An Anzac Legend

By Avery Skeers, 9 years.

It is quiet except for the light splashes of the oars. We are crowded onto little boats that smell of old sardines. I hold my worn rifle in my hands, shaking in the bitter cold. Gun shots echo from the headlands ahead. Our tiny boats arrive at Gallipoli, machine-gun fire rains down upon us. We struggle from our boats. I watch as countless men fall around me. My friend stays close behind, but not for long. The water that was blue is now blood red. This is war. 

I struggle up the headland, bullets zip past. A shell explodes near me knocking me off my feet. My friend Paul struggles behind, but its not just me and him who are suffering, its all of the ANZACS. I pick myself back up and dart forward across the scrub. My left foot catches on a stick, ripping the sole of my boot apart. Me and Paul urge up the headland. “BANG! BANG! BANG!” Bullets fly everywhere. 

A Turkish soldier springs from behind, shooting me in the thigh. Blood soaks my beige trousers. I duck behind a tangle of branches, bullets firing around my head. A soldier cries out. I turn to see Paul pointing his gun at a Turkish soldier who is now lying on the ground. Hesitantly I come out but am met by a terrible explosion. My rifle wacks me in the head as I get ejected and deposited back into the thorn bush. The thorns stab me all over, like a million minuscule knives. My bullet wound bleeds intensely. I see Paul get to his feet. I see a glint of silver.  I see a Turkish soldier. He aims his gun at Paul. I scream but it’s too late.    

I fight my way out of the thorn bush. I lie down, not able to stand. I grab a stick and stab it into the ground. I pull up on it and stagger back to my feet. I shuffle up the smoky headland some more. I look down upon the boats in the bay. Its now broad daylight. Two bullets whiz past. I pick up my pace ducking, weaving, but the bullets keep on coming. I can hear Turkish soldiers yelling. I look up, I feel my mother’s love all around me.  The bullet strikes me in the head forcing me backwards. I land in the rubble, a bloody mess. I have served my country. I have served my brothers.   

Lest we forget.