Gallipoli

• Jemma Russell, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2013

The sun rose and cast an eerie yellow glow onto the drab, brown barrier that shielded us from the other side of the seemingly endless field. I thought of my wife and my six-month-old daughter, Cassie. I couldn’t wait to see them again. If I ever did. “T’day’s the big day,” sighed Steve, my best friend. Steve and I had enlisted together and we would finish together. We shared a moment, thinking about our future. We all made our final diary entry. After today, if we survived, we would be going home to our families. The thought of my daughter growing up without her father brought tears to my eye. For her, I was not going to die. I was determined. We know the enemy is waiting. All of our training came down to this one day. I picked a bright red poppy and cradled it in my hand for a moment, before hiding it in the folds of my large military jacket. We all need some beauty in this dark moment in time. These flowers were the only source of beauty in this field, and even they will be gone soon.

All of a sudden, the commanding officer called out. Everyone was silent. Finally, the bugles called out and everyone began to run. I let out a loud cry and watched men that dropped like flies. I made great distance. I let out another war cry. It seemed like we were running for eternity. I managed to hit three people and suffered many close calls to myself before I felt a shooting pain in my right thigh. I collapsed and assessed the damage. The wound on my leg was not as bad as it felt, I concluded, but I knew I couldn’t run any longer.

While I was in amongst my thoughts, I heard a loud cry and watched as a Turkish soldier fell right before me. This is it, I thought. I braced myself, waiting for the impending doom that lay in the gun of the fallen soldier. When nothing happened, I looked up, confused as to why nothing had happened. This man was in much worse a state that I was; he was clutched at his chest that was covered in red, and looked up at me with fear in his eyes. I felt pity. I took out a photo of my family with tears in my eyes and handed it to him. “Family,” I told him, unsure as to whether he understood what I was saying.

This man, whom I didn’t even know, reached over and took my hand and clutched it like it was his life. He pulled something out of his pocket and handed it to me. This was a photo with a large family whom I could see was his. “Family,” he told me, contentedly. And with that, his eyes closed, his smile grew wide and his chest grew still. I placed my poppy on his chest.