‘The Battle of Crecy’ by William Russell, Year 9, Bury St Edmunds County High School

  1. Crecy. Ranks upon ranks of french militia are staring us down. The sky is a deep reddy-orange foretelling the coming bloodshed. We are to strike at sunrise, many will never see it fall.

It’s time. Our lord commander rides along our ranks stirring our spirits, raising our weapons we charge. With death on our tongues, we charge. The cavalry rode at our side preparing for a flank ; meanwhile they wait upon a far superior position. Then, Without warning, we cross the border as the first man falls, felled by a blue fletched arrow. This is war. More fall, more pain, more screams. More lives lost, more families grieving souls who will never experience again. War cries and cries of pain are all that can be heard. Fear is non-existent at this moment. All that exists is the sword in my hands.

Woosh. An arrow whistles past me. Clash. A sword hits my shield.; I raise my arming sword and like a dance of death my enemy raises his in turn. I use this opportunity to fall to one knee and open the frenchmans guts. All manner of things pour from the wound as his eyes fall back in his head. No time to feel guilty. A spear lunges for me. A flurry of strikes find me and are deflected with ease. The spearman hooks the blade of my sword with his halberd and wrenches it out my hands. Falling back, I raise my shield, but he is upon me  once more. Another spearman appears to my left. I can not hope to defend from them both. As if by divine intervention an arrow sprouts from the visor of the first aggressor. Instinctively I drop my shield and dive for the halberd. Lunging upward i catch my would be killer off guard and a torrent of blood erupts down the shaft of my red tainted spear

Pain. Searing pain. Unbearable pain. From what? From who? How? Questions that can’t be answered. A barb tipped arrow is protruding from my leg. Crimson red blood floods the cloth above it. I fall to the ground, scrambling for what I need.A sturdy shafted arrow. A large section of cloth. In the midst of this chaos I fashion a make-shift tourniquet. Little pain subsides but even that is a blessing. My screams become lost among the others as I cut a chunk out of my leg where the arrow struck. Moving past the urge to vomit, I slide the tourniquet onto the hole in my leg and tighten. The relief is the sweetest thing I’ve ever felt. Then the world went black.

Seconds, minutes, hours, days. I know not how many have passed. I am in a wagon, I realise as I hear nieghs outside and feel bumps in the road. I’m alive! Then the memories. The pain. The guilt. We must have won or I would not be here. My prayers were answered.