Boys-draft

Shells fell like the teardrops of those left at the bay, crashing remarkably and firing crusted razor shards of malevolent metal exceedingly towards to our enervated British faces.

We were the boys of Putney.

We kissed our mothers goodbye and headed for this monstrosity many eves ago. I recall the sun sat low sending the shadows of the clay brick homes and ever extending chimneys of South London into a state of unidentifiable freedom. A mans ghost would lay out a good thirty yards on one of those days. As children we amused ourselves with self projections of strapping young giants left in the cold during the two or three hours of low lying meticulous sun one would receive during the winter months. All dreams are buried in the summer.

The western front was no place for us mere boys; I established that in a whole few hours of constant shellfire and horrible sights. The scent of death hung low in the breeze like the Putney sun those first few hours. Too many men would die for no cause, of this I was sure. We lived through the crests stitched high on our caps or helmets and the dreams of strapping giants. We were all casualties that day, we were all wounds, we all lived and died with the greatest of ease. We were strips of cloth on other men’s shoulders, or if they were lucky; the key holders to their graves.

My mother told me of the grief’s of home life, work and her women’s meetings. Her ambition overlooked her abilities, my father told me this. Her letters were comforting if nothing else. I replied with holistic dribble regarding the greater good and the comradery that remained strong amongst us Putney boys careful not to bring much attention from the censor. My mother was a good woman, full of grit, spite for oppressors and loving towards her children. She was my life, and all I could see for the odd hours of sleep I could scrape together during my time on the front line as well as the reserves. Sometimes days would pass where I wouldn’t think of her, but those days were sad days, they were fighting days. I was not a very good fighter, none of us were.

I grounded dirt between my fingers and watched the dust disappear through the calm familiar breeze that rose before the rains would return to turn that dust in to mud once more. The high brick chimneys and ever extending shadows now traded for low lying bunkers and closely pressed safeness of the revetment seemed so far away. In a war, every hundred yards is the Sahara, and ‘the channel’ seemed like the Atlantic. I sank low into my temporary stretcher; Simon lay beside me his breathing still not at ease from the previous day’s fighting. He opened his eyes gently and re-commenced expressing the fortitude of his grudge towards the scratching of my pen to desist during these rest periods.

Sleep came fast and without hindrance until I awoke to the furious rapping or tiny vermin as they gnawed away at my pack. Drearily arising I motioned towards the beasts and forced them to disperse throughout the bunker. Checking the time from my pocket watch, one of the few remaining items left from the day we embarked on this ‘voyage’. It was four fifteen. This was no time to be up and about, though I looked at my pack with an unusual dismay; something was missing. I crept as quickly as lazy aching bones could carry me before kneeling down to inspect the differing views of my once wholesome, mud less pack.

It was an instance of utter catastrophe that shook my languid bones to their very smallest cells. My cries of revulsion towards our vermin house guests echoed through the cold, clammy, mud packed walls and awoke several of my pals. I reached into the pack further as my worst nightmares were realised.

The rum was gone.

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this is a draft for the first section of a major work that will eventually be submitted next year so any critiques or anything will be gladly taken on board. Any assistance is a great help, sorry for any grammatical errors as this is only a draft and hasn't really been revised as of yet.

thanks guys.

tim x/.