobody’s surprise was the fact that now both Benito and Franco were swaying in fellow drunkenness. However apart from the hangover the following morning Benito would look upon this supper as a success and that is exactly what he did.

 

Ebony’s Brow

By Harris Wright

The vigorous training was starting to eat away his trauma and disparity. From what he had heard from his camp, he dreaded the wretched and contorted masses that carpeted the floor, both British and Allied forces to him. That was given to him second hand, from fellow flyers most of which never saw their homes again.

But nerves aside, now is the time. Twelve minutes to become a hero upon the sky, or perish trying. Now in full aviation gear, the sky above could not reflect the fathomless sobriety. Like a tarnished mirror, that was being faced by so many but saw through by so few. He was well aware of what death meant, but by the sheer scale on which this was on. Nothing, could have been done to prepare him or any other condemned souls.

Sat waiting was his valiant beast. It was a fine spectacle of Kaiser engineering. No sooner than he had wedged his body within the walls on its back, the plane was coxed into the living. Her engine trembled quietly, as if she knew what lay in store for them in the near future. Within a minute he was born to the air, this elation was cut short by the feeling that the sands of time for him was running out, like a bullet to the heart. Heart, Ebony. ‘She has a heart’ he thought. ‘What is mine shall be hers, if I do but return’.

  Alongside flew his only friend, well only friend that was left. For the rest their time had run out. His friend may have been the best at what he did and a lifeline to those who wear the flying suit, yet up there soaring across the sky you were against all odds of surviving.

Edging nearer to the land where no-one speaks its name, in a broken diamond formation they flew on. With its skeletal, solitary bone trees jutting out from the labyrinth of apertures along with the rasping snakes which rained down from the heavens hoping to inflict there venom on the wives of the soldiers they struck back home. The snakes that missed gouged out and punctured the skin of the land lying flat. It will bear the scars. The dark angels were growing in masses as they neared. That is the terror he dreaded the most. These angels despised the living.

The sounds the angels made were accentuated when, through the clouds they came. Behind every seat was a one way ticket to eternal damnation with there name on it. These celestial devils swept through the air as if it was not there. In perfect formation they turned, dived and let loose their torturous gaze upon anyone with a cross of iron embellished on their mud stricken uniform.

‘Execution, easy to say. Harder to live with’ whispered Ebony’s sweet voice to his ear ‘look upon what they are doing, look at the young men fighting, hear of the women crying, this is the way they have done it before. Make what you do count. As if her eyes saw through his.                                                                   While reflecting on this he was jammed between the screams and flames of his lone friend as he sunk down in the mud to be forgotten. That came only to resolve nothing; he was innocent and had done everything possible not to fight. The pressure sought after him luring in the dark, filling his dreams with feathers so white fresh snow would be grey in comparison. Only 15, when death came knocking. Under this pressure he buckled much like his plane, now smashed to bits.

His attention was now brought to the fact that he had split from the already ruptured diamond. Alone on the canvas he flew on, painting ribbons of acrid smoke across the sunken sheet of grey. When out of the sun it came, on his course and flying like an arrow.  When he saw the new apparent danger he heard her soothing voice again ‘look to the fear they are feeding to you, your resistance will not be futile, return to me along the path that you choose to be right.’

By now the enemy was bearing down on him, so close in fact that the whites of his eyes seemed to be dark chasms of blackness. Reactions took over, although it nearly threw him out, he jolted the joystick. This movement sent spiralling rings of inferno and smoke earthwards. He knew the result of his actions, same as his father; he went this way just three days ago. The trauma he had faced was past to another like father to son. He dreaded the fact that now the ordeal would be passed to Ebony, even though she tried to steer his plane though these darkening days. His twelve minutes were up.

Monty by Mia Purcell

 

Opening the door, Monty let the cold air stroke the heat of his face. Today had been harder than any other, as he bandaged, washed, helped in the small rectory hospital. On a normal day it was busy enough, but that morning, Monty had had to put all of his emotions to the back of his mind, whilst all he heard was the frequent cries of a man hurt, a family hurt, that little indent that brought the whole place down. Bells heard every half hour, Monty thought to himself. Usually it was a few times a day.

Taking a few more grateful breaths, Monty started home. He was glad the day was over, as that week had been the toughest, with all the men coming in, many almost dead on their feet. He grabbed his coat and satchel, containing a flask (that used to be full of tea) and a sandwich, slightly congealed, but still appetizing to a hard-working man. As he ate, he walked, admiring the country paths and how fresh the air felt. He was missing Thomas more than ever now, but he found that admiring nature in all its glory really helped him push through his misery. Tommy will be home soon, he thought, putting the last bit of marmalade-covered bread into his mouth.

Monty approached the slightly sleepy street, not as welcoming as yesterday. Monty didn’t want to think of Thomas. He swallowed the stone of sadness, of guilt and of fear, before opening the door to the cottage. The smell of damp overwhelmed him and he made his way into the kitchen before stopping. He looked around, his heart pounding. The whole house was dark, silent, and practically desolate. No music, no voices, no footsteps. Monty shook himself and walked into the lounge. He lit the gas lamp and shut the curtains.

“Monty?”.  Monty turned, to see his mother, curled up in the easy chair next to the burnt out grated. Her pallor was ghostly white and her eyes were large and lonely.

“Mother? What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”, Monty cried, his voice frantic. She shook her head, closing her eyes to try and hide the tears. Her cheeks were damp and she looked weak, like a small child, not a woman. It took Monty a while to realise that her hand was clasping a small sheet of paper. He took it from her and read it aloud:

Dear Mrs Weatherfield,

I am afraid to tell you that your son, Thomas William Weatherfirld has been lost in action, along with around 50 other men. I am extremely sorry to tell you this and I send my condalences and apologies. We are all devastated that we have lost so many of our valuable fighters.

Monty paused, his eyes bulging, before reading the rest.

Unfortunately, in the current circumstances, we cannot send out a search party, as it is too dangerous and we are currently low on troop numbers. Yet again, we are all sorry for your loss. Rest assured, he has served his country a great honour.

Yours Faithfully,

Robert Wallsopp

Monty stopped. He didn’t dare look at his mother. Pacing up and down, he took a deep breath, but this time it didn’t help. Monty stormed over to the gas lamp and threw the letter into it. He caught his finger on the flame; so maybe that’s why the tears were pouring down his cheeks. He turned to his mother, who was staring into space, blank to him. Monty felt as if he was burning all over.

“When did this come?”, he managed to croak out, controlling himself. Mother simply stared on as if Monty wasn’t even there. Monty shook her and she looked at him, her eyes big and frightened. She was lost without Dad, without Tommy and now she’d have to deal without him.

“I’m going to kill them! How dare they leave him to die, just give it no thought, not even try! They just let people die! You know they do Mother! You know what happened to Dad! They can’t do this to Tommy. I won’t let them! I’m going to kill them!”, Monty cried, brushing the tears of anger and fright from his cheeks. His mother was shaking her head sadly. All hope was lost, in her eyes.

“No, Monty. That won’t help at all”, she said. She got up from the easy chair and put her arms around him and he hugged her back, miserably, hating the army, hating war. It was all too much. He pushed his mother back and ran from the room, into the mouldy kitchen with its broken stove and seized up his satchel, ignoring his mother’s desperate calls. He wrenched the door open and shrugged on his coat with tears still wet in his eyes.

“Monty?!”, his mother shouted at him, as she hurried into the kitchen, “Where are you going?”. Monty was flushed and angry, his brow sweaty and his face firm. He looked at his sweet, fond mother. He gulped and all his sadness was gone, he was only angry.

“I’ll kill them. I’m going to kill them”.

 

The Forgotten Soldier

by Charlotte Hipperson

Beauty. Well that is what it always seemed to me. It was anything and everything my type had ever wanted. The freedom of your soul, the vast space calling your name. I was lost, in a world of my own. But for me?  No I am not greedy; I had to share it with someone. Someone who cared, and someone who understood, that someone was my Peter. He was loyal, brave and he was the most determined boy of 16 well the only one I had ever met.  I could proudly say he was my friend. We would go up to the grassland and he would tell me we were ‘free’. The wind would flow through my mane; the earth seemed to move around me. The grassland, it wasn’t just any grassland. This one was perfect; the grass was long enough for me, and the best part, the wind would slowly move the tops of the grass creating waves of what seemed a green sea. The sky, it was beautiful, no clouds to block the rays shining on my coat, the above, it would watch over me like I was its child, just how I watched over my Peter. I would carry him for what seemed all day, no care in the world, time, it didn’t matter to us. We would play games for hours upon end. We would pretend I was a race horse and we were at the races, we could play cowboys and he would round up the sheep in the pastures, but his favourite was soldiers, I convinced myself to love it to, having the piercing sound of guns and explosions go through your mind when you’re a five year old thoroughbred.

Soon I found myself trapped. I told him not to, it will be fun he said. Everyone is talking about it! What could I do? I couldn’t leave him, let him do it on his own. I promised him wherever he was I would be there to. He said I looked magnificent, every buckle on my harness gleamed when it came into contact with the sun beams. Peter he was so gentle? What was the need for this? I was confused. My mouth was being torn apart from the jerking of the sharp Portsmouth bit. My gut was being tortured from the pounding of the spurs. Where had my snaffle gone? It was no more. But I knew behind everything he was there, he wasn’t meaning to do it.  He told me this was war, there was no time for error or mistakes, and everything had to be perfect. We were trudging through heavy mud, many didn’t make it, but I couldn’t do anything about it. The bugles played, it was the knowing sound of murder. It was calling you, it seemed to get over a message that it would only get worse. What was I in for? The horse beside me just collapsed, it couldn’t take anymore, and the soldier pulled out his pistol from the depths of his pocket and held it to his horses’ head, the gunshot called silence over the cavalry another soldier down.

It was time. I felt the trembles from my rider when he gave me what seemed like the last kick I could take were astonishing.  I was at the back, trampling over a bed of horses I ploughed on. Then it hit me. This was never any game. It’s far beyond belief. My brain it couldn’t take it, my heart raced faster than it had ever done before. Silence descended amongst my body, I could hear my heart beat. Suddenly I realised, I was in a field, and it must have been identical to the one from home, nearly ten thousand miles away.  But this time there was no grass, no soothing wind and no freedom. Where was the light? Thunder roared from the sky, rain poured down, the rattle of slaughtering guns grew louder, I knew I was getting close, but still I fought on.

Peaceful Oblivion by Olivia Stehr

     The call came tonight, like a ripple through water. A stone was dropped from a height, causing waves of whispers and scurrying. Lance Corporal Jones was the first to tell me. He rushed up to me, telling me to gather my guns and prepare for the rush over the top. I hurried into my cramped room and picked up my guns, sneaking my wife's favourite necklace into my pocket as I did so. Attaching the bayonet to the end of my rifle, I sprinted to join the line of soldiers nervously awaiting their fate. 

One part of me was glad about getting out of the trenches. There had recently been a large outbreak of trench foot, despite the whale oil the sergeants insist on smearing on our feet. Quite a few of our platoon has been affected, some even being sent home. It was only a matter of time before my feet became too big for my shoes. Literally. I lined up with everyone else, just like we had always practised almost every evening. However, this was not a drill. It was difficult to imagine that this would be our last time, that this would be our final look at the squalid conditions that we had spent months slaving away in. I shuffled from foot to foot, constantly fidgeting. There was no way that I could keep comfortable for long. Glancing over to Jones, I realised he looked as nervous than I felt. This was strange because he was a rock and it was nearly impossible to make him bleed. I wondered how I must look. I am much softer than Jones. Just the thought of running into no man's land like madmen to be slaughtered like cattle made me tremble in my battered boots. We were just asking for a bullet to the head!

     The wait for the whistle to go felt like years. Time seemed to be stuck in slow motion. I watched as Arthur tried to scratch his head. It took hours for him to gradually reach up to his head, but before he got the chance to scratch it, the whistle was finally blown. There was a mad rush to get to the ladders. I had to dodge quickly to avoid being clubbed by the back of a gun. There was no way I would be able to identify anyone, we were all too tightly packed. It was just a wild mess of flailing limbs and rogue guns. I just had to hope that a safety switch hadn't been carelessly left off and that no one knocked the trig- too late. There was a loud curse and a body slammed into me, knocking me onto the duck boards. The person was struggling to get up but I knew he would never walk again. The only job he achieved was to crush me. What a way to go. Being crushed by a man shot by someone on the same side as him. Bracing my arms against him, I resisted as hard as I could and managed to shift the body a little. Another few shoves and I could breathe. But I still couldn't move my legs. I would be left here to die of dehydration or of starvation, whichever came first. Suddenly, I was free. A towering man stood staring down at me.

Jones growled “Move before I drop it on your head.” I didn't need telling twice. I swiftly rolled out of the way and with a grunt, Jones dropped the body. Poor Arthur. No one wants to die like that.

     Back on the ladder I realised how much fight Arthur had knocked out of me. The struggle had drained me of almost all my energy, making it difficult to put one hand over the other. The sound of gunshots drifted down from above, getting louder by the second. At least I hadn't missed the action. No one wanted to die a coward. Upon reaching the top of the ladder, I realised how dire our situation was. Dead men lay all around me as I watched the last survivors being shot down. Eyes were open but not seeing. Guns clutched until the final moments. Mouths open in a terrible death wail. It was nigh on impossible to think that just a few minutes ago they were all awaiting a whistle blow, all wanting to be remembered as a hero. I had to keep going.

     Barbed wire was the next obstacle. Crawling furiously, I needed to get out from beneath the forest of freshly sharpened metal. Just as the end came tantalisingly within reach, something jerked me backwards. My shirt had snagged on a barb and the metal was scraping the fragile skin beneath. We hadn't been trained for this. I had no idea how to get free. Each time I breathed, the barb dug deeper into my skin. I must have looked like a pig for slaughter. A fish flopping hopelessly as its captor readied the gun- My shirt tore. The barb was ripped from my back. Once again, Jones towered over me. We nodded to each other and trudged into the no man's land.

     This was not what we'd been promised. We had been promised a game; a time when men would pull together to defend their country. Promises like this should be kept, not broken like all these men around me. Jones signalled me over. Knowing that we needed to stick together, I traipsed over to him. There was no way of telling who, if anyone, had survived. We moved off together. If we stayed still we surely would have been killed. Weaving around the intricate web of bodies, we discussed our plan of action. We needed to find a way out of the no man's land, but if we returned to our trench we would be classed as cowards. It was a miracle that we were still walking. Why had they not killed us yet? There was a loud bang from nearby and Lance Corporal Jones slumped into me. I dropped to the floor, desperately searching for the attacker. I couldn't see one. I lay Jones on the barren ground. The wound looked bad. Bullets to the leg often resulted in extreme blood loss and death. However, there was no way I would sit and watch my closest friend die. Not like this. I had to keep on moving. Grabbing him under his arms, I half carried half dragged Jones along. At first he struggled feebly but he gradually calmed. I looked at him and realised that he was unconscious. Part of me knew that it was dangerous, but part of me wanted to join him. I looked up and saw a large mound in front of me. How had I not noticed it before? If I could climb to the top of it then I would be able to find a way to escape. Also, it was much more difficult to be shot while on higher ground because gravity interferes with the distance of the shot. Setting Jones down, I tentatively placed my foot onto the slope. The ground disappeared from beneath my feet and I was flying. I felt so free. For a moment I forgot where I was and imagined I was a bird. Then I hit the ground with enough force to break every bone in my body.

Oblivion. Peaceful oblivion.

Pain. Unbearable pain.

The Trenches A Recipe for Friendship and Danger

Sophie Watson

“We've been heard.” I had only been back a week or two, doing basic duties just to get me back on my feet, that's what they said. I thought digging burrows in trenches and evesdropping was the least life threatening job in the army, but obviously I was mistaken.

        It all began over a month ago when I rashly signed up to join the army at the tender age of sixteen. Looking back on it now, I realise I was reckless nevertheless I wanted  to be involved, treated like an adult for once instead of an infant. My best friend Danny (who was also sixteen), shared the same perspectives as I did, so we signed up together. I was thinking of all the praise I would get from my family and in particular  my mother  however my ego clouded the reality- that I could have got seriously wounded or even worse.

I knew when we signed up in the village hall that the soldiers realised we weren't eighteen, but Great Britain was so desperate for men to fight they just turned a blind eye. I suppose to them age was just a number and in all fairness I had always been a stocky lad and people often thought I was older than I actually was. We were so proud of our achievements and my mother was even more so, I could see the pride behind her eyes which gave me hidden confidence and encouragement. It all became surreal but when I received the uniform I felt like I belonged somewhere instead of being an outsider. Before I knew it I was being deported out to France ready to fight on the front line. That's when it hit me – I was only sixteen I would probably  be half the age of most of the men in the trench, compared to them, I was no man I was a boy.

           I thought these feelings would fade in a couple of days once I found my feet but days passed and I still felt the same as I did when I got here, the only difference being I had a gun on my shoulder and I had more lice on my body. A week into my duties I received my first letter from home.

Dear my darling boy,

I am so proud of you it is beyond belief, all I want you to know is that we are all thinking of you. We are all well here in Cambridge and we are all praying for your safe return. Your brother and sister are so proud of you as well so much so that they want to be in the army just like their older brother! If you take anything from this letter remember this, stay safe and don't do anything reckless, but most importantly we love you. We are supporting you all the way and will always stand by you, distance doesn't matter and although you are in a different country you are never alone!

              Lots of love mum x

       I had tears running down my cheek and I felt like I didn't belong but if I returned home deliberately injured or I ran away, I knew the shame it would bring to my family especially my mother. I know she said that she'd stand by me however there would still be disappointment hidden in her eyes. I could always read her like a book and deep down I realised not even a coward such as me could shatter her expectations of me becoming an admiral soldier. I'd just have to bear it; doing something I hated (down to peer pressure), for most of my life but the way that the death toll was going in my trench I didn't suppose I would be around for much  longer.

          The next day was a new day and already I was struggling mentally. My Sergeant could see that I wasn't coping and for the first time in what seemed like years someone treated me as an individual instead of someone in uniform. He made me believe in myself in a way that no one else has before. I suppose he was always nice to me and I never saw him as a friend that I could turn to but after that moment I suppose we grew closer. However danger was lurking over the other side of the trench and those happy moments couldn't last forever. A few hours later we were going over the trench, my Sergeant took the lead and I followed shortly, everything was going as well as could be expected because after all we were in dead man's land! Shots could be heard everywhere you turned, it was like a never ending echo. The once green grass had been turned red with blood and anger ; screams and cries for help pierced my ears. We were about to retreat when Sergeant Williams saw a young soldier stand on a mine, he pushed me over to protect me from the bomb and the force from the explosion forced him back into a never ending sleep. I blacked out.

           The bright light from the window blinded my eyes as if the door to heaven had been opened ; and If I was perfectly honest I wish I had been travelling to the gleaming light of heaven. When my eyes came into focus a young nurse was redressing my burn wounds, I remember the words she said exactly “ You will be able to leave soon, in a week or two, you'll be in a lot of pain but it'll all be worth it once the war's over – ey!” I could tell by her accent that she was from Yorkshire or somewhere near there, it kind of comforted me as she spoke in such a soft tone. After what seemed years (in fact it was a couple of days), the nurses got me up and walking and as I was walking up the ward I could see the pain in the distraught soldiers faces. It really got me thinking, how am I still here? Sergeant Williams was a brave courageous man who could never do enough for people, now he is dead  on his way back to his wife and 3 young children. Me on the other hand, I am sitting in a hospital bed with only  a couple of burns to show for my naïvety. It was this moment that changed my way of life, I should be more like Sergeant Williams, brave courageous, instead of boy who can only think of himself and not of others. I was determined to change ; be the soldier that my mother wanted me to be and that Sergeant Williams would be proud of too.

            Within one month of my accident I was back on the front line, doing basic duties and looking out for others, looking for those who were as lost as I was. I hadn't heard any news from Danny but I didn't expect to as he was in another trench but all I hoped was that he was safe, well and had changed his attitude towards life, as I had. On the 10^th of December I was sent to go and dig under our camp to spy on the German trench, which must have been over 2 miles away. In total there were around 6 of us, we were just getting comfortable and were beginning to make out what they were saying when I felt something stroke my leg. I turned and looked down to see a giant, flea infested rat! I jumped up and knocked over all of our  cutlery and water.  I froze. There was shuffling above us and then nothing, I knew that we had been heard as they had been talking non stop for the whole hour we had been there. I told as many men to go back, it was the least I could do after all it was my foolish action that had put us in that position. Now there was only me and another man who looked as lost I did, I gave him a quick look of reassurance and pressed my ear against the Germans camp to see if I could hear anything. There was silence until I heard “Gas davon du idiot!” It didn't take a genius to work out what that meant! I signalled to the other soldier to go back and I shortly followed, my heart was racing so fast I felt like it was going to fall out of my chest. We just about got half way when I heard other voices coming from where we had just left, it was the Germans, they were coming after us!

Death in Disguise

By James Salter

The boy ducked for cover.  He could hear the enemy approaching.  Loading his gun, he dashed out from behind the clump of bushes he was hiding in and ran straight toward one of the lookout posts.  Scaling it quickly he looked out over the battlefield, he smiled to himself knowing he had the upper hand up here.  All of a sudden he heard a gunshot.  He realised with dismay that he had been hit.  The game was over.  He had lost.

"Ha ha beat you again," shouted Alexander, his older brother.  "Not fair" Sammy said climbing down from the tree house and running across the garden to his brother.  "How?"

"First rule of the battlefield, always have hiding places” said Alexander.  He walked over to the broken tree trunk where in the middle was a small hole just big enough to fit a child inside.

"Oh" Sammy said handing his wooden gun to his brother, "what's the score now?"

"I make it twenty four shots to me and one to you" replied Alexander  "although yours really shouldn't of counted as you forgot to make the gun shot noise.  Anyway it's time for supper, let's go in I'm starving"

Slowly the two boys walked across the garden and went into the huge farmhouse.  When they got inside they washed their hands and sat at the kitchen table awaiting their supper.  Five minutes later, two steaming plates containing bacon, eggs and cooked tomatoes were carried into the room by a short, yet rather large woman.  She smiled at the two boys as she set the plates down on the table "hear you go.  The bacon has just come back from the slaughter house."

"Which pig is it from mother?" Sammy asked.

"It is from rasher darling.  Oh and that reminds me I've got to arrange to send Smoky and Chop off to the slaughter house as well.  She then sat down at the table with the boys and said "what have you been up to today?"

Sammy replied "we have been playing the gun game Mother."

The expression on their Mother's face changed, she frowned and said, "you know I don't like you playing that game."

"But it's so fun and it's training us for when we're old enough to join the army"

"You're only eleven and even Alexander is still much too young" said their Mother.

" I can join the army in two years" Alexander replied sulkily.

"Yes but I don't want you to join the army until you are at least sixteen and I'm not happy about it even then - it's mad.  Why anyone would wish to join the army in the first place I do not know?"

Alexander felt a surge of heat containing utter frustration and anger rush up through him.  He banged his plate down on the table and shouted at his Mother "Why, why you say?  It's because of the honour to serve your country.  Haven't you seen the posters?  Our country needs us" and with that he stormed out of the kitchen and went to his room.

A few hours later Sammy was knocking on his brother's door, "go away" Alexander said.  "Please let me in Alex I want to talk to you" said Sammy.  Alexander didn't reply, so Sammy walked into the room.  Inside Alexander was lying on his bed, as his brother came in he said “ I wish I could join the army."  "But you can't until you're sixteen, you know what Mum said" responded Sammy.  "Yeah I know" Alexander said sighing "but I wish I could join - I'm ready to fight!"  " I wonder what it's like in the trenches?" Sammy said.  "I imagine it's quite fun really, almost a game in a way.  Maybe a brutal and dangerous game, but a game nevertheless."

Two years later

The young man ducked down as a monstrous roar of gun fire came exploding from over the top of the trench wall.  There were one hundred and twenty five men including the young man about to make the treacherous and almost certainly suicidal trip over the wall.

The young man had just been in the middle of writing a letter when the gun fire started.  He knew with the utmost urgency that this letter had to get to its destination, not for the sake of his life but for the brother he hadn't spoken to for so many long months.  Quickly scribbling a final message at the bottom of the page he folded it up and gave it to a tall man with fair, light brown hair.  He knew this man would shortly be leaving the trenches and returning back to his homeland in Scotland. The young man said “guard this letter with your life and make sure it gets home” The man nodded and with that he walked away.  The younger man watched him leave before turning round and awaiting his orders.  They came within a minute, the team leader of the expedition shouted loudly above the heavy artillery “Ready Men ….Go!”  The men climbed over the top of the trench wall and ran into the battle zone.

No one ever saw that young man again but the letter did reach its destination.  It was given to a teenage boy at the door of a rural farmhouse.  Sammy opened the letter and read:

Dear brother

Months have passed since I last was in contact with you; my last letter explained my love for the army. But this time I am afraid it is very different.  By the time you read this I will have passed into the shadows, I’m now on my final assignment – going over the trench wall.  Listen I don’t want you to cry for me, it was my own silly and stupid fault for believing in the glory of war.  The propaganda affected me and led me to believe that war is a game and that it is an honour to fight for your country but that is far from the truth.  In my short time in the army, I have experienced the terrible shrieking from wailing shells, the ghastly roar of gunfire and the blood curdling sight of death.  I tell you Sammy, war is not for noble citizens and peace loving boys, it’s for crooks and scoundrels.  So it my sincerest duty to tell you that this war is a pointless loss of life, I tell you brother do whatever is necessary but do not join the army.  Please do not make the mistake I did.

From your loving brother

Alexander

The Feather

By William Jacobs

I wascontent, as I walked down the road I admired the beauty of the flowers thatwere beginning to grow around the base of the big oak tree which teemed withall sorts of wild life, from the squirrels which scampered up the lowerbranches, their shimmering red fur making them look as if they were ablaze, tothe majestic owl that perched on the top branch, silently looking over hiskingdom. I saw how the morning dew hung off each blade of grass like diamondsshining in the warm glow of the sun. As I entered the village I closed my eyesand let the endless chorus of birdsong wash over my soul cleansing it of anyworry. I saw a paper boy and handed him a sixpence for one of the crisp, newlyprinted papers in his youthful embrace. As I walked away I opened the paper andstopped.

On thefront page was a poem, a poem about the war, a poem lying about the war. Itdescribed war as a game, a walk in the park, but I was no fool I knew it was alie. I promptly ripped up the treacherous piece of literature and threw it tothe ground. As I walked on I spotted Bill and nodded to him in greeting, I sawthat he was in a queue of people signing up for the army, he beckoned me over butI walked away. As I passed the recruitment station refusing to acknowledge its existencepeople started to turn their backs to me. I ignored them and hurried home.

I shut thedoor behind me and went to hang up my coat, but as I did so I heard the clankof the letterbox and slowly turned around to see a small white feather floatingdown to the floor. I knew what it was, the white feather; the symbol of thecoward. But I was not a coward! I was just knowledgeable of the pain andsuffering that this wretched war would bring anyone that played a part in it! Inmy anger I picked up the feather and threw it into the roaring fire, I watchedsatisfied as it shrivelled up and burnt. For a moment I was pleased but then Ionce again heard the clank of the letterbox and I stormed into the hallway tosee yet another white feather lying on the floor, I picked it up and went toburn it but when I reached the fire I saw that it had been snuffed, by a pileof feathers. A feeling of dread formed at the pit of my stomach. Suddenly thewindows swung open and a torrent of white feathers poured through, tumblingover each other in a wave of merciless rage, I ran for the front door but thattoo was serving as an entrance hole for the feathers that swarmed through myhouse, engulfing everything in their path. And suddenly they were upon me,forcing themselves up my nose and into my mouth. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’tsee and suddenly, there was nothing.

As corporalEdward Smith walked through the trench he was submerged in a sea ofhopelessness and sorrow, science he had joined the army the feathers tormentinghis dreams had left to be replaced with wailing shells, rattling guns and theagonised cries of dying men. Over the rim of the trench he could make out ahostile wasteland scarred by bombs and littered with the mangled corpses of thedead, the rugged landscape seemed to be held together by twisting strips ofblood-stained barbed wire which glinted evilly in the sunlight. In the distancehe could hear the whistling of shells accompanied by the endless chorus ofangry guns sending out their metal seeds of death. The men around him felt thesame, they had nothing to do but sit and wait, wait for the violence to come tothem, wait to be called out to fight, wait to be sent to die.

Suddenlysomeone cried out “Gas! Gas! Quick boys!” The trench immediately erupted intochaos, every man fumbling for his mask, every man but Edward. As the wave ofdeath rushed towards him he just stood there paralyzed with fear, in his mindit was changing, one second it was a cloud of ghostly green, the next a torrentof deadly white tumbling over itself to get to him, with one goal in mind; tokill the coward. Edward stood there shaking watching as it came towards him andthen it was upon him forcing itself into his mouth, into his lungs, destroyingthem. Pain ripped through him tearing apart his very soul. As he flounderedabout on the ground as if engulfed in flames he cried out but instead of noisethere came the sickly white foam that was his lungs. He lay there knowingnothing but pain, wishing for it all to end. And then, it did.

Adelgonde Fleur

13^th October1915

 By Isla Rush

It’sa horrendous thing, war. No man could ever imagine the sights, the sounds, thehorrors of the Great War. Yet here I am, a Belgian Nurse on the battlefields ofwar-ridden France. Another troop wheeled into the ambulance, another of oursupposed ‘enemy’ that the Germans have shot down. He will be begging me to helphim escape to his homeland of England, and I would; that’s if I could- I’m notallowed to; the British are the Germans enemies, and the Germans are in chargeof Belgium now. Only yesterday was Edith Cavell, a fellow nurse, courtmartialled and shot with her accomplice Philippe Baucq, for helping 200 enemytroops escape to neutral Holland. But I shall not be letting any Britons leavethis hospital; I’m not putting my life on the line just for them.

Asyou walk through the blood-drenched battlefields at night, scouring the groundfor the few living soldiers that have been shot or shelled, the light from allof the explosives looks beautiful. So beautiful in fact, it overwhelms you. Despitethe screams, the clangs and the gun-shots, the battlefields are a stunningplace. That is, until one of your troops takes a bullet to the brain, stumblesbackwards and falls flat on the ground. As you peer over his corpse, his eyeslook full of life, like his soul has so much more to give. A man of abouttwenty I’d say, his life cut short by one single round of a machine gun. Buthis eyes, his gorgeous, soul-melting blue eyes, full of love and life were theonly thing that remained of a past troop’s joy and happiness; but all of thatwas stripped away from him by a single sniper. Another troop leans down to him,kisses him on the forehead, presses his fingers on his eyelids and shuts thecorpse’s eyes. As he stumbles away to the front, medics rush to the body onlyto shroud it in a dullish grey cloth. He will be forgotten, nobody bar hisfamily and loved ones will know the tragedy of this hero; nobody will know whatI saw when I looked deep into his beautiful blue eyes. But we cannot stay andspectate the death of this soldier, for there are others who need our help.

Thefellow nurses and I keep stumbling upon army helmets, only to unearth adecaying cadaver of a former German Officer. The smell wafting through the airis repulsive; he has obviously been lying there for quite some time. However wemust stride on, even if we are slightly nauseated by the horrendous stench ofrotting corpses, their blood curdling with the acidic rain falling upon ourheads. The further we walk the more bodies we find, the sickening cries of thehalf-dead ringing in your ears. Bandaging soldiers as we walk, the war seemsmore real than ever; the constant rattle of machine guns, the shrill of shellsbeing scattered across the armies. Despite death being all around me, I am notfrightened- I feel safe. Just as I thought I was inharmony, a bang as loud as thunder struck me; I was flung backwards, a roar offire ripped across the ground, people screamed and cried as the red flare burnteverything around them. The flames roared as loud as a lion, scorching theunlucky few that stood in its path. You would not be spared if you walked infront of the treacherous path of this wild beast, whilst it ripped you limbfrom limb with its mighty jaws if fire. As I ran screaming, diving away fromthe deadly beast, I saw Death; I saw death all around me. Death looked directlyat my face, luring me into its underworld. It reached out a bony finger at me,summoning me forward. I slowly rose up from the blood-soaked ground, andstepped towards Death. Inch by Inch, Death became more beautiful, filling inthe cracks of its old and frail face. Death was an alluring thing, as itsstunning eyes looked deep into my soul; like when I looked into the soldier’s.I plodded towards Death, trailing my limp leg behind me. Death reached out itsicy alabaster hand, laying it upon my shoulder. Despite its appearance, Death’shand burned; Death’s hand was like fire. I leapt backward, to see it wasn’tdeath at all; it was the Lion of Fire. I howled in pain, as the lion roaredback at me. I sprinted across the battlefield with the wild beast chasingbehind me. Faster and faster I ran, until I fell to my burnt knees. I veeredbackwards, but the creature had stopped. There was a sheer silence, soinaudible in fact it was deafening. I carefully stood up, and looked around tosee where my colleagues were- I could not see them. I screeched their names, mymouth parched of the tiniest drop of saliva. To my horror, there was noresponse. Then it suddenly dawned on me; they are all dead. They are all dead.

Lifeless

28^th June 1914:   

Dear Maria,

The sight of the battle field is enough tomake you weep. Stay strong for both me and Robert. Times like this he reallyneeds you. Tell him I’m safe and that I will come back. I will. Don’t cry, Ican’t bare to see his little heart throb.

                           All my love, 
The sight of the battle field is enough to make you weep. No soldier or man should have to gothrough this much tragedy; see thismuch tragedy. Never once had I imagined that this is where I’d end up. Ever. Standing on the battle fieldthinking ‘is this really my life now?’ However it is. A forceful wind fliespast me and suddenly I’m in it. I feel my feet moving, faster and faster. Nevera hesitation. It’s just me. So silent. It hurts my ears, I can’t stand it.
Every soldier had rifles on their shoulders. Tiny fire ballsin their eyes. The anger on their faces was overwhelming. A mixture ofdetermination, furry but also cowardness. It was as though their spirits hadlifted and their souls had come alive. Looking down at what was supposed to bea beautiful shade of pure, green; was now brown, gloopy mud. It had no sense offreedom anymore. None of this life I was living had any meaning of freedom. Wewere like lambs that had been breed for meat, and were awaiting on death. Thisreally portrayed the meaning of horror.
Waking up in another area, on hard and wet ground thinkingto yourself ‘is it my day to die?’ Looking around seeing those men cry andconstantly calling for their loved ones was heart breaking. Looking through mylarge bag and placing my hand on what seemed like velvet, was the letter frommy family. Carefully opening it, I followed the curves and corners of my sister’shandwriting before I heard a loud BANG. Glancing at it one last time beforeshoving it into my bag, I immediately heard the sergeant’s voice, knowing thatthis was it. Shutting my eyes to think of Robert and Maria one last time, Igrabbed my rifle and ran out into open air. This was it; I’d finally fight formy country and I would survive.
Theatmosphere in the trenches was unbearable. Horrified expressions on the men’sfaces. But why? I looked up; the sky was lit with oranges and yellows. It wasalmost peaceful. The beautiful colours hypnotised you. They weremesmerising.  So many colours…. I’d neverfelt so relaxed in all my life.  That waswhen I was plunged into darkness. I was falling. Falling into nothingness. Myeyes were blurred; however I could make out two figures, a tall woman and asmall boy. They meant nothing to me now. Nothing did anymore. Nothing.

HERBERTWARREN

DIED 30^thJULY 1914

CAUSE OFDEATH- HIT BY A SHELL

OCCUPATION-SOLDIER FOR THE WAR