“The Forgotten Soldiers”

by Amanjoyt Kaur Bhakar

It's the winter of 1914. The sky is murky and grey. The clouds are black. They're moving above us like symbols of death, reminding us of our pending mortality. The soaring spitfires are whizzing through the sky, moving at rapid speed, and the lightning bolts, like sharp knives, are attacking the sky as though they were determined to murder nature!

My name is Captain Daleep Singh, and I'm the leader of the Punjab Sikh regiment. I'm crouched down deep in the darkness of this open grave. I'm cramped into a muddy trench along with my other brave fellow Sikh brothers. As I look at their faces, I can sense their anxiety and fear of what is to come. I am too. They are tired, cold and shivering in what are inhumane conditions. Their only pair of boots are drenched and soaked right through looking like a soggy pair of soiled socks, and their clothes are stained with blood and sweat resembling the mud in which they lay.

The cold breeze brushes past our dry lips, and thread-bare turbans, it brings in a pungent scent of the dead corses that lay above us in no mans land. The British have tried to persuade us to take off our turbans. They thought that a helmet would be safer. That it would protect us more. A Sikhs turban is our pride and joy. You can take off our head but not our turban. It is one of the greatest symbols of a Sikhs identity. It sends a shiver down my spine, thinking that I would never take off my crown of pride.

'A king is crowned once, but a Sikh is crowned every morning'.

I am now laying on the marshy ground awaiting my death, I recall my village in Punjab and the thought of returning home to my beloved family. The long green grass of my farmlands and the warm beams of the sun on my back. I miss it dearly. We serve the British Army with pride and honour, but we desire our own freedom. The thought of an independent India fills me with hope.

As the German army close in, my daydream is abruptly broken. We defend our position with the ferocity of a lion. We charge into battle courageously. Each of us fighting with all that we can give. Brave as we are, I see my brothers fall one by one. It's an odd feeling to see ones brother die in front of ones eye - their last gasp of breath as their souls leaves their lifeless bodies.

Tears in my eyes, I continue to shoot, when finally my turn arrived.... A piercing ringing filters my ears and all that I hear is the Grim Reaper calling my name. I embrace him with open arms.

I hope we did not die in vain. I hope our sacrifice is not forgotten!

I am Captain Daleep Singh leader of the Punjab Sikh regiment signing off duty for the last and final time.