War Story- Personal Narrative

War Story- Personal Narrative

Finally we got a well deserved break from what seemed like our endless

marching. As we stopped pain shot up my left leg like a bullet. I

looked automatically to my right. Nobody was there. My best friend

Simon would usually stand there, as he had in the war before, I could

imagine the grin on his face. The images of all those years ago

started to play in my mind…

It began when we were assembled in the safety of the trench. Then we

heard those dreaded words that can make a man throw up with fear for

his life.

“Go! Over the top men, go!”

I froze, not breathing, not even blinking I was paralysed, standing

there motionless, my legs as solid as metal prison bars. I was shaken

back to consciousness by Simon saying in a remarkably normal voice for

he was one of those unique people that just dealt with life as it

came.

“Come on mate.”

We scrambled up the trench ladder and began to run as fast as we could

to our destiny. All I could think about was my family. Mum and Dad

settling down in their armchairs with a mug of hot cocoa, chatting

about what a nice day it had been. Simon and I were one of the first

to leave the trench behind; we had almost made it to our target, when

suddenly, just as I thought we were going to be okay, I fell. Someone

or something had grabbed my lower leg; down I went like an

insignificant pin in a bowling alley and got a face full of mud. I

looked back expecting to see the other troops but I did not I will

never forget the sight I saw. My stomach churned I had to look away to

stop myself throwing up. Barbed wire had stabbed my leg I tried to

free m...

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leaning on each other, smoking, fiddling with their rifles or their

sweaty leather boots. I could see the horror in their eyes. They

seemed extremely nervous. I could smell the sweat of the khakied

bodies. Once again, my mind flashed back to 1915…

The other soldiers with horror in their eyes, their battered and

broken bodies. The man (men) who had lost his sight, the one whose

face was covered in ‘gas’ boils, the missing limbs and ears, my bad

leg seemed nothing in comparison. I felt sick.

Suddenly the clock on the church tower struck, followed shortly by the

shout of the sergeant. We all lined up and started to march off. My

leg began to ache and pain after ever stamp of my boot. The drumming

of the soldier’s march eventually drowned out the sound of the

children playing as we strode into the distance.