1918

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 that keeps me sane.

The trick is to not mind.
To ignore everything.
To bury every emotion and thought.
To not care.

Already there are bodies littered all over the dusty, blood-stained floor. I charge into battle. When you get right down to it, people all over the world are dying. What is one more life to add to it?
I don’t mind. I DON’T MIND. As I run in, I see Major John McRae, a jolly, lively fellow and the only one who entertained us in the dark times, lying on the floor. He isn’t moving and the puddle of blood pouring from his chest is getting ever bigger. Thinking of my family- Ma, Pa, brothers and sisters, I soldier on.

A few minutes later, and I’m still alive. I try to enjoy the feeling, but a niggling thought in the back of my head says that it won’t last. Suddenly, I am face to face with a German lad. His eyes are wild and the scratchy material of the outfit hangs off his malnourished frame. As he grabs his gun, I shoot him in the head. I think I did him a favour.

An hour later, and I’ve gone mad. I’ve killed one of my comrades, and the guilt is unbearable. I didn’t mean to. In the madness of the war, I panicked. He looked just like a German. I can’t bear it. I can’t. The sweat pouring from my face is not just from the running, exhaustion and fighting. It is from the sheer horror of the war.

Guns sounding, cannons blowing off, cries of the wounded, tears for the dead. It’s too much. Cannons sounding gunshooting-tearsforthedead-criesofthewounded-cannonsblowing-tearsgunscriestears.

My head smashes against the blood-soaked field of Flanders and everything goes hazy.

 It’s over.

Flames lick around my face like angry serpents, burning, burning. Sleep welcomes like a heavy blanket, covering me and I just want to let go. It would be so easy, so easy to slip away and never come back. To leave all of this behind and never come back. 

The world explodes above me. Raging fires surround me. This is it. The end.

I wake up, and with a sharp breath I am back to the real world. I smile for a second, everything fuzzy, then wonder where the smell of baking bread is. Then my eyes widen in terror and everything comes into focus. I suddenly sit up, surprising even myself, and realise where I am. The harsh sting of antiseptic covering up the smell of human misery and remains. A person in a strange mask comes marching towards me, carrying a medieval-looking weapon of torture.

I was in a prisoner of war camp.

Enola

Year 7