Mametz Woods

Narrative Writing

I had worked there for years, and year after year the ploughs ran deeper. I remember the first time vividly. It was on a foggy winters morning, I was armed with a thick black jumper accompanied by light blue overalls so worn they appeared stone washed. It was early in the morning, and I began my work of labour in the farm. As I ploughed through the farm, I uncovered what I first believed was a stone. It was unusually shaped, oblong, with dents on the sides. I believed the stone was weathered. It was as pale as a ghost and discoloured. The stone circulated my mind for some time, I returned to the stone a few hours later, and again while sowing seeds in the ground.

I began foundling the stone which I placed in my pocket for some time. While working, the stone fell out of my pocket, and tumbled into the dirt. I decided to pick it up. I began by remove it from the surrounding soil. I leant over to unearth the relic left in the ground, pushing away the moist mud which found its way beneath my long finger nails. I uncovered the rest of the stone by moving the surrounding ground. I felt a chill move vertically across my spine, I had to come to terms with the realisation that the relic was instead the remains of  a hand. The field I had been working on was the venue of the battle of the Somme during the great war, the same war I had been informed of for years at school. I had been aware of this, but had not thought about this much as I had been very desperate for a job at the time. I remember myself feeling very cold as I made contact with the bone, but I began to feel this less and less as I uncovered more and more bones. The hands seemed like they were reaching back into the earth for reminders of what happened. An ectoplasmic chill hung over the fields, working there had never been the same.

I begun to become more and more fascinated in the battle, reading sources and speaking to archaeologists who possessed higher understanding. One day I stumbled upon a source which translated the extent of the bravery of the soldiers of the Somme, they stood outnumbered upon the fields I Used to plough, and were told to walk, not run into the woods and the machine guns which had been nesting inside them. The men marched with bravery and prided to their imminent deaths. This sparked a chain of thoughts in my head, which all had a familiar undertone. The theme of fate. Was it the fate of those soldiers to not avoid their deaths so future generations may learn, was it the fate of the soldiers finger to die in location in which I may find him, did I choose my life or did it choose me? I pursued the life that chose me and followed my new found love in archaeology.

Today, I returned to the site of my prior employer and uncovered a long grave with roughly around 20 broken skeletons. A grave not fitting for honourable soldiers. All the flesh and skin had left them, bones and their boots that had outlasted them. The skeletons were stopped mid-action, the skulls had their jaws wide open, like they were shouting and I could only imagine a visual image of the soldier’s heads being thrown back by the impact of the bullets. Almost ironic as they had lost their voices. The display of the bodies could almost be described as art, but together to create a greater image. A mosaic, made up of boots and bones, where all the soldiers who had saved this country had left for their-selves. The death of the honourable, 20 bodies in a grave with no headstone. Nothing to signify the bravery and sheer determination these people showed. All of this just for a flag.