Bloodcurdling. Eerie. Chilling. As the bitter wind swept through the ominous forest, the emaciated trees oscillated at the rhythm of the marching swarm of young men, snaking their way through the deadly woods; the sound of their boots crushing the detritus below echoed all around them. The forlorn sky lingered above their heads, engulfing the tips of the towering trees above, where a thick mist lay, obscuring the vision of those below. Peculiarly, a mass of obsidian clouds was continuously billowing in from the west and their glare almost seemed to extract the life out of the men marching below. Death filled the hearts of the soldiers. Death filled the forest.
With their heads hung low, the soldiers continued to march through the bitter frost, with only a meagre scarf to protect them from the harsh wind penetrating their skin. The khaki bags strapped tightly to their backs restrain their every movement and cripple those who are too fatigued to carry on. All of the soldier’s joy has been torn away from them and they are left with anguish and terror filling their expressions and controlling their contentment and freedom. Like blank canvases, they no longer show the colour and hope in the world. Marching, they still do not look up to see light in life.
Lifeless, they march over the forest debris with what used to be pink skin but now white, what used to be red lips but now blue, what used to be bright eyes but now lost. No part of these soldiers is the same as what it was when they left their homes and family. The clouds still hang limply above, now they are inert, no longer billowing with life, just like the secluded soldiers.
Hesitant, they continue to meander their way through these treacherous woods for they know the fate which they are destined to succumb to. They no longer see death as distant for each step they take towards the obscure darkness, in this never-ending war, death is constantly looming behind each corner, beckoning them. This fear is no longer hidden in the soldier’s minds; it is shown in their eyes, their absent eyes, for they echo the ghosts of their past: their homes, family and friends. The times of freedom for these young boys are merely dreams or songs filled with hope but the sound of death is too deafening to handle…
As the howling wind creeps through the skeletal trees, around the ebony clouds, under the obscured sky and above the forest floor, the soldiers carry on marching, marching, marching, up to the nesting guns. Death fills the air. Death fills the forest. Death fills the soldiers.
Descriptive writing based on Mametz Wood by Owen Sheers
In the distance were the remnants of a dead forest, the dark trees lining the horizon like soldiers ready for battle. The early morning fog loomed as far as the eye could see; it was almost tangible, shrouding everything in a thick white veil, the light barely managing to penetrate the haze. Stiffly, the exhausted soldiers marched through the dense thicket; stiff boots squelching in the damp mud. Bone-Chilling. Murky. Wet.
The gloom of the day was reflected in the moods of the soldiers. Grey carpeted the sky, the air heavy with the dampness of a coming storm. Roars of gunshots echoed in the distance. Still, they marched on.
To the west was death; the skeletons of trees and remains of what was once gorgeous green fields. About their feet are only the browned remnants of branches and needles that have fallen in the recent high winds.
Leaves danced in the chilly morning air. An unpleasant atmosphere. The leaves lay on the forest floor, nature’s carpet in every hue of greens, golds and browns. Only to be trampled by the marching squad.
Death.
Then the soldiers arrived. A bloody battlefield; the corpses of the fallen littering the ground beneath their feet. They couldn’t die like this.
They were too scared. Too young.
