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Description
Belonging Narrative
Jack Sinclair
I felt the thick mud coating my boots, my clothes, my face. I felt its binding energy drag me down, weigh me down, connect me to the earth. The sound of bombs exploding and thousands of bullets flying in unison rang in my ears like plethora of funeral bells. I heard the men of both sides yelling for support, screaming for help. The stench of rotting flesh and freshly used gunpowder burnt my nostrils as I hid from the massive, roaring machines that had recently come to the front. I did not belong here. No-one belonged to this wasteland on which so much blood had soaked.
I opened my eyes to see the light of day reveal mounds of churned up soil dot the landscape, some covered in bodies, some in barbed wire, most in both. I lay underneath one such mound, waiting for this day of hell-on-earth to end so that I could climb back to the safety of my trench, safe from the roaring machines and constant gunfire. But safe was a relative term when it came to war and the comfort of death was never far away.
A sudden sound close by sent an all too familiar jolt down my back flinging my reactions into overdrive. I dive out of my hiding place, raising my gun to the critical point, resting my weight on my knee. What I found at the end of my sights set my body as stone with shock. It was a soldier, dressed in a shredded uniform, covered in more blood than his torn body could hold, more mud than what was on the ground between us. I looked at the face of this wretch and realised what stunned me most.
He was young.
Younger than me, and I could barely be called a man. His face was contorted with pain and fear. My stomach welled not from pity, but from recognition. I knew the fear he felt was the fear one feels before they are taken away from the living, the pain he felt was that of his wounds and of his memories.
I dropped my killing mechanism which had fired its lethal shot too many times for counting this day. Too much bloodshed had taken place over the last few years. He was an enemy but a miserable one. I felt miserable. We understood each other.
I slowly approached the crippled form as he lay askew in the tangle of wire that bound him so. I removed my knife from my belt and began to gently cut away the tatters that may have once been his clothes. As I worked he whimpered in his native tongue. I understood little of it but the universal pleading tone in his voice made his 'thankyous' heard by my foreign ears. His groans of pain were evident. Some of the words I had heard before but never understood. 'Anzac' was one of his frequently used terms.
I laid him down in the mud, my knee supporting his head. I began to clean away the mud and blood that caked his face. The more I cleaned, the younger he looked. As I finished his face, he raised his hand to produce a bloodstained letter. He indicated for me to read it. It was in English but as part of the war some of us had learnt how to write in the enemy language. The letter was this:

Dear Mary

I won't make it back to Sydney I'm afraid. My body will rot on the top of this pile of wire like the rest of the poor sods caught like mice in the same way. I was caught during a raid. It was dark. Spotting the wire was impossible. I struggled but the more I moved, the more entangled I became and the more blood I drew. I cried for my friend, my commanders, even to the enemy to help me. No-one came.
Next morning the tanks rumbled into life from the pommies trench. I again cried for help but they just lumbered past, giving hell to the Germans. They had forgotten my existence. Both my hands remained partially free but lacked the energy I needed to escape so I took the pen and paper I promised you I would write back to you with each week and wrote this letter.

Sorry about this but I thought you deserved to know how your brother died.

Love from John

I looked at the wretch once I finished, the shock evident on my face. His eyes connected with mine before he looked towards his bleeding, broken hand which began to write his final sentence in the mud. I read it as life left his fragile body.

At least you knew of my existence.

Description
Belonging Narrative
Jack Sinclair
I felt the thick mud coating my boots, my clothes, my face. I felt its binding energy drag me down, weigh me down, connect me to the earth. The sound of bombs exploding and thousands of bullets flying in unison rang in my ears like plethora of funeral bells. I heard the men of both sides yelling for support, screaming for help. The stench of rotting flesh and freshly used gunpowder burnt my nostrils as I hid from the massive, roaring machines that had recently come to the front. I did not belong here. No-one belonged to this wasteland on which so much blood had soaked.
I opened my eyes to see the light of day reveal mounds of churned up soil dot the landscape, some covered in bodies, some in barbed wire, most in both. I lay underneath one such mound, waiting for this day of hell-on-earth to end so that I could climb back to the safety of my trench, safe from the roaring machines and constant gunfire. But safe was a relative term when it came to war and the comfort of death was never far away.
A sudden sound close by sent an all too familiar jolt down my back flinging my reactions into overdrive. I dive out of my hiding place, raising my gun to the critical point, resting my weight on my knee. What I found at the end of my sights set my body as stone with shock. It was a soldier, dressed in a shredded uniform, covered in more blood than his torn body could hold, more mud than what was on the ground between us. I looked at the face of this wretch and realised what stunned me most.
He was young.
Younger than me, and I could barely be called a man. His face was contorted with pain and fear. My stomach welled not from pity, but from recognition. I knew the fear he felt was the fear one feels before they are taken away from the living, the pain he felt was that of his wounds and of his memories.
I dropped my killing mechanism which had fired its lethal shot too many times for counting this day. Too much bloodshed had taken place over the last few years. He was an enemy but a miserable one. I felt miserable. We understood each other.
I slowly approached the crippled form as he lay askew in the tangle of wire that bound him so. I removed my knife from my belt and began to gently cut away the tatters that may have once been his clothes. As I worked he whimpered in his native tongue. I understood little of it but the universal pleading tone in his voice made his 'thankyous' heard by my foreign ears. His groans of pain were evident. Some of the words I had heard before but never understood. 'Anzac' was one of his frequently used terms.
I laid him down in the mud, my knee supporting his head. I began to clean away the mud and blood that caked his face. The more I cleaned, the younger he looked. As I finished his face, he raised his hand to produce a bloodstained letter. He indicated for me to read it. It was in English but as part of the war some of us had learnt how to write in the enemy language. The letter was this:

Dear Mary

I won't make it back to Sydney I'm afraid. My body will rot on the top of this pile of wire like the rest of the poor sods caught like mice in the same way. I was caught during a raid. It was dark. Spotting the wire was impossible. I struggled but the more I moved, the more entangled I became and the more blood I drew. I cried for my friend, my commanders, even to the enemy to help me. No-one came.
Next morning the tanks rumbled into life from the pommies trench. I again cried for help but they just lumbered past, giving hell to the Germans. They had forgotten my existence. Both my hands remained partially free but lacked the energy I needed to escape so I took the pen and paper I promised you I would write back to you with each week and wrote this letter.

Sorry about this but I thought you deserved to know how your brother died.

Love from John

I looked at the wretch once I finished, the shock evident on my face. His eyes connected with mine before he looked towards his bleeding, broken hand which began to write his final sentence in the mud. I read it as life left his fragile body.

At least you knew of my existence.