That War

• Marnie Parton, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2013

I can still hear the buzzing of the spitfires as they brush through the air with the slightest of ease. I can still hear the distant blast of a bomb as it showers shrapnel over the crowded camps. I can still feel the pain and remember how back then it was the only thing that reminded you that you were still alive. I can still see her, the nurse, her pale face tired, her apron covered in blood.

To think that we once saw war as a romantic battle, an adventure. How wrong were we. Only those who have lived through it can understand how horrific it really is. Back home people only see the scars but they never see the memory.

There was always a fear in war, you could tell it in the diggers eyes, how they would stare engrossed in deep thought. The fear was avoided like the plague but it was what kept you going, it became a part of you.

The nurse that sat beside me every second of that night. The comfort of her weary smile was more reassuring than the gun beside my bed. How old was she? Her blackened tired eyes covering her age. Why was she here? War was no place for a lady, I told her that. She replied back quickly as if she had been told this before “ the battlefield is no place for a man either, one would think out there you are fighting the monsters in children’s stories, not humans with a family back home just like everyone else”. Her face grew serious and stubborn as if it had just occurred to her how horrible war really was. I’ll never forget that look, a sickly look as if her stomach was turning as fast as her thoughts were.


The hospital train arrived early that morning. The nurse and I said our goodbyes and then I limped onto the train.




Arriving back into a civilisation without the distant sound of bombs, it felt strange, as if everything was out of place. I feel like I haven’t done my bit yet. The overwhelming, dreaded feeling of uncertainty. What am I doing, I should be back there, I’m leaving my mates behind. Everything’s blurring, spinning, a voice was distant, “sir”, it was a nurse, “sir you’ve been in a coma for a week know”. Was all of this a dream, a horrible dream, the nurse who stayed with me, was she real or just a figment of my imagination? I looked down at my legs, no it was not a dream, the scabby uncovered stump on my left side shocked me like a whack in the face, nothing could do this but war.

These are the scars that remind me of war. These are the scars that remind me of that nurse. I get lost in thoughts about what ever happened to that nurse. Surviving war should make us feel proud and brave, but it only weakens us. As we have fought for a lost cause, was it for our country or was it for the glory?