Writing Exercise

A sudden flash of light lit up the small barracks in Southern Africa. Medical Officer John Watson sat up in his cot; reaching for his revolver. An eerie silence fell over the hot, African night, but it didn't last long. A siren suddenly erupted, bringing Watson completely to his feet. He scrambled to find his boots in the darkness, cursing the cheap candle issued to him. A sharp, piercing "psst!" broke him away from these thoughts.

"Atkins," Watson whispered in reply, "is that you?"

"What the bloody hell is going on?" Was the only thing Atkins seemed to be able to mumble as he silently slipped into the tent, filling its interior with his enormous girth.

"Get a hold of yourself man," Watson exclaimed, slapping Atkins across the face, "that's the call to arms ringing so it doesn't matter what's happening; we have our orders."

Atkins slowly turned back to Watson and said with a surprising glimmer of delight in his eyes, "the armory then?"

As the two soldiers made their way across the chaotic camp, Watson couldn't help but reminisce about his childhood. He had always heard that a man's entire life flashes before his eyes when he was about to die, but this was different, maybe he wasn't going to die. Instead of focusing on such morbidity, the eye of Watson's mind turned to the man trying to keep up with him. Harry Atkins had been John Watson's friend since school. They had met in the schoolyard after a large, brute of a child had pushed John into a pile of mud. Harry walked calmly over to the large child, tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced his fist to the boy's face. After this, young Harry and John were inseparable. When they had graduated their primary schooling and John left to begin his medical training and enlist, Harry smuggled himself in the fledgling doctor's coach, only making himself known when his empty stomach betrayed him. And so it was that the two friends found themselves in this strange predicament, thousands of miles from home.

A loud crack snapped Watson back to reality. They had reached the armory and were just about to enter when a young private dropped dead mid-stride. Watson hoped Atkins hadn't seen it, but he knew it was a pointless dream. Harry Atkins had never possessed the constitution for blood, further expanding the mystery that was his enrollment in the royal military.

As John entered the small, hut that comprised their camp's armory, he was hit with a sudden sense of futility. "Why are we even doing this Harry?"

"Well I'm here because you wanted to be a glory or something"

"I wanted to help people," John said as he cast his eyes back towards the dead private, "not help kill people."

"Well my dear friend, we can't choose our lot in life. We get what we're given and it seems we've been given mosquitoes and sand."

"But surely we aren't destined for only this."

"Maybe you are, me I'm not so sure about---" but that was all he said. That was all he would ever say. John Watson stared in horror as his childhood friend slowly sank to the ground, a red stain expanding on his dirt-covered uniform. 

"Harry!" shouted the doctor, suddenly very much alone. 

To be continued