Creative Writing - War.

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Creative Writing - War

We all heard the disquieting crunch, off in the far distance. For a few seconds, we remained still, sinking deeper into the mud, anticipating another sound to calm our nerves. Instead, a fraudulent silence followed. General Loft's reaction was delayed; his hand shot up immediately as he remembered his position. Hurriedly, he waved us down. For a second he starred hard into the dense green jungle, trying to pierce through it with his eyes. Ours were focused on his right hand, awaiting further instructions. His eyes widened, with fear and urgency he turned to face us. His mouth opened, but all we could hear was a neat and tidy screech, travelling through the sharp leaves. Blood exploded out of Loft's neck as the bullet made impact. His fall to the ground was slow; it seemed to suck out all the sound around us. As the general's body splattered into the swamp, the monstrous crackle of machine gun fire roared around us. Chests began bursting around me, blood and dirt spitting everywhere. A few men tried to run, but they were consumed by a grenade's unleashed inferno. The medic seemed to be dodging bullets for a while, until a mass of them, entered his right cheek. There were shouts of 'run', 'take cover', each with a sense of unease and terror. The bullets were not moving through the air, they were simply atmospheric. I decided it would be hopeless to try and escape, it was equally foolish to attempt to fight. I slid down onto my back, and closed my eyes. As the thunderous noise raged on, I prayed to God to spare my life.

I had joined the British Army in late 1941, without much enthusiasm. My father encouraged me to sign up after our home in Coventry, was flattened during the Blitz in 1940. He had fought in the First World War, but was sent back from the Western Front after a shell landed in his trench, blowing his leg off and killing his First Sergeant;

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 'At least one Atherton should be apart of a Great British victory' he would say. Two years my senior, my brother Michael was not seen by my father to be 'that' Atherton. He complained he was too much like my mother, who was German born. When the bombing raids began, the local community disowned my family because of this. In the eyes of my father, by helping my nation defeat the enemy, it would put things right. So I put my dreams of becoming a doctor aside, and decided to join the war effort. My mother was too frightened to ...

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