Young Writers Society

I can’t see the leather of my boots anymore. They are made of mud. Not one scrap of leather can be seen, just mud; the mud that has become the boot. In fact it’s not just my boots: my whole outfit favours this murky, brown colour instead of that crisp khaki-brown I arrived here in. I suppose (however tasteless) it camouflages me against this hell pit. Well, after all this hell pit is constructed out of the same thing.

Our dugout – well, I suppose it is exactly how you expect a dugout to look; like a coffin. We have added a few homely touches though: a couple of candles, a few chairs, a worn out rug, but how could we ever make this place homely? Instead of burning brightly, all the candles manage is a little flicker – as if they are shy. Instead of being soft to the feet, the rug is like sandpaper – as if war has made it tough. Instead of being something to relax on after a hard day, the chairs simply collapse under your weight – it’s all too much for them.

My eyes are resting on the sodden mud floor, and the ends of my fingers are tapping on the empty mug that my hands are clasping. I always sit like this, in exactly the same position, wherever I am: knees drawn up to my chest, bottom on the floor (no chairs, see) and an empty mug in my hand. I don’t know why I do it, hold an empty mug. It’s sort of reassuring. I suppose I need reassurance.

Opposite me is the new Blondie: Jim. As usual he is prancing around telling us we should be braver, be happier. What does he know? It’s his first day today and he hasn’t even dreamt of the horrors to which we have seen. I catch a few words here and there of his latest rant.

“Ya see…ya all miserable…brave…I’m brave…I am….sergeant…I bet…”

I can’t be arsed to listen to the rest of his useless words. I just amuse myself by watching his eccentric hand movement…

But immediately my attention is lost. Billy is sitting over there, in the corner of our dugout. His black mop of hair sits on his head like a wig, resting rather than connecting. It covers his eyes so his face is always in shadow, really spooky. I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, you know, 'cause he doesn’t speak much. Well, who can blame him? I think none of us feel like speaking (apart from Blondie of course.) But at the moment he is speaking. I catch the last few words.

“Jim,” he says in a hoarse voice. “Jim!” He leans forward on one elbow, menacing now, “Shut up.” The words come out like a whisper but they are as commanding as a shout.

A huge cheer erupts from the man next to him and (of course) me, myself. Blondie’s face goes white and he immediately sinks onto the floor.

Our cheers erupt into the cold, black night. As little as a couple of hundred yards away are the Bosh, they are probably doing the same as us: a few ciggies, a few laughs, and waiting. Waiting for the whistle, the whistle.

Twenty minutes to go now.

The cheer has turned into talk again. It was a short burst of happiness to take our minds off this long wait, until the whistle blows. It’s a hard job to be happy when you are waiting. But we have to somehow pass the minutes, the hours, the days, the months, the years – without regretting them. I don’t even know exactly how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t exist, it doesn’t really matter. Hours merge into months, seconds merge into hours. It’s all like one big blur of waiting.

At the moment my three friends are crouched in front of me – Blondie, Billy and Ace. They are playing cards, and Ace is winning. I came up with it, Ace. He’s Ace at cards because he always gets the Aces! It made me smile anyway, and then the name, it sort of stuck. I met him on the boat on the way here … oh, the fun we had. He got so sea sick he threw all over our lieutenant. How I laughed! Though it wasn’t so funny for him; he had to do extra guard duty.

On his right is Blondie. It’s weird that however much he talks I don’t know nothing about him. I should ask him one day about his family.

And then there’s Billy, though it’s not like he ever speaks; he’s sure got character. Right now, he’s peering over Blondie’s shoulder and mouthing all the cards to Ace. No wonder Ace is winning! Billy’s doing it for fags I expect. I would have said he smokes too much, but now does it matter?

Our trenches are in ‘Jerry Meadows’. It’s called that cause this was land that the Jerries had not that long ago, but we won it back. There is a little village a couple of miles away from here where me, Billy, Ace and Fag stayed when we first arrived. We met some people there, they told us about ‘Jerry meadows’, they told us of their grandchildren playing there and about the farmers farming there. I remember Fag got really upset. He had visited the fields before the war and I suppose he missed their old ways; he smoked even more fags then than usual. Gone now…poor Fag. Stubbed out.

Only now do I know why Fag got upset. We live where the villagers used to play and the farmers used to farm. We have ruined on all those memories, crushed them under our feet and killed them with our fierce guns. Yes, now I know why Fag was upset.

I should have worked it out way before; after all, my sister was just like Fag. Thinking outside the box, seeing things nobody else could see. Yeah, my sister would have worked that out… I haven’t seen her for God knows how long…years. I remember that crisp, winter day as fresh as ever…