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Xtra Stuff Members Stories Young Blood (from old site)
Xtra Stuff Members Stories Young Blood (from old site)
| Young Blood (from old site) |
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| Members Stories - Members Stories |
| Saturday, 19 April 2008 13:00 |
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{jcomments on}Young Blood
He sat with his knees under his chin, arms wrapped tightly around his legs. The mud sucked at his worn boots, and soaked into his trousers and back where he leaned against the trench wall. The continuous shelling nothing but a muffled echo, barely heard above the endless ringing in his ears, his dirt smeared face hidden by his dented tin hat. His hands were shaking from the cold, his body twitched as it tried to gain some semblance of warmth. His now baggy uniform hung from his once large frame, making more room for the fleas and lice to endlessly feast on him, his hand wandered casually to a bit on his ankle, blacked finger nails scratching unconsciously at the already bleeding bite. He felt the other soldiers moving around him, but he paid them no attention. He wasn’t sitting in a shell scarred trench, cold and hungry, he was a million miles away, back Warwickshire, sitting in his mother’s kitchen as she chatted away to him about what she had been doing that day. When he had been back home he’d never paid any attention when she had chatted aimlessly, but in his mind he was looking at her in rapture, remembering the fine details of her face and the warm sweet smells of her kitchen. The way the ribbon on her apron was never tied properly and the single strand of rebellious hair which always hung next to her left ear, no matter how many times she pushed it back. The way she would smile at him, with a knowing look on her face. He could hear his sisters playing in the garden, the dog barking as they teased the old dog to chase them.
He didn’t remember his father; he’d died in the Boer war, when he was only a year old. His mother had said he’d been a great soldier, pictures of him in his uniform, looking brave and distinguished, littered the house. He was because of these pictures that he’d grown up knowing there was only one thing he was going to be and that was a great solider like his father, so when war was declared, he’d been one of the first to enlist, despite only being 15 years old, his size had meant he was accepted without question, at 5 foot 10 no one at the recruitment office had even thought to questions his age, birth certificate or not. A stamping boot next to him brought him out of his day dreaming back to cold reality, looking up from under his tin hat at those around him, he wiped his face, smearing the dirt even more, but hiding the fact he’d been crying. His stomach rumbled, it always rumbled, tinned corn beef and dry biscuits was not enough for a boy still growing, but then again he wasn’t a boy any more, he was a man doing a mans job. He didn’t feel like a man, just a scared boy, he didn’t want to be a soldier any more, he wanted his mother, he wanted to go home. He could feel the tears coming back, so he swallowed hard and tried to pull himself together, what would his father think if he saw him now. Sniffing he watched the man who was walking towards them, , his uniform covered in mud like his own, all marks of rank indistinguishable under the caked dirt, his trimmed mustache and chipped eye piece the only things which identified him as an office. “On your feet boys” his clipped voice carried easily. What, no it couldn’t be. He pulled his watch from his pocket, 5.55am. His heart sank, his stomach heaved, it was time. He must have been day dreaming for longer than he had realized. He felt physically sick at the thought of what was to come, he tried to standup , but his legs had turned to rubber, his shaking hands wouldn’t let go of his knees, they held on as if they had a mind of their own. “Come on lad on your feet”, the office reached down, putting a hand under his arm and forcefully pulling him to his feet. He stood swaying, the blood drained from his face, his legs barely holding him upright, he looked up and saw the faces of the others, all of them were pale; all of them looked like they wanted to be sick. He wanted to shout at the officer, “stop’ stop, I’m only 15 I shouldn’t be here” his lips moved but no words came out. “Mother” he thought, she’d been so upset when he had told her he’d enlisted; she’d tried to stop him going, begging him, pleading. On the day he left for training she had been sitting on the front step tears rolling down her face, calling his name as he’d walked down the road with the others from his street. He hadn’t paid any attention; he’d not even turned around and waved to her, so absorbed with thoughts of adventure and glory. Now he would give anything to be with her again, to feel her arms around him, to feel safe again. The whistle sounded, he bend and retrieved his rifle, cocking it and checking there was a round in the chamber, just as he had been taught. His hands were shaking uncontrollably now; fear gripped him, two big hands ripping at his stomach. He didn’t want to die…….. The whistle sounded again, and a half hearted yell rose up from the trench, as five thousand men and one boy climbed over the top, rifles in hand. The machine guns opening up instantly. Less than two minutes later, five thousand men and that one boy lay silently, only yards from where they had started. The ground was stained everywhere with the blood of dead men and mixed in with it was 15 years of young blood
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| Last Updated on Saturday, 05 July 2008 11:10 |
