Writing

My Story

The year is 1916. I’m in platoon Ciara.

A war has sprung to life and the British have penetrated a spot where we could win this war. Little did we know they were waiting for us.

‘Tiger tanks flanking us from left and right!’ bellows our commander.

An explosion hits our trench and sends dirt hurtling to the ground. A bullet penetrates my rifle, and splinters dig into my flesh. The bullet drops and hits my comrade in the chest. Not far from me I see a Sherman tank in a blazing fire ball. The fire is rising and shouts echo through the crumbling wreak.

Without thinking I race through the hatch and see a motionless driver. It looks like they took the hit there. My flesh is starting to burn and every second is a precious piece of time. I grab the shouting man, and haul him through the wreck. We stumble onto the top of the tank, but it explodes. We hurtle through the air.

I feel a stab of excruciating pain in the right side of my chest as I land on the ground and roll violently across the dirt. I put my hand up to my chest and am horrified by the bloody hand I pull back. I realise I am the only one alive from my platoon but I am losing blood fast. I hide in a small hole but am eventually found.

By RO