I've always loved history and thought of it as just one amazing (albeit long) story. WW1 has...
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25th August 1914:
It was around 7 O’clock tonight when it happened. Johnny’s shift at the grocery store down the road had long finished but he was nowhere to be seen, Mother was not happy. She was just about to organise a search party when Johnny came stumbling through the door. His limbs were shaking and he had scratch marks all over his face and blood was slowly dripping down the right side of his face from a deep gash just above his eye. In that moment we looked so similar and it frightened me. Johnny never got into fights, he was the good one. Mother spent the whole night fussing over him in a way she never did when I came home after one of my fights. Try as she might she could not get a word out of him about what had happened. He just sat there staring into space it was so unlike him. He always had something to say, always the centre of attention, people adored Johnny, hung on to his every word and that was the way he liked it. But recently that has started to change. Ever since the war. Most the young men in our village have already signed up for the war; we are among the few families who haven’t. People have been acting rather strange, always whispering and staring behind each other’s backs. I’ve always been a troublemaker, an outsider so I’m used to it, but it’s having a bad effect on Johnny. That was when I noticed it. The white feather tucked under the collar of his blood splattered shirt, I recognized it instantly, it was a mark of cowardice. No wonder he wouldn’t talk to us- he’s always been so proud. Johnny caught me staring at him and fixed me with a menacing glare before trudging up the stairs to bed.