92
Creative Writing
Mortar Mourning: The Somme, November 24
th
1916
Mud sprays in my face as a nearby mortar strike slams me into the ground, tossing dirt and fallen soldiers like dolls. I’ve
been told about this kind of thing. It doesn’t deter me; my thoughts are on the medal I shall be given when I get home.
‘Private Warren!’ barks the General over the sound of the bombardment.
‘Yes, sir!’ I shout, trying to make myself seem confident. We are at the back of our defensive line, where the artillery is
fired. I’ve been told this is the safest I’ll feel from now on.
‘Front line!’shouts the general as he assigns us positions in the defence. At nineteen years of age, I’mone of the youngest
soldiers to venture this close to enemy territory.
We’re loaded onto the back of a truck with nothing protecting us but a thin sheet of canvas. The journey seems to take
an age as we avoid soldiers screaming in pain at the loss of their dearest friends. We eventually disembark at the front
line, a rat infested, disease-ridden hole, which will become my home for the foreseeable future. I clutch my bag of kit like
it is my only protection. Two days since arriving in France and I’m already starting to have my doubts.
‘Right, ‘ commands General Fisher in a semi-assertive tone, the relaxation from his cigarette seemingly his only comfort.
He has seen too much already; two years of pain and suffering have had a withering effect on this middle aged man.
His eyes are sunken and bloodshot, and his hand shakes as he smokes, his face deathly white. Yet despite this, he tries
to keep upbeat. ‘You will find a made-up bed. This will be your room, rest area and place to cry if you boys don’t like
it. There is a great honour coming your way; two days until we go over the top. Clean your rifle every day, keep your
bayonets sharp. Preparedness and confidence will be your only friends. Dismiss!’
I find the bed that looks the least moth-eaten. I use the term bed loosely as it’s just a sheet with two crossed sticks at
either end to keep it off the floor.
‘Hey there, you look jittery; you must be new out here,’says a rather portly man sitting in the gloom as he tucks into what
must be his breakfast. ‘Just relax and enjoy it!’
‘How can I relax with all this gunfire?’ I squeak.
‘Just think of it as an exciting version of camping,’ he chortles.
How can I call this camping? A hole dug into the earth, a dirt roof over my head and plant roots hanging from the ceiling.
Any loud bangs result in a shower of mud. Yes I can definitely call this camping! I get to cleaning my gun straight away,
feeling the wooden grip and frighteningly cold barrel in my hands. Then I see what truly terrifies me. The bayonet. Its
long, polished blade glistens in the candlelight. Some may be in awe of its deadliness, but the thought of having to
plunge a sharpened piece of steel into a German seems barbaric…watching the light drain out of his eyes as he realises
his wife and children will never see him again. The blade has a macabre air about it: as if a rifle wasn’t deadly enough,
they added a long spike to the end, sharp as a razor.
I shake myself out of my trance and step out of the dugout. A loud wailing can be heard throughout the trench and it’s
coming my way. Later I found out his name: Corporal Becker. Now I see him being dragged away kicking and screaming
by two privates. He passes me and sees I’m a new recruit. He cries out, ‘Leave while you can. You have no idea what
horrors await.’ These words strike me and seem to resonate in my head. I’ve heard of people being cowards, but never
thought I’d see one for myself, least of all on the glorious front line. Maybe all the stories I’ve heard about how fun and
exhilarating the army is aren’t true... I contemplate this idea for a good ten minutes. Then a shot to the head silences
Becker.
What was I thinking when I decided to sign up? The propaganda swarm that is the war. Within half an hour of exposure
to the madness I feel sick to my stomach. The thought of being positioned here till the foreseeable future drains any
warmth and comfort offered by the candlelight out of my body. What hell is this that any sign of primal fear for your life
is treated with a lead shell plunged into your temple?
Peter Walton Y10
