War Torn

• Annie Liao, Grade 8
• Short Story
• 2014

The stomp of my boots on the highway sent pain stabbing up my feet like a pulse. We had been on patrol for hours now, walking in double file. This war was driving me crazy but it was my duty to protect my country. The trees rustled nonstop and the bushes were restless. I checked my watch - 12 am sharp - midnight.
Something felt off. I turned my head, scanning the desolate landscape for any sign of movement, anything that was out of place. A flash of white caught my eye. The faint outline of a thin girl with shocked eyes and dishevelled, red hair materialised and then slowly faded into the bush. I felt the blood drain from my face. There was a crunch of gravel as we flung ourselves onto the ground, guns at the ready. Cocked to fire. I took my torch from where it hung next to my holster and waved it and that is when I saw it, a dull blur, a flurry of movement - without hesitation I moved my torch to it. The light revealed only a small rabbit.
There were a few sporadic, almost desperate chuckles from the other soldiers as they realised how tense I had been- how tense we had all been. My fingers fumbled for the trigger and without hesitation, I shot the darn creature. Its shattered remains lay broken on the concrete. When I next looked up everyone had gone - including my patrol. I needed a place to calm myself and wondered off into the shrubbery.
As I walked past a particularly old gum tree, to my bewilderment I saw a young boy with golden hair, probably around the age of my dear brother. His eyes were closed and he was propped up against the trunk of the tree. His clothing was ragged and his upper arm covered in a dark stain. There was no doubt that he was a native, an 'evil barbarian' as the other soldiers referred to them. He looked so worn and I almost felt guilty about how I had braced myself after hearing the rumours about rebels. But he didn't move. I trenched further into the wilderness with the image of the boy's face seared into my mind like a newly fired brand.
It was past two when I decided to turn back. As I crossed the gauge back to the base, I saw the silhouettes of three teenagers. One was sitting down and appeared to be sobbing and trembling which could be heard from quite a distance. Another was hunched over in a ball and the other stood with an imposing stance, his hand gestures suggesting he was explaining something. From the pitch of their voices they were obviously quarrelling in a language I couldn’t understand. They were just immature teenagers lost in the war; my shaky hand loosened its grip on my rifle. I relaxed. Maybe the injured boy was one of them. Would my brother still think I was a hero if I hurt them? What if the situation was reversed.