Holme Again

20

There weren't many people on the train to London. We were all in one carriage. Three adults too old to fight, and six of us heading to the battlefields. No-one spoke for the first few hours, then there was a small exchange at lunchtime, but only trifling smalltalk. I remained silent, all the way to our destination.

In London, those of us going to war had to change trains. This one was packed to the brim and smelly. Smelly with fear and sweat. To me, the others looked so young. I myself almost couldn't believe I was already sixteen. On this train, there was a cacophony of sound. By five o'clock though, most people had settled down, and some were starting to yawn.

We arrived in France in the middle of the night, and either had to board yet another train, or be driven off in trucks. I was stuck on another train. This one had arrived at a tiny station in the middle of nowhere when I was ordered off. It was my turn to be bundled into a truck, coated in mud. By the time we arrived at the barracks, it was almost five in the morning, and no-one could keep their eyes open properly. I was only just shown my sleeping spot when I collapsed from exhaustion.

I woke in a different position, with a rough straw and canvas sack under my head; a pillow, I presumed. Briefly, I wondered who had put it there, but then a loud bell was rung, and we all hastened to our feet.

Breakfast was sloppy porridge, then we had to stand in a line, waiting to be given guns. Some people were sent to the machine guns.

By the afternoon, it was raining. Some sort of tinned meat was handed to us for lunch, along with some stale bread and a small apple. I was stationed along the trench, holding a rifle, soaked to the bone.