I dive into a small foxhole, rifle in one hand, bible in the other. But what is the use? Just from a small glance I see that God forsook this place long ago. The trench is caving, it’s rotted wood has fallen, revealing the bodies we dug into the trench. Revealing a stench of burnt flesh and vomit, dirty and rotting, the bodies are desperately piled back into the side of the trench. Shells wail as we hear them come thundering down, smoke and debris rattle through our trench like an avenging spirit, shrapnel comes flying; lodging into my helmet I duck for some cover as more comes flying. 

My haversack is a heavy weight on my back, I need to move, why should I be able to sleep anyway? I saw rats gnawing on those men who will never go home again, never to see their family- instead just a piece of paper will make it home, a paper that tells them of his death- why should I have the privilege of sleep when others cannot. I leave my haversack and run on through the trench, ducking shells and shrapnel as I go. Machine guns rattle in my ears, drowning out the devilish screams of dying men and the desperate Bugles, sounding their trumpets.

But suddenly… the shelling stops. The bugles fall quiet. This is the part we hate the most, before every charge of the Fritz, comes…

“GAS! GAS! MASKS ON COVER Y’SELVES!” yell the Corporals, over the ecstasy of fumbling as gas masks are fitted and we hide our bare skin. Here it comes, floating towards us in a green mist, it is gently drifting towards us, each metre it takes screams ‘ You’re going to die! you’re going to die!’ It arrives towards us, I become engulfed in a damp, burning smog, I cannot shield the constant cries of pain from those poor souls who lost their mask. Then the coughing starts, those attempts to choke out the froth as it corrupts their lungs, but all that comes up are pieces of flesh and flecks of vomit as they are silently throttled to the moulded, rat-infested floors.

After the gas, finally come the Germans, charging into our trench, suddenly our gunners are cutting them down like wheat in a field, but they finally make it, coming over the top, bayonets flashing and the golden helmet spikes glittering in the sun. But I will survive, I always do, but it is not a mercy, it is torture- me knowing that this will continue. I will always see men dying, being burnt and torn mentally and physically. Who really wants to live when this is all they can expect, it is true, God forsook Flanders long ago.

Is it really glorious to die for your country?

As we trudged through the sludge, we could hear the booming gunshots and explosions from up ahead.

Tired and exhausted but determined to carry on.

Cowering cautiously like ants, we followed each other. Left, right and centre you could see people dying but you could never tell who was dying as we all looked the same.

Watching hopelessly, hearing screams of pain. I couldn’t help but think I could be next. I just stood there shell-shocked, thinking about the horrors that I have had to endure. As my comrade on the floor smoked his deadly cigarette, it gave him the minute of relief that he desperately needed.

Sneaking through the thick smoke feeling more sure than anything that I was going to die in this game of war.

Like peas in a pod.

Like toys in a toy box.

Helpless, hopeless, horrified.

Soldiers around me plead with God. Time stood still. Tormented and torn.

Fallen like a culled tree. Trying to catch his last breath. His dying thoughts of his mother back home.

Comrades around him weeping. Mum unaware, still sleeping. Whilst I looked on and questioned: Is it really glorious to die for your country?

It’s the year 1939,

Another world war has started. Is this a crime?

As the guns began to fire,

I was wishing for this all to expire,

In the trench I was so deep,

Wanting something warm to eat,

I was hungry, angry, cold and sad,

In these conditions could you really be glad?

Most of us were getting ill,

Some of us were getting killed,

Sound of shots began to get louder,

As grenades exploded will this make people prouder?

Plains soring over head,

Dropping bombs people are dead,

Destroying homes, cities and nations,

Destroying the worlds unlucky population,

Now its 1945,

The war has ended and a lot of people have survived.

From the enemy they were so evil,

But in reality they were so feeble.

Smoke rises through the crooked tress as clouds prepare to bomb the area with a hail of rain; the sun is nowhere to be seen, covered by the ever-increasing amount smoke rising from the ground. Will.  They. Survive? Cautiously men walk through the war-torn forest expecting attack from any side. The sound of artillery is deafening like a giant pounding his fist against the ground; making men shake, but they stand their ground. The chorus of artillery sakes the ground; growing the storm of smoke that fills the sky adding to the tally of holes in the ground.

Trees cover the ground; some are flourishing with their green and red leave’s while others are just a husk of their former selves like a man bare to the bone. Other trees are crooked from war their leaves a spectrum of green; although. Dying some trees are, unable to withstand the weapons of war, the pounding of shells from the immobile guns.

Even man, the dominant creature on this broken earth, cannot withstand the power of the shells which rain down death from above nearly every second not even waiting to catch their breath. No weapon can prevent the destruction of the shell not even the new weapons of war. The shell will kill anything in range, and it does not have morality for the death it causes: a few of its targets include soldiers, trenches, machine guns, tanks and every other weapon you can think of. It is lifeless without a smell or any other human thing.

Green grass no longer grows, nor any colour now, not only due to the fall but to the daily fall of the explosive shell which comes so much now; the landscape turns deader and browner with the passing of every shell. Soon there will be nothing left but the husk of the odd dead tree, patches of brown mud and shell holes in the Earth…the land in time will become a wasteland ravaged by war.

Smoke still rises through crooked and broken trees, but luckily rain has stopped dropping from the clouds, which are no longer to be seen the sun has awoken from it’s sleep and shines as light as ever being a beacon of hope for all men in that forest. The immobile guns have stopped their barrage of death finally pausing to breathe; with that the storm of smoke clears creating a peaceful scene of which hasn’t been seen since the beginning of the War.  

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.

Do you know if your account is safe, is mine?

Some people are not what they seem,

they’re cunning as foxes and some work as a team.

Do you know who you’re talking to, do you know where they are from,

do you know if they are scamming you from the minute you turn on?

Not everything is as deceiving as the very dark web,

our lives can be improved with the good and positive things that are said.

But best to be safe, so ask if unsure,

keep account on private, don’t open that door.

It’s important to be kind to everyone,

don’t go online to call someone names.

Bullies hide behind their screen like a spider in its web,

waiting for the right opportunity to get inside your head.

So the future can be bright for the youth of today,

it’s not all doom and gloom like what our parents say.

Anthem of Doomed Youth Today

Counting every second thinking I’d be better off gone

Only the silence of grief and sufferings makes you happy

Only the destroyed anger of rapid guns yell

Cannot destroy no more,

Judged every second, sometimes never knowing

Made to feel like a ghost, messing with feelings

Now gone never reappearing

Used to love, used to be happy

Now the cheater runs, no guilt no sadness

Only wanting to end pain not life, just to for peace

What candles can be held to help

They shall never shine nor glimmer for any one

Made to feel un wanted, vulnerable

Only too slowly change

Voices screaming change no will like you!

Too fat work out more

Too skinny eat more

Put make up on you look ugly

Too much make up you’re just a fake

Be more masculine

Be more feminine

They all say, always changing but never being liked

Reopening scars, not healing

Taking anything possible to release the pain

Shred of paper lying on the floor releasing pain on others

No friends no love

And each day passes with the annoyance of shrieks

Only too slowly realize

When dawn turns too dusk, I am better of gone

Closed blinds closed on light I am gone

Now where all angry yells cannot be heard

What do they gain for the risk they must take?

Only the repeated applause of a few,

Only the repeated thanks people make ;

Waiting for a cure, for the breakthrough.

But those who try to end the fear,

Have to overcome their fright,

To  make this plague disappear,

With every ounce of their might.

And what pain must the infected feel?

They start sweating ; they begin knowing,

Death is close, but they have to keep going,

 They should have known, This virus is real.

Sputtering, then choking, they take their last breath,

And they fall into the arms of awaiting Death.

Violently waves rushed to the despairing beach; the war was coming to an end. One after another water splashed on the sand like bombs of war destroying all in their path. Vulnerable, the shoreline tried to retreat and protect itself, but a mighty wave incinerated them leaving nothing to chance.