August 7th, 1915. The Battle of the Nek. Gallipoli Campaign.
It was supposed to be the final push. A coordinated assault to break the stalemate and punch through the Turkish lines. Another chapter in the bloody mess they called the Gallipoli Campaign. But what we got was chaos. Miscommunication. Slaughter.
The trench was soaked in blood and silence. Not the peaceful kind. This was the kind that screamed without sound, the kind that clung to your skin like rot and made your bones feel hollow.
I was in the third wave. Not the first poor bastards. Not the second. Just one of the unlucky fucks who went over before command finally pulled their heads out of their arses and called it off.
Thirty metres of open ground between us and the Turkish guns. Thirty metres of pure fucking death.
The first wave went at dawn. Brave, dumb bastards. They didn't make it ten steps before the machine guns opened up. Sounded like the sky was being ripped apart. Men dropped like butchered pigs. Arms flailing, legs twitching, some screaming, most not. One bloke got hit so hard he spun mid-air like a puppet with its strings cut. Landed face-first. Gear flew in every direction like shrapnel.
A second wave followed. Same bloody result. They climbed over the sandbags and were shredded before they could even spread out. I saw one crawling, guts trailing behind him like a busted hose. Another was still standing, rifle raised, until his head just wasn't there anymore. Just a red mist and a twitching body.
Then it was us.
We hesitated. Of course we did. You could see it in every bloke's eyes. We knew. We fucking knew. But orders were orders, and the Aussies were ready for a fight even if it meant charging straight into hell.
Lieutenant Harris was losing it. Pacing like a man on the edge, eyes wide, voice cracking. He'd seen the massacre. He'd begged command to call it off. Ran to the field phone, screamed down the line. But the reply came back cold and clear.
"Third wave proceeds. No exceptions."
He looked at us, hollowed out. Then he blew the bloody whistle.
I didn't move at first. None of us did. It was like our bodies knew better. But Harris was already climbing the sandbags, shouting like a madman.
"FORWARD! GO! GO! GO!"
So we went.
Tommy was beside me, pale as a ghost, eyes wide, mouth whispering something. Maybe a prayer. Maybe a curse. I didn't ask. I just screamed. We all did. War cries, guttural and furious. We were just meat for the grinder.
We charged.
The ground exploded around us. Bullets tore through the air like angry bees. I saw blokes ripped apart mid-step. Legs gone. Arms flung into the dirt. Faces caved in. One bloke tripped over a corpse and got shot in the back before he hit the ground. Another was screaming, clutching his stomach, trying to shove his guts back in like he could fix it.
Then I heard it.
"STOP! STOP THE CHARGE! THIRD WAVE'S OFF! GET BACK! FOR FUCK'S SAKE, GET BACK!"
Too fucking late.
I was already halfway across no man's land when the order came. I turned and saw the others scrambling, diving back into the trench like rats fleeing a flood.
I didn't make it.
A bullet punched through my shoulder and spun me sideways. Another clipped my leg. Then one slammed into my gut like fire tearing through my nerves. I dropped, choking on the mud, the sky spinning above me like it was trying to escape too.
I lay there bleeding, screaming, laughing. Because what else could I do.
Every breath was fire. My shoulder throbbed. My leg was useless. My gut felt like it was trying to crawl out of my body. I could feel the blood pooling under me, soaking through my uniform, mixing with the filth and gore around me. Some of it was mine. Most of it wasn't.
I was dying. Fast.
Six months ago, I was on a dusty patch of land in the outback, chasing sheep and fixing fences. Jack Smith. Sixteen years old. Hands calloused from farm work. Skin burnt from the sun. They said war was an adventure. They said we'd see the world. I signed up with a grin and a lie about my age. Thought I'd be a hero. Thought I'd come back with stories.
Now I lay sprawled in a foreign field, drenched in blood. Mine, maybe some poor bastard's who went down before me. We'd all been fed to the grinder, chewed up and spat out like nothing.
Harris led the charge. Brave, stubborn bastard. He went first, shouting us forward like it meant something. Tommy used to sneak me smokes behind the mess tent, always with that crooked grin. Mick didn't even make it past the sandbags.
Someone screamed to stop it. Too late. Now they're all gone. Just torn-up scraps of memory scattered across no man's land, dissolving into the mud.
The warmth drained from me, slow and steady, soaking into the earth like it was trying to pull me under. Gunfire cracked overhead. Screams echoed, some close, some fading. I could hear them dying. My mates. My brothers.
But I couldn't move.
Couldn't speak.
Could barely think.
And then, with the last breath I had left, I muttered it.
"Fuck this."
Not loud. Not defiant. Just tired.
Then everything went black.
But I was still there.
Not alive. Not dead. Just thought, floating in the dark, stripped of body and breath. My mind was the only thing left, flickering like a dying flame. No pain. No sound. Just memory.
I thought of home. Of the sheep. Of the dust. Of the lie I told to wear a uniform and chase an adventure.
And I thought of myself. Jack Smith. Sixteen. A farm boy turned soldier.
Then came the twist.
A pull. A stretch. A wrenching sensation that tore through everything I was. Not flesh. Something deeper. Like my soul was being dragged out and rewritten. My memories burned at the edges. My thoughts scattered like ash. I wanted to scream, but I had no lungs. I wanted to fight, but I had no body.
And then.
Light.