Year 8 writing inspired by Wilfred Owen’s “Dulce et Decorum Est”

Bang! The loud sounds of gunshots deafened the soldiers. They ran, swiftly, for safety but soon got tired. Bent double like old beggars under sacks, they staggered into deep, dirty trenches, underground, anywhere to cover themselves from the horrors they would witness. Each step taken was painful, tripping over razor sharp wire, falling down to the filthy ground. Wounded. Bruised. Agonized. Tears hidden behind the strong yet beaten faces of bravery and duty. In a feeling of lonely isolation and weak helplessness but still hopeful, wondering minds. Questions rushing through their injured heads like the adrenaline racing through their veins.

“Over ‘ere! Over ‘ere!” injured bodies littered the fields and cries for help could be heard even by the deaf. Gas slowly burned the soldiers through their soft skin to the core. Broken bodies. Broken minds. The fear hurt more than the brutal pain. Their sense of reality was blurred along with their scarred mentality. The sting of the raw wounds could not replace the grief they had to experience and the thoughts of their families encouraging words. Violent yells coming from every single direction but no way to move. Still. Lifeless. No energy left.

The heavy looking clouds turned an ashy grey colour like an antique photograph and a thick fog rolled in. As a crisp chill shuddered the fragile soldiers’ spines, furious lightning bolted and scattered through the gloomy sky. The bitter breeze picked up into a nagging wind that forced each man to tremble. Severe. Harsh. Threatening. Cowering, the remaining recruits -that were shivered with the grim cold – hid in muddy, infested trenches, waiting, praying for the storm of bullets and rain to pass. They could not tell the difference between the thunder, the explosions and their innocent hearts pounding with fear.

Would it ever end?

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