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.