The sunlight streams down through the tall eucalyptus trees in the forest, illuminating my path of childhood discovery. I am eight years old, bitten by the bug of inquisition, and it is my duty to explore all of the hidden wonders in the fields, my backyard.

I am nineteen, charging across the distant green fields of France, a long way from my home. What am I doing here? What is going on? The world is turned upside down, confusion is everywhere. There is green on the ground and now green in the sky. Gas!

The silvery shapes were darting to and fro in the calm waters of the dam. I am nine, watching the fish, wondering how they could survive in the water. I continue on my path of discovery, but before long my mother calls. Lunch.

I am eighteen, sitting in a musky trench in a land afar. Time for a break from the chaos of fighting, time to eat. The canned beef is tough, hard to eat. Chewing hardly helps. I swallow, and feel the uneasy sensation of it running down the back of my throat.

I am ten, playing gaily with a friend. We have wooden swords, and we pretend to be knights in shining armour. He is no match for me, I am too fast. I thrust my sword under his arm and, as he falls, I give a yell of triumph. I fall too, laughing.

I am seventeen, newly enlisted in the Australian Imperial Forces. I proudly parade up the gangway, into the ship that will take me to France, the front line, and the glory. As I stand on the deck and wave, my mother cries on the dock below. Why is she crying? Is she not proud?

I am eleven, still young and innocent. I have explored all that is near, and I yearn for more places to traverse, more land to call my own. My father takes me on a trip to the seaside, where I watch the pounding waves, the effortless birds, and the tall ships as they sail in from their long journeys abroad.

I am nineteen, still charging. I run across new lands, new places. I am not exploring. I charge over the green fields of France, and under the green of the gas. Green is all around, it is all I see. A dark shadow ahead fills my view. I hear a loud crack, a dull thump. Not for much longer. I clutch my chest and feel my warm blood flowing over my cold hands, the hands that were ordered to kill so many.

I am one hundred and ten, and I am still here in the green fields of France. I am still under green but there is no green below me. I have no name, no glory. The letters are weathered and worn on the stone slab above me. It is peaceful here, the serenity reminds me of home, where the fields are so vastly different, where the silver shapes still dart in the calm waters. I hear a man talking to me, talking about the warm summer sun.

Copyright 2007 Aaron
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