“Come on mate.”
We scrambled up the trench ladder and began to run as fast as we could to our destiny. All I could think about was my family. Mum and Dad settling down in their armchairs with a mug of hot cocoa, chatting about what a nice day it had been. Simon and I were one of the first to leave the trench behind; we had almost made it to our target, when suddenly, just as I thought we were going to be okay, I fell. Someone or something had grabbed my lower leg; down I went like an insignificant pin in a bowling alley and got a face full of mud. I looked back expecting to see the other troops but I did not I will never forget the sight I saw. My stomach churned I had to look away to stop myself throwing up. Barbed wire had stabbed my leg I tried to free myself but more blood oozed out of my leg like the jam out of a doughnut. I was a sitting duck for the German machine gunners. Then, turning my head again I saw Simon dive to my aid. He did not utter a single word but just gave a faint grin then promptly looked down at my leg and set to work. He freed me and with a little help I made it to the safety of the next shell hole. I owed him my life.
Simon refused to stop. He climbed up again to help the others. I tried to tug him back but my efforts were worthless; seen as I was wounded. Gun shots and shell fire pounded my ears like a right hand from a heavy weight boxer. I will never forget the next sound I heard. I knew it was the end so I looked up at the morning sun and prayed towards the heavens. I could hear the screams penetrating throughout my mind.
Now I’m standing here about to march on to fight in another war, fighting for my dear friend. When will man kind learn? Now, however, I fear this time I might not be so lucky, especially now, without Simon, who I did not even get a chance to thank for saving my life. Now I try to put the thoughts out of my mind with a tear in my eye turning away from the other soldiers so they cannot see.
I can see a large church in front of me and can hear the sounds of children playing. I begin to think about the contrast. The young, blameless children playing happily with each other only a short distance away from where us, the adults are contemplating what lies ahead hideously slaughtering the enemy before they got us! There were beautiful, bright red poppies in the adjacent field such wonderful creations when once again I was about to spill the dark crimson blood from inside fellow men. It just doesn’t make sense! Looking around I can see the lads looking exhausted, both mentally and physically, leaning on each other, smoking, fiddling with their rifles or their sweaty leather boots. I could see the horror in their eyes. They seemed extremely nervous. I could smell the sweat of the khakied bodies. Once again, my mind flashed back to 1915…
The other soldiers with horror in their eyes, their battered and broken bodies. The man (men) who had lost his sight, the one whose face was covered in ‘gas’ boils, the missing limbs and ears, my bad leg seemed nothing in comparison. I felt sick.
Suddenly the clock on the church tower struck, followed shortly by the shout of the sergeant. We all lined up and started to march off. My leg began to ache and pain after ever stamp of my boot. The drumming of the soldier’s march eventually drowned out the sound of the children playing as we strode into the distance.
N.B some inspiration taken from ‘Route March Rest’ by…
