"The Ghosts Of Anzac"

• Bianca Braaksma, Grade 9, St Thomas Aquinas College
• Short Story
• 2015

Excellence Award in the 'The Write Track 2015' competition

It was a still calm night on the eve of the 100th Anniversary of the Anzacs. The moonlight shone eerily upon the thousands of graves spread out before me. All was quiet, nothing stirred.
Suddenly a bright light flashed upon a distant grave revealing the name “Joseph Balfe”. As soon as it appeared it vanished, leaving all dark again. A wind immediately picked up, shrieking and wailing over the graves and rattling the chains on the gate.
By this time I had grown quite frightened and wanted to run back to my car and head home. But I couldn’t move, my feet were rooted to the spot. Something swooped from left to right in front of me. Then my eyes rested on the now glowing grave as I watched one hand appear then another. Slowly a ghostly figure arose from the ground. Its hollowed eyes rested upon me as if looking right into my mind.
Fear clutched me and I found I was able to move. As I fled in the darkness I tripped over a vase of flowers, shattering the glass. The sound echoed in the air releasing a ringing tone as if a signal.
As I slowly looked around a cold feeling grasped me; where was the ghost? I looked from left to right but saw nothing. Then mist began to rise up from the ground and its cold touch enveloped me. I looked around frantically. What was happening?
The earth above the graves suddenly crumbled and I found I was surrounded by skeletons wearing old army coats and holding rifles. Drums started booming and the skeletons took one step after another towards me.
I ran and concealed myself behind a tombstone just before shots rang out in the night air. At first I thought that I was the target and I kept low but then out of the corner of my eye I saw another ghost army. These also had guns but among them was a machine gun.
It soon became apparent that the two armies were fighting each other. I had no idea what was going on, but soon it came to me; the army of the Anzacs were reliving their century-old battle.
Over the distance sea came boats sailing into Gallipoli only to get bombarded with bullets. I heard the screams of the men as they struggled to reach the shore and I heard the booming of the grenades as they hit the trenches. Then there was silence. Not a sound came from the ancient battle grounds. It was as silent as the grave.
I peered over the slab of stone and looked around. The ground was covered in blood and smoke drifted here and there. But there were no bodies.
A bony hand clutched my leg and a raspy voice issued from the figure of Joseph. “8,000 dead, 18,000 wounded; who will remember them?”
I answered “I will, I will remember them.”