"You come home to me, you hear? Come back home to me, son."

Crashing. Crude calls. The sounds of men hurling the contents of their stomachs over the side of the ship.

That's what he could here.

That's all Private Timothy Ronson could hear as he sat at the stern of the ship, watching the waves crashing in the expanse of ocean.

"You right there, kid?"

"Yessir," Timothy looked up at the man addressing him. A sergeant. Battle worn.

"This your first time, kid?"

"Yessir," Timothy looked down, trying to rid the guilt from his face. He was only sixteen. He'd lied to get into the force, but it had worked and now here he was, about to be deployed.

"How old are you, Private?"

"Eighteen, sergeant,"

"You sure don't look eighteen, Private,"

"I know, sir," Timothy whispered, shame gracing his features. He was going to be reprimanded, he could already tell.

"LAND HO'!" the lookout screamed, cutting the admonishment off before it even began.

Timothy gave a sigh of relief before scrambling to his feet, grabbing up his bayonet and running towards the stern with the other men.

"Look at all them Turks," a soldier next to Timothy whistled lowly, his eyes focussed on the masses located around the approaching cove.

"D'you reckon we can do it?" Timothy asked the soldier next to him as the ship ran aground.

"We don't have a choice, kid," with that, the soldier sprinted off the ship, heading for the cove, into the battle.

Timothy stood for a moment before racing after the other men, his bayonet in hand.

Chaos.

Pure chaos.

The Turks were coming from everywhere, Timothy was trapped. His platoon all but wiped out by the wave of enemies, the thousands of men coming down and demolishing the invaders.

"Private! Move on out of there!" The sergeant from earlier screamed over at Timothy, who was huddled behind an outcrop of rock, reloading his weapon. Timothy started and looked up, into the panicking eyes of the sergeant. That moment of delay was all it took.

Pain gripped Timothy as his chest was torn apart in a withering hail of gunfire from the Turks. His uniform torn and soaked with blood, bullets ripping his insides apart.

Timothy looked down at his destroyed chest slowly, before locking eyes with the sergeant once more.

Timothy's eyes clouded over as he dropped to the ground, all life gone from his bloodied body.

The body, loaded up in a plain wooden casket.

The grave, back home,

Private Timothy Ronson

Born 12-05-1899

Died 25-04-1915

Beloved son;

A loyal digger.

"You come home to me, you hear? Come back home to me, son."