World war one short story coursework.
World war one short story coursework
In my room, in the left corner, there is a creaky floorboard. I always could slip my finger under it and life the board up every so slightly like an envelope. Ever since I was 15 and discovered it, it has been a great advantage for me, as I could hear everything that happens downstairs, from my room. When the overall conversation downstairs changed, I found my self permanently routed to the spot. I was captured by the conversation. They were talking about my older brother, Alfred. He is always permanently in trouble, he does something different every day. However recently his attitude changed. He seems much more timid and afraid recently, but I suspect it his an act put on for mother to make him seem innocent. I don't have a close relationship at all with my brother unlike my friends.
Mum is always saying that he is a man now and should be given "the chance", when this first came up in conversation I didn't fully understand. But now I do. Dad shudders at the thought. I can tell that he avoids the conversation. I was oblivious to the situation, until one night. The family gathered of a Tuesday night and we sat around the table. There was a newspaper situated in the middle. It was the centre of our focus. It was then, then I understood. I looked at Alfred, he was sitting in the shadow, like a shield from the news. But it couldn't work. We all knew, he knew. My mother looked up, with tear saturated eyes, glistening in the moonlight from the window. Mother moved towards us, edging closer. I knew it wasn't good news, but I just wanted them to talk to us like they never have before.
The something unexpected happened, mother pointed her quivering hand at the door, and mumbled for me to go upstairs, as they needed to talk to Alfred. I was outraged, but skulked off upstairs nevertheless. When I saw the look of disappointment in me that waved over their faces, I went up to my room and slid my finger under the floorboard ever so slightly, it creaked as usual, but I was eager to listen. I had to. All I could see was mums face, as she was talking to Alfred. Her face was fearful and pale. She looked terrified, I have never seen her like that before. She scared me. She was talking quietly, I couldn't even make out most of the words. The Alfred stood up, he put his hands on his hips and declared, with a voice as uneasy as he looked, that he was going to war. Mum shielded her face from him, and dad looked uneasy on his feet. I couldn't believe it, my cowardly brother was going to war. He stood so still, as if a statue. Paralysed with fear. He stood chest pumped out. I could tell it were an act, he was terrified. I sealed the floorboard cautiously and clambered into bed. I embedded my self into my covers, a think layer of duvets. I had always dreamed of going to war. Fighting honourably for my country. I can imagine the thrill and excitement. Its what all men were born for. Something to be proud of. Something to make me the man, they don't think I am. Dad always talked about the honour of war, and what it feels like to be a true man. Coming home after the war, that would be amazing. The reception. Dad always says in order to make an omelette you have to break a few eggs. But they are the weak ones. A few lives, for the common good of the world. From downstairs I heard mother crying, I wished she would talk to me about this. Then footsteps started up the stairs nearest my room., and my door creaked open releasing a beam of light from outside, in. Dad appeared in the doorway, with his pipe in his mouth. His face was full of frustration. He sat down on the end of my bed, almost skimming my toes, and said,
"George your brother is going to war, he will sign up with me two days on Sunday."
I sat stunned. Trying to slither further in my cocoon of cushions. Dad looked at me, and I couldn't say anything, he is going to war, I wasn't, it was as simple as that. In the shadow that lay over half his face leaving it in darkness, he looked angry.
"Dad why can't I go?" I had to know, Dad wriggled uncomfortably in his place, and replied
"your mum doesn't believe you are old enough son, You are ...
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"George your brother is going to war, he will sign up with me two days on Sunday."
I sat stunned. Trying to slither further in my cocoon of cushions. Dad looked at me, and I couldn't say anything, he is going to war, I wasn't, it was as simple as that. In the shadow that lay over half his face leaving it in darkness, he looked angry.
"Dad why can't I go?" I had to know, Dad wriggled uncomfortably in his place, and replied
"your mum doesn't believe you are old enough son, You are only 16"
I was filling with an unkindly fury, and flames were rising in my eyes. I wriggled down further and stared at dad. A tear slid down my cheek. He saw that I was upset, he left the room. Seizing the handle of the door, and closing it slowly. "Only 16, I am a man, more than Alfred. I have to go to war, I need to." Tears rolled down my pillow, and I fell towards them, leaning my head onto the feather pillow, and drifting to sleep slowly.
When I awoke, and went downstairs, mum was frying a breakfast for Alfred, and he was sitting at our creaky oak table, singing war songs. When Dad entered, he stopped, and a cold silence became within our house. Dad would cast a glance at me across the table at me a couple of times, but was always recaptured by the aroma of his scrambled egg and sausages. Mother was quiet whenever I was around, or so it seemed. The only time she talked to me was to ask me whether I wanted ketchup. They didn't tell me at the dinner table, but Alfred told me that he was signing up two days earlier than originally planned, because Charlie was also being packed off that same day. Dad was joining him, two days later, I wasn't facing him, as he knew I wanted to fight, he was just gloating, about the fact that I am the baby of the family. He is only two years older than I am. Merely 18 years of age, he has the honour of being a man, but he still is nervous so how much of a man could he be?
Alfred did his packing for war, and I watched him. I couldn't understand him. I knew he was terrified. Why was he letting this happen? Mother bellowed up the stairs for us to come down. When I arrived Charlie was standing at the bottom of the stairs, just like Alfred had been two days previously. Standing as though paralysed. They were all doled up in army gear, having photos taken. I knew these would be my long lasting memories of my brother. Mother looked so proud, she was grinning, Dad looked awfully nervous, and kept looking around, avoiding Alfred. I shook Alfred's hand, he looked so vulnerable, trying to be brave. I had such a flare and passion for war, it didn't seem fair. He looked very dapper, and well groomed, a mature man was standing in front of me. Mother and Father sat at the oak table talking across its diameter. Alfred slipped a note into my sweaty palm. Etched on the front in Alfred's poor handwriting was "George" in big plain letter. I put it in my waistcoat pocket, and moved forwards, towards the door, to see him off. He and Charlie walked in unison, mother and father followed, dad patting him on the back. Mum flung herself at him, he had to grab her or she would have fallen to the floor, she was very emotional. I gave him a massive hug, bigger than I have ever given anyone before. He turned and walked out, not looking back, not showing weakness. They marched off.
I stopped watching Alfred half way down the road, mum and dad still gripped. I turned to walk to the house, and my friends, Phillip, and Thomas were standing there. I ran towards them, and Thomas said his brother had gone today as well. I mourned the loss of Alfred, but I knew he would be coming back. Dad always said he regarded war as a picnic. Thomas said he was going to sign up. His brother had given him a note, signed, forged. I couldn't believe it, his brother did that for him. The thought of asking my dad, I felt like such a baby. Then I felt a burning sensation on my chest. I almost fell to the floor, then I remembered the note that Alfred gave to me. As I took it out of my pocket, the burning fizzled out. I opened the envelope, and unfolded the note, there were two notes entwined together, one fell to the floor, I read the first...
"Dear George,
I have never valued you, not the way I should, I know that. I am also aware that as a brother, I am not very good. Nevertheless, I have always loved you, and thought you were much maturer that I was. I know about your desire for war. Well if you really want to sign up, you now have the means. But I thought it was easy to, truth..My brave face was fake. I am terrified just like everyone else. You won't be, you are brave. Mum wants you to be safe George, listen to her. She pushed me to this, said it's my duty. Do what you wish eh' mate
Yours Alfred
"Oh my God, he has written me a note, Thomas, I can go to war, he's given me the chance. I love him, I can't believe I'm allowed!" Thomas reminded me, that I'm not, the note might not even work. We all went up into my room, and I got out my letter writing kit. I wrote on a piece of paper thank you, and gave the pen to Phillip who forged a note of his own. As we has all finished, I crumpled up the bit of paper I had just written on, and lifted up the floorboard slowly. Mother was talking to Dad, about Alfred. Dad wishing he ahs stayed here. I bent the wood back down, and we all left the room, I thundered down the stairs, and I left the piece of paper on the table. We slammed the front door shut, and walked down the road, as the recruits had, until we reached the post office. Posters were stuck up all around the windows. I flounced in, and shoved my note under the glass, covering my face, so no one could see my young boyish features. The lady stamped my card. I no had my recruit number. I turned to my friends, and my face went white, as I knew my brothers had hours before.
Within hours, I was seated on a train, wedged between two burly men. The ride was uncomfortable, and jerky, and silent in my particular carriage, for most of the journey. A few people came in on their travels, and noted down names. But the atmosphere always reverted back to awkward short after their exit. I had too much whistling around in my head to indulge much in the train journey. Alfred's letter was in my trouser pocket, so low on my body so high on my mind. I'd wished I'd listened to him. He had cared for me, and never helped me. I was buried under a heap of bags, majority of which were mine, but one of the burley men had hurled his satchels at me at his first appearance in the door way. My arms were sticking out of the derby, as if detached from my body. So I couldn't reach Alfred's note, but I remembered the words perfectly, it was imprinted on my mind. I'd hoped I was to see Alfred and Charlie when I got there, but I'd no idea how the system worked. Although I assumed that I would see them, as Dad was planning on being reunited when he arrived.
Alfred was on my mind for most of the journey, hours merged and mingled until 5 minutes seemed like hours. I was sitting completely oblivious to what was happening on the train. I knew we had arrived in France when the train jerked, and I collapsed sideways, with my debry falling off my lap, like crashing rocks. I clambered up, brushing off the dust from my scrawny body. I heaved the bags up and tied them onto various loops on my suit. I followed the heavy flow of soldiers to the platform. The compact lump of people continued through country paths, until we reached a tunnel, then we thinned out and walked through the gloomy, sludgy, mud, until we reached the trenches. Dad always expressed that you get a very united feeling in the midst of the tense atmosphere.
I was commissioned to the communication trenches, I walked for minutes to get the end. As I was walking everything blurred, wading through sludge, and grime. Looking at miserable and distraught faces, as the light fades out. I was quivering when I reached the end of the zigzag trenches. I sat down to gather my thoughts. I placed my bags beside a fellow soldier, and turned to look at his face, wide gashes sliced his plump cheeks, blood shit eyes of sorrow looked back at me, and purple bruises spread all over his face like a wild rash. He cupped his hands, and his head fell forward into them. Gashes on his neck widened when he moved, releasing blood, which trickled down his back. Oblivious to the pain he turned his head towards me, and stretched out his wounded battered arm, and in a crackled voice said to me "hello" I choked and replied. But my insides were frozen. He clutched his stomach, and pushed himself up, he hobbled over and mumbled "my name is Tom, how about you?" I got to my feet, and brushed myself down. "George". He hobbled away limping on a wounded leg, and disappeared, as more people came over, lobbing their belongings down, holding out hands, at a paralysed me. I was stunned, and thought about my dad, and what he said about war. My palms got sweaty, and a wave of intense heat hit me, and alarmed me. I lay back in the mud, and it passed me. I stood up, and a sergeant glared down at me, through thick spectacles, poised on the end of his nose. "Private...I want you to take orders, effective immediately" I was about to mention my name, but I hesitated and he trotted off. I rummaged around in my debry for my gas mask, and put it over my chest, I walked off to find "my orders"
I'd seen more injured and wounded people, as I waded through the sludge, all of whom were fighting on. There was a tremendous amount of shouts from the front line, which alerted people all around me all of whom grappled with each other to reach their gas masks. I ducked in a corner and ripped open my box in desperation. I grabbed the mask, and heaved it over my face. I leaned down, and put my ear in the mud, just as I used to do against the floorboard at my house. I could see a thick yellow mist, hanging in the air. Swirling and twirling in the air. I felt drowsy, and cloudy, my eyes went a deep shade of red. I heard my mums voice, she was crying, scared. I was frightened awake. When my eyelids departed, I saw men coughing and spluttering and diving to the ground. Rolling around on the floor. I curled myself up, and hugged my knees. I got up, hunch backed, and wandered aimlessly like a headless chicken. The yellowish mist faded into the distance and clouds turned grey and heavy. I kept my gas mask on, until the sergeant sent a man to give us the ok. As I took my mask off, an unkind smell crept up my nostrils, and caused me to feel dizzy. I shock my head, and my vision came into view. I looked at the unfortunate lying at my feet. Their faces showing their last emotions. A swift breeze whisked past, and I looked up to the sight of barbed wire and bodies. I hated this! Disgusted, I reached into my trouser pocket, and pulled out my last letter. Stained slightly yellow. I unfolded it slowly, and squinted to read the faded writing. As the Sergeant walked past briskly, he stopped at my station, where I stood, trembling, holding the letter. He observed the surrounding soldiers, then turned to me, nodded and gave the frightful news. "Congratulations" He said to me, his lip turning blue with the cold. "You are still standing, you are just the sort of man I need" I gazed into his eyes, not paying attention, I'd lost all hope. "In the frontline." I dropped the letter, and my head hung low. I looked at the frozen bodies, and yet he still babbled on. He nodded to me, and walked off, hugging himself to keep him warm. I stood stunned. I fell to the floor, grabbed my shoulders, and rubbed my arms, I rested my head on a bag, and drifted away.
When I awoke I made my way to the frontline, although I didn't see the point. I knew it were over now. I sat down, and banged my head on my hard kneecaps. The mud on my clothes hardened, many people walked past gesturing for help, nut there was no point, all hope had been lost, slashes and scars, blood and bruises. This wasn't a picnic, it was my worst nightmare. All dreams were stamped out, like a fire. War chewed up my mind, and millions of others. This wasn't me, why was I here? I rocked back and forward. I knew people, the ones who were walking past. Then I sat up, and I leaned over the side of the trench, and gripped a gun, I put it on my scrawny shoulder, and pulled the trigger. I looked at the, mud covered, grimy, blood shot boy next to me. I dropped the gun, and recognised him. A scar loomed on his head as he turned to face me. I flung my arms round him. I hated war. That is what had done this to my brother and me. I could tell he was scared, battered and beaten he stood before me. When he saw me, his face, full of guilt, it was my obsession that got him worrying like this. He put down his gun, and we slumped into a pit of grime. He was shaking, and shivering with fear. Another brave face was apparent. Word passed along the trenches of an attack. This attack was "over the top." I couldn't cope, Alfred helped me, and he was there. We were terrified together. Alfred and I got 3 hours rest that night, and then the attack was launched. We climbed up the wall and walked out on to no mans land, I held my gun, hands shaking, sweaty, it was slipping. My helmet wobbling, it was too big for me. I turned to Alfred and he gave me an encouraging look, but he was uneasy on his feet. I ran, shots flying, somewhere, one was flying with my number on it. I heard a loud scream exploding in my ear. I looked at Alfred, collapsed on the ground, I bolted towards him, dropping my gun, and gliding at him. I grabbed his wrists and pulled. I dragged him to the edge, my pulse racing. Then suddenly I felt a painful sting in my thigh. It was the most intense pain. I fell to the ground, In severe agony. I was saved from No mans land, the next day, more dead were in the trenches. More unidentified faces.
Now I'm here. My leg wrapped up. Alfred dead. What's the point? I can't go back without his support. I couldn't have done it without him. We were always both equal, both men. I realise that now. Recently I got a telegram. Dad, he dies, a day after Alfred. I can't go back to war. I can't. But facing the guilt at home, all the lies, and the deaths. Imagine how she'd feel. I' killed them she'd say. No, I can't go back not on my own.
By Naomi Martin 11S1
