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Writing in the style of Pat Barker

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´╗┐Writing in the style of Pat Barker. Sassoon looked out of the carriage window, still absorbed in is thoughts, further down the train, the last passengers embarked and the doors begun to slam. The whistle blew. Immediately, he saw groups of men with stutters and haunted eyes turning back to their containment. He blinked them away, thinking of the familiarity of the situation, the similarity to the journey which brought him to this place in the first place. The train began to move, too late to change his mind now. Too late for a long while now, he felt a sense of impending doom. He knew he would come to regret this; felt it in his bones. He hadn?t arrived early this time, and the only space left is a seat between a rickety old man and a dour looking woman with a deep cough. The train rumbled through a turn, everybody wavered but obeyed gravity, and Sassoon, missing a step, almost trips over his own feet. ...read more.


There are guns attached to the stern, and extra deterrent perhaps, not that they?d do much if they were actually attacked. A wave of pessimism floods Sassoons memory. ?you seem to have very powerful anti-war neurosis? Rivers had said ?you realise, don?t you, that it?s my duty to?to try and change that?? Sassoon sighed, anti-war indeed. As much as he had said that he wanted to return to the fight, now that it had actually happened he felt a little different about the whole matter, but he had resigned himself to it and that was that I suppose. The boat shuddered and the engines gunned furiously, in all his musings the trip had gone by faster than expected and they were docking already. The boat had been mostly empty of civilians but he could see now the big group of people waiting to be taken back to Britain, and they hoped, away from the carnage. ...read more.


?fitting weather? Sassoon mumbles, half to himself; a nearby Private looks perplexed with the remark; seeing this and feeling morbid, he adds; ?Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows? the soldier is baffled and hurries on. ?what a time to be alive? he mutters to himself as the whistle blows and his men hurry on. The day comes to a close, the dark turning orange then pink then mauve, darkness falling. No, not quite. There are fires burning in the distance lighting up the smoky sky with a dusky glow. If it were a picture, he thought, it would look quite picturesque. A nearby explosion snatches his attention back, screams rend the air, he asks a passing brother what the damage is; He gasps, ?Two dead Sir, three injured.? A haunted look. ?Jamesons legs are, are?? still out of breath the man hurries on as more and more shells begin to fall. Bullets are whistling, shrapnel cuts the earth, flesh, anything in its way. More men screaming. A gap in the clouds shows the stars shining. Life goes on. ...read more.

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