My GCSE Original Writing piece (A*)

Greetings,

I wasn't sure where this should go, so I queried in the Q&S sub-forum, and I was told here was the best place.

This is my GCSE Original Writing Submittal; the brief was write a short story about anything, with the guideline being between nine hundred and seventeen hundred words. I think this came to about fifteen hundred and thirty three.

As you can tell from my sig, I am a year too young to be doing GCSE work; however, I am enrolled on a GCSE fastrack program, so I have already done my SATS and passed (with a lvl 7), and I will sit my English exam this September.

This was graded 53/54, A*, and is easily the best piece of fiction I have wrote in my life. Anyway, I have talked long enough. Here is the piece, and I hope you enjoy reading it; please leave a comment, and if you don't mind, a suggestion or two on how I can improve it.

War. As along as there have been men, it has haunted us. It is the scourge of civilisation, the dread of mothers. Famine, pestilence; these pale in comparison to war. Fed by ambition and greed, sustained with uncountable lives, it lurks among us, waiting, patiently. Silently. And when those in power disagree among themselves, when they hunger for yet more land, riches or resources, the beast springs from slumber. It leaves death and destruction in it’s wake. But why do we fight? You hear the laughter of the children outside? That is why. Do you listen, when among a great multitude, to the peaceful easiness of conversation between fellows, to the happy, raucous banter emanating from the tavern? That is why. We fight for necessity against the aggressors, the pillagers, the murderers, in the hope of a better future for our descendants, one free of unnecessary, man-made hardship and sadness. I sit here, in my study, in peace and silence, and muse on past times. I think of my comrades and friends, taken prematurely from their loved ones. I also think of those who have been left scarred by war, forgotten and unmourned while they yet live, reduced to begging by the loss of eyesight or limbs. I myself, bear two wounds; my limp, a gift from a French horseman; my missing finger, relieved of me by wayward shrapnel. Indeed, I sit and think of old experiences, long into the dark nights, musing on what was and what could have been.


But the children enquire of me but one story, a tale that has been told many times in this study, yet they fail to grow tired of it. Of course, they would not; they were not there. Had you been present dear reader, you too would wish to soon forget it. Waterloo, they say, tell us of Waterloo, of Napoleon, of Wellington. Each time I recount the sad tale, the image grows ever more vivid and terrible. I feel it now, the muddied ground beneath leather soles, the drums beating out their thunderous rhythms, the fifes piping uplifting tunes. But more bold in the mind, the screams of the wounded, the cries of the fallen, the neighing of terrified horses and the drifting, acrid smoke which stung the eyes and skin. The faces of men around me, they too have been committed inadvertently to memory. Perkins, Collins, Smith and Thompson. Friends for decades, taken away in mere instants. We stood together, squinting in bright continental sunshine, allaying our nerves with idle chat. My frequent recounts often provoke questions of the battle’s opening, but in truth, I do not know when it began. Some say thirty minutes past ten, others, at eleven o’clock. For me, the ordeal began with a solitary boom, a distant noise, which sent the birds nesting in the trees scattering swiftly into flight.


Then, another thunder clap and another, till the whole valley rang with the noise of ear-numbing cannon fire. Iron shot sped over the fields, thumping into churned, sucking mud, into worn, chipped masonry of farmhouses. And into men. A cannonball will mangle and pulp a man unimaginably, till he is no longer recognisable. You would not talk of glorious feats and heroic endeavours, reader, had your friend been struck by shot beside you. Poor Smith, he suffered this terrible fate. He conversed nervously with Perkins, turning his head, oblivious to the iron shot which flew toward him. It struck him, and Perkins talked no longer with Smith, but with a headless torso, disintegrated by speeding metal. Smith’s insides splattered all around him, coating our faces and uniforms in offal, churning stomachs and terrifying already shaken men. My listeners, they pull their faces at this point; they wish not to hear of insides and headless torsos. But I continue regardless; Smith deserves a mention, no matter the ingloriousness of his end. I drew a rag, which I kept always to hand, over my face, mopping up the sweat and blood beading my forehead. I took the filthy cloth away, and the cannons, they had stopped.


In their absence, an ever more terrifying sound. The drums. Each beat, it shakes you, your heart skips the beat, you draw breath more quickly. They continue on enthusiastically, and then, with legs marching swiftly to the beat, the French advanced. “Vive l’Emperuer!” they chorus, doubt and fear expelled from their minds, the drums driving them ever onward. It was no different in Belgium. They marched, in a deep, vast column, advancing ponderously on Hougemont, the small farm at the centre of the valley, dwarfed by the multitudes thundering toward it. Puffs of smoke, dissipating in the strong wind, betrayed our skirmishers, sniping at the French in the trees around the farmhouse, dropping officers and sergeants, leaving the enemy headless and inactive. But the French column, heedless of its casualties continued on to Hougemont. The groves around the buildings broke the formation up, isolating men from their companions, making them easy prey for the roving skirmishers. Slowly, however, the blue, red and white tide swarmed toward the walls of the farmhouse, and battle was truly joined.


Already, shapes were scattered around the fields, the first of many lives that would be taken this day. “Will I be one?” I had thought, but not willing to dwell on depressing thoughts, I turned to Perkins. He stood, shaking, and I marvelled at his youth. A boy. A boy, marching with men twice his age, fighting with veterans decades his senior; he would be lucky to survive, I thought. You enquire of his fate, no doubt? I know not how he perished; I know only that his name was among those of the fallen. His, like many others, is a face I will not forget. His roguish grin, freckled cheeks, unruly brown hair. Many are the days whence I have shed a tear, thinking of him and the other men whom never returned home, dying in a foreign field; it is a terrible fate. If every man, in high station knew as I and many others do of war, they would not be so swift in signing away lives and committing men to death. I do not recall the following moments; I was still jarred and shocked by Smith’s demise. I remember the drums hammering me back to the present, as we neared the embattled farmhouse. The order had been given to advance. My head, it did not seem to have acknowledged the signal, but my legs carried me onwards nonetheless, a gut reaction instilled by years in the army. Too many years.


And then, cries. Pitiful, mournful cries. I turned to my left, if I recall, and lying there, prone, was a Frenchman. We were close to the farm now, and many bodies were scattered here and there, their faces masks of pain. This man, he lingered, his legs gone below the knees. His once pristine breeches were stained crimson. He mumbled something in heavily accented English, and to this day, I still do not know why I broke rank to go to him. Sympathy washed over me, banishing the innate suspicion I held toward this blue-coated Frenchman. He grasped at my sleeve and cried “Water,” coughing and choking, “water.” I reached to my side, and uncapped my canteen, easing the bottle to his lips. He drank deeply of the lukewarm water, taking it gingerly and emptying it down his throat. He turned to me, gratitude etched on his features. I smiled. He grinned, and something about that expression unnerved me. The bayonet was in his bloodied hand almost as quick as the mask of rage which sprang across his features. I stood, dumbfounded. He grinned again, and thrust his weapon into my gut. And from there, I remember no more. I recall several faint cries, the shout of the Frenchman as several red-coated, blurred figures dispatched him with bayonets and the call of my comrades as they ran to me. And then, darkness.


My audience, they protest at this point. What of the Scots Greys, the Imperial Guards’ stand, the flight of Napoleon, they ask. I know not of these things. The battle ended for me there, along with so many others who did not live to tell their descendants. The listeners make to leave at this point with polite excuses, but I reseat them, for my tale is not done yet. Too often are the tales of the cripples, the wounded forgotten. I remember the musings of the surgeon as he mumbled over me in the stables of La Belle Alliance, a tavern which served as our hospital. I remember the stabs of pain with each jolt of the wagon, which took me to Calais. I remember the stinking, damp, pestilential hold of the ship, as I lay among scores other moaning, wounded men, as we crossed the stormy channel. For the able-bodied man, the return home is joyful. He parades in gleaming dress uniform, the women hug and kiss him, the men give him hearty pats on his back and the children cheer and applaud him and his comrades.


But what of the wounded soldier? We limp awkwardly down a creaking gangplank, adorned not in dress but in bloodied, filthy bandages. No fifes pipe us on our sad parade; no crowds wait to greet us. The crowds eye us suspiciously, taking us for beggars and vagabonds, not the proud soldiers who once fought at King George’s command. Folk quicken their pace and cross the street to avoid our wretched selves, as we stumble painfully through the port. I speak of the experiences of all wounded men. And those of us who, once returned, spoke out against the evils of war, we were mocked and jeered. Our sacrifice was forgotten in an instant, condemned to cowards for the rest of our miserable existence. For people do not wish to see the true result of war; instead, they see and hear what they wish to see and hear. They talk of great battles and noble sacrifices, of desperately brave last stands and hopelessly valiant advances. They ignore the multitudes left scarred and disfigured, honouring the dead, not the living. The dead, they cannot speak, cannot tell and inform us of the unspeakable horror of war, or dissuade us from ever raising arms against one another again. Our fine young men march blindly obedient to war, false notions of patriotism etched in their mind, like corn to the scythe. For that us the true sadness of war. It will happen again and again, for where there are men, there will be war. We fight in hope of a better future, yet when we grow old and grey, our sons, our children march to war and the tragedy is repeated.


I write this recount thirty years after that sad slaughter at Waterloo, yet history still repeats itself, if in a different guise. For our greedy European monarchs and politicians, they no longer make war on each other, but on the world. They march great hosts of men to Africa, to the Indus, and make war on those who will not accept their brutal hegemony. We, the British, are perhaps the most guilty of this crime. We march on those who would refuse our rule, those who value their freedom from a distant, foreign oppressor. And when their warriors, men guilty only of the crime of trying to defend their kin, lie in shallow graves and their children are condemned to slavery, they are forced to accept the rule of evil men. Our nation is bathed in riches, for wicked deeds are a prosperous venture, bringing gold by the ton. But those coins and riches are ill-gotten, washed in the blood of the innocent thousands, those slain for the gain of the rich and powerful. Bah! I shall place down my pen now, for what will these words gain? Will they sway the opinions of thousands? I doubt that, but I hope dear reader, that one day, you will remember what you have read, for if these words prevent the demise of so much as one innocent, I have succeeded.

That's a good piece of work you've got there. Its good because you show the feelings of the person. Of course there are other things good about it too.

Pretty good. However, as a history lover, I feel it is a bit... unreal...:hmmm:

Heh, my Original Writing piece got chosen by AQA as one of those perfect essays you get. I milked that so bad.

Oh, I know hellheaven. I took, quite unashamedly, no time to research it, as historical accuracy is not what is looked for when these things are being marked. As bomberboy said, they look for things like how you show the emotions of the protagonist and such.

Originally, I planned to research it, being very into history myself but I didn't have long to write it and I felt that 1700 words was no where near enough space to give justice to Waterloo.