2nd prize: My War by Poppy Webb aged 15

8th November, 1920

I CAN’T forget it, however much they think I can. How can I forget the constant chatter of the machine guns and the shrieks of the shells? Or the cries and pleas of fallen men and the boom of exploding bombs? Every day I wake and think I am back in the trenches, the Boche on our doorstep, their guns our alarm clocks, death our adrenaline. My heart is pounding and my ears are ringing. The dugout is trembling and men are wailing...

Then mother will come, asking if I would like a cup of tea. A cup of tea. Something so trivial and yet mother thinks it’s a God-send. Then again, she doesn’t know the hell I endured. How could she when she was safe and sound in England, knitting socks for us poor soldiers at the front? I wish to God there was someone I could talk to. Someone who knew what I’ve been through. But there’s no one.

Not now, anyway.

My oldest and dearest friend was shot for cowardice, just two weeks before the end of the bloodiest conflict in human history. I almost laugh when I think of it; shot, ‘Shot for cowardice’. My friend Tom, the boy who climbed up St Mary’s church in the dead of night with his eyes shut just to prove to me that he could. A boy who would take on any dare, back-chat any person, swear at any who angered him. He was never a coward, and anyone who says otherwise is lying. No, he was being sensible. Captain Smethers had sent us on suicide mission and I was shaking with fear, I’m not too proud to admit.

“Captain,” Tom begins, seeing my trembling wreck huddled in the corner of the dug-out trembling like a cornered rabbit, gun rattling in my hands. “There’s no way we can survive that. No way on Earth. If we go, we’re as good as signing our own death warrants.” Smethers moustache begins to twitch, as it always does when he’s in disbelief. A gun booms over head and I whimper, patting my latest letter from mother anxiously. But no one is paying me any attention now, everyone is looking at Tom and Smethers.

“W-what?” Smethers finally recovers himself.

“I’m not going Captain and neither is Will, you can see how scared he is.” All eyes turn to me, but only briefly. Captain Smethers takes a step towards Tom.

“Are you defying a direct order, Private Jones?”

“Yes, Sir, I am.”

And just like that, Tom really had signed his own death warrant. I only saw him once more, when he was in prison. That memory, just like all my ‘War memories’ I can remember just as clearly as if it happened yesterday, not two years ago.

The guard unlocks the cell with a loud clang and I jump five foot in the air. I shuffle in and the guard locks the door again. Tom is huddled in the corner of his cell facing away.

“Tom?” My voice is high pitched and I hate myself for feeling nervous. This is Tom, a boy I have known my entire life. We started school together, learnt to ride bikes together, even signed up together, though we were a year too young. But despite all of this I am scared. Scared that he’ll say it’s all my fault he’s going to die. Scared he’ll forgive me entirely and I’ll cry and cry knowing that these will be our last few moments together.

Very slowly, Tom turns around. I am shocked to see no expression on his face, no anger, no fear, no hate, nothing. It’s almost as if he’s a painting that hasn’t had emotions painted onto his face.

“’Lo Will.” Tom croaks. I take a step towards him and everything I have so carefully planned to say is suddenly a weight on my tongue that I can’t swallow. I open my mouth to speak but the only sound that emerges is a sob.

“I know, Will.” Tom says gently. “It’s not your fault though. It’s his.” I wonder if Tom is talking about the Captain or God.

“But if I hadn’t been scared then - ”

“Then there’s something wrong with you. Seriously Will, who isn’t afraid of the Boche? They’re ruthless and bloodthirsty...” He shakes his head. “Besides, you can’t blame yourself for being afraid of something that could kill you.” I nod and my eyes mist.

“Aren’t you afraid though? Of death I mean?” I ask. A small smile plays on Will’s lips.

“I’m bloody terrified.”

I try to laugh but it sounds wrong in the cramped gloomy cell. I suddenly lurch forward and hug Tom before I can change my mind. For a second, Tom does nothing, then he wraps his arms around me.

“Thanks for your friendship.” He whispers. “I’ll never forget you.” I promise.

Then I walk out of the cell, not daring to look back.

9th November 1920

Perhaps I started my diary wrong yesterday. But I assure you; it is not my fault. It was like the pen had taken control and I couldn’t call it back. All my pent up emotions that I have stifled for perhaps too long spilled out from me like a tsunami.

Now I shall start my diary properly.

My name is William David Johnson and I was born on the 18th March 1901 to Joe and Daisy. I was the second youngest of eight children, the youngest of five boys. Three of my brothers; Joey, Frank and Harry died in the Great War. My other brother, Robert, is still missing. Ethel, my oldest sister was married last year to the local butcher and she works at the Big House. My two other sisters, Bertha, who is older than me, and Lily, who is younger, are still waiting to be married.

I grew up in a large town called Reading in the Royal County of Berkshire. I grew up having very little except Scarlet Fever!

In the November the year before my 17th birthday, my best friend Tom and I decided to sign up. This turned out to be the worst mistake of my life. We were both tall lads and easily passed for 18. But we weren’t really queried either.

“’Ow old are ya?” The man at the desk asks.

“Eighteen.” Tom lies easily. The man squints at us before nodding. And that was that. We were in.

I don’t think I realised what I was signing up for; they never told us what the war was really like. We just thought we’d go to France and kill all the Boche in sight. But nothing is as easy as it appears.

There I go again. I haven’t explained everything and yet there I go writing away.

The reason I am writing a diary is my doctor told me to do it. You see, I can’t get this wretched war out of my brain. I am always having flashbacks; always thinking I am back there. I can’t concentrate on anything and my mother and sisters have begun to worry for me.

Fearing for my sanity, they kept me locked inside but it only made me worse. The claustrophobia made me feel like I was back hiding in the dugout, the bombs rocking the dugout like a vicious mother at the cradle. So Mother took me to Doctor Whitestone who prodded and poked me and eventually told me I needed to let my feelings out.

“How?” I demanded, feeling he was ridiculing me. How could I let me feelings out and how on earth would it help me?

“Write a diary, Mr Johnson. Write your feeling, memories, worries, anything and everything about your life and the war.” I snorted at this and slammed out of his office.

But then I thought about what he’d said and something Tom used to say came back to me.

“Never ignore what a mad man rambles. It’s in those ramblings that the sanity lies hidden.”

So I decided to try writing a diary. For Tom. Whose name does not appear on the memorial because he was a ‘coward’. I spit at that statue, provided there’s no one else around, because it fails to mention the name of the bravest boy of them all. No, man.

But now Tom is gone and I am all alone.

Except, I’m not. Because I know I am writing this to you, Tom, and I know that you are listening, wherever you are.

I think the worst part of the war was the waiting. Waiting for death. When we were holed up in the dugout with the Boche lobbing their little presents our way, the only emotion in your brain is fear; fear that you’ll die and fear that you’ll live, because even if you live through that attack there is no certainty you’ll live another day, or even an hour.

We lived on ifs, especially Tom and I.

“If I get back to ’Ol Blightly I’m gonna find meself some pretty girl ’cos a lass loves a Tommy!”

Tom winks at the lads and we all cheer and wolf whistle.

Then a bomb steals our laughter and I clatter to the floor, hands clasped to my ears. All the laughter is gone from us all. Those few precious seconds of fun snatched by the Boche.

“If I get back to England I’m gonna tell me Mum to cook me the largest fry-up in the whole world!” Joey rubs his hands together in glee at the thought and we all smack out lips together.

“If I live tonight I’m going to write a letter to my sweetheart asking if she’ll marry me!”

But how many of those ‘ifs’ came true? How many lives were cut down and destroyed by a bullet or a bomb?

I often wonder if it was worth it, the war. It was just fighting and death. I walk around Reading when I should be at work or taking Lily to her friend’s house, or walking our dog, and just think about everything. I always end up at the cemetery where Tom’s mother and grandparents are buried. There’s room for three more people in that plot - Tom, his sister, Hattie, and his father - but the church refused to even acknowledge Tom’s existence and so he is left forgotten by everyone but me, Hattie and their father. Every week at St. Mary’s, Reverend Greene talks to the boys who fought or their families left behind but he never goes up to Tom’s family and he never will.

10th November 1920

I feel that perhaps things are changing for the better; life doesn’t feel so bad now. I sit down on the bench, glaring at the spot where Tom should be remembered.

“It’s not fair, is it?” I look up. Hattie is standing beside me, eyes red from crying. “He did nothing wrong and yet they refuse to acknowledge his existence.” I don’t reply. I can’t be bothered to speak to her. But she is the only other person in the world who understands how much I miss Tom. I slide over and she sits beside me.

“I know you feel like no one knows what you went through in France, Will, but you need to talk to someone. Lily told me about the diary but that won’t be enough will it? You need to talk to a human.” I still don’t speak. Why should I? “Please Will don’t lock yourself away.”

“I miss him so much.” I blurt, beginning to cry. Hattie holds me and doesn’t say a word.

5th April 1921

I can talk to her, so please don’t hate me, Tom. We clung to each other through the storm and now she knows me almost as well as you do. I even showed her the diary. And that’s why I proposed to her. I fell in love with Hattie, Tom. And I am better, thanks to th of you.