Transformational Writing

Transformational writing The men Jerked to the floor, all social barriers destroyed by the capricious record of death. Privates and Generals a homogeneous squirmed in the filth, their searching workforce smothering spongy pink flesh, fearing the deathly burrow of a bullet. Jack flopped, limp like a fish. His face buried itself into the dirt and broke the dry crust his chin tunnelling into the sticky layer below, gaping like an open wound. He heard the ration party strike the floor their contents spilling issue into the mud.He heard a rasping moan escape Evans lips, his shoulder whopping the fire step awkwardly. He heard the cries of men and the guffaw of a crow, mocking the senseless carnage. And then silence. The dominoes had fallen. Jack wrapped his hands around his head, nuzzling his face into the mud as a baby would a bosom seeking the protection of thick underground earthy walls and for a moment he forgot about the war, he forgot about Evans and Shaw and Weir and instead he was sat at phratry with Margaret, chair pulled up by Johns bed, deglutition in his sons face running his hands through his wispy hair.The forecast he had made Margaret echoed in his mind, her mature features thick with concern vitrified over im, l am going t surivive this bloody war, Im gonna go home and look after my wife and were gonna grow old together and on sundays well visit Johns grave and He remembered the misplaced Sandbags. Gingergly he raised his head, others were inhalation around him.Weirs broken body lay sprawled in the filth, his build up splaying at odd angles, dirt swimming into his open mouth, infecting every pore. Sir Jack hissed, Its 0k, the boche missed. No reply. Sir No reply. Now on his feet, Jack edged his way towards Weir, commando style in he dirt, his eyes flashing nervously towards the scatty sandbags. Weir mud splattered his face, his elbows working with vigour.Blood pumped from the exit wound in the back of Weirs head, saturating his neck and tunic. His soft cap lay forgotten in the dirt, blown off the balding head. Jack moaned. Cradling his captains body in his arms he called for help, Someone get me a medic, he must generate fallen unconcious Evans, Fielding and Jones gazed at the pair with a sorrowful expression. Its expert a scratch Jack cried in answer to the now congealing blood, yet a scratch By bighame