Georgia+Newton

=//Creative Writing//=

The mellow rejoice of mild, blowing winds. The heavy sound of metal against metal. The natural aroma of scented flowers. The red stains of the end taint the brown ground. The calming serenity of rustling leaves. The unresting weight of ceaseless footprints. The innocent chirp of a passing bird. The thump of another fallen echoes through the space. The lives I took and destroyed today were for those who were killed doing the same thing. It is nothing new to me. Knights, trespassers, other outlaws and enemy soldiers have fallen at my hands, deeming my title and presence almost as important as the royal family themselves. After leaving the King's court to deliver a warning, I had found myself in a tedious situation. A group of men had decided to become my enemy when they had attempted to rob me of my possessions and my life. My actions are robotic and repetitious, such as every time before. I gather all important belongings, mount my horse and continue riding. It takes me a few days, and I camp when needed, redress my wounds when required, slay a create when in need of dinner and visit the closest town's tavern when in pain. When I arrive, I am commended and rewarded for my bravery and the bag of gold in my hand, won from betting against the old, drunk man, once again reminds me of the code I pledged my life and love to. Hours pass on, and I am required to ride again in order to defeat time. I move towards the border where there have been reports of mysterious amounts of outlaws passing by to trade dangerous and suspicious articles. When I arrive at the scene, I am awe-struck and befuddled by the scene layed out in front of me. There is nothing to be seen. Just endless trees that extend on to enemy boundary, and not a soul to be found. It is hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago, had I slain five not-so innocent travellers, and prevented them from corrupting the small towns located near here. In the distance I hear a large howl of some kind, alerting me to the presence of a dangerous animal close by. I wait several seconds, but the noise proves to be nothing as no creature appears. A rustling behind a small bush alerts me, and we all draw our swords in preparation for the attack. But it does not come. Instead, a small white creature wonders out on clumsy legs. Watching in fascination as I put my sword away, the small creature stumbles forward and loses it's footing, falling to the forest floor. It then realises who is staring at it, and quickly pulls itself to it's feet, all the while looking me in the eye. I saw small amounts of fear, fascination, but mostly warning. It's capturing gaze ensures I do not look away until suddenly a wolf jumps into the clearing, startling myself and the other knights, but the small creature does not break my gaze. Instead it watches me in defiance, even when the wolf pounces on it, and tears it to pieces - leaving it to die. I quickly leave. I stay the night after riding for quite some time, and after a long mental debate about what to do the next morning, I decide to make the journey back to the main town, located at the hear of our kingdom. The trip is exactly what it had been last time, with the added slaughter of the innocent creature. On the third night, I stop by a small village located in a large clearing beneath the mountains. The image portrayed is beautiful, the sort that leaves you speechless while you stare on in amazement. Fires are burning with meat upon them, whilst men sharpen weapons that are well-crafted and extensive in quality, no doubt to be prepared should any attack come that night. Women wash clothes and cook food, while children run around chasing each other whilst screaming in absolute delight. I am welcomed easily, and food and a bed is given to us without a fuss, proving that our status and importance even makes it out to the most isolated and smallest of villages. The bed offered to me by a you woman is comfortable compared to the daunting forest floor, and a part of me wishes to stay here forever. Before dozing off to sleep, I see the small creature again, and wondering how exactly a creature can convey an emotion through it's eyes. My eyes close, and I am asleep but not before another though comes to me. The women harboring me in her home; the realisation of what she is shocks me to my core. She is the protector. … It had been an uneventful day. My presence in the village is as equal as everyone else's. I am there for little purpose, yet my presence is as important as life itself. The dullness of it is excruciating, yet the vibrant life leaves little to not-enjoy or envy. I provide this village with my services, and in return I am granted a place of acceptance and renewal. There is a sort of trust I put in these people, and an honour I uphold for them provides balance which is imperative to the continual, successful running of the area. Today's events was the same as yesterday, and the day before that, and the day before that. Waking up, completing chores, mending to the garden, fixing the holes in the roof, preparing supper and going to bed. Although there had been a visitor for the night, a man, an outlaw I do suspect he was. His sword was dirtied with dried blood, and he carried foreign items that I suspect payed for any necessities he might need. His brown eyes and dirty blonde hair warm his intimidating presence and my offer to provide a place for him to rest is accepted, for he is to thank for what he had done for me. For this whole town, really. He was silent and thankful, and after being fed he went straight to sleep. Later, I repeat this repetitive nocturnal process. I wake up in a fright, sweaty from the horrific nightmare I just witnessed. Outside I hear screams of frightened children and other women, as well as the battle cries of the village men. Through the small window I can see flashes of light, obviously from people running and jumping with torches. I leap from my makeshift bed on the floor, and gather the small amount of personal belongings that I own in a small, dirty bag. Stale bread, a cover and some water find their way in there, and I gather my wits as I push out the creaking door to escape. The moment I step out I am overwhelmed with the stench of burning flesh and wood, and the sight of escaping villagers climbing and running over a number of dead bodies. I feel nauseous. My hands gather my dress, and I step forward into the rush of chaos. I feel as though I am walking at an unnaturally slow pace, but when I look down I see my feet moving at a fast pace. I am momentarily distracted by a nearby house going up in flames, which causes me to stumble forward onto my palms. I look back to figure out what tripped me, only to see the haunting blue eyes of a defenseless child screaming 'Help Me'. His hand is sprawled out as if trying to reach for me, and his body is at such a funny angle that I am sure was the consequences of other villages stepping on him to escape. Despite this, I know his soul is already dead, and there is no helping him. A flash of light pulls my attention to a nearby sword fight. The outlaw who kept my bed company was fighting a burly looking man, who seemed to have the upper hand due to his strength. They are both too engrossed to notice the attacker step back into a pit of fire, resulting in his bursting into flames. I watch in horror and fascination as the man screams in agony, dropping his sword in an attempt to stop the flames. After several moments of struggling, he drops dead. That is when the Knights arrive. I see relief in the outlaw's eyes, and he turns his back to collect his bag to leave. In these few seconds, he is slaughtered by one clean slash through his back. I gasp, and it's only when the Knight looks over at me that I realise all is quiet and still. I cannot see his eyes through the thick helmet, but I know he's assessing the danger I pose to him. He finally turns around to give orders out, and I take it as an opportunity to run. I make it to the edge of the trees, and look back at the destroyed village. The knight who held my gaze is fighting again, and his familiar face blurs as I turn to keep running. The realisation and failure I feel rises into my tears as they echo through the empty forest, competing with my footsteps and gasps for air. He is the savior. … My amour clinks together as the black steed gallops beneath me. The noise is loud and distracting enough that I don't hear the screams until we are close to the small town. So the lanky messenger was right: there was indeed going to be an attack on this poorly defended community. It takes me a few moments to assess the events around me, as there is much going on: fires, people running around, men attempting to defend and attack and dead bodies littering the ground. A man on fire drops to the ground, obviously dead. His partner turns to flee, but my training as a knight prevents this from happening as my sword finds his back. He falls to the ground, a large wound soiling the ground with his blood. A small gasp averts my attention to a woman no older than 20 lying on the ground. She looks on, not in fear, but in horror and defensiveness. I am confused as to why. Her long brown hair is singed from the fires, and her blue eyes remind me of a lake on an extremely clear day. I turn to give out orders to my men, and we begin to slowly slaughter the ruthless attackers, one-by-one. They make a good fight, but none of them are trained for tedious battle situations like we are. In the end they all fall, along with the buildings on fire around us and the moon. As the sun rises above us, my honour remains standing. Honour is everything. Honourable intentions, honourable actions and honourable consequences. Like routine, we check every body to make sure they are surely dead before moving on to the civilians of the town. I feel sick every time I see a body, whether it be man, woman or child. Does God have no mercy to those who have committed no wrongs? My body drifts to the spot where that woman was lying, and it is obvious she was able to escape unharmed. I stumbled forward after forgetting my stepping, and look down to see a boy. This could have been the reason for the woman's angst. His hand reaches out, and after looking in it's direction I see a small girl around the same age. Sudden realisation comes to me: they were siblings. Bile rises in my throat, and it takes every fiber of my being to calm my sudden anger, nausea and overwhelming sadness. My thoughts travel back to the man I had killed upon entering the scene, and my feet take me to him unknowingly. He is unmoving, and the scar on his back has stopped bleeding. The blood on his clothes are dry, and only know do I realise how much time has passes since we had first arrived at the scene. I turn his body over and stumble backwards. My loud gasp brings my fellow knights forward and we all look on in momentarily disgust in ourselves and each other. The man's trusting brown eyes stare back into mine, and his hands, still at his sides, are covered with scars and harshness that only a traveller would endue. This is him. The one who had come all that way to transfer information that saved many lives, and killed many not-so innocent lives in the process. He was the messenger. = = =//Shakespeare's Macbeth//=

Macbeth - Act 3, Scene 1 Lines 49-73 Prop: A Crown

This part of speech uses great imagery, metaphors and other powerful literary devices to convey the character's beliefs and attitudes towards the other characters and events in the play. The lines also create an insight into Macbeth's character, specifically his reaction to the events that took place and thus, his future to come. The constant comparison and contrast between Banquo and Macbeth is extremely visible and shows the jealous, narcissistic and ambitious side of the newly crowned King, and the emphasis of this is important in foreseeing future events in the play. The paragraph brings in new questions and notions that are answered and discussed throughout the rest of the play.

//To be thus is nothing,// //But to be safely thus. Our fears in Banquo// //Stick deep, and in his royalty of nature// //Reigns that which would be feared. 'Tis much he dares,// //And to the dauntless temper of his mind,// //He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour// //To act in safety. There is none but he,// //Whose being I do fear; and under him// //My genius is rebuked, as it is said// //Mark Antony's was by Caesar. He chid the sister// //When first they put the name of king upon me// //And bade them speak to me. Then prophet-like,// //They hailed him father to a line of kings.// //Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown// //And put a barren sceptre in my grip,// //Thence to be wrenched with an unlineal hand,// //No son of mine succeeding. If't be so,// //For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind;// //For them, the gracious Duncan have I murdered,// //Put rancours in the vessel of my peace// //Only for them, and mine eternal jewel// //Given to the common enemy of man,// //To make them kings, the seeds of Banquo kings.// //Rather than so, come Fate into the list,// //And champion me to th'utterence. Who's there?// = = =//Gallipoli: the Warfront//=

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- Different Perspectives of people about the ANZACs (People at home, the ANZAC soldiers, the Turkish, Person in 2009)=====

=Short Story=

===Step 1: Submit a proposal for one area of focus by finding two poems or one poem and one song lyric for your focus area and writing a commentary on it. Follow the Commentary Writing Guide given to you by your teacher. ===

[|Turkish Poem] //Stop wayfarer! Unbeknownst to you this ground//  //You come and tread on, is where an epoch lies;//  //Bend down and lend your ear, for this silent mound//  //Is the place where the heart of a nation sighs.//

 //To the left of this deserted shadeless lane//  //The Anatolian slope now observe you well;//  //For liberty and honour, it is, in pain,//  //Where wounded Mehmet laid down his life and fell.//

 //This very mound, when violently shook the land,//  //When the last bit of earth passed from hand to hand,//  //And when Mehmet drowned the enemy in flood,//  //Is the spot where he added his own pure blood.//

 //Think, the consecrated blood and flesh and bone//  //That make up this mound, is where a whole nation,//  //After a harsh and pitiless war, alone// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //Tasted the joy of freedom with elation.//

<span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;">//Stop Traveller! You do not have knowledge of this land// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //You come and tread on, where a distinctive person lies// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //Use your ears, as this silent mountain// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //Is the place where there is disappointment// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //To the left of this lonely, deserted, shadeless place// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //The Turkish hill, you should observe// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //Your liberty and honour, also brings pain,// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //Where wounded Turks give their life and die.// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //This very place, where violence was bountiful,// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //When soldiers are constantly dying, spending their last moments on earth,// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //And when the Turks beat the enemy, when the weather was consistently wet,// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //Is the spot where Turks also lost some of their own soldiers.// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //Think of this sacred place with all the blood, flesh and bone// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //That is buried, or had worn this hill, which Is where Turkey,// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;"> //After a harsh and pitiless war with no help,// <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;">//Took the opportunity of freedom with happiness.//
 * <span style="font-family: Verdana,Geneva,Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 10px; line-height: 15px;">My translation: **

<span style="display: inline !important; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; margin: 0in; padding: 0px;">The poem, //To A Traveller// is written by Necmettin Halil Onan, in the foresight of the Turkish views of the fight on the shores of Strait of Dardanelles. This famous battle between Turkey and the Allied Forces is commonly known as Gallipoli, and though the poem doesn't have a specific date that it was written, it is expected that it was written just after the bloody battle took place. The poem is one of the very few pieces of remaining pieces of writing from the views of a Turkish soldier.

Though this poem is written by a Turkish soldier, it has several references to the Australian soldiers that fought against the Turks on the soil of Gallipoli. For example, The orders were for the Australians to attack the Turkish with no restraint or hesitation, which lead to the death of many who were fighting, on either side. The audience is constantly reminded of the innocence and peace of the land in comparison to the bloody, tortured and harshness of the war happening on it. Resistance would be encountered depending on who the audience was. The text is implying that treading on the soil of Turkey was wrong for any who did it and this could be countered easily by the audience by saying what happened was 'necessary for movement of the war'. There are no gaps or stereotyping is being used, but the poet is constantly reminding the audience that the Turks seem to be more superior and stronger than their enemy. Through powerful and empowering words, the text could make any who were not familiar with the circumstances be biased towards this certain opinion.

The usage of the exclamation mark in the first sentence makes us wary of the following text. ' S top wayfarer!' creates a big statement and the words have a big impact on the reader and make the audience aware of the seriousness nature and aura of the poem.

The constant use of words such as liberty, honour, pure blood, nation, makes the mood of the poem seem very honourable. The poet has used these words in order to make the audience understand the solemn and sober nature of the poem. Words such as pain, violently, flesh and blood create the intention of capturing the audience's forgiveness and sympathy.

The audience would perceive Australian identity negatively from this poem, as we are only hearing harsh and marginalizing words coming from the author. The poet is effective in gaining an apologetic nature from it's audience, which no doubt creates an air of submissive and weak around the Australian identity.

//To A Traveller// is a poem of transparent demeaning of the Australian identity, but also a road for the encouraged empathetic nature of the audience.

//**Author**// - Kenneth Slessor //The convoys of dead sailors come;// //At night they sway and wander in the waters far under,// //But morning rolls them in the foam.//
 * //Softly and humbly to the Gulf of Arabs//

//Between the sob and clubbing of the gunfire// //Someone, it seems, has time for this,// //To pluck them from the shallows and bury them in burrows// //And tread the sand upon their nakedness;//

//And each cross, the driven stake of tidewood,// //Bears the last signature of men,// //Written with such perplexity, with such bewildered pity,// //The words choke as they begin -//

//'Unknown seaman' - the ghostly pencil// //Wavers and fades, the purple drips,// //The breath of wet season has washed their inscriptions// //As blue as drowned men's lips,//

//Dead seamen, gone in search of the same landfall,// //Whether as enemies they fought, Or fought with us, or neither;// //the sand joins them together,// //Enlisted on the other front//. ||  || //Stealthily and quietly at the shores of Turkey// //The mass amounts of deceased sailors come;// //At night their bodies are under the sea water.// //But morning waves roll the bodies onto the shore.//
 * My Translation:**

//Between the load, repetitious gunfire// //Some has time for this,// //To pluck the dead bodies from the shallow water and bury them in graves// //And cover their bodies with sand;//

//And each brown wood religious cross is a marker,// //Of the last moments of the men's lives,// //In place with such utter confusion, and pity,// //The words are meaningful, but distant -//

//'Unknown Seamen' - the forgotten and unseen person// //The ink fades as it drips,// //The rain has washed away the inscriptions// //With as much sorrow and sadness that lies with the dead soldiers,//

//Dead soldiers, who had died for the same causes,// //Whether they fought as enemies,// //Or fought as allies, or neither; the sand covers all the dead bodies,// //That were enlisted on the front//.

Kenneth Slessor, the author of Beach Burial, an empathetic and passionate poem written in the honour of the Australian soldiers whose lives were taken from them at Gallipoli. Written in 1944, it's purpose was to communicate the horrors of war and embrace the commemoration of Australian soldiers. The main audience would've been Australian men and women who had families fight in the First World War.

The most foregrounded part of the poem is the stressed fact that the soldiers are dead or are going to die. The author has emphasized the importance of this by the constant visual the reader produces when reading through the text. The overwhelming emotion a person can gather from this is irrepressible, and it is possible that someone would be hesitant to read such a powerful string of words. The poem flows nicely, without any breaks and gaps that leave the audience unsatisfied or confused. The poet also equalizes the Turkish and the ANZACs through the repetitious comments of the destined slaughter for both sides.

At the time this poem was written, the stereotype of the typical ANZAC was straightforward. According to the stereotype the ANZAC rejected restrictions, possessed a unique sense of humour, was dismissive of risks and was constantly proving himself the equal of anyone on the battlefield. If anything, the poem contaminated the stereotype as the words subconsciously degrade and weaken the strength of the stereotypical soldier.

Rhyming is used in the from ABAC to create a flow of words that creates an eerie euphoria of sadness. The continuous trance positio ns the reader to feel as though they at loss as how they can help or change the emotions they are feeling from the reading of the poem.

The poem is powerful because Slessor isn't telling us a story, but more of the consequences of a story. This is powerful because it places the reader in a position where they can visualise the horrific images of war, which supports the eerie aura the words bring to the reader.

The poem doesn't contribute to the understanding of Australian identity if a foreigner or a non-Australian were to read it. This is because the verses do not celebrate or explain Cultural Australia using stereotypes, but more destroy the joy and exhilaration of what other's would expect. The author is successful in conveying and balancing the moral and sentiments of the piece.

Rare film: ANZAC troops at Gallipoli

Our focus is Australians at War with a focus on the contrast between interpretations from the warfront and the homefront. The two main cultural perspectives presented are the idea of heroism in war and the contrasting harshness of war, the deaths and slaughter. This visual is an accurate portrayal of our cultural perspective focus. It effectively combines both ideas of heroism and harshness of war. The painting is a more complete portrayal of the event without any strong manipulation of techniques to emphasise a cultural perspective. The subject matter is of soldiers disembarking at the Anzac Cove. A viewer can feel the confusion of the mass of soldiers charging, but they can also feel the heroism and bravery exhibited by the subjects in the action. Dixon used a limited palette with monochromatic colours that does not bring the viewer to any specific element of the painting. The dramatic posture of the men charging shows bravery. The artist also does not silence the deaths, as he paints the bodies that have fallen as well. Composition is balanced and therefore does not purposely confront the reader. In this wiki, we chose to focus on the different perspectives that are put forwards regarding the Gallipoli campaign and Australians in World War 1.

= = =Waiting for the End= = = **What if you were there…** **Anzac Cove, July 1915.**

//It’s a good view, leaning against the dusty bank watching the sun on the sea. The wind's blowing from Australia. I can smell the dead and hear the roosters and dogs in the Turkish villages. My sister's taken the news badly and I sit on her letter so it doesn't blow away. It's the only letter I've got since I've been here but it would've been better if she hadn't written. I don't want to think about home. I only wrote to tell her about Mick being killed and to let Dad know that I was a crack shot, that I'd come third in Egypt in a shooting competition. Corpse flies cover the handle of the bayonet I've driven into the dirt, crawl over my lips and skin. I've given up trying to brush them away. But, in its own way, Gallipoli's a beautiful place.// //IT's strange that I can't do it. Seems pretty stupid, with the days being so hot and most of the others having cut the legs off their pants. Some men aren't even wearing tops anymore, but I can't do it. I held off in days hotter than this. I still remember how good it felt when I looked in a mirror and saw myself in my uniform. I looked strong, and people, even good-looking ladies, looked at me when I walked down the street. Even my mum seemed to like it.// //"What's going on Pete? Have we won the bloody war?"// //It's Davo the Ox, soaked with sweat and struggling just to stand let along carry the two kero tins he's got slung over his shoulder. He's lost weight, looks as skinny as the stick insects you see in museums. I'm meant to be on fatigues as well, but it's too beaut a day to get too carried away.// //"Sit down before you stop one."// //"Ah, it doesn't hurt much anyways," he says, as the full tins thud to the ground. He slumps next to me and I know I'll be the one who's got to get him to his feet again. Davo hot shot through the arm in the first week, then got a couple more holes from Beachy Bill as he made his way back to the beach. The stupid bastard couldn't wait to get back especially now his brother's gone. We sit there and smoke rollies and I think about nothing. Davo squeezes pus from his leg sores and wipes it on the dirt near my bayonet.// //"You finally cutting shorts?"// //"Not after seeing your bloody legs."// //My pants are torn and threadbare as it is but I don't want to look like Davo when my number's up. I want to be buried in my uniform. I want the others to remember me that way. I rest against the bank and stare at the sky as I take a long drag. It really is a beautiful day.// //"Less room for the lice," he says, then adds cheekily, "no one's gonna mind your white pins."// //"You heard the latest furphy?"// //"What? The one about English generals asking an Australian private how to win the war."// //"Austria's surrendered," I say, laughing at his joke.// //It'll be good when the war's over and we can get home but it doesn't seem it'll be happening any day soon. I can't take the flies no more. A couple of shrapnel shells explode close by. I hear a soft thud and look at Davo with his lit fag handing from his lips.// //"You alright?"// //He kind grins and I lie back down and close my eyes and ignore the flies as the sun burns my face.. One of the water tins must've been hit 'cos my elbow's wet.// //"You've got a hole in one of your tins, Davo. Looks like you'll be making another trip."// //He doesn't reply and I know he'd dead even though he's still sitting up. He was always talking about how he was gonna buy a tractor for his father with his pay. His hands are clasped like he's praying but he's no religious. I grab the water tins and swear all the way up to Tasmania Post. I'll come back with the padre and his mates and we'll bury him with the others.// <span style="display: block; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: right;">**Private Pete Walden**

Waiting for the end is a short story by Leon Davidson placed in a book called Scarecrow Army to commemorate the 90th anniversary of Gallipoli. Davidson’s perspective emphasized the detachment and loss of human emotions regarding death. However, he chose to shown the Anzacs as being strong. Firstly, the character was portrayed as being detached and lacking human emotions. Davidson tried portray a more realistic perspective of the Anzacs. They are not all heroic and above the average human, but as humans who loses emotions to protect themselves. A major technique that the writer used to convey this idea was to use sentence length and structure. The short and simple sentences relay a feeling of distance and loss of emotion. The character who narrates writes ‘I can smell the dead and hear the rosters ad dogs in the Turkish villages. My sister’s taken the news badly…’ These sentences are simple in structure and short. They only use the senses, not conveying emotion from the writer. Therefore, they give a sense of the loss of emotion and detachment. Plot was also used to illustrate the idea of detachment. Davo was killed. But the narrator merely writes ‘…I know he’d dead…and we’ll bury him with the others.’ Even though, the narrator describes the aspiration of the dead man, he does not show particular emotion to his death and loss. This proves the character’s loss of emotion at seeing too much death. Davidson also used a metaphor that was prevalent throughout the whole story to illustrate this point. The ‘flies’ in the story first are described as ‘corpse flies’. This is an unusual description. It describes the ‘flies’ as being related to death thus the word ‘corpse’. Therefore, when the character has ‘given up trying to brush them[flies] away’, the implied meaning was the character does not feel afraid of death. He has accepted it and feels detached from it. Davidson portrayed detachment of the soldiers. Therefore showing them as humans. The same metaphor was used in portraying strength at the same time. The strength of the character was the strength of perseverance and determination bordering on stubbornness. He does not cave in to natural obstacles. The writer mentions that the days are hot and ‘most of the others having cut the legs off their pants.’ But the character ‘can’t do this.’ The small action of not ‘cutting the legs off their pants’ is a metaphor illustrates the character’s perseverance. It also says the character ‘looked strong’, therefore, it illustrates that the character wishes to remain strong. Therefore it is reasonable to conclude the idea of strength of the Anzacs. <span style="display: block; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: right;"> <span style="display: block; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt; margin-bottom: 0in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; text-align: right;">