Far Away From Home

• Timothy Dalton, Grade 7
• Short Story
• 2015

0059 hrs. One minute, we go over the top. The callous wind bites our bare skin and the thick, hard mud clings to our bodies. I’m in Ypres, Belgium- a barren and desolate landscape with mud covering all ground, a lifeless, dead wasteland. “Attach Bayonets” Shouts a Colonel over the sound of an artillery shell. How did it come to this? One year since everything seemed peaceful. I fear I will never again see that life before this war, again.

The objective is to storm divert Fritz’s attention. There is about fifty of us, all part of the. same artillery brigade. We’re all the same; all have family we wish to see again - worried mothers and fathers, lovers, siblings. We all have something to live for.

The shrill of the whistle; we launch over the top of the trench. The black horizon lights up with bright white flashes from German machine-guns and relentless, icy rain pounds down on my helmet. There are no signs of any life here, only sodden mud and razor-sharp barbed wire - “No Man’s Land”. Twisted, distorted barbed wire runs across the battlefield. The merciless machine guns fire into the distance.

Artillery shells plummet towards the ground shooting mud and earth into the air in an enormous explosion. Shrapnel flies through the air as quick as lightning and destroys anything in its path. Suddenly, a machine gun opens fire on me, and I throw myself into a shell hole. I can feel my heart pounding in my chest. I grip my Lee-Enfield Rifle and launch up the slope of the hole towards the German Trench.

Almost there. Suddenly, a shriek from the sky; instantly a deafening explosion. I feel the shockwave from the explosion throw me off my feet, tossing me through the air. Sharp metal shrapnel penetrates my left leg and I hit the hard ground with a thud. My vision’s blurry and everything seems to slow down. I feel cold blood gush down my leg and I cry out in agony. A figure appears over me; everything goes black.

I stare up at the wooden roof, warm sunlight pouring through the windows. A woman wearing a white dress with a red cross comes towards me. “Where am I, Miss?” I ask. “You are in the Winchester Red Cross Hospital, England, Private Dalton,” The woman explains “You fell unconscious after you were wounded by an artillery shell in Ypres, Belgium.” I look out the window to see a lush green field. I breathe a heavy sigh. “You’re lucky to be alive.” She says.

It’s been one month to the day since shrapnel hit me; my wounds still cause agonizing pain. I was informed that the attack failed and that we sustained a mass of casualties. We’ve fallen back substantially and turned defensive. So far our forces have sustained 300,000 casualties. This war has already destroyed so many lives, and I pray that we can get through it alive, back to our families. Back home.