My name was drawn out of the hat for going to war.
But I still refused to go.
People started calling me a coward and most of all, a conscientious objector.
Conscientious objectors are unpopular
Apparently it’s not fair that fathers and sons go to war and I don’t,
So I had to be a stretcher-bearer.
Even though it wasn’t my choice . . .
Gun fires skim my head
As I peep out of the revolting trenches
All I hear are screams and yelling.
I’m a stretcher-bearer for New Zealand.
I see soldiers from our side
Falling down like flies.
I race to them and pick them up on my stretcher bed.
I see blood dripping down by their leg.
Suddenly my shoulder feels heavy,
I feel dizzy and like I am going to fall down immediately
Then everything around me stops.
I drop down to the ground.
I got shot.
Straight in the shoulder.
My eyes slowly close
The soldiers rush to me
And bury me carefully in Flanders Field where the poppies blow.