Icy Bullets by Harry Tennison
Fear. The air
stank of it. We were all lined like pigs for the slaughter, with fear itself
pouring out of every orifice. My hands trembled as I held the reigns of my horse.
His deep exhalations made steam in the cold air, adding to the haze which
limited my view to only a few feet.
Men in mud-soaked uniforms sat beside me. I know that men like me sat along our entire trench,
but I could only see the Frenchman to the left and my best friend, Thomas, to
my right. We exchanged glances and nodded to one another; it was our silent
acknowledgement that this may be the last time we saw one another.
I felt the
great muscles which were holding me up tense. The atmosphere was so cold. The
air was silent. There was not a single noise in the world right now apart from
the heart beating like a drum within my chest, bursting to be free. All of a
sudden, my horse began to stamp its hooves. And so did Thomas’. And then the
Frenchman to my left’s horse began to stamp too, until the air was filled with
the restless stamping of horses hooves.
A bugle
sounded. The air was full of the cries of battle. We were going to war. We rode
forward for what seemed like an
eternity. I kept having to wipe my eyes as the thick mud flying into them made
seeing even harder. It reminded me of when I was back at home, helping my father
to dig the land for crop planting. He’d launch a large mound of earth over his
shoulder and each time it managed to hit me square in my face. He’d always
protest it was accidental but the booming laughter would always give it away.
I thought of
sitting in our living room in our small quaint cottage, my feet warming against
the fire with an enormous piece of pork pie and my mind awash with thoughts
about the best way to ask Abigail Cotton to the dance on Saturday. I then thought
of the time I walked her home from Mrs Jones’ party and it started to hail.
Real hard hail that left a bruise the size of a potato and a thumping headache
the next morning. It was such a vivid dream that I could almost see it right in
front of me.
The hail was
falling towards me but somehow I managed to dodge the icy bullets. That night
people were sheltering in shop doorways, and under the trees which ran the
whole way through our whole village, but now there were no trees for anyone to
hide under, and so everyone must have disappeared. Gone away to hide from the
hail.
I turned
around, looking to see where they could have all gone when I fell to the floor.
A cry of pain came from beneath me. I could feel heavy panting. I brushed my
hand alongside my horse’s side, as I pulled out my rifle. “Better not ‘ta let
‘em suffer, eh?” I heard my old man’s voice, as if he was beside me. I pulled
the trigger.
I was alone
as the hail hit me. Once in my left leg, and twice in my shoulder. I sank to my
knees, somehow imagining that I would have slightly more than a bruise the size
of a potato and a thumping headache when I woke up.
