The First Conscript

He looked at his feet, he could hardly see them in the dark. He fidgeted a bit, and the same thoughts kept going round inside of his head. He looked ahead wondering what it would be like when the day began. He began going over again the steps in his journey that had bought him to this point. At every step on the way he had wanted to walk away, but to protest, and to actually do it at the beginning, the recriminations, what would they have been. He dozed off.

Something woke him up. He wasn't sure what it was. He had dreamt about guns. He started thinking about the first time he had used a firearm. The twenty two was a necessity on the farm. It was used to control the increasing presence of rabbits. With his dog, this was his favourite activity after school. At sixpence a skin it provided good pocket money. He looked over to his left where his .303 rifle lay against the bank. He had never had to kill anybody before. He did not want to start now. Maybe this is the time to take action. He looked to the left and the right, saw men dressed the same as him, in the same position as himself and he wondered what was going through their minds. He looked back. Nowhere to go really. He had heard of people being shot doing just that.

He felt, rather than saw, people starting to stir around him. He had dosed off again. Breakfast was served, his uniform was tidied and adjusted and he stood silently with the same question, returning, going round in his mind. It was not long before the order came. The tiredness lifted, the adrenalin took over. He carefully checked his rifle again, it was in good working order. He loaded and he slowly and deliberately climbed out of the trench with everybody else.

He ran, then crawled forward, kneeled to get a better view, Crack! a direct hit and he was dead. He had been in action five minutes, and did not even fire a shot.

Should he have walked away.  

Grant Ward