The Beacon of Hope
Ayan Sinha (7WLS)
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Prologue It was when the last full moon shone when the anarchy began; Edward the confessor had perished and taken his last breath. After this, England became the home of bleakness and dreariness. England was in the need of a new ruler and I knew this was our time to take back our land. The throne had been rightfully ours until the devils had arrived to conquer my heart, my country and my life. My heart is filled with vines that can never be broken. My heart had been disheartened and was brimming with sorrow, defeat and loss. We had already fought the Viking monsters and then hell gave us the task of defeating the devils from overseas. Who did Hell think we are?
My name is Edgar of Aldrich, like my father before me. As per tradition, I got my name from my many brothers who had died before my presence. My brothers were fighting the treacherous Vikings at that time and had no thought of the trouble I would have to face now. The Vikings fought with no soul or heart; none of the Vikings fought with passion and courage. That is why my brothers died because of their lack of passion but they will always have a treasured place in my heart. For the rest of my life, I will carry on their mantle for my family and the world of Anglo-Saxons to see. After the Battle of Stamford Bridge, us Anglo Saxons felt superior; we were paramount-above all. Until the news of a new contender had arrived. We were believing that we had won the throne of England although we could have never known the uproar of chaos which had just begun. Our successor died and it was up to us to keep the Anglo-Saxons alive. I was part of the rebellion fighting with Edwin and Morcar for my life. I lived in the north with my last surviving brother, Edmund. He was my elder and he swore his life to protect me. Us English men were afraid, nervous and unsure of what our future would hold. It felt as if Norman Churches grew from the ground, day by day. I helped build many but I was subservient to many of the Normans. I should have been more violent, brutal and potent towards them like they were towards my people and I. This was the day that marked the last day of my freedom… I was captured. My life's destiny of becoming an Ealdorman was destroyed but I was 6 years old and had no idea of what I would become-what was the future holding for me? Ever since, I have never accepted being a Norman although it was a decision Page 2
between life or death. I have been called Leonard but I call myself Edgar. The demons from overseas took my life and shredded it like it was nothing. They tried to care for me although I never cared for them back, as for life they have scared my heart. The man who captured me was named Dardot and took me to his house not knowing what anger he had just unleashed inside of me. I was young and lost in the world of my own thoughts and bewildered of what was happening. Dardot had just seen me sleeping and tired of building and took me into his own hands. He was sent by the Devil of Normandy to examine the mishap in the North. After that he enslaved me. “It was for the better good,” he said. “And would unlock the many knots which had been tied around your heart. My boy accept your defeat and start a new beginning, son,” Dardot said to me with a jovial voice. After that, life was torn into pieces and I had no hope that life would ever be the same. Overtime, I was treated and brought up as a Norman although every time I turned more against it. When I did Norman duties in the north like when I was planting salt to starve my own kind I felt like I was killing myself more than anyone. All I wish is that God forgives my bad deeds and leaves my soul at peace. Day after day, Dardot would tell me stories to make me comfortable of these beasts who would destroy him and his people, taking his land, rebelling against him. He would tell me much more than I needed to know to understand what he was talking about. Every night I would ask if he could tell me more about these beasts he would speak of and I would be so excited to learn more although as I grew older, I had slight suspicions about what and who he was talking about. After knowing what he was actually saying, I didn’t think that he would say such a thing although he was a Norman, a devious type of human born from Hell. Every night, every day, every month he would insult me in disguise; something only a Norman would do. There is only one person who can help me-the saviour, the heart of Anglo-Saxons, Hereward the Wake. Story The day was full of death, Anglo-Saxons dying by the minute and my people becoming scarcer by the second. I was scared although my face didn’t show it. I saw an Anglo-Saxon die in front of my face and the guilt is still running down my Page 3
spine. Half the reason he died was because of me; I let Dardot kill him before entering the house. All I saw was blood gushing out and spilling to the floor below him and I could hear the immense, wrenching pain while his body perished by the moment. Could I have done anything different? Was there anything I could do? Millions of questions have all one answer of no. Apparently, his name was Edmund and he looked too familiar to be a stranger. I remember on the day not being able to recognise him it feels like I have committed a sin to not know him. He made me the person I am today. How could I forget him? Today, I was also informed about the news of Hereward the Wake’s death or supposed disappearance. I was mournful and pessimistic about what I was going to do. I thought Hereward as my inspiration for the future, he was what I wanted to be: courageous and brave. Four years later, I have not moved on anywhere since then, always been a slave but is that all the future holds for me? The future was filled with confusion. I thought I had a way to stop this. I thought of escaping and travelling back to my homelands, meeting my allies and returning to my normal life. Although I felt there was only one outcome from this, death. There was nothing else which I could do to get the freedom I deserve. No matter what, I have plotted my escape and I am ready for the future to become mine. It all starts tonight step-by-step my plan will begin; one after the other. Gaining trust then breaking it was the way to go, I thought. Nothing mattered but AngloSaxon freedom even if it meant the end of me and everything. I am so hungry for revenge and to go back to my life but there was still a lot of preparation until then. I then realised that escaping may not be that easy; it isn’t just running away as then there would be only one option for me, death. I thought that the best way to accomplish my escape would be to gain trust from the many slaves which are like me and are dotted around Dardot’s house. Over the years, I had grown to know them quite well and to become friends although I may not have had enough yet. Once I have gained more trust I will be able to gather help from my fellow slaves to help my escape. This will be rough but there is nothing stopping me. The next day, I awoke to see my freedom in front of me only to realise it was a fantasy. All I could see in this fantasy was Robert and I having escaped into a new reality. Then it was my time to make it reality; no help is needed just Robert and I. Robert helped me through the hardest of times making sure that I became more and more closer to Norman society even though I didn’t seem to want to be that way. Robert was a proper Norman although at that time he didn’t know I was an Anglo-Saxon if he knew I would have been dead in a matter of seconds which Page 4
would have ruined the relationship between him and I forever ruining the way I live if I didn’t manage to escape. I had to do this strategically as within a word everything would have been ruined and my plan would have shrivelled to pieces. Robert was inside in an old bare room with just a fire, a poker and a roughly carved chopping block. As the sun was heading to its everlasting slumber, the moon creeped in to transform the fire to dust. Robert awoke to find me in front of him and to see the remains of the fire. “I need help,” I uttered with despair. “I need to meet my family. I have had enough of this useless life I live here. I am achieving nothing here. I need to go back to my hometown and revive my kind the…” I stopped abruptly as something was coming out of my mouth which was in need of being unspoken. “Why is this so urgent? Why not next year, next month or your next life?” He replied with a chuckle. “I will help but we can’t do this alone. Leonard, just you and me won’t be enough. I would rather you be dead than be taken by the AngloSaxons to become an Ealdorman,” Robert expressed vigorously. “Who else could help?” I exclaimed. “Why not just you and I, together, others could spoil everything forever, ruining our lives, reputation and freedom. Robert agreed after many times of persuasion. “I would need something in return,” Robert stated just when I was about to leave. “Like what?” I said in a baffled manner. “A few pennies at least,” Robert said to me with a gleeful smile. I left with no answer and kept quiet before something wrong blurted out of my parched, dry mouth. Finally, it was time to configure my plan with Robert. My dream was getting so close to becoming true and so close to meeting the remainder of my kind. I had to keep my mouth shut in front of Robert or else the plan would have been destroyed and so would my freedom. We decided that we both had to have a good reason to leave separately. I decided that I was going to milk the cows and Robert would be hunting. Our plan would start tomorrow; right at dawn.
The day began with nothing but hope and my dream seemed as if it was predicting what the future was to bring. Both Robert and I woke up at the same time as the sun and we both were ready to leave. I still hadn’t had the courage to Page 5
tell Robert where we were heading to but I knew that somewhere along the line he was going to have to know. Through the many times we had spent together I was getting worried of how telling him one of my darkest secrets could ruin our relationship but it had to have been told some way or another. Dawn had arrived and it was our chance to escape. Dardot was still in his everlasting slumber meaning the perfect time had arrived. As we headed out of Dardot’s house we were both being as stealthy as possible as Robert and I knew this wasn't going to be an easy escape. We had sneaked out of the stronghold; the wilderness was let free right in front of us giving us no more than trouble along the dusty dawn morning sky. Once we had left the house we saw glimpses of faces through the windows but we were both unsure if our brain was playing tricks on us due to the anxiety so we moved on swiftly. We ran to many villages to find some transportation like horses, boats to get north, although we gained no luck. That was until we met our first outsider; he was very helpful giving us directions and a horse which saved my legs. He didn't tell us anything about him, not even stating his name, but something didn’t feel right when I met him. He just felt too kind. It seemed that he knew more about me than I knew about myself. I was directing Robert while he was traveling into the unknown following my guide. As every moment passed the more suspicious Robert became getting more and more angry, anxious and articulate about the many things which were happening. After a while, there were many questions which started to build around his head as I saw his bewildered expressions. Finally, his mouth started to move. “Where are we going?” Robert questioned dominantly. “We have been going for days it feels like and you haven’t even told me where we are going.” I stayed quiet for a moment thinking I hadn’t heard him. “Hello? Are you listening? Why am I even here? What do you want from me? When will I get back?” He exclaimed with no sense of awareness at all. In all honesty I don’t really know why I brought Robert; it just felt like my destiny had guided me to take him. It was shown in the dreams I had had so it must have been true, I needed him. I know the truth had to be said sooner or later but now wasn’t the right time. We had just reached my home town but the time was coming closer for me to tell the truth but I can’t say it yet. I remember seeing Robert's face piecing together what was happening; this was only the start of his anger crisping up.
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Once I entered my home village and saw nothing but disparity all around me. The atmosphere felt like a ghost town. People were starving, salt had been engraved into the crop patches showing the death of the Anglo-Saxons and it was a message from the Normans that this was their land. In the crowd of helplessness stood a recognisable face; someone who I could vaguely remember but was familiar. There stood my mother I remembered in a blink of an eye. I ran towards her as if she was an angel but she forgot me. She started to slap me and curse me just like Dardot would. My heart started to crack and dissolve into my blood as the depression took over me. As my heart awoke from the deep depression inside I remembered about Robert. I turned around to see the anger burn from his nose and ears. “Are you an Anglo-Saxon?” Robert yelled with distress. “Have I been working with an Anglo-Saxon this whole time, these whole four years? Who do you think I am?” I realised that all his questions had been blurting out of his mouth at once and I only needed to say one word. “Yes,” I said sorrowfully. My secret had been unleashed forever for the world to know. My very own mother has caused me grief, Robert is causing me grief and now it is time for the whole world to cause me grief-I thought to myself. I could only feel pain, distress, irritation. It felt like the most mournful moment of my life. All I could hear was Robert raging about how I was an Anglo-Saxon but that just played as background music. Suddenly, Robert’s music fell to silence as I saw the obscure figure we met earlier to only reveal himself as Hereward the Wake. When he arrived my brain was puzzled: how could he have found me? How does he know me? How is he alive? A million and one questions were blasting around my brain but there was no time to answer them. I wrapped my hands around him with delight as I knew he was the Beacon of Hope. I could visualise the light at the end of the tunnel. “Hello, Edgar,” Hereward said weakly. “I have heard of your troubles and life is not easy as an Anglo-Saxon these days but we can live together or else…” Hereward abruptly stopped to see Robert. “That is not who I think he is?” “I, I, I can explain,” I said, stuttering about to cry with happiness.
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I explained to him he was my good friend but Robert had vanished before I even had time to speak a word and even until this day his location remains a mystery to me and my kind because of this we knew that we had to stay alert for the rest of our lives if we wanted to live. All the rest which were left in the north were going to live with Hereward the Wake.
Four years ago marked the day of my capture and today marked the day of my freedom. My people were in the most gleeful mood all day; now they knew that they could eat after days, some people months, and my mum could be at peace for years, life and eternity to come. Although she doesn’t remember me I will always think of her as my angel. The Anglo-Saxons have won the battle of freedom. After the ten years I have been living on this world I finally know my identity as I am Edgar, Edgar of Aldrich.
Freedom was ours.
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Through the Gates of Hell
Oscar Smith (8LAS)
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It was a suicide mission. An unbelievable plan. The greatest army leaders in all of Greece and this is what they had. But after 10 years of battles, bloodshed and defeat. Everyone was desperate. Some people thought that it was ingenious; that Athena herself devised it. But others, like myself, were more than a little dubious. The horse had taken 2 weeks to make. Under the instruction of Epeius dozens of woodworkers and hoplites helped with the structure. They had picked the finest and strongest pines on the west coast of Troy; then assembled them neatly in the back of the Greek camp. A giant wooden horse. At least 10 feet wide and 25 tall with a glare that would send the gods running back to Mount Olympus. It was built on a raised wooden platform with four pine wheels. If it was designed for mobility then Epeius had definitely failed. It would take hundreds of soldiers to make this horse move and in the blazing heat of the Mediterranean it would take days to move. The rest of the horse was rather typical apart from the huge barrel shaped chest. But, that was no mistake. It was in fact the key element of the design. A chest big enough to fit 40 of the finest Greek soldiers. Odysseus had looked for volunteers to join him in the horse. At first there were many volunteers, most of them fine young soldiers looking for adventure. However, as Odysseus explained the plan the once enthusiastic young soldiers slunk subtly to the back of the crowd until only 39 out of 100 hands were left up. And sitting here now I realise what a foolish mistake I had made…
The plan was as follows. Forty of the best Greek soldiers would hide inside the wooden horse. The rest of the Greek army would pretend to flee from Troy by taking all of our 1200 war ships to a nearby island. Meanwhile, the Trojans would think that the horse was a surrender offering and take it into their city. Then, the 40 soldiers inside the horse would climb out of the horse and let the rest of the secretly returning Greek army into Troy. All forty of us - including Odysseus - climbed into the underside of the horse. As the final person climbed in, Odysseus walked over and closed the trap door. It gave a satisfying click. As it shut he looked up and gave us a shaky smile “by the end of the day we are all going to stink,” he said. There were a couple of chuckles but nothing else. I managed to crack a smile; I realised that he was just trying to raise moral. “Some of us already do,” I said with a taunting look at Agafya, one of my oldest friends. In return, he gave me a smile and a not so gentle knock on my helmet. “Come on,” said Odysseus, “get some sleep, hopefully the Trojans will Page 10
come in the morning and then the fun begins.” And with that everyone started taking off their armour and lying down and trying to sleep. It is going to be a long day.
I woke to the warmth of sunlight on my face; a single shaft of golden light slipping through the wooden beams above my head. I took a moment to appreciate how peaceful it was. For a blissful moment I almost believed that I was safe. But that was when I heard the noise…. A noise that I knew every person with me had heard before. The slow, scraping, screeching sound of Trojan sandals on the sun-baked earth. “Páfsi” screamed the Trojan captain. In one smooth motion the Trojan battalion stopped moving and stood to attention. Through the cracks in the wooden horse’s side, I and all of the other now awake soldiers watched with bated breath. The Captain surveyed the scene in front of him. The smouldering remains of the Greek camp with thin coils of smoke still winding lazily into the sky. “The cowards surrendered,” he sneered. A malicious smile playing on his lips, “and it looks like they left us a gift.” “Captain!” said one of the soldiers in the battalion's front rank. “We have a man coming in from the Greek camp.” “You!” said the captain “state your business here. “ “I am Sinon,” said the man, “the Greeks abandoned me when they left. When they left this stupid horse.” “What is the horse?” “It was an offering to the goddess Athena and a gift for the Trojans.” “Why is it so big?” “Um,” this question caught Sinon off guard “bigger the better, I guess?” Page 11
The captain seemed satisfied with this answer for now. For most of the next two hours the Trojans debated what to do with the horse. Some said that they should just leave it and others thought that they should burn it. I looked down upon them all tensed as if ready for action. When the prospect of burning the horse arose all forty of us paid closer attention. We started to realise that this was the conversation that could decide our fates. Eventually they agreed to take the horse into the city - at which I felt all of the soldiers let out a sigh of relief. So half the battalion was sent back to Troy to prepare the slaves to haul the horse into the city. The next 12 hours passed in a blur of suspense, boredom and daydreaming. Most of the time I spent thinking about the upcoming battle. We Greeks had a very effective fighting style. Our weapons mainly consisted of our spear or dory. Mine was a long, pine pole about 6 feet tall with a solid bronze butt at one end and a lethal iron spear head at the other. I mainly used the spear end to try and stab, but if the spear head broke you could just as easily hit someone round the head with the butt. Agafya, with his looming size, has been known to knock the hardest soldier in the Trojan army out cold with his spear butt. I also occasionally use my sword or xiphos; a short double edged short sword about 20 inches long. The idea was that you could get in close with the enemy soldier and stab them whilst their spear got in the way. Any weapon may yet prove inadequate. Would the plan work? Would we be able to trick the entire Trojan army? At about 6 o’clock that evening, the Trojans stopped pulling the giant horse. It had taken most of the slaves in Troy to move and there was still a long way to go. Foolishly, or I thought at least, the Trojans decided to set the command tent right next to the horse. This meant we could hear everything that they said. “Status report!” barked the captain at one of the soldiers. “Well, the slaves are completely wiped out sir. We have at least 20 men with heat stroke and some have hurt themselves pulling the horse. Some can’t move sir.” “Lazy slackers,” grumbled the captain. The irony of this was not lost on those listening because all the captain had been doing was sitting on his expensive battle horse, sipping his water skin and yelling at the slaves to get a move on. “Fine,” sighed the captain “we will rest here for the night.” “One other thing sir,” said the soldier, “I spoke to some of the slaves and they seem to have heard some unusual noises from the horse.” Page 12
This got the captain’s interest. “Like what?” Well, one thought he heard a grunt of some kind. Another thought he heard something knocking on the wood. “Have you asked Sinon?” “No sir.” “Doesn’t matter, just send someone up there to check it out.” “Yes sir!” Up on the horse, we sat, quaking in our boots. We had all just heard that conversation and were all looking at Odysseus for guidance. His response was: “Stick to the plan: no sounds, no movement, no fear.” Three minutes later, though it felt like years, we heard the steady tread of Trojan sandals shuffling towards our hiding spot. “So you just want me to check it out?” he called to someone in the distance “Ok.” After a thorough inspection of the horse he then threw a rope onto the horse back and started to climb up. He actually put his foot right next to my head. I swear, my heart must have been beating so loudly that he could hear it. But, he just carried on up the side of the horse. When he got to the top he took out his short sword. Through the gaps we could just see the evil glimmer of the sword in the night sky. Suddenly, he pushed it straight in between the wooden slats of the horse. Straight into the upturned head of Agafya. Agafya did not have time to scream. The blade dived straight into his eye and kept going until you could see the gleaming point in the back of his head. His corpse just hung there. Still impaled by the sword. For a moment, nobody made a noise. We just stared at the corpse in front of us. Instantly, Odysseus leaped across the cabin and wrenched Agafia's head out of the grip of the sword; sending thick oozes of crimson blood flowing out of his eye and head. Odysseus then wiped the blood off the sword with the side of his blood red cape just before the soldier on the top of the horse pulled his murderous weapon back out. Page 13
Following the death of Agafya, life inside the horse took on a new perspective. Our hours sitting inside the horse awake were filled with thoughts of death and despair. All I could do was wish that Agafya would find peace in the blessed fields of Elysium and that I would be able to avenge him in the battle to come. When we did sleep, we slept fitfully; plagued by murderous nightmares. The next day the horse finally reached the impenetrable city of Troy. Surrounded by a 20 foot high solid stone wall, Troy was a sight to behold. Imposing square towers sat every 100 meters along the wall. Each had 5 men standing to attention: carefully surveying the land around the city. The wall itself was the key defensive aspect to the city. If it had not been for that wall then we Greeks would have burned Troy down a long time ago. Along the wall, smears of dried blood acted as a warning sign to anyone near. We all knew that most of that blood was the blood of our fellow Greek soldiers. As the Trojans dragged us towards the city, they suddenly realised that the horse was too big to get through the main entrance into the city: Lion’s Gate. At this point I was sure that we would just be left outside and our mission would be for nothing. But, to my surprise, the ever unpredictable Trojan captain decided to remove the actual arch of the Lion's Gate so that the horse could get through! They disassembled the Lion’s Gate very quickly and we were soon being hauled through the gate. We were just about to reach the citadel when we heard… “Stop!” A shrill voice cut the air. A young maiden stormed into the citadel. Her fiery red hair whipping behind her. She was followed by a young priest of Apollo. “Princess Cassandra,” said the captain “to what do we own the pleasure?” “Stop,” Cassandra said again, “that horse is filled with Greek soldiers! If you bring them any further into the city then they will destroy us!” My blood turned to ice. How did she know? How could she possibly know our plan? We were ruined, the mission was a fail, we would all die here! I looked around the cabin: despite the darkness within, I could see all of the soldiers looked as shocked and terrified as I felt. Apart from one. Odysseus was sitting there, unmoving. A knowing smile played on his face. How could he be so calm? We were about to die! Maybe he had finally lost it and was just sitting there waiting to die. Odysseus just gestured back to the scene in front of us. Page 14
“Here we go again,” signed the captain. “You must listen to her!” said the priest of Apollo “I swear on the god Apollo, there are people in that horse.” “And why would we listen to a deranged princess and a disgraced priest of Apollo?” asked the captain “Guards! Take them away!” “No!” screamed the priest and charged at the captain. Half of me wanted him to kill the captain. The other wanted to see this play out. With deadly accuracy and frightening speed; the captain hit the side of the priest's body and sent him flying across the citadel. Hitting his face with a crunch on the paved citadel floor. “Get up,” the captain sneered, “I think that you need a little more time to pray.” And with that two Trojan guards picked up the humiliated priest of Apollo and took him away. “As for you, your ladyship,” said the captain, “I am sure that you would enjoy some more time locked in your tower.” And she was pulled, kicking and screaming away. My gaze returned to Odysseus. “How did you know that was going to happen?” I breathed. “That was Cassandra, last daughter of King Priam and also the cursed prophet. She was cursed by Apollo to be able to see the future as clear as day but no-one would believe her. Pretty grim fate if you ask me.” “But how do you know she’s always right if nobody believes her?” I asked. At that, he gave me a wistful smile and said. “I have my ways.” For the rest of the afternoon and late into the evening there were massive celebrations in Troy. As far as they knew, the war that had killed so many and lasted for so long was over. I began to think how inhuman it would be to come out this evening and kill them all; did there really have to be more suffering? But, as I thought back about the war so far, I remembered all of my friends they had killed and the lives they ruined. It’s not like we started the war! It is all their fault and should they not pay for that?
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Finally, the party began to slow down and people started to either leave or simply fall asleep drunk on the floor. Eventually, just before dawn all was still apart from the gentle chirping of sandpipers in the distance. It was at this time that Odysseus gave the signal. Silently, we opened the hatch on the underside of the horse. We lowered the rope down onto the pine platform below and silently slid down it. The citadel before us was covered with overturned tables and scattered wine amphorae. We immediately set about our plan. I worked my way around the citadel, slowly ducking in and out of the shadows. I had left my spear and most of my armour in the horse so I could move quickly and quietly. Once out of the citadel I then made my way through the streets. As I rounded a corner I came across a drunk man sitting on the side of the street. I plunged my sword into his throat and just like that, he was dead. No witnesses, no alarm. I resumed stalking my way to the Lion’s Gate. A solitary guard was there. I crept up behind him and sliced my sword into the back of his neck sending a stream of blood climbing up the wall. I grabbed the keys from his corpse and opened the gate. By now I could see the warning fires lit by my allies to let the rest of the army know it was time to advance. I heard a sudden intake of breath. A woman was standing in the street staring at me. She quickly turned around and sprinted up the street shouting to anyone that could hear “Help! The Greeks are coming!” But before she could finish her words, I threw my sword at her. The weapon tilted precariously in the air. This weapon is not used for throwing. But it still created a gaping wound in her back, severing nerves and veins and breaking bones, causing her to fall on the stone dead. I pulled my sword out of her corpse. My heart was pounding, my blood racing, partly shocked at the ease with which I had ended this innocent woman's life, but the cruel gods had one more task for me. From the house on my right, I heard a baby start crying. It would wake up the entire street if it kept crying. Slowly, I walked into the house. I found the child in a crib up against the back wall. And I lifted up my sword: my hands trembling. Did I really want to do this? But it was too late. And what had started could not be stopped.
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That night I must have killed hundreds of people. Men. Women. Children. All of it brought me pain and suffering and as I speak this to you on my deathbed, I want you to know this – I deeply regret my involvement in the Trojan War. I wish I’d never ventured to those ill-fated shores.
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A Forgotten Tale
Alex Kilner (8PM)
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John desperately tried to bottle his fear. In truth he had nothing to lose. The men in the unit, to which John had just been assigned, told tales of girlfriends, brothers, and parents back at home to whom they were longing to return. But John didn't. He fought for Britain, yes, but he didn't want to. He still remembered that day. The sky was clear and crisp, colourful and vibrant. John was running from the war. Britain had been conscripting 18 to 41 year-olds for a while now and once John had been spotted he was taken for hiding from military service. He was dragged along to war like a reluctant child to school. Now the skies were a monotonous black and the ground was drenched to its rotten core. ‘’You must be John,’’ grunted a gruff voice. ‘’That would be me Sir,’’ replied John, attempting to penetrate the dark, cloudy mood with his bright voice. ‘’Calm it squeaker or the Germans will hear you,’’ responded the bearded, tall man. ‘’Sorry Sir.’’ ‘’ I’m sure they won’t shoot him for the occasional joke Colonel Bridgeforth,’’ said a ginger, slim man as he walked over to them. ‘’Colonel Brixton nice to meet you,’’ he said in a well-mannered tone. ‘’Nice to meet you Sir.’’ John answered. He wore a much smarter uniform than John. The badge he wore wasn’t frayed like John’s, and his green uniform was clean. His helmet was nearly as shiny as his smile and it hid all but the edges of his tidy, ginger hair. Like John he held a LeeEnfield rifle that was tawny brown with a silver bayonet on top of the long barrel. At his side was a short boy with the same ginger hair as Colonel Brixton. As it turned out, the boy's name was Harry and he was Brixton’s son. He was 19 and had an adorable face. ‘’Do you want a game?’’ he asked, dropping a football to the ground once the two Colonels moved away. ‘’Sure,’’ responded John. And they started to play. Harry had a cheeky manner to his style that reflected into the jokes he made as he played. Despite its cheery manner the mood was soon stilled by Bridgeforth. ‘’Prepare for a run!’’ The sound in the trench evaporated. Page 19
‘’New recruits come with me,’’ said Brixton with a resonating sadness in his voice. Almost all the men in the long, dark trench moved towards Brixton. Brixton didn't blink even though it seemed no-one had survived the last charge. Rain began pouring from the sky like blood from a wound as Brixton started speaking. ‘’You have been assigned to Colonel Bridgeforth’s unit. And that means our job is to hold off the Germans until our tanks, the Char 2c’s, get here to finish them off.’’ said Brixton. ‘’I have only been here for a week but I can still tell you this. Out of the people standing next to you almost none will survive. The only reason Colonel Bridgeforth has survived for a year is because he doesn’t participate in the runs.’’ A grumble of disapproval spread through the crowd. ‘’Don’t think anything will scare my dad. Even this death sentence,’’ commented Harry. John smirked at the sheer pride beaming from Harry’s face. He smirked because he never knew his Dad. Humour and feigned arrogance were his defence. Some people claimed he was infantilising himself when he ignored the dire state of the world. But he knew if he acknowledged the grim life he lived he wouldn’t choose to live it any more. John’s life had never been good. When he was taken into conscription he had just escaped from the mines. The suffocating depression that harrowing place had given him continually threatened to extinguish his hope. ‘’You may die in this,’’ said Brixton. He looked at Harry and tears began to spill from his eyes like blood from a wound. ‘’But if you try hard… hard enough…’’ his voice tailed off and started breaking like his heart. ‘’Go get ready,’’ he blurted. He rushed over to his son and embraced him. ‘’I can hide you,’’ he whispered. ‘’In the barracks. You won't have to do this.’’ ‘’If you do that Dad Colonel Bridgeforth will kill us both.’’ ‘’Let him fight,’’ interjected John. Brixton forced a smile and reluctantly moved away to lead the troops. ‘’Thanks,’’ said Harry. ‘’Your welcome.’’ Page 20
‘’My Dad’s a real worrier. Barely even let me play football with adults at 17.’’ ‘’You stressed?’’ Harry asked John. ‘’A bit. You?’’ replied John peeking up out of the trench to see the battlefield sprinkled with leftover corpses. ‘’Yeah but not too much. My dad will keep me safe.’’ Suddenly, a bullet pierced the air at John’s side and smashed into the dirt behind him sending dirt spraying. ‘’GET DOWN YOU DAMNED FOOLl!’’ bellowed Bridgeforth. John dropped down in panic. ‘’OVER!’’ shouted Bridgforth. The last words many would ever hear. ‘’Together?’’ John asked a scared Harry. Harry set his jaw and said ‘’Together.’’ Bullets rained at the duo colliding with the ground behind them. Terror began to usurp John’s courage. He glanced forwards and saw the Germans in their trench firing at John’s comrades. Harry tackled him to the ground. A bullet flew overhead. Harry spoke no words. He just rose and started shooting. John stood shoulder to shoulder with him firing round after round of ammunition at the enemy. He was careful not to kill, only firing at arms and legs. Harry’s father joined them and the trinity continued to stay standing as many others fell around them. Numerous lives were being lost around them. A mere few patches of ground were visible under a layer of bodies. The Germans had now started running out of their trench. Four headed straight at John. He shot one in the leg. Another in the shoulder. The penultimate German shot at John and the bullet sliced into his shoulder. He fell to the ground and Colonel Brixton shot him dead. The blood sprayed onto John’s face clouding his vision. From behind, a German appeared who fired at John who rolled over, raised his rifle and shot at enemy's gun. Onto the ground the German fell. From a few metres away another opposing soldier caught sight of John. He was clutching his bayonet and once John realised he was out of ammunition he did the same. John launched himself at the man. He was both disoriented and focused. The soldier's blade slashed near his neck. John struck downwards onto his enemy’s neck. It began to spill blood like a leaking pipe whilst the light of the man’s eyes died. John contemplated. He’d just killed a human. The blood dripped down onto the soldier's name tag: Hans Smitchentach. He’d just killed a human Page 21
with a name. A name given by parents maybe even shared by a sibling, a wife or… some children. John’s horrified eyes flicked around desperately searching for Harry and his father. Gradually, the Germans began to gain ground. Unnumbered bodies dropped dead to the ground. John scrambled over these bodies until he felt more blood spilling from his waist. He’d been hit again. The pain rose up like molten lava in a volcano whilst John's allies were slain. His resilience shattered and his hope incinerated, John considered calling for death. He couldn’t rise from the barren ground and he thought of begging a German to kill him but before he could a great rumbling emerged from across the field. The tanks were here. Some Germans fled at the sight of them. Others fell to their knees to plead. The battlefield became afire with English bullets and the battle was won. John was alone sitting on a bench. The doctors had refused to let him search for Harry until they had bandaged him. He’d walked back from the medical tent. It seemed he was the only survivor of those who went over the top. Many were missing. Then he heard the high pitched grunts of Harry. He rushed out with a parental feeling waiting for Harry. He looked up out of the formerly German seven-foot trench to see Harry hauling the body of his father. Harry’s lip was quivering and a sea of tears was pouring from his eyes. But it was a sea Harry was willing to drown in. His dad had been shot whilst shielding Harry. The sight of his Dad lying cold on the floor stayed seared into Harry’s mind as he dropped his father’s limp body into a trench. Then he fell onto the lifeless body and embraced it giving his dad one last hug. A few hours later, Harry was still crying. John approached him. He knew he had to comfort the weeping boy but he didn’t know how. John was a lone wolf. But not by choice. Because he was cast out and unwanted. Nevertheless, he strode up to Harry with a shattered smile ‘’You alright?’’ questioned John. ‘’Yeah at least I’m alive.’’ John’s teary eyes glanced over to Harry’s football which Colonel Brixton ordered to be carried across once the battle was won. ‘’Would you like a game?’’ They marked goalposts as indentations within the cold ground with their battered boots. Their play was more balanced than before but Harry was still dominant. He played in a trance, his eyes staring blankly at the ball as he kicked it at John. All the cheeky finesse in his style had vanished and when he once ejected even the most mechanical moves with audacious flair he now performed them like a Page 22
hollow contraption; merely going through the motions without any life or passion. The ball flicked past John and thudded against the wall. ‘’The Germans are here. Prepare for an attack!’’ called Bridgeforth and after his utterance the 14 remaining soldiers trudged off.
Having aimed and loaded his new rifle, John’s shoulder brushed against Harry’s. Their guns were directed forwards as one. The loss of his father had changed Harry. Once a boy who beamed out a great smile his mouth was now formed into a frown. His eyes stared across the field ahead of them yet John could tell he was seeing his father’s body. His father’s cold, lifeless body. Every so often a German helmet would rise into view then fall back into the enemy trench. The appearance of the opposing side served as a reminder of the impending threat as John stayed on watch for hours. At long last a fellow soldier arrived. One of the new recruits who arrived mere hours ago. He was about to take watch when Harry said: ‘’There's something over there.’’ ‘’A German?’’ asked John, the tension in his body so close to being relieved. BANG! Having fallen for the German’s distraction, most of the English were caught offguard by the shell. It was far from John but the blast still rang in his ears. German soldiers began pouring over the top and sprinting at John and his allies. John fired shot after shot into the legs of his enemies, tattering their clothing and making them fall to the floor. To the side of them, enemy soldiers entered the trench. John turned and shot them down. Harry covered for him instinctively. As he brought about judgment on them, John saw the looks of fear on the Germans’ faces. He realized then how they had been forced here. Just like him. How they most likely despise their colonel for making them do this. Just like him. And they were probably doing it alongside friends. Just like him. He attempted to fire another bullet at an incoming soldier but his gun was empty. He hurled himself against the wall barely surviving a shot. The flash of bronze that flew past his face made his world slow down. That had been a last sight for so many. Many who didn’t deserve it and those who survived it just fell at the bronze blaze’s wrath later. It dawned upon John how he wouldn’t, couldn’t survive this but he was shocked out of his pity by a soldier approaching. He swung his fists at John, for he too was out of ammunition, and John glanced upon the scars covering every inch of his body. The look of glee as he saw a chance to murder an Englishman dominated his evil face. John thought: this is a man who deserves to die. And he Page 23
did. A fray bullet pierced the German’s side and he fell to the floor. By chance, a bullet had killed a man… and it had been fair. A yell burst from Harry’s mouth whilst he was dragged away from the trench. Another German lacking ammunition was hauling Harry out across the damaged field. Harry writhed about but it did nothing. The German called for someone to shoot the young man in his arms but they were all intent on killing other English troops. Harry squirmed through his captor’s grip and began sprinting for the trench. A German saw him. Harry ran, his teeth gritted. BANG! A bullet flew just above Harry’s head. BANG! A bullet hit the floor between his feet. BANG… A bullet went to the left of Harry. A smile broke on Harry’s battered face and the tanks arrived. Bang! A bullet pierced Harry’ heart and his body fell to the mud-drench ground. A few hours later. John was promoted to Colonel. A gesture as hollow as the promises made by new recruits to loved ones, it meant he had to clear the field of bodies. The moment he rose out of the trench a wave of nausea hit him. A colossal tsunami to John’s miniature boat. He collapsed onto the ground. His prior wounds and his grief aided the smell at bringing him down to the barren ground. A question took shape in John’s head: should he end it? Like it had many times the call to death was heard by his heart. Yet he was still uncertain. He recalled how luck had saved him in the battle for it had treated him fairly. The only thing fair in the world was chance. He’d been given a gun once he was promoted and he didn’t know if it was loaded. He placed the gun on his hip and fired. He fired ammunition. An eerie wind blew across the field clearing the smell of blood like a rubber wiping clean a board. John starred above and saw a jet black plume of smoke billowing in the sky, silhouetted against a red sun that hesitantly cast its light on the horrific scene. The wind blew splinters off the broken trees: splinters as small as the memory of the battle would become. Slowly, John reached for a tree stump but as John pushed himself up, the decaying wood broke in tandem with his hope and as the wind stopped blowing John’s heart stopped beating. Nevertheless the world moved on in a way that lost John’s name and his contribution to the Great War. But history would not remember the war that way. A war that spanned nations, caused hundreds of massacres and led to the deaths of millions would not be known as the Great War. Just World War One.
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The Battle of Legnica
Janik Peeters (10TBE)
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Victory had been pitifully easy. The city of Kraków could not withstand the power of our fighters, and what little resistance the citizens mounted was easily overcome. Our two Mongol tumen had spread outside the city after the ten days of destruction and mayhem we had spread. I was sitting on a hillock not too far from the gates, watching a bakery finish burning down. It was a beautiful sight, the flames rolling out of the doorways and windows in sheets of bright, almost liquid heat. My horses nuzzled up against me, and I heard the strains of a trumpet call. Baidar and Kadan, the leaders of this fine group of soldiers, had summoned us. The men around me saddled up, gathering the equipment they had been cleaning, our Mongol bows with their flexible curve, the arrows they had pieced back together from the remains of the dead. One of them trotted over to me on horseback, laughed merrily as he saw me gazing into the depths of the flame. I recognised him; Nachin of the Mingat, son of Narin, a worthy warrior who had fought bravely by my side for many moons. ‘Always fascinated by something on the battlefield, aren’t you Donoi? There is work to be done yet!’ He gestured over to the landscape behind him, the expanse of our army moving to answer the summons. ‘Don’t want to be late now, do we?’ I let a smile flicker across my face, allowed myself to be helped up, saddled the horses, and off we went, our spare mounts chattering amongst themselves - we had shared horses for several campaigns now, and they knew each other well. Our two commanders had taken up a position to the west of the city, and it took some hours before everyone congregated, a cacophony of triumph and celebration on horseback, some 20,000 fighters all told. The horses were mostly calm, grazing quietly while the chaos settled around them. We organised ourselves into our units, and the commanders informed us that we were to attack Breslau, the capital of Silesia, ruled by the most powerful of the Polish lords, Duke Henry II. The march would begin the next morning, our target to be reached some days later. But we were to be cautious. His army was somewhere in the Polish wilds, as well as that of King Wenceslas and the Bohemians under his banner. That was not a battle to face yet. Our journey was carried at a swift pace, switching horses every four hours or so as we pressed towards our aim. The land stretched around us, the mountains and forests of Europe a stark contrast to the plains our people had come from centuries before. In less than five hundred years, we had conquered an empire Page 26
from the eastern shores of China to the Black Sea, into the frigid norths of Russia and the far south of the Himalayan Mountains. It was one of the largest the world had ever seen, and we were not finished yet. The trip was filled mostly with idle chatter, hunting providing some relief from the boredom. It was a calm time, a shred of peace in our crusade to aid our forces attacking Hungary to the south. But, as all things must, our journey came to an end. Breslau stood before us. It was an imposing sight, the walls strong and wellbuilt, the Oder River flowing through it. It was situated in a low plain, surrounded by a few hills of insignificant size. We quickly moved down to surround the gates, blocking off entry to the settlement, and dealing with any who came along the road. The assault had begun. Their garrison marshalled itself, men massing at the walls to try and keep the Mongol horde at bay. I wondered sometimes how they saw us, these Europeans, with the devastation we inflicted upon them. The order to attack rang out, and we expertly loosed our arrows, sending them flying through the air with deadly speed, felling several who guarded the walls. Volleys returned, not as accurate, but still powerful enough to send several men around me flying from their horses. Arrows flew for several minutes, until an order was sharply given and the defenders retreated, for the moment. They stood safe behind their gates, and had resisted our first attempts to break their forces. As night fell, Nachin and I were part of the party given the duty of keeping those inside the walls occupied to allow for the rest of the army to retreat and set up camp. We peppered their walls a little half-heartedly, sending a lit arrow or two arcing over them occasionally. From what we could hear inside the city, that at least kept them occupied. The day that followed was not met with much success either, and, conscious of our vulnerability, with no reinforcements for miles to the south, and time moving on, Baidar and Kadan came to the conclusion that we should move on. We could not give Duke Henry time to meet with Wenceslas and his 50,000-strong army, or they would be able to stop the assault on Hungary. So Breslau stood. Our dead were buried, their horses given to their closest friends, and the tumen moved on. We made good time, horses’ hooves flashing over the bare earth as we marched towards Duke Henry’s army, spending little time on rests. We could not afford to become so completely outnumbered so deep into enemy territory. Page 27
Scouts rode back and forth along the line, before galloping away while we switched to fresh horses. The landscape shifted steadily before us, a flow of earth that would last far longer than any conquest I ever took part in. Rivers coursed past, small copses of ash and oak gathering in huddles beyond. ‘Say what you want about the people, this land is good land.’ ‘You getting soft, Donoi?’ Nachin had heard my mumblings next to me as we watered our horses. Other men sat down beside us, grumblings of weary bodies and minds drifting over the birdsong. ‘I suppose you could get used to the views. I think the horses prefer the steppes though - far too hilly around here!’ He reached behind him to one of his saddlebags, got out some bread. ‘Eaten yet?’ I took some gratefully, knowing we had a hard march ahead of us to intercept the Polish army. We reached a plain, not far from the settlement of Legnica, that the Polish called the Wahlstadt, and waited. We did not have to wait long. The army that advanced over the crest of the far hill was a substantial one, split into four - a medley of knights, men-at-arms, miners, foot soldiers and archers from across the continent. We readied ourselves, knocking arrows to bows, adjusting our light helmets, making sure any padding or loose armour was effectively placed. The noise from the other side of the plain suggested they were doing much the same. Nachin gave me a nod as I rode over to him. ‘Let’s see who can get the most of the buggers, eh?’ I nodded in reply, a little distracted by what I heard coming from the other side of the plain. There was a rumbling, and a wing of their army trundled into action, all muscle and heaving metal slabs. Our forces quickly whirled into action as they approached us, cantering out of their line of charge. A flag signalled to begin loosing our arrows, and I fired. Shafts streaked through the air, embedding themselves deep into the flesh of our opponents, their horses crying out in pain as blood dribbled down their flanks. Several knights were unseated, crumpling to Page 28
the floor and hurriedly standing back up, whirling around with wild clatters as they attempted to avoid the arrows that came flying at them. Those men fell quickly. Another horn signal rang out, and those still remaining beat a hasty retreat back to their lines, but soon wild cries echoed from them as two of their other divisions came charging at us, pennants waving gallantly in the breeze. They came crashing into our lines, my horse whinnying its discomfort and kicking out at the animals thronging around it. I quickly drew my sabre, slashing around in quick, sharp circles, a whirling dervish of steel keeping my enemies at bay. I looked around to see a large banner waving high above the battlefield - the signal for retreat. My knees knocked together, urging my horse forwards, away from the hubbub of the fight. Switching weapons again, I loosed a few arrows back at the soldiers who had decided to pursue me, leaving bloody streaks along their cloaks and putting a huge dent in one knight’s armour. A hearty cheer went up from their commanders as we pulled away, our horses driven into a gallop to evade the parting blows of the men behind us. Lances were lowered, and as I looked back I saw an imposing sight - a long line, unbroken, forming a mass of heaving legs and steel charging towards us. And then one of our men shouted something, wheeling his horse behind our lines. Byegaycze! Byegaycze! Run. You could see the confusion spread, people slowing, horses turning. And it seemed to work - a commander from the back lines called a halt, and half the knights slowed to a trot, the others ploughing on regardless. Behind them, to our right, came swinging in a flank of infantry, bristling with pikes, spears, and longswords, ready to tear us to the ground and rend us to pieces in their quest to defend their homeland. It was a bone-chilling sight. Again, we went to hand combat, my blade flashing at two or three Polish soldiers, my horse kicking out at those behind me. Nachin came up next to me, dealing vicious blows to those around us. He gave a wide grin as he recognised me. ‘Seventeen! So, what say you Donoi? Beaten me yet?’ It was clear to see the joy of battle flowing through him as he defeated another Polish soldier with a sword blow to the shoulder. Guess that made it eighteen. Sadly, I hadn’t kept track of those felled by my sword and shafts, but it was over a dozen. The hand-to-hand combat continued apace around us, frenzied blows arcing around. I could pick out any number of individual duels in the melee Page 29
around us, between a riderless horse and two knights attacking it, the horse lashing out with hard hooves, crumpling one man’s skull. It succumbed to sword blows soon after, its stricken cries a grim reminder of the bloody consequences this day would have. Looking around, it was clear to see the Poles were gaining the upper hand, one group of their hardiest fighters ploughing through our ranks. I called out to Nachin, pointed them out. He got the gist, rallying a few of the men around us to his side. I shouted out to those of our forces in the way to get out of the way, and we charged. We had managed to gather twelve around us, and they drew level with me as we stormed towards this group of knights. I steeled myself, and we were upon them in a rush, blades swinging. Our attack drove them back, and arrows from others, sensing this was key to the outcome of the attack, flew past our shoulders. They, in turn, were reinforced, a flood of men rushing towards our fight, which was quickly becoming the nucleus of the melee. The Poles stood strong against the attack, and it seemed as if we were going to be overrun, when I saw a flag raised above the scrum - the order to retreat again. And we obliged, casting aside the foes who still tried to hack and slash us down from our mounts, and riding towards a pass through the hills. Again, the Poles cheered, rushing after us with unparalleled blood-lust and glee. I cracked a wry smile as I heard their frenzied screams. Of course, horses run faster than men. Quite quickly, their cavalry began peeling off from the infantry force. Still the flag stayed up. The gap widened. Still we rode, pressing our horses harder. Then what seemed like fog descended upon the battlefield, between the two sections of Duke Henry’s army. Looking left and right, I could see our troops releasing the smoke that was drifting lazily across the Wahlstadt. Orders came quickly, and we split, wheeling off either side of the bewildered cavalry, and unleashing the power of our recurve bows once more. Strung out as the knights were, we were spoilt for choice. Our arrows, yet again, found their targets, men and horses crying out in pain, and those unseated swiftly dispatched by our heavy cavalry with lance and scimitar. I almost ran out of arrows. The knights could do nothing to defend themselves, cut down in a matter of minutes. Cheering echoed from one of the hills - a group of Mongols had found Duke Henry’s guard, and killed him. In the end, 25,000 of his soldiers joined him. We had crushed any opposition to Batu and Subotai’s invasion of Hungary, leaving Page 30
all of Europe before us. This battle could yet be the reason that we conquered all of Eurasia. Nachin rode over to me once the battle was done, still smiling despite the cuts and bruises both he and his horse had suffered. ‘Today is a good day for us, friend Donoi. We have won a great victory here! Come, celebrate. Bartan and some of the others are setting up a fire. There is plenty of food for all, and this landscape is rich - the day is not yet done with us.’
Baidar and Kadan’s attacks on Poland in 1241 were an unmitigated success. The Polish forces were devastated, Wenceslas retreating to a safe location, and the threat to the Mongol forces to the south evaporated. The two tumen travelled south to meet up with Batu and Subotai’s main force of some 150,000 men, who had begun their attack on the armies of Hungary. King Béla of Hungary’s army was vanquished in a series of battles near the Sajó River. Between each other, the two armies managed to carve a swathe of destruction through almost all of Eastern Europe. It is no exaggeration to say that all of Europe lay before them; the generals had just defeated the last armies of any size large enough to damage them east of France. But it was not to be. On 11th December, the great Khan Ogadei died in the Mongol heartlands. As the great Genghis Khan had said, upon the death of a Khan all his sons should return to Mongolia to take part in the election of the next. And so Europe was left abandoned, the greatest threat to its people’s freedom since the Romans never returning again.
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