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. A mumbled apology and he sits. No admiring glances now, too many dead, too much lost. Sassoon deflates, hunching his shoulder to them all. The woman continues to bark her symptoms to the train.

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He is traveling to Dover, where a boat will take him, through the warring sea and on to France. Sassoon is still tired, weary from the trip from Palestine back to the lush fields of England. Oh the irony, less lush more mud and rubble and a missing population. Though, it was a relief to leave the heat sand and endless marching behind. Sassoon inwardly cringed at the endless bureaucracy that occupied his time in Palestine, it was a relief that more men were needed on the front lines, he had felt stagnant. Like a piece of furniture put in ...

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