Dulce et Decorum Est: Guided writing

What amazing pieces of writing produced in Room 15 today! 
We had a go at a guided writing exercise. 
Using the poem by Wilfred Owen, "Dulce et Decorum Est", we created our own original pieces of writing on the theme of World War One.
We are so proud of what we were able to produce. I've borrowed Lucy's effort to share on the class page..and to entice you to click the links to individual blogs.

A Soldiers Tale

My chest heaved as my legs trudged through the knee deep sludge, arms hanging off my mates shoulders as we walk.

For many months we walk, famished, completely drained of energy.

The flares of fiery shells burst behind us, heating our backs as we go further and further from the death disaster behind us. Safety, safety, chanting in our heads.

Sores on our feet, limping without boots.

A few crawl, too tired to stand, occasionally drooping to the ground, faces deep in mud, never resurfacing.

I walk with a heavy heart, not hearing or seeing anything, blocking memories and thoughts out, only focusing ahead, on the sinking sun along the horizon. An occasional thunk hits the ground behind us, no one cares.

A mustard colour flashes in front of my eyes, my mind only takes a second to register it. ‘GAS!’ I hoarsely try to whisper.

Mustering all the energy we have, we fumble our numb fingers around in our backpacks, searching for that all important mask. Most find them in time, taking deep breaths of the stale oxygen, relief flooding many faces.  

One man is not as lucky, stumbling around, clutching his throat, everyone watching in horror..

The gas encases us, burning our skin like acid. Reaching my hand out in front me, I only see the shadow of my hand waving slowly through the air. My comrades stumble, reaching out for a friend to hold as the thick green stench swirls around us.

I will never forget watching figure reaches out to me, his hand clasping my bare foot, his eyes pleading me to do something. He coughs, terrible hacking coughs that turn into to a fit as he still clings to me, I felt helpless, only watching him as the gas gets into his lungs, enveloping him.

You could never imagine what this felt like, grabbing his feet, dragging him atop a wagon, making some form of a sick stage, knowing as you watch that there is no cure other than death.

His eyes were popping out of his sockets now, mouth open, heaving with agony.

The figure still scrambles for air, the noise unimaginably disgusting as he hurls, his bile slowly turning a different colour, red. His body bumping up and down in the wagon as 2 men drag him over the hill.

Blood gushes out of his mouth filling up his lungs, no longer coughing, just lying there limply, letting the inevitable happen, waiting for his vile death to come.

If you had experienced what I felt, If you smelt, Heard, watched, what happened out there, you too would slowly shivel inside when people talk of war. It was never glorious to die for your country, it was agonising.

There is a saying: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori, and it translates roughly to "It is sweet and right to die for your country". It will never be sweet, therefore never right, just heroic and heart breaking.