We Are Here

• Caitlynn Brown, Grade 11
• Short Story
• 2019

The tunnel, rough against his bare skin. Lights flicker against the concussion of the bombs exploding in the distance. This is my life now. Tins clashing and clanging beneath my feet. With shapes too vague to know, every nook and cranny filled with the reflection of this ungodly war. A ghostly maze full of distress. Bodies lay, limb from limb torn, half covered by the shrapnel and evidence of what soldiers once called home. Covered by a rug, as pulverised as the bricks from the nearby town after the bombardment of strikes, a faceless man lay. “I’m looking for headquarters.” No reaction, not even a flinch was given. “I said,” and before I finished my sentence, I distinguished the hole by which his fingers clutched. A wound, blackened by the time he was left there. Climbing through the darkness, Sweat dripping like rain down his forehead. “At last” he murmurs, “We are here”.

* * * * * *

Screams all around, echoing through the maze of trenches. One by one bullets crack, seeking the targets but I pray ‘not me’. Like dominoes in the distance, silhouettes drop, but I pray ‘not me’. “Gunfire down the left” a young soldier, about 15 years old, a soul who should live a life to the fullest, hollers and pleads for his life. Stuck frozen in time, his surroundings blur becoming all shades of grey and black. A shatter of bullets burst, bringing him back to reality. Flesh torn, leaving behind the pink and red undertone. Khaki green now stained red from the metallic bullets that pierced his skin. Men scatter like sheep running from wolves. Floods of men come crashing over him, from the fate by which they all fear. That fate is what lay him there, drowning in his own blood, sweat and tears.
“Bloody oath mate, this Tommy won’t come out of this easy.” Charles, not much older than 20, elucidated.
“This would almost be a basket case if it weren’t for the young chaps early cry.” George explained. Both of the young men walked in deafening silence. Uniforms that were once pressed ironed, now stained red from the mutilated, unrecognisable young men from which they stand upon to keep themselves from sinking into the mud.
“Charles,” George uttered, breaking the sound of gunfire overhead, “Will we ever make it home?” This question brought tears to trickle down the cracks between the mud that daubed his face. Pulling himself together he comes to a halt, “I — I cant answer that,” the young stretcher-barer continues, “let’s just get him out of here.”

Flashes of white fly before his eyes. Unclear and Unaware, blank faces march around him. A stench of death and a metallic tang roamed the room freely. Gathering what little strength he had, collecting all hope that has been replaced with fear, he rose.
“I’m sorry sir,” Alice, one of the many nurses explained, “Your injuries are life threatening,”
Before she could finish her sentence the young soldier retaliated, “I am not going to sit here while I watch my comrades, one by one, come in and die in front of my eyes.”
Tying his boots up, he regathers his composure, pushes the nurses aside and leaves. Limping, wounded both mentally and physically, winding through the maze of this ungodly war. The tunnel, rough against his bare skin. “At last,” he murmurs, “We are here.”