Categories > Original > Drama
And the journey begins...
4 reviewsThis is a story that i have written to use in my HSC... it is about the true horrors that war can bring and just how fast it can change many lives... the old lie in the words if wilfred owen "Dulce...
1Ambiance
An eighteen year old father-to-be Ryan Douglas. They said he had enough smarts to be a doctor. It would be a shame for his life to end like this. So sudden. Before he has a chance to really live. Never before had his soft un-calloused hands touched something so impure. He had never shot a gun before in his life. He was scared. The only thing that gets him through the long tough nights is a picture of his wife. Tears sear like acid as his worst fears become a reality. It was highly likely that he was never going to be able to see his unborn child. He pushes these thoughts out of his head. As the vivid feelings of wanting to survive replace these of helplessness. He looks once more at the picture that he treasures. This gives him the determination to survive.
BANG! The gun shot’s loud ear piercing scream rings in his ears. The dummy fell to the ground with a gunshot wound to the head. Hands trembling. Gun raised. It was his turn. This was training, how was he meant to survive in the real war? Every time he thought of death, his wife’s voice echoed in his mind. Saying the words they departed on “Don’t try and be a hero, play it safe and return to me.” The shaking subsided. His aim steadied. BANG! He did it. His innocence gone. Just like that. Once again just like the men’s before him, his target dummy fell to the ground. He had just potentially shot someone. He could have taken someone’s life in a matter of seconds, maybe even another 18 year old father-to-be. It scared him that he was such a good aim. He started shaking again. He felt like his heart had stopped. This was a feeling he would have to get used to. It wasn’t going away anytime soon.
The next day they would be shipped off to Germany. He would be out of the country for the first time in his life. He pictured it being different like this. This was the last chance to back out. To go home. To become the doctor that everyone wanted him to be. Even though he didn’t have desire to be a doctor. Anything was better then this. To see his son being born. But he knows that he signed up for a reason. He isn’t sure exactly what that reason is but he knows there is one. He isn’t going to quit. He must finish what he has started.
One after one the young men boarded the ship without a word to each other. Down a dark passage. Strangely he didn’t feel heroic. He felt somewhat stupid. But that is exactly what the papers labeled them. Heroic. Headlines on all the papers read “Heroic soldiers depart for Germany.” What was so heroic about killing men for land? He refused to believe he was heroic. Or patriotic. Dying for your country? What is so patriotic about thousands upon thousands of men being murdered? He was becoming a cold-blooded murderer. The thought made him sick.
The trip was long and strenuous. He was huddled into a small, dark, torrid room. Brushing shoulders with other young men as they near an untimely death. He heard weeping in the night. You would have to be mad to want to be doing this. They were made to enlist. It was this or gaol. Aren’t they one in the same? It is those that are in gaol that he felt should be punished like this. Not Australia’s bright future. Why not send the people that have already ruined their own lives? Why ruin HIS?
He was glad to step into the open. The cool breeze brushed against his smooth, fair skin. He could feel the sweat evaporate. He looked around at the men who are just like him, young, with lost innocent. It has just hit them now. The countdown begins. It is only a matter of time until my last breath. He knew it.
As they all assemble into the cars to take them to base where they will continue training, his heart starts racing. The sweating starts again. He has a bad feeling. It is so hard to stay somewhat positive in such a negative situation. He tries. For Magdalena. For the baby. But all the trying in the world cannot change such a privative situation. He tries to keep to myself. Tries not to make friends. This way maybe he can stop himself from experiencing anymore heartache then he needs to.
As the ice cold water runs over his body he thinks about her. He loves her. Has he told her that enough? Does she doubt his love for her? He wants more than anything to hold her right now. To have her softly scented, gentle, smooth skin against his would be heaven. The closest thing he has is a photo. And it is hardly the same. As the rough towel dries his moist skin it brings him back to the harsh reality of where he is, and what is about to happen.
As he wakes with sleep in his eyes, realization falls upon him. Today training starts. And tomorrow they will fight. Twenty-four hours of guaranteed oxygen in his lungs. He made a deal with the devil. His life is out of his hands. He always said that he had no regrets. Until now.
Training was physically draining. He found it hard to keep up with the others. Jumping. Ducking. Crawling. He didn’t like this at all, but he knew that he would have to be optimistic. Tomorrow they fight, was he ready? No, he wasn’t but war doesn’t stop for anyone. Training ended and he would head back to base with the other soldiers. They would shower. Have something to eat. And have their last solid night sleep. As solid as a night can be when one is thinking about fighting the very next day.
Today was the beginning of the end. This was it, no backing down now. With the picture in his breast pocket and fear in his heart, he advanced to the front line. Luckily, if you can call it luck, he was in the third row of men to go over. It was the fifth day of our men fighting. A grand total of fourteen people have come back out of hundreds. As they neared the front line they faintly heard screaming of lives being lost through the rapid gun fire coming from both ours and the enemy lines. The mud was horrid, thick, disease filled pools of scattered bodies. It made him sick to his stomach. Was this how he was going to die? There would be no funeral for him. There will be no remembrance. As he tries to remember everything that he was taught in training on basic survival, more bullets pierced through the skin of other inexperienced soldiers.
The first line has just mounted the trench partition and headed to certain death. Guns drawn ready to fire. He cannot see the people, he can only hear the bloodcurdling cries and silent prayers of the fallen. And would this soon be him? The second line was awaiting the sound of a whistle so they can head over the top and confront the shower of bullets being propelled their way by the enemy. Only one man came back from the first line. Injured, bleeding, he needed immediate medical attention, attention that wasn’t available at the front line. He would need to endure the horrific, painful, deadly journey two kilometers back to base. If he survived that, he might just stand a chance to fight again.
The whistle blows. Heads emerge from the safety of the trench. Instantly they are bombarded with enemy slugs. His hands sweat and his heart races. He looks at the picture one more time as hears the voice of one fellow soldier screaming for his mother. He was only a boy, just like him. They line up, shoulders touching. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Now he was awaiting the perilous whistle blow. Tears come to his eyes. The whistle rings in his ears. He was one of the last to go over.
Bodies everywhere. He could barely move. The soldier on his left, who he felt closer to than anyone else since he had been the only person that he shared a terrified glance with as they lined up, dropped to the ground, blood flowed from his veins on to the unforgiving soil. Ryan squeezed the trigger, and felt the power of the machine in his hands. Then he felt it, a bullet pierced through his chest, and he dropped like the dummy had in training. Blood spilling from his chest and mouth. Struggling to breathe he lay there, amongst the bodies. His worst fear had become a reality. Now the soldiers in the trench would be hearing his silent prayers, as he becomes one of the fallen.
At 10:29 on the 1st of October the last breath left his lungs. At this same time back home, a baby, Adam Ryan Douglas, took his first breath. Filled his lungs with oxygen for the first time. Magdalena had a smile on her face, but for how much longer? Soon the letter will be posted telling her she should be proud, he died an honorable death, a heroic death. Try telling that to Ryan as he lay on the ground. Unidentifiable. Alone.
BANG! The gun shot’s loud ear piercing scream rings in his ears. The dummy fell to the ground with a gunshot wound to the head. Hands trembling. Gun raised. It was his turn. This was training, how was he meant to survive in the real war? Every time he thought of death, his wife’s voice echoed in his mind. Saying the words they departed on “Don’t try and be a hero, play it safe and return to me.” The shaking subsided. His aim steadied. BANG! He did it. His innocence gone. Just like that. Once again just like the men’s before him, his target dummy fell to the ground. He had just potentially shot someone. He could have taken someone’s life in a matter of seconds, maybe even another 18 year old father-to-be. It scared him that he was such a good aim. He started shaking again. He felt like his heart had stopped. This was a feeling he would have to get used to. It wasn’t going away anytime soon.
The next day they would be shipped off to Germany. He would be out of the country for the first time in his life. He pictured it being different like this. This was the last chance to back out. To go home. To become the doctor that everyone wanted him to be. Even though he didn’t have desire to be a doctor. Anything was better then this. To see his son being born. But he knows that he signed up for a reason. He isn’t sure exactly what that reason is but he knows there is one. He isn’t going to quit. He must finish what he has started.
One after one the young men boarded the ship without a word to each other. Down a dark passage. Strangely he didn’t feel heroic. He felt somewhat stupid. But that is exactly what the papers labeled them. Heroic. Headlines on all the papers read “Heroic soldiers depart for Germany.” What was so heroic about killing men for land? He refused to believe he was heroic. Or patriotic. Dying for your country? What is so patriotic about thousands upon thousands of men being murdered? He was becoming a cold-blooded murderer. The thought made him sick.
The trip was long and strenuous. He was huddled into a small, dark, torrid room. Brushing shoulders with other young men as they near an untimely death. He heard weeping in the night. You would have to be mad to want to be doing this. They were made to enlist. It was this or gaol. Aren’t they one in the same? It is those that are in gaol that he felt should be punished like this. Not Australia’s bright future. Why not send the people that have already ruined their own lives? Why ruin HIS?
He was glad to step into the open. The cool breeze brushed against his smooth, fair skin. He could feel the sweat evaporate. He looked around at the men who are just like him, young, with lost innocent. It has just hit them now. The countdown begins. It is only a matter of time until my last breath. He knew it.
As they all assemble into the cars to take them to base where they will continue training, his heart starts racing. The sweating starts again. He has a bad feeling. It is so hard to stay somewhat positive in such a negative situation. He tries. For Magdalena. For the baby. But all the trying in the world cannot change such a privative situation. He tries to keep to myself. Tries not to make friends. This way maybe he can stop himself from experiencing anymore heartache then he needs to.
As the ice cold water runs over his body he thinks about her. He loves her. Has he told her that enough? Does she doubt his love for her? He wants more than anything to hold her right now. To have her softly scented, gentle, smooth skin against his would be heaven. The closest thing he has is a photo. And it is hardly the same. As the rough towel dries his moist skin it brings him back to the harsh reality of where he is, and what is about to happen.
As he wakes with sleep in his eyes, realization falls upon him. Today training starts. And tomorrow they will fight. Twenty-four hours of guaranteed oxygen in his lungs. He made a deal with the devil. His life is out of his hands. He always said that he had no regrets. Until now.
Training was physically draining. He found it hard to keep up with the others. Jumping. Ducking. Crawling. He didn’t like this at all, but he knew that he would have to be optimistic. Tomorrow they fight, was he ready? No, he wasn’t but war doesn’t stop for anyone. Training ended and he would head back to base with the other soldiers. They would shower. Have something to eat. And have their last solid night sleep. As solid as a night can be when one is thinking about fighting the very next day.
Today was the beginning of the end. This was it, no backing down now. With the picture in his breast pocket and fear in his heart, he advanced to the front line. Luckily, if you can call it luck, he was in the third row of men to go over. It was the fifth day of our men fighting. A grand total of fourteen people have come back out of hundreds. As they neared the front line they faintly heard screaming of lives being lost through the rapid gun fire coming from both ours and the enemy lines. The mud was horrid, thick, disease filled pools of scattered bodies. It made him sick to his stomach. Was this how he was going to die? There would be no funeral for him. There will be no remembrance. As he tries to remember everything that he was taught in training on basic survival, more bullets pierced through the skin of other inexperienced soldiers.
The first line has just mounted the trench partition and headed to certain death. Guns drawn ready to fire. He cannot see the people, he can only hear the bloodcurdling cries and silent prayers of the fallen. And would this soon be him? The second line was awaiting the sound of a whistle so they can head over the top and confront the shower of bullets being propelled their way by the enemy. Only one man came back from the first line. Injured, bleeding, he needed immediate medical attention, attention that wasn’t available at the front line. He would need to endure the horrific, painful, deadly journey two kilometers back to base. If he survived that, he might just stand a chance to fight again.
The whistle blows. Heads emerge from the safety of the trench. Instantly they are bombarded with enemy slugs. His hands sweat and his heart races. He looks at the picture one more time as hears the voice of one fellow soldier screaming for his mother. He was only a boy, just like him. They line up, shoulders touching. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. Now he was awaiting the perilous whistle blow. Tears come to his eyes. The whistle rings in his ears. He was one of the last to go over.
Bodies everywhere. He could barely move. The soldier on his left, who he felt closer to than anyone else since he had been the only person that he shared a terrified glance with as they lined up, dropped to the ground, blood flowed from his veins on to the unforgiving soil. Ryan squeezed the trigger, and felt the power of the machine in his hands. Then he felt it, a bullet pierced through his chest, and he dropped like the dummy had in training. Blood spilling from his chest and mouth. Struggling to breathe he lay there, amongst the bodies. His worst fear had become a reality. Now the soldiers in the trench would be hearing his silent prayers, as he becomes one of the fallen.
At 10:29 on the 1st of October the last breath left his lungs. At this same time back home, a baby, Adam Ryan Douglas, took his first breath. Filled his lungs with oxygen for the first time. Magdalena had a smile on her face, but for how much longer? Soon the letter will be posted telling her she should be proud, he died an honorable death, a heroic death. Try telling that to Ryan as he lay on the ground. Unidentifiable. Alone.
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