I thought I had forgotten those harrowing cries, the dying murmurs of those who lay across me. I had not. Nor had I forgotten the slow drip of their blood as they straddled by barbs. It was all too horrifying, too frightful to witness such agonising deaths.
I was forged in fire, pulled long and twisted before being rolled and cut into an undetermined length. I cooled then was rolled then placed into an old shed. Was this it? Was this what my life would be? Or was there a greater purpose for me, as I waited in that bright sunny light that streamed through the ruptured edge of that rustic shelter.
Weeks later I was man-handled onto a truck, a large forest green truck that whined and groaned its way along. Holus-bolus, we were driven on to a boat, that sailed us across the sea. I felt sick as I lurched and bounced on that rough expanse. It didn’t last long, soon I was driven from that sea-sick nightmare and was bouncing along a rutted road. In the distance I could hear loud explosions that grew into a great cacophony of noise as immense guns roared out their fire before the blasting shells hit their mark. It was terrifying, and I was getting closer each minute.
The wagon stopped and army men came to unload us. I was thankful that I was not too close to the front, but was behind the guns, thrown into a muddy mire which splashed murky water over me and dulled my metal sheen.
Had the hullabaloo from the guns dimmed? Or had I grown used to that clamorous disturbance that boomed all around? In the dead of night, great flashes turned night into that bedlam of noise that made my twisted body shudder.
One night I was carried by two men, a rod was pushed into my roll and an end twisted through a hole in a stake. Then I was dragged through no-mans land, twisted around steel rods before being moved on to the next crooked rod, back and forth until my roll was gone.
Shells howled over my head, my body shook as some landed close to me, others shredded my counterparts into small, ruptured strips of wire while I endured the relentless heady sounds at the front.
One night the shelling became heavier and heavier; great explosions all around me, spraying soil everywhere. It was horrendous, beyond endurance as the night turned to day with the brightness of each flash. Then a silence that felt evil, I felt a dread, a foreboding so intense that it chilled each barb of mine. A series of bright lights, of starshells, that lit the sky as bright as day. A whistle and loud shouts; men ran toward me, firing their sticks of death.
They could not pass me easily, some had cutters that would be used on me, while others fell, their lifeblood spewing out onto the ground. Some were dead, some dying, some trapped and held by my barbs. I can still hear their cries; free me, help, I’m caught! Others quietly murmured their good-byes as their life slipped away. Worst were those who howled; their voices loud and raucous, until their voices dimmed in that nightmarish hell. Others, like an ethereal being, whispered their goodbyes on the winds of death.
I would hear calls to their mothers, their sweethearts. Some would call for a bullet to speed their passing. Oh! How I prayed for their swift end, a relief from their infinite pain. Some hung for days, with each passing hour dimming their cries.
Then, one cold, wet November morning the shelling stopped. I saw men leave their trenches and trudge their way through a no-man’s land of mud to me. They pulled off their fallen comrades and took them away. The next day was the same, no artillery, no rifles, no ratter-tat-tat of machine guns, just a background noise of men going about their trench-life without the steady firing of guns.
When the frost had solidified the ground and the days had shortened, the artillery was trundled away, soon followed by men marching out their trenches, with noisy shouts, happy and gay. Then silence, just the sweet calls of robins on the wing.
Spring came with poppies sprouting all about, turning the ground into a glorious spread of blooming red. Then farmers, their tractors pushed and pulled, filled and flattened until the land around me was flat.
To my delight, grass popped its shoots into the sun, interspersed with buttercups and daisies. Then the cows came; the farmer had not bulldozed me away, he kept me as a fence to stop the cows from wondering. This was my heyday, yet how sad were my memories. At night I remember. Always.
© Tropical Writers Inc 2026