Kynoch's Explosive Works
Here I am, on these barren marshes, away from my family and everyone I love.
There is nothing nearby. I live in a tiny hut, sparsely furnished. I look at the other women around me, and wonder what their stories are. But right now I am too tired to ask.
Backwards and forwards we go, every day on that train from our hut to the factory. All I see through the window is empty land. My clothes are heavy on my back, and my hair tied up tight as the corsets that posh women wear. All so we don't cause a spark.
Sometimes I want to run away. I think I can actually feel the power of the explosives, just waiting to blow up. Beginning as an atom, then a chemical, and then a bullet, which is terrible. I don't want to work here anymore!
We women work together, but we can see the men. Lifting the boxes we fill, carrying them away. They live in huts too, just like us, but in a different place. All so we don't cause a spark.
Sometimes I think of soldiers picking up the bullets we have filled with such a deadly charge. Loading them, firing them at those who would hurt us. I think of those other soldiers, our enemies, dead by our powder. I wonder if they ever think of us? Of the hands that mixed the powder. Out here, muffled on the damp marshes.
From writing by students of Hassenbrook Academy
There is nothing nearby. I live in a tiny hut, sparsely furnished. I look at the other women around me, and wonder what their stories are. But right now I am too tired to ask.
Backwards and forwards we go, every day on that train from our hut to the factory. All I see through the window is empty land. My clothes are heavy on my back, and my hair tied up tight as the corsets that posh women wear. All so we don't cause a spark.
Sometimes I want to run away. I think I can actually feel the power of the explosives, just waiting to blow up. Beginning as an atom, then a chemical, and then a bullet, which is terrible. I don't want to work here anymore!
We women work together, but we can see the men. Lifting the boxes we fill, carrying them away. They live in huts too, just like us, but in a different place. All so we don't cause a spark.
Sometimes I think of soldiers picking up the bullets we have filled with such a deadly charge. Loading them, firing them at those who would hurt us. I think of those other soldiers, our enemies, dead by our powder. I wonder if they ever think of us? Of the hands that mixed the powder. Out here, muffled on the damp marshes.
From writing by students of Hassenbrook Academy
