Eighteen

• Olga Gourko, Grade 12
• Short Story
• 2008

Gunfire and death filled his senses. He was eighteen with a rifle in his hand.
Kneeling in the swallowing mud, like glue and blood, his back pressing against the trench wall, he wondered how this moist, grainy soil could save a life. Faces were all he could think of…
"…Mum, I’ve joined the Army…" His mother’s face, confused and horrified… "Take care of my bike for me while I’m away mate"… His brother’s face, young, helpless… "…Bye, dad…" His father’s face, staring, tearstained as his eldest son left for the front……And her eyes. Laughing. Beautiful. Perfect.
…Other faces then appeared. Merciless jaws. The enemy’s blackened eyes. He lent his head against the soft dirt, below the trench edge, eyes closed in despair. Somewhere nearby, guns and canons didn’t touch the pebbles of the bay and there was peace. It wouldn’t have that innocence again. The graves of the men would always remind the sweet world that there is bitterness and anger.
He was honour-bound not to retreat one step. He couldn’t rest here while his men fought with their lives. He wouldn’t do that. “Hey, you… Didn’t expect this, eh?” The Boy stared at the haggard digger. “I was like you, at the start.” He reached for a dirty cloth from his pocket. “I’ve been here since the first landing, the first night.” Flakes of dirt flew away from his gun as he rubbed it with the material. “That night, we were cheerful… confident, but we weren’t rowdy… Nah. We knew this was gonna be somethin we’d never seen.” Overcome by a daydream, he slowly lowered his rifle to his feet and placed his blistered hand in his pocket. “I came with five mates… four died within four minutes of landing…”
The Boy explored the man’s unshaven face. “Those shots were unforgettable. Like bein’ in an empty water tank with a hundred fellas hittin it hard with cricket bats.”
He bent and picked up his gun. “Be careful son. Ya don’t wanna be buried here.” The Boy watched him turn. “Is your other mate alive?”
“Blinded. Won’t see the Aussie sun again.”
Thirty seconds after the digger left, he smelt his own gunpowder. Five seconds later, he found himself aiming for another enemy helmet. The minute was up. He had killed two. On the ground, sour tears piercing his eyes, he realised he was no longer a boy, but a soldier who had stopped two hearts, for his country. Sprawled in the mud, he heard another voice. A soldier of his own age, reading a letter from home.
The Boy propped himself against the trench wall. Wiping his eyes, he saw the young soldier stop reading. He saw the soldier’s empty stare and the grenade in the mud between them. And he saw her laughing eyes for the last time. He was eighteen.
Holding the telegram in my hand, I remembered those eyes that went to war. Naïve. Determined. Honest. They were the eyes who had loved me.