Original Piece of Prose
Written June 2012
He simply stared, a look of panic mixed with a vague sense of recognition. His chapped mouth gaped like a big ‘O’. I suppose I must have mirrored his dumbfounded gaze. His eyes were olive coloured like mine, his hair equally scruffy and greasy as mine and his face frozen into bewilderment like mine. He poured out the same stuff from his wounds, wore the same battle scars, had the same dull glint of hope glittering in his eyes, the same coat of mud carried in from the trenches, and gripped the same exhausted, persistently coughing rifle. There was just one little thing that made us different from each other, just a few little pieces of cloth. They were simply different colours that somehow separated us: our uniforms. And that’s the only reason I was forced, purely by hollow patriotic allegiance, to thrust my bayonet into his abdomen before the boy even had a chance.