The Youngest Veterans

• Emma Hibbert, Grade 9, Hennessy Catholic College
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'The Write Track 2015' competition

The hand clicks as it glides to the top of the face. Ten minutes remaining. I sweat as I begin to count down the seconds.
Nine minutes to go and blades like knives are carving furiously filling the tense air with tearing and ripping. Paper grenades are flying into the metal barrel in the corner. Many are missing the target causing loud explosions from the command post.
Eight minutes to go and the super glue hand canon is firing away finishing the job but not without some causalities. Fellow soldiers yell at the horror of seeing their fingers stuck together. Others rush to their aid pulling them apart as hard as they can.
Seven minutes to go and important documents are being closed up and stored carefully. Final love letters are being passed around discreetly casting a mixed atmosphere of laugher, heart break and a whole lot of awkwardness.
Six minutes and we're gearing up to head out. Running through the checklist of necessary supplies to survive the next two days and then zipping up our bags tight. Next we weigh down our shoulders and put them on our backs.
Five minutes and we are half way there. Everyone is now taking a glance at the clock making sure they are on time. Some try to bribe the commander into an early departure. The smart ones double check the time on the wrist and are off again.
Four minutes to go and our chairs are being passed to the back of the line. Crash and bang as they stack higher and higher. Some of the less bright try to reach the summits but fail miserably and fall into their fellow soldiers arms.
Three minutes and we are scrambling in attempt to get back to our post. Shouts and screams sound when there's too much shoving and not enough apologies.
Two minutes and we are pretending to listen to our commander bark orders about our missions to be complete. It feels like forever as she rambles on until we all join in for prayer.
One minute and now everybody is sweating, anxious for the hand to strike three. Some people fidget and swing their legs over the sides of tables whilst others chatter in uncontrollable excitement of it all. Then it’s the countdown. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one...
Finally, the last post sounds signalling yet another end of a week at school.