The bullets had rained down like a giant swarming cloud of wasps, grazing my skin and cascading of our metal hard-hats as we ran through the slush of mud and heavy rain fall of the night before. Mud sloshed over me from head to toe with every movement, I could feel my uniform clinging to my weary body.
As we ran, I could hear Turkish voices coming from close behind us, their voices were muffled but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that they were angry. At a nearby bullet shot, Peter stumbled and I saw that crimson fluid was seeping through the cloth of the camouflage pattern uniform.
The bullet fire had ceased: for now.“I guess the Turks don’t want to waste bullets on us.” I thought quietly, I sincerely hoped that this was true. I reached over to Peter draped his arm around my neck, supporting half his weight; I started walking through a maze of trees although the cover was thin it would be better than out on the open plains; the main battle was taking place back there.
I stopped, panting as I peered through the trees to see over a bank that steeply sloped into a swamp amuck with reeds and willow trees hanging over the banks edge; the Willow’s leaves splaying out in the water. I sped up and getting through the thick of the trees, put Peter down. I risked a glance sideways at him, I could only see his dark silhouette of a hunched shape; his chest was shaking as he drew one after another rasping breath. He certainly was not well.
“Do you think we got away Cam? I swear those Turks never give up.” Peter asked in a low ragged whisper. I gave another fleeting look at Peter and held a finger up to my mouth: we needed to be silent.
My heart fluttered at every crack of a twig or chirp of the owls in the trees up ahead. Then a Turkish voice caught my attention. “They’re over there!” The man raised a rifle and sighted his target. Bang! A gunshot echoed through the air; I jumped at the suddenness of it.
Oh no.“Peter?”
My throat was dry and scratchy and I feared if I tried to talk nothing would come out, so, instead of doing the noble thing and picking up my friends body I just up and ran. The tears I had been holding back were flying into my face as I dodged bullets and only concentrated on reaching my sanctuary. The trees.
An ocean of crosses stood black against the pale dawn. The sun was just starting to creep around the edges of night lightening the massive granite angels that frowned upon the wooden stakes in the ground making them looks pathetic and not worthy of marking the death of one’s body.
He swallowed, my Adams apple bobbing up and down with the choking sensation at the back of my throat, my shoulder were rounded as if carrying a heavy burden.
I smiled feebly at my wife; she had tracks of mascara where she had been crying.
“Now, now Margaret. Your brother wouldn’t want to see you so upset.” I said.
“Aye, well you're one to talk. You were as much his friend as he was my brother,” Margaret said grasping my hand that had been growing cold in the chilly sunless morning. “I know your upset Cameron but you’ve gotta’ believe you did all you could for him.” She gave my hand a reassuring squeeze.
I stood back and listened to the distant sobs of people crying and religious folks saying prayers at the so-called graves of their loved ones, now lost to the fruitless cause that is war.
“Mummy, I want ta go play ANZAC’s with Henry and the others, can I go?” Margaret looked down at her son.
“Yes Peter dear, but be careful! You know how the older boys get carried away.”
“Yes mummy!” Peter yelled already scampering up a small hill where some other boys were mimicking rifle shots and being shot with imaginary bullets.
“I’m not sure what to think of that game.” I said still staring up to the hill.
“Yes well, they admire their father and Uncle Peter,” Margaret said. “They want to grow up just like you two.”
“Well let’s just hope it’s not the latter then, shall we” I pulled a bunch of crimson flowers from a nearby garden and placed them in the vase next to the wooden cross that read: “Peter William Denston beloved friend, brother and soldier who died for his country in the Great War R.I.P”
“Rest in peace, Peter” I said as the sun rose above the hills and shone down on the crowded graveyard that seemed to be aglow with the red of the poppies sprouting from the ground.
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