The Dyeing Battle

BOOM. Another land mine went off just metres away from Riley. The thunderous eruption shook the earth beneath him, causing him to collapse and tumble down to the trench where he had spent much of the last two days guarding and defending from enemy forces.  The deafening explosion vibrated through his ears and pulsated at his ear drums. He could feel a warm and gooey substance seeping from his ear lobes as he brought his hand up to feel it. He smelt it. Metal. The metallic odour and the thick and dense texture of the substance immediately confirmed his thoughts. Blood.

Riley was a soldier. An Australian soldier. He had enlisted to the ANZACs just days after his 18th birthday, following his two older brother’s footsteps. Their family had come from a line of courageous and brave men. His great, great grand uncle was cousins with Ned Kelly while one of his older ancestors was related to Captain Cook. Riley wasn’t afraid of death; he was afraid of humiliation. The idea of letting his brothers and friends go to war and risk their lives, while he stayed back at home, in safety, frightened him more than getting pierced by an enemy troopers’ bayonet.

Slowly, but carefully he brought himself up to the edge of the trench using his bloodied hands as support while he scouted his surroundings. Still deafened from the explosion; he couldn’t hear a thing, only the constant buzzing and ringing which throbbed in his ears and pounded on his brain, causing him to cup his hands over his bloodied lobes. Taking a few minutes before regaining his hearing and finally picking up the cries bellowing from the end of the extended blood and mud bounded trenches.

Riley gradually made his way towards the shrieks and screams attempting to manoeuvre past the foul stenched trenches and past the dozens of dead men lying beneath him. Body after body, Riley was stepping over trying to keep composed but he couldn’t as he let out a single tear and continued walking past his fallen comrades and fellow diggers with whom he had spent much of the last year with in preparation for this day. They all knew this day would come; and they all knew they couldn’t hide from it. They knew the consequences and the possible outcomes, yet they all chose to be here that day. Not for themselves; but for their country. Not for respect; but for honour.

As Riley approached the creator of the horrendous wailing and sobbing, his path was blocked by loads of carbines with hundreds and thousands of munition rounds scattered across the wet and muddy terrain of the trench. The explosions must have caused the rifles and bullet shells to all tumble down from their respective crates, right into the centre of the trench blockading anyone from passing further into the death engulfed trench.

As he was cautiously stepping over the weapons, trying not to get pierced by their bayonets, he decided to kneel and pick one up as he had dropped and lost his own one earlier, also making sure he grabbed a few clips of ammo while he was at it. He carefully swung the strap onto his shoulder, again trying not to come in contact with the sharp blade, as he proceeded further into the trench.

Riley continued through the trench, pursing the cries for help, when suddenly. BOOM. A volley of grenades from enemy troops were showered towards the ANZAC trenches and Riley with a giant leap of faith hurdled himself behind the closest piece of cover he could find, a destroyed artillery cannon, and rolled himself up in a ball and closed his eyes and awaited for his untimely and unfortunate demise.

There was no way anyone could have survived that. But somehow Riley did. Once the thunderous eruptions had ended, Riley opened his eyes. He inspected himself, by feeling himself from top to bottom. First a sigh of relief. Then a chuckle. Soon after, he was laughing uncontrollable like a madman. He was fine. He was totally fine; uninjured, unharmed, unscathed. He was alive.

And then it hit him. Just as Riley was pulling himself up the pain hit him, and he immediately dropped back to the ground, cursing through the top of his lungs. A tiny splatter of paint was left on his vest as he raised his arm and continued back to the start of the trench.