My legs clasped as the bullet from the machine punctured my right hip. My hair whipped around the air, discarding any insects that lingered; waiting to dive into my open flesh. As I hit the gravel, shooting pains went through my back but the worst pain of all was from the gash in my leg.

Throbbing, my leg felt cold and the warm breeze pushed its way into every cut, making me aware of sensations that I had never felt before. Suddenly, blurred figures approached me with caution. Instinctively, I closed my eyes in case it was the enemy. I felt tall poppies kiss my cheeks as someone forced me to arise to my feet.

Around four days later I opened my sore eyes, to find that I was laying effortlessly upon a hard mattress. Faded blood stains lined the bed sheet and the metal legs of the bed had a layer of rust over them. I could hear the cries for help echo through the portable tent, which made me curdle inside. Suddenly, a powerful surge was felt when a young man was being carried briskly away in someone's arms. The bandage supporting the man's wound, on his leg, dripped with blood. The male nurse pulled off his boots in a panic to make cutting his trousers easier. As he did, a dried poppy descended to the ground.

I carefully arose to my feet in pain and bent down to collect the poppy. It could have been a lucky charm, we all often carried something around to comfort ourselves. It could be something from his family, or a childhood memory...I don't know. But I was almost certain he was going to die. He was losing blood rapidly and the hole in his leg seemed too big a wound. He held onto life for a few more hours, until the pain was unbearable for him. Then, I lifted the crisp poppy in front of my eyes and lifted his icy hands to slide the poppy underneath them.

There were many times when we had fought in a poppy field, consequently the poppy being a symbol, representing us as friends.

Image from:www.herefordtimes.com