The Big Blog Theory

Thud.  Bombs fell softly in the background.  Soldiers marched, too tired to care.  Onward they limped.  Onward.  And ever on. To War. To battles won. And lost. Not all of them would be coming back. Our theme for November is to remember the fallen - those who fell for us to stand. Stories could be linked to the theme of War, Remembrance, or Memories.  We would love to receive stories of any length, poems, and images. Please send in as many submissions as you like! They don't have to be based on a specific war; they could be more abstract. A personal battle, an inner war, or a war within a distant world. Our favourite submissions for November will be displayed around the school. The top three submissions will receive a Certificate of Excellence at the end of November, and be entered into our massive annual competition which will be announced during the summer term.  So, what are you waiting for? Get writing, and get reading!

I hope you're alright. London is different from how we imagined it-now it's been bombed. I think of home everyday down by the sea and autumn colors; there isn't much of autumn here, just grey clouds. I don't like the job, but it was the best option. When I have to kill someone, I think that someone across the sea would not have a complete family. I hate this war; I want it to end so no more loved ones will go.I meet new people, some much braver than me, some dying before my eyes. The only life I've ever seen that wasn't running, was a poppy which I've got to remind me of home. I 'll be back for Christmas.  I will, I promise.xxx Evie Year 7

It's 1918. I’m breathing hard. I’m scared, so, so scared, but I have to do it.  For my country.  My pride.  My family. I have to. Cannons start to go off, and it’s all I can hear. I’m only sixteen. Just one year ago I was a merry little baker’s boy, kneading away for all my worth and whistling away while I was at it. Memories of the bakery and home flood my head. The smell of the freshly baked bread, the sound of pa singing, “Oh! Won’t you buy my pretty flowers?", the twins shrieking and rolling on the floor and the feel of the sticky dough. The war has taken all that away from me. Why is this happening? It feels wrong. It is wrong! Why are they doing this to innocent people? The damp fogginess of the typical Parisian weather matched my confused mood. The war scene unfolds in front of me and more and more people charge in. Innocent people, I think. I start to build confidence. Over the last few months I have learnt the trick. The trick is the only thing

She asked me again. "When is Daddy coming home?" I lied to my daughter, And said I didn't know. Deep, deep down, I know the truth, When Daddy's coming home. He died three weeks ago, He died and was alone. She doesn't have a father now, Her Daddy's not coming home. I can't admit it to her, Daddy's under a gravestone... Eve Year 9

Wear a poppy on this day, On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day. To think about those who died, And the fortunate ones who survived. Wear a poppy on this day, Have two minutes silence stand and pray. We see their shadows standing behind, We don’t forget and we don’t hide. Wear a poppy on this day, We hope our memories stay. And to this day don’t fade away, On the eleventh hour of the eleventh day. We pray the lord our soul to save! Scarlett Year 8

BOOM! A bomb explodes, a few yards from my face. My hands were trembling as I was thrown backwards. I heard cries of agony as more and more poor young men’s bodies fell helplessly to the floor. BOOM! Another one. I heard one man say, “Tell my wife and daughters I love them very much and…” but he never finished.  I could see my best friend, Bernard, dying in front of me. I wanted to carry him away to safety, but knew there was no saving him, and if I went to get him, I would die too. BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Now I know this won’t end before Christmas. I crouched behind the trench trying to shield myself from the debris that was flying everywhere. And then the whistle blew. I had to go over the top. As I was struggling to get up, the wet and slippery ladder guys on my left and right were falling down like dominos. Flashbacks of my family were racing through my head. BANG. All went dark. I opened my eyes and my wife was reassuring me that I was ok. I fou

A father's view must be insane.  Thinking this would be easy, Never expecting so much pain. They dug you a grave  your body could never be in view. You fought for victory,  but they won’t remember you. A mother’s view must be upsetting Knowing that he won’t be back  when the sun is setting. The memories he made is all you knew. But the realisation is  he won’t come back to you. When your child asks “When is daddy coming home?” How should you tell them? you’ve be sleeping alone? A child’s view is worst of all. Your innocence is at risk of a disastrous fall. Wondering if you will ever see him once more. Hearing knocks,  And not seeing him at the door. Once you figure out why he isn’t home. Why he hasn’t hugged you tight. Why he isn’t there. At the deep of night. What could you say,  or what could you do? But when will you realise? He died for you. Miss A Year 8

Horses are prisoners of death's grey land We have no place here In the great hour of destiny we stand Each of us with no hatred in our hearts Soldiers are sworn to action; we are forced We ride; all of us losing our lives Horses are dreamers; this is not our war We think of peace; man thinks of knives We are the horses,   shot down days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow We had homes and now we are dead Lying in Flanders fields Dulce at decorum est pro patria mori It’s sweet and right to die for your country That is a lie for man and horse For soldiers they are remembered For horses our deaths are worthless You are alive and we are dead Dead in memories, years condemn us At the going down of the sun and in the morning We are forgotten Grace Year 9

There's more to the story, than what just appears. A war written story, from blood and from tears. My son went to war, a very proud man. He fought for his country, on the wet, marshy lands. He witnessed his buddies, his comrades, his men, bleeding and dying, he witnessed their end. Where is Pvt. Tommy? He's blown up all around, his comrades spent hours, picking him from the ground. Sleeping in holes, that were dug by hand, dreaming of home, but it's become foreign land. He can't tell his enemy, from family or foe, as he watches his friends sent out, with tags on their toe. He knows his Mama, is sleepless like him, and he tries to send word, whenever he can. He tries not to worry, his family at home, the horror that he faces, he faces alone. His mission is over, he's sent back to me, he fought for our freedom, but he'll never be free. He yearns for his buddies, that died over there. He's caught with the living, in a doubled looped snare. He screams in the

The battle began, and the men prepared to charge. They rush over the top and run, and barge. Bullets ricocheted from machine gun and turret, All the soldiers were running and on the alert. Bombs fells from the planes Soon after no one was on the plains. Now what was a battlefield, Is buried corpses in Flanders Field. Richard Year 7

As the bombs rained down to the ground  A soldier, killed, without a sound The soldiers marched on, too tired to care The guilt on their shoulders too much to bear. As the sun rose, another day dawning All the families back home are mourning  For their husbands, dads, sons now lay dead In a field of poppies, forever their bed. Archie Year 9

No one knows how they struggled, The battle with their minds. All their pain and tears and struggles, Simply fall to blind eyes. Going to the trench again, Fighting the battle with their minds. Bombs, shells, grenades and more, Their anxiety undermined. People never really understand, Their battle with their minds. Shaking and crying and screaming every night, Their deal with Death is signed. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, The battle with their minds. It is real but wasn't ac cepted, The battle with their minds. Eve Year 9

Pencil sketch by Abi Year 9