Opening paragraph of my first novel, "The Election":

one

Kokoda Track, New Guinea – Wednesday, 23
September, 1942 – 1410 hrs.

Robbo reached for his bayonet and slid it from its scabbard.
He stared at the cold steel – its shape, its artistry – as though
about to intone a prayer before executing his next move. A
moment was all he needed to contemplate how he’d come
to know this instrument of war. He was a member of the
Australian Militia – a conscript – known to regular soldiers
and to the public as a chocolate soldier, a chocko; not a
real soldier, just a kid from Cairns who, a few months ago,
was wondering what he was going to do with his life. Now,
at nineteen, he knew what he’d be doing in his foreseeable
future. A single rain drop slid from the jungle canopy and
plopped onto his bayonet, causing him to blink. There was
something slightly sensual about the sight of the small drop
gliding down the smooth surface of the weapon. It was a
weapon, wasn’t it? Even though he’d found many uses for
it: shaving, opening ration tins, cleaning his finger nails.
And that other use. Only a couple of years ago, there’d be
a slight hesitation – a freeze-frame moment – when he’d
wonder whether what he was about to do might cause
someone a serious injury, before tackling an opposition
team member on the football field. The opposing side was
different now, a lot more than a tackle was required. More
than once, the bayonet had got him out of trouble. It wasn’t
long before he understood what his sergeant had meant
when he’d told them during boot camp that the most feared
command they would ever hear, the single order that would
send an electric shiver of fear down his spine was ‘Fix
bayonets!’

Links:

https://www.amazon.com/Election-Darry...

https://www.amazon.com.au/Election-Da...