of time you know that our grandson Grant has spent time with us in the motor home and also at the cabin. He is a very bright boy and a joy to be around. His knowledge of military history is far beyond what most 13 year olds know and we took him on a trip 2 years ago and visited many Civil War battlefields. Our son Larry Jr sent us an email about a school competition where Grant had to write a 500 word essay.
I thought his essay was so well written that I am including it on my blog. What do you think? First, a little background.
Grant's school is made up of multiple schools around the world under the Nord Anglia umbrella. Nord Anglia has a yearly writing competition from all schools with five stories from each school being submitted for the competition. Every student in his local school was given the assignment to write a story to submit for the competition with the top three from each class being the contenders for the final top five from the Charlotte school for the world competition. NOTE: Grant made the top 5 for his school.
Grant's story follows. Maybe I should let him write my blog.
Long rows of white, ongoing and as far as the eye can see. They mark the graves of the men who died here. The trees sway sadly, like you see after a large storm has ravaged the land. They brush silently, keeping beat with the wind. The fields blossom with wildflowers, fertilized by the blood of thousands of men. The wind blows as I wander through the forgotten fields. The cold air surges through me silently. The grass is green, hiding the bodies of men who perished. The sun is setting over the fields, its violent orange rays plummeting into the horizon.
It’s dark now. The sun has gone from the valley. The cannons stand guard soundlessly over the meadow. The battle has long ended but its scars have been left behind. An old oak tree sits on the field. There are holes scattered around the tree trunk. Bullets have ripped her to shreds, only a lifeless trunk sits here today. The bright wildflowers shimmer in the moon light, their orange leafs blow eerily in the light wind as the last light of day slips away from the land. There are holes in the ground, created when shells ripped apart men and earth. The trenches have vanished long under the plow; all that is here today is a white line showing where the long thin trench once sat, and marking the spot where many men expired.
It’s silent now. Not peacefully but eerily. Suddenly I hear the gunfire, the screams of many men, wounded from the fight. The deafening noise grows louder. My ears writhe in pain as the noise grows louder. Then silence again. Around me is a sea of blue and gray, moving slowly across the green meadows their boots float over the wet ground as they float slowly through the field. They do not talk, their faces hidden by a shroud of darkness. Drifting as lightly as the wind over the battlefield, their rifles fixed to their shoulders as they march. A replay of their deaths, they stop, facing each other. The fear skulks over me as their guns rise to face each other. They fire. Screams of pain shriek through my ears. I scream as I watch the men fall in front of me.
Blood splatters the field. Bullets rip through soldiers but they keep firing. They run at each other. Bayonets fixed they stab and rip at one another. Then silence, the survivors drift back into the gray mist now covering the forest. I am left in the dark. I collapse on the wet, green earth. I wonder if it is blood or just dew. The beautiful fall trees slowly drift away, their bright colors disappearing behind the mist. The flowers blow in the light wind as the moon slips behind a wall of clouds. I see the graves, white and peaceful, disappear behind the fog. The air stirs around me as I slowly glide away into the darkness, pondering what I saw, remembering the names of the men who died and what they had to live for. Then darkness covers me as I, too, drift away into the mist.Visiting Gettysburg does that to people. Ghosts are stirred in the imagination…and sometimes in reality."
I think he did a great job and hope he gets the recognition in the contest that he deserves.