Excerpt from ‘Homage to Catalonia’ (1938), George Orwell's account of his

experiences, reflections, and observations in the Spanish Civil War.

The book is written using the first-person, limited, point of view. Orwell is candid about relating his wartime experiences in a straightforward,
journalistic method and openly states his bias on several situations. This personal narrative style leads to an inescapably authoritative text, which is
both compelling and informative. The book has the authentic feeling of being the narrative of one who has, indeed, been there and done that. Note
how the following combat-related scene is quite enjoyable and engaging, owing largely to the intimate feel propagated by the point of view selected.

I had been about ten days at the front when it happened. The whole experience of being hit by a bullet is exciting and I think it is
worth describing in detail.
It was at the corner of the parapet, at five o’clock in the morning. This was always a dangerous time, because we had the
dawn at our backs, and if you stuck your head above the parapet it was clearly outlined against the sky. I was talking to the
sentries preparatory to changing the guard. Suddenly, in the very middle of saying something, I felt – it is very hard to describe
what I felt, though I remember it with the utmost vividness.

Roughly speaking it was the sensation of being at the centre of an explosion. There seemed to be a loud bag and a
blinding flash of light all round me, and I felt a tremendous shock – no pain, only a violent shock, such as you get from an electric
terminal; with it a sense of utter weakness, a feeling of being stricken and shrivelled up to nothing. The sandbags in front of me
receded into immense distance. I fancy you would feel much the same if you were struck by lightning. I knew immediately that I
was hit, but because of the seeming bang and flash I thought it was a rifle nearby that had gone off accidentally and shot me. All
this happened in a space of time much less than a second. The next moment my knees crumpled up and I was falling, my head
hitting the ground with a violent bang which, to my relief, did not hurt. I had a numb, dazed feeling, a consciousness of being very
badly hurt, but no pain in the ordinary sense.

The American sentry I had been talking to had started forward. ‘Gosh! Are you hit?’ People gathered round. There was
the usual fuss – ‘Lift him up! Where’s he hit? Get his shirt open etc. etc. The American called for a knife to cut my shirt open. I
knew that there was one in my pocket and tried to get it out, but discovered that my right arm was paralysed. Not being in pain, I
felt a vague satisfaction. This ought to please my wife, I thought; she had always wanted me wounded, which would save me from
being killed when the great battle came. It was only now that it occurred to me to wonder where I was hit, and how badly; I could
feel nothing, but I was conscious that the bullet had struck me somewhere in the front of the body. When I tried to speak I found
that I had no voice, only a faint squeak, but at the second attempt I managed to ask where I was hit. In the throat, they said. Harry
Webb, our stretcher-bearer, had brought a bandage and one of the little bott. les of alcohol they gave us for field-dressings. As
they lifted me up a lot of blood poured out of my mouth, and I heard a Spaniard behind me say that the bullet had gone clean
through my neck. I felt the alcohol, which at ordinary times would sting like the devil, splash onto the wound as a pleasant
coolness.

They laid me down again while somebody fetched a stretcher. As soon as I knew that the bullet had gone clean through
my neck I took it for granted that I was done for. I had never heard of a man or an animal getting a bullet through the middle of
the neck and surviving it. The blood was dribbling out of the corner of my mouth. ‘The artery’s gone,’ I thought. I wondered how
long you last when your carotid artery is cut; not many minutes, presumably. Everything was very blurry. There must have been
about two minutes during which I assumed that I was killed. And that too was interesting – I mean it is interesting to know your
thoughts at such a time. My first thought, conventionally enough, was for my wife. My second was a violent resentment at leaving
this world, which suits me so well when all is said and done. I had time to feel this very vividly. The stupid mischance infuriated
me. The meaningless of it! To be bumped off, not even in battle, but in this stale corner of the trenches, thanks to a moment’s
carelessness! I thought, too, of the man who had shot me – wondered what he was like, whether he was a Spaniard or a
foreigner, whether he knew he had got me, and so forth. I could not feel any resentment against him. I reflected that as he was a
Fascist I would have killed him if I could, but that if he had been taken prisoner and brought before me at this moment I would
merely have congratulated him on his good shooting. It may be, though, that if you were really dying your thoughts would be
quite different.

They had just got me onto the stretcher when my paralysed right arm came to life and began hurting damnably. At the
time, I imagined that I must have broken it in falling; but the pain reassured me, for I knew that your sensations do not become
more acute when you are dying. I began to feel more normal and to be sorry for the poor devils who were sweating and slithering
with the stretcher on their shoulders. It was a mile and a half to the ambulance, and vile going, over lumpy, slippery tracks. I knew
what a sweat it was, having helped to carry a wounded man down a day or two earlier. The leaves of the silver poplars which, in
places, fringed our trenches brushed against my face; I thought what a good thing it was to be alive in a world where silver
poplars grow. But all the while the pain in my arm was diabolical, making me swear and then try not to swear, because every time
I breathed too hard the blood bubbled out of my mouth.

The doctor re-bandaged the wound, gave me a shot of morphia, and sent me off to Sietamo.
 Write a brief narrative based on your own experiences, observations and candid reflections of an
incident you experienced such as falling off your bike, scooter, trampoline etc. In adopting your own Orwellian
style, be sure to describe your experiences in vivid detail by reflecting on your observations.

As I pedalled through the quiet streets on that fateful afternoon, the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that danced upon
the pavement. The air was thick with the scent of summer, a mixture of blooming flowers and freshly cut grass, creating an intoxicating
atmosphere. My mind wandered, lulled by the rhythm of the pedals and the gentle hum of the world around me.

Suddenly, a moment of distraction—a fleeting thought about the book I was reading—pulled my attention away. It was then that I felt
the bike wobble beneath me, like a ship caught in a sudden squall. My heart raced as I fought to regain my balance, but the inevitable
was upon me. In a chaotic ballet of limbs and metal, I tumbled to the ground, the world spinning in disarray.

The impact was jarring; the asphalt, cool and unyielding, met my side with an unforgiving embrace. For a heartbeat, I lay there,
breathless, absorbing the absurdity of my situation. The bike, once a trusted companion, now sprawled beside me in a twisted heap, its
wheels still spinning as if mocking my misfortune.

As I pushed myself up, the world came back into focus. I noticed the small details: the way the sunlight glinted off the gravel, the distant
laughter of children playing, and the slight sting of gravel embedded in my palm. I felt a rush of embarrassment wash over me,
accompanied by a strange clarity. This was not merely an accident; it was a reminder of my fragility, a stark confrontation with the limits
of my control.

In the aftermath, I found myself reflecting on the nature of balance—not just on a bike, but in life itself. The momentary chaos had
stripped away the veneer of invincibility I often wore, revealing the raw truth that we are all susceptible to the unexpected. As I walked
my bike home, the weight of that realization settled in, a quiet companion on my journey.