Young Writers Society

It was a lovely day; the waves were playful, lapping up against the dock. It was windy and very chilly, but the atmosphere couldn’t have been happier. Fifty boys were walking up a ramp onto a steam ship. All innocent and happy but all nervous, none knew what to expect. Crowds were piled onto the dock, all wearing red, white and blue. It looked like the Union Jack, all jumbled up, with little heads poking out here and there. All the boys were waving and standing on the edge of the deck. I was one of them and I too was leaning against the railing, blowing kisses into the air.

A little red and white head was bobbing in the crowd. My sister, as always, was wearing her bobble hat. Her long brown hair was rippling in the wind, doing a little dance; her blue dress was joining in the ballet. She looked so beautiful, but vulnerable.

“Bye! Bye! My, big brother, love ya, loads ‘n’ loads.” Her shrill little voice was fought back by the bellowing wind, but still strong.

I remember reaching across the bars of the boat and grabbing her hand and smothering it with wet kisses.

“Right, Beth. Don’t smile too much when I’m gone cause I don’t want ya havin’ too much fun!” She grinned her toothy grin. “Look after mum, and I will miss ya loads!”

Her little brown head, at that moment, got lost in a sea of red and white. The ship below me rumbled and the boat backed away from the dock.

All I can remember after that is England fading into the distance. I had never been to a foreign country before – I didn’t know what to expect. I suppose I joined up for that. I was bored. All I had ever done in my life was sit on my arse in England, and I was desperate for an adventure.

I wander what she has gotten up to. God, she could be married now, with little kids. I would be their uncle. It’s weird that life is still going on beyond this war. I forgot about life at home, the simple complexity of it. People at home would still be going to work, still going to the grocers, still having kids. Or would they? Do they live in as much terror as us, in as cramped, awful conditions as us? Is the whole world in a coffin?

I tore my mind away from that thought. My sister should be fine; she’ll have Mum for company, and I’m sure she’ll support Mum too. Mum was the one who didn’t want me to fight; she was the only one in the world who didn’t. I’m not sure even she (who worries an unnecessary amount) could have predicted this.

10 minutes until the whistle.

I’m lucky I haven’t had any friends die. I’m one of the only ones. Yes, I have seen people die, of course. It’s like an every day thing now. But still it is hell. I always feel the same pain. Tomorrow it could be me. Today it could be me. In minutes it could be me.

Figures, they don’t mean anything. Yet, that is what it is all based on: the amount of deaths. If we have less die than the Boshe, then we won that round; if they have less die, then we’ve lost. There they are, the important chaps, smoking at a pipe, hundreds of thousands of miles away, in a different world to ours. It’s like a little game to them. It is a game…to them. We are the toys. I think back to my childhood. Toy soldiers, I played with toy soldiers. It’s wasn’t like this though; they were all smart and comfortable. The general was nice to them; it was always sunny, always warm. I think about now, the present: the respected people back at home. Why can’t they fight? We’re their childhood toys in real life. The thought sickens me. All this death! They haven’t a clue. All they know is figures. ‘300 died today’, ‘not too bad’. They don’t understand, if one person dies it’s a tragedy to me. It’s a tragedy because it’s war. War is two sides fighting for pointless things. War is where the innocent die; war is where people hate each other. War isn’t fun.

And they call it work; it’s the toys that are doing work! All we have is each other, and we don’t even have that. It could be in 10 minutes until I lose my mates, until I lose myself.

I watch wearily as a rat rushes in front of me, as if it wants to remind us it’s there. I can’t be arsed to even grimace. I wink at Blondie (who’s the best at catching rats – I suppose the only one who can be arsed) and he heaves himself up off the floor, with a look of exhaustion in his eyes. He slumps over to Rat Killer, the broom handle, and runs a hand through his blonde hair as he tries to locate the rat. I’ve never looked at him properly before: he looks older than I thought he did. The first time I saw him I was shocked to see how young he was, but now he looks older. You can see it at the very back of his eyes, like a shadow. Maybe I didn’t look him over properly when I first saw him; or maybe it’s him that’s changed.

I pull out a set of letters from my pocket; they are crumpled; they look ancient – they aren’t though. The writing on them is slightly slanted to the right, in black ink, beautifully written. It looks like all of someone’s heart is poured into every letter, every curl, every swirl. It probably is. There are three kisses on the end and the address is neatly tucked away in one corner. Every detail is just how my mother writes, but they’re not from my mum. My mum is too ill to write. They are from my sister. I feel tears sting the corners of my eyes.

It’s there again - the ticking in the back of my head. It’s as if my brain is counting down. I can’t help but think about it. 10 minutes until we go over.

10 minutes…more like 5 now.