Hey, this was one of the stories I wrote for my English lessons. I thought you guys might like it- if not then keep it to yourself's! It took me three weeks to finish this to the standered my teachers want off me, "It's because I read loads of books- I should be good at writting short stories." (In a whinny voice) Goodness! I hate it when they pull that one out! X3
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My name is Private John Smith of the 5th Brigade, age nineteen, bedridden. I wasn’t always this dejected, once I was a young lad with the whole world before me and life in my bones. I was always an adventurous boy, even at the young age of five. My mother had constantly made sure I was in her sight, so that I wouldn’t trouble any of the old men or women for stories of another life-time. I had taken risks all the time even if the odds were stacked against me. As I grew older I found that I was exceptionally good at reciting and writing stories. But I had wanted more, more adventure, more life.
It’s 1942 and now I’m in a Field Hospital in the middle of France, with mournful people, dismayed and troubled faces of nurses and doctors. The suppressed moans of the wounded and the forsaken, mingle with the sound of life-machines and the clinking of metal instruments, which contribute to the constant, ghastly and frightful music of the hospital. Putrid bodies and sweat blend together to formulate the vile and unpleasant aroma of the infirmary which resembles the smells of ‘Hell’.
I haven’t been to Hell myself but hope, for all I’m worth, that the men who desire to slaughter innocent women and children get the worst torture known to man.
The vicious beeping of the life-machine beside my head abruptly starts to pull me from my thoughts. Doctors and nurses crowded roughly around my bed, with anxious, tired and distressed faces. I ask what the issue is, but no one answers. I start to get nervous; my arms are twitching by my sides. Two of the nurses hold down my arms, to stop them from taking out any of the tubes.
With my mind spinning with terrible outcomes, the nurses try to calm me down. However, I can’t hear them. My ears are ringing. My vision blurs and I’m dragged into my head. I feel nothing now. Only one idea passes through my mind: My soul is slowly disappearing, I will be no more… but I feel distraught. I’m not ready to die, my life is before me!
Without warning I’m yanked out of that state of mind. My arms and legs feel numb. A nurse and doctor are standing at the foot of my cot. The doctor is consulting a clip board and neither detects me watching. So I took in my surroundings. The cot was uncomfortable and the blanket scratchy. There is a dark blue curtain around my cot, for reasons unknown to me. The doctor is wearing a white coat which has multiple stains on it, his hair is greasy and his face looks haggard. The nurse looks young and helpless; her nurses’ uniform is worn out and too big for her. The nurse looks up and smiled vibrantly at me. She whispers something to the doctor, he glances up and stares. As if I’d just got up and did a somersault. He sets down the clip board and walks towards the side of my bed; he lays a hand on top of my head and laughs. The nurse’s smile turns into a grin, and she tells me that I’ve been in a coma for two months. The doctor shakes my hand and tells me that I am a strong young lad. I smile back at them in wonder. Two months? It seems too lengthy of a time to sleep so long. Even if it was true it feels like it’s been only a minute or two. The doctor tells the nurse to stay with me for the night just to make sure I don’t fall into another coma from the shock.
Dinner was a bowl of chicken soup, the bowl was slightly cracked and it was the lightest shade of yellow. The nurse is Miss Harriet Davies; she is 21 years old, petite and has long auburn coloured hair. She is quite remarkable. We conversed about loads of subjects: From family to literature throughout the day. I made her laugh and smirk with delight as I told her about my life and how I used to pester the seniors for stories. She advised me that I should become a play writer or an author when I get back to England. Smiling I nodded at her comment. That night she pulled the chair up close to my bed. My last remark was on how sore my back was from the mattress.
My name is Private John Smith of the 5th Brigade, age nineteen. I died on the 23rd of September 1942. My Life was short but lively, and I have left my story for you to read. My last breath was used to note the dire accommodations we live in.
