I wrote this some three or four years ago, when I first started writing, in response to a First World War poem that was posted.



A Life



He is crying.

Pain and fear an uncontainable mix.

Just yards from our trench, one of the many unable to make it back to safety.

Knee deep in viscous mud, unable to sit or rest, exhausted, we listen.

Sobs, unintelligible gasps, and he is drowning.

Sarge?

Wait until the guns have finished.

Wait.

Smiffy looks at me, I nod, and he is gone.

Over the top and I follow.

Crawling, squirming through the mud, belly down and so scared.

A shell explodes covering us in mud and I am deaf.

Smiffy is screaming at me with a silent mouth.

Pulling at me, dragging me and we slide into Hade's pit.

Panic has him, deep in filthy water, with no time left.

His face falling to the bloody slime.

I have him, left hand locked in his hair, his face clear of the water.

Smiffy is pulling his legs free of the ever gripping, sucking , killing mud.

And the shells are coming.

We have to go.

Now.

I can hear Smiffy screaming at me.

I can hear the explosions.

I can hear and I prefer the deafness.

A fistful of his jacket each, we drag him out of the shell hole.

Strength born of terror.

Over the edge and a flailing fall into the trench.

We have him.

Smiffy is being sick.

I cannot move, my heart battering my ribs.

I have wet myself.

The boy, and that is all he is, is pulling mud from his eyes.

Pain wracked, he holds Smiffy.

And says, Danke.