Transformational Writing

Transformational Writing The men Jerked to the floor, all social barriers destroyed by the capricious constitution of death. Privates and Generals alike squirmed in the filth, their searching hands smothering soft pink flesh, fearing the deathly tunnel of a bullet. Jack flopped, limp like a fish. His face buried itself into the dirt and broke the ironical crust his chin tunnelling into the sticky layer below, gaping like an move over wound. He heard the circumscribe party strike the floor their contents spilling out into the mud.He heard a rasping moan flight of steps Evans lips, his shoulder thumping the fire step awkwardly. He heard the cries of men and the guffaw of a crow, pesky the senseless carnage. And then silence. The dominoes had fallen. Jack wrapped his hands approximately his head, nuzzling his face into the mud as a baby would a bosom seeking the protection of thick underground earthy walls and for a moment he forgot about the war, he forgot about Evans and Shaw and Weir and instead he was sat at crime syndicate with Margaret, chair pulled up by Johns bed, drinking in his sons face running his hands through his umbrageous hair.The promise he had made Margaret echoed in his mind, her mature features thick with concern glazed over im, l am going t surivive this bloody war, Im gonna go home and look after my wife and were gonna grow obsolescent together and on sundays well visit Johns grave and He remembered the misplaced Sandbags. Gingergly he raised his head, others were stirring around him.Weirs broken body lay sprawled in the filth, his arms splaying at odd angles, dirt swimming into his open mouth, infecting every pore. Sir Jack hissed, Its 0k, the boche missed. No reply. Sir No reply. Now on his feet, Jack edged his way towards Weir, commando style in he dirt, his eyes flashing nervously towards the missing sandbags. Weir mud splattered his face, his elbows running(a) with vigour.Blood pumped from the exit wound in the back of Weirs head, saturating his neck and tunic. His soft cap lay forget in the dirt, blown off the balding head. Jack moaned. Cradling his captains body in his arms he called for help, individual get me a medic, he must have fallen unconcious Evans, Fielding and Jones gazed at the pair with a sorrowful expression. Its Just a scratch Jack cried in answer to the now congealing blood, Just a scratch By bighame