War For Children

• Rowan Taylor, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2013

‘Hey Sarge…’
‘Shut up and pay attention’
‘But Sarge!’, the boy pleaded, hopping from one foot to the other with his arm in the air. Mickey sighed and tightened his trench coat against the icy rain.
‘Yes Stanley?
‘Why are we here, Serge?’
Sergeant Mickey O’Flaherty of Her Majesty’s Australian Fusiliers was a small, spotty lad of fifteen. Despite his age, he was the senior officer in the trench. This wasn’t due to any particular bravery on his part. He’d been given a jacket with a Sargent’s stripes on it on his arrival. This sort of mistake wasn’t uncommon as by 1917 the Australian army were in had a shortage everything except rats and underage soldiers. It hadn’t escaped his attention that the former were often much larger than the latter.
‘We’re here, Private, because it is very important that the Germans don’t take this trench. If they do, they’ll be one step closer to King George. Then he’ll be very upset and he’ll have you shot.’
Stanley nodded, seemingly satisfied with this answer. He had just turned thirteen. They sat together on the firing step. Stanley’s birthday cake had arrived in the mail the previous day from his mother. They had no idea how she had managed to fit a cake, thirteen candles and a football into a regulation package, but apparently a mother’s love was able to distort physics. Stanley had not stopped kicking the ball around all day. It was beginning to get on Mickey’s nerves. As the aspiring footballer lined up for another strike, Mickey moved in to block him.
‘Private! You’re a SOLDIER! Act like it, for God’s sake!’
Stanley had been caught off guard. His boot hit the ball at an odd angle and it went spinning over the top of the trench. He looked reproachfully up at Mickey from the mud.
‘That was my ball, Sarge!’ He clambered to his feet and began to climb up out of the trench. Mickey grabbed by the boots and hauled him back.
‘What the hell are you doing?’
‘Getting it back’. He kicked Mickey in the chest and sent him sprawling. ‘Are you coming, or what?’ Mickey looked around, rolled his eyes and climbed up after his companion. They edged across no man’s land. The ball had landed in a small hollow. By the time they’d gotten there, they were both covered in mud and chilled to the bone. Stanley raised it in triumph.
‘Stand up and put your hands on your heads!’ A high, accented voice piped. They stood to find a small boy in what they recognised as a German uniform pointing a rifle at them.
‘I am requisitioning this ball for the purpose of… fun.’ He said in broken English and snatched the ball from Stanley.’
Mickey was both terrified and fascinated. ‘You aren’t going to shoot us then?’
The German looked at him oddly. ‘Why would I do that?’
‘Aren’t you supposed to?’
The boy shrugged ‘I don’t know’ and ambled off.