A day in the trenches

“A day in the trenches”

Learning Intention To write a descriptive piece of writing

Success Criteria I can set out my writing using the correct structure and format I can use descriptive and emotive language I can use topic specific vocabulary I can punctuate my writing so it makes sense

YOUR TASK Watch this video  - as inspiration for your writing

Write a descriptive story as if YOU were a soldier in the trenches during world war 1. Think about your feelings, your emotions, what you are seeing in front of you and the chaos around you

A Day in the Trenches

My stiff misty body, concealed in the mud.

Hidden away from the opponents, in the reeking, soggy and mysterious trenches.

Seven feet beneath the ground with drenching rain gradually dripping from my delicate head, not knowing if I will die. All I can hear is a bullet per second. Feeling the shivers squirming down my spine.

As I crested over the tip top, many bullets blasted beyond my head. In my mind, I thought to myself, "What was the intent in fighting, how did all of This start, who started it?". As I thought, a grenade discovered my trench, and there I go. Hoping the ones left will survive and all the countries in the future, will be united.

By Destiny Warena

Trenches

James sat on a small stool-like lump, that was carved out of the wall of the Trench.
He sighed softly, as he watched the other Army Men walk by, or sit to take a rest.

The days felt longer the more the war carried on… well, in his opinion at least.
The nights were long as well, as expected. “ At least I get through them, ” The boy muttered,
watching as a calm, warm orange started to break out from behind the distant hills.
James fell silent, admiring the sight. He was soon ushered back into the Trench by his
fellow army mates.

Dear god, was he tired, along with all of the others. You were lucky to at least manage to
get a good sleep, with the small amount of spare time provided. James waited for awhile,
an empty stomach nagging at him like an annoying sibling. He learnt to be patient, even if
the empty feeling of hunger raged on. It seemed like the morning was going smoothly.
Each person was served undyingly delicious hot meals. A small flare of hot steam was still
rising from the surface of the food. James’s thoughts were soon interrupted by the sound
of heavy footsteps marching over. It was his friend, Greg. James glanced up at his friend,
who sat down on the ground next to him.

James smiled, after finishing the food he was given. Greg gave a warm smile,
followed by a quiet chuckle, “ Glad to see a familiar face this far down the Trench line, hm?
”Greg nudged his friend’s shoulder gently. “ Heh.. Yeah, I guess so. ” James replied.

Their short conversation was soon interrupted by the sound of someone calling out, from the
other far end of the Trench. Other Soldiers started to stand up, and begin walking.
James and Greg exchanged looks, then stood to their feet again before heading off to do
the next thing of the day.

By Lily Lewis de Treend

A Day In The Trenches

I wake up at mid-dawn, flies cover my face one by one, WACK! five down, five Hundred more to go. BANG, BANG! Pots clattering towards the front of my drenched face. RISE AND SHINE! Was that my Mum I wonder. I glance up in misery discovering an old guy arranged just like all the rest of us searching for anyone sleeping in.

He suddenly glares towards me with an evil look, I glare back at him still trying to remember what my stunning dream was about. An hour later while all the soldiers were ready to engage I mound a gigantic pile of paper on my solid surfaced bed. I grip the black pen that I found about three miles from here.

I grip tightly to my old pen and begin writing what I thought were my final descriptions to my loved ones. My ears begin to fade to silence throughout the entire trench as I write my last words.  

By Rangiatamea Biddle

A day in the Trenches

March 15th, 1915

So I was really excited to finally get on the battlefield. Why did I want to come here? It’s hell It makes me wish I didn't lie about my age it’s made me realise, its let me think about all the bad decisions I’ve made. From all the trenches I’ve dug each one I think “could this be my burial site the black hole of my death.”

March 23rd, 1915

Now I sort of wish I wasn’t born like I wasn’t meant to be here. It’s all muddy, I can’t sleep, I’m going to die here, I’ve already lost 2 good friends 1 of which was from training camp. Where we learnt how to dig trenches, properly reload and fire the Artillery weapons, rifles, Trench Mortars, Hand grenades, Machine guns and the Handguns,

April 2nd

I have found another guy who just got to the battlefield straight off the training grounds. His name is Jazza and he seems quite the bogan. With his accent, his favourite conversation starter or roleplay conversation is. “ Oi mate tomorrow we get some bacon and eggs on the barbie.” the other day I stopped by the Bottle-O On hols week and grabbed a slab.” I also grabbed a goon bag for the medics.

April 10th

“I’m finally on hols I mean holiday damn he is rubbing off on me.” well time to bathe up and go to the pub for a few schooners (2/3 of a pint 315.45ml of beer). I'm looking forward to hearing some gossip about the commander's wife. Or perhaps a letter from home and a jar of raspberry or strawberry jam. I hope we get crumpets or pancakes tomorrow and finally a proper night sleep on a mattress and not the sticky, brown, pigs carpet and a pungent smell of decomposing bodies.

April 15th

I can’t write a lot because we have to go over the top in 15 but if I don't write I either forgot my diary or I was brutally masticated.

(Deep Dark Paragraph)

All I ever hear is people moaning and complaining, along with bombs going off and dynamite blowing up in the mines. Screams, horrifying screams, piercing my ears, penetrating my eardrums into doughnuts, Explosions rattling my brain. Constant flashes of light, of fire, sparks from bullets coming out of the red metal barrel. Earth flying through the air as soft messy shrapnel like a brown shower. I feel like death itself I am Satan. I feel sad,  angry, hopeless I... I feel... nothing I feel empty, I wish I was still an innocent happy 7-year-old. I don’t want to wake up tomorrow I want to sleep face down in the mud and not wake up in the morning. I want to drink myself to an alcoholic grave/coma. All I want is to give my mum a big hug and sleep. Forever. Anyway, I gotta go now.

By Troy Sherwood-Devery