Yellow Fields

It's 1918. World War One is coming up to four years; and seems like it will never end...

Private Colin Brood is a twenty-one year old army soldier who has somehow made it through the many brutal years alive. Yet when a horrible turn of events happens and Colin is left injured; his friend even worse, will he have the courage of a General to save his friend's life?

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4. Somewhere...

I'm in a meadow... surrounded with the yellow faces of cheerful daffodils the danced in the gentle breeze. Everywhere I look, there is a sea of flowing spring colours - I feel tranquil and calm suddenly. I raise a hand up to my eyes and twist it in front of my face, checking for any damage... yet it is perfect. What is this heaven? I'm running, sprinting through this wonderland without a care in the world. I'm living a dream... a fantasy - and I don't want to leave. In the distance, a figure comes  into view from over the hills. I squint  my fresh-feeling and recovered eyes to make out who it is. Yet she is too far away for me to recognise...

Then she stops, raises rises a petite hand in the air. Waved it backwards and forwards. I mirror her, take a few steps closer. Even though I can't see her face properly, I feel like I belong with this woman. I run closer, trying to make up the distance between us; but as I try to get closer, she drifts away...quickly fading away- and I realise that it isn't really happening. Just a taunting figment of my injured imagination playing cruel tricks on me like it did back... there.
"Quickly- he's waking up!" a whispering voice gasped, and a couple of seconds later there came a mumbled reply.
"I don't care; they've been worried about this one since he came in.. come on!" this one? Whose this one? These mysterious voices couldn't possibly be talking about me! Yet along came the sound of walking footsteps, and I insantly felt a warm, soupy breath drift over my face. What had happened to my wonderful dream earlier? Where had it gone?
"There. See? I told you he was stirring! Quick- grab some towels and warm water," came the same, whispering voice. I heard a dampened sigh; and the sound of heavy footsteps fading away. I wanted to wake up. I wanted to see where I had been taken. I wanted to know why I had suddenly been snatched from the Front Line and flung into this strange, alien place; yet my eyes seemed to be sealed shut. Every attempt I took to prise them open failed; and I was left fully senseless as my once- accurate sense of smell had also seemed to have failed me miserably. Yet I had to be acknowledged properly. Gently, I lifted my right arm; a violent pain shooting through it  from my blackened fingertips to my worn shoulders.
"That's it, Mr Brood."
Mr Brood? How could this strange voice know of my name? Now I was even more determind to force my eyes open.
"M-my eyes..." I mustered; my voice cracked and hollow- my lips barely parting to form my words properly.
"Don't worry, Mr Brood. You're in a critical state- it's vital that you rest." Despite not knowing who this voice belonged to, I was somehow reassured. Perhaps it was their calm, light tone, their slight Birmingham accent that made me settle my tight, painful limbs.
"That's it- just rest. You thankfully haven't suffered any dangerous injuries to your sight; just let them recover in their own time." And with that, the sound of light heels walked away from me.
I sighed; my chest rising in and out normally. Yet my breath still appeared to be limited. That damn gas. Those damn trenches. That damn War! I hated the whole experience- and with a passion. Why wasn't I sat in my Mother's kitchen, helping myself to a generous serving of her lovely pie? Instead I was stuck... somewhere. Silently, a tear broke free and trickled down my battered cheek, dropping on my strangely silky clothing. If only my comrades were here to witness this- they'd wonder why they 'd even depended on me to help them through their own version of hell. I was never a man for crying, yet even the "bravest" of men could be broken in when brought continuous misfortune and devastation.

 

 

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