Using Seigfried Sassoon’s poem “Does it matter?” and your knowledge of world was 1, Write a fictional account of a visit to an injured soldier in a Sanatorium from a wealthy middle ages female volunteer visitor. Write this from the soldiers

The nurse came into my cubicle once more, she was short with blonde tied back hair. All she said was, "Time for your morphine love." I knew what this meant, a massive needle and a long tireless sleep. She pushed the needle in at the top of my forearm, the clear liquid went into my blood stream and had an immediate effect.

When I awoke my head was throbbing. Nothing unusual about that then. There was a jug of water on my table and a glass. I pulled my remaining good arm from under the covers and poured the water the best I could. I used to be right handed but now I have to use my weaker hand. I managed to drink one glass of water and look at the clock on the wall. I had been out cold for two hours. This was longer than usual. I was beginning to feel worried about the side effects of this morphine drug. The nurses had said that it had not been around for long.

I suddenly remember that one of those wretched women was going to come into my room to wind me up again. The last one that came in had a really posh voice and was really over weight. I told her to go away after about ten minutes of her being in my room. I wonder how long the next one will be in here? What is the point of them coming in here trying to cheer me up? All they do is make things worse because they do not understand the realities of war, death, bloodshed and shouts of the injured...

The lady that came into my room also had a posh voice and was wearing expensive clothes and a fur around her neck. Immediately disliked her. She said hello and introduced herself as, "Mrs Patterson". I said hello in a gruff voice and told her my name. "How do you feel today Nick?" she asked. I felt like saying, well how would you feel with only one leg lady? Instead I replied,

"Yes I feel quite a bit better today."

She proceeded to tell me about what had been happening in the war. According to her the Allies had managed to make the Germans retreat many miles with minimal losses. What and I am supposed to believe you? I began to understand more the attitudes of these patronising women; they believed the news papers! How could they be so stupid as to believe the newspapers? What has probably happened is that the British army has suffered severe losses and the Germans have only retreated a very

small distance.

As Mrs Patterson carried on talking about what had supposedly been happening , I began to feel slightly bewildered about how women actually saw the war. They believed that it was something honourable to do and that dying for your country was a good thing. Where as in real life it was a horrible way to die and that because it was fro your country did not make it any better.

Having this woman was making me feel more angry with the country. I suddenly realised that I was drifting off as she was talking to me. She said, " Are you ok?" in her posh little voice. I was beginning to loose patience with her. Then suddenly I thought that I might as well tell her all the realities of war and how wrong she really is. I said, " Would you like to hear a story from the war?"

"Yes I definitely would!", she replied.

I told her the story like this, one day when we were marching in our platoon and the weather was bad. It had been raining for the last few weeks and the ground in which we were living had become completely marshy and almost impossible to walk or live in. Our boots were either missing or completely covered in mud and almost impossible to lift. We were moving along the Eastern Front and at least half of the platoon were dead or missing. The other half was in a poor state with coughs, colds and injuries. Morale was low within the group.

Mrs Patterson was beginning to look slightly surprised. I continued, as we walked someone shouted "Gas, Gas, Gas quick boys!" The man and I knew what this meant. Another gas attack from the Germans. The mustard gas filled the air very fast as the men and I struggled to put on the clumsy gas masks. One poor soul did not manage to get his mask on in time and began to cough and splutter. The man was choking on the gas as it burnt his lungs. Through the green sea of the gas I could see the blood coming from his mouth as he fell to the ground. The look on face was one or excruciating pain and suffering.

After the gas had cleared they slung his body into a cart and the troops marched on behind the cart with the dead man's body sprawled in the back. The woman had gone slightly pale and looked mystified, "Are, are you joking with me?"

I looked at her, "Do you think that I would make that story up?"

"So that really happened then?"

"Yes it did." She looked horrified now and I think that it had hit home that I was not joking and that dying for Britain was definitely not as good as she thought. She stood up, good old Mrs Patterson was not looking so dignified and strong anymore. She looked like she was going to fall over as she made her way slowly to the door. It opened as she pulled it, the old door creaked as usual as Mrs Patterson left.

I was left there again in my room wondering if she really believed me and if she would ever come back to this place again. Another day of pain and misunderstanding for another person because of this stupid war.

Nicholas Mitchell 10 BK

Word Count : 1320