WW1
It was August 30th 1914. It was a pleasant Sunday, with the
luminous sun crawling its way through mine and my four siblings’
bedroom.
I helped Martha, Rose, Nancy and Catherine to do their hair.
We put on our best clothes and rushed to the church.
As we were walking Father stared weirdly at the Kitchener
poster where he pointed right at you and said “Your Country Needs
You!!” I knew already that Father was going to war. He was meant to
be working on the farm but the War Tribunal told him that he
needed to fight because he was fit and strong.
I didn’t want to listen to the vicar saying his encouraging words
about “King and Country” and “Dulce et decorum est pro patria
mori” – or, as he translated “it is sweet and right to die for your
country”. I didn’t even understand the English!
On our way back from the church we saw William. He was a
strange young man. He was arguing with another man. I heard him
shout:
“I am a conscientious objector! I’m not fighting in this silly
war!”
The other man told him:
“You should have a white feather………”
I didn’t hear the rest of their argument as Father dragged me
away.
“Father, what is a white feather?” I asked. I knew that a
conscientious objector was someone who didn’t believe in fighting
wars. William probably believed in peace instead.
“It means you’re a coward,” Father said coldly.
After Father said goodnight to me, I suddenly realised that I
didn’t want him to leave, at all.
The day arrived when he was leaving. I didn’t want him to go but
knew that I couldn’t change his mind. I couldn’t even say goodbye to
him.
Months went by. On the 5th December we had our third letter
from Father. It said:
“Hello Miriam and Children,
I have many wounds and am bleeding in many places. We
were stuck in a greenish fog and I coughed a lot. I am safe now. The
trenches are dreadful. They are wet, cold and dirty. We cannot lift
our heads up in case the enemy sees us.
The Somme is a disturbing place.
Love from Father.”
We waited weeks and weeks for another letter but it never
came. Then, one arrived, but it wasn’t a good one. As Mother read it
her sunny smile turned into a gloomy frown. She then burst into
tears. I tried to ask her what had happened but she couldn’t tell me. I
took the letter and read it again and again thinking I’d been
mistaken. I read it so many times that my eyes went funny. I felt like
someone had sneaked up behind me and stabbed me.
Father had died.
Tears trickled down my cheek. I stared out of my bedroom
window. The feeble sun set in the sombre sky as I whispered
“goodbye.”
Elen McAlinden, age 11.