Letter from the Trenches

For my English Coursework, Original Writing. A letter from the trenches, based in World War 1. Kind of random, I know =/

 

Dear Lillian,

How are you? I hope your doing well. At least better than me anyway. Not that that’s particularly difficult, considering the state my life is in.

My life’s been hell since the first attack. I don’t even see the point in this war anymore. It seems that neither side is advancing, and to be honest it’s not worth the casualties. I don’t even know how this war started. Wasn’t it because one man, just one man was killed? Is that a justified reason for the suffering of so many others?

You remember David, right? He was a good mate of mine; I think you met him a few times. Anyway, you’ll never see him again. First day out here, he got hit by a grenade. His head was blown clean off and he fell into a shell hole and sunk into the mud. I tell you, seeing that happen to one of your friends on your first day… Words cannot describe it. It feels like your hearts been ripped in half one thousand times then thrown in a volcano, pulled out and eaten, and even this does not convey the true horror of it. I could have given up that day: And that was only the beginning. This is only the beginning. And yet, any day could be my last. Who’s to say I’m not next on Satan’s list?

On a lighter note, here’s something to complain about: Mud, mud and even more mud to go with that. Everything I have is coated with mud. My uniforms caked in the stuff, and I’m not allowed to get changed into some other clothes, and there would be no point to it if I did as it would soon become just as bad as the last set of clothes. Even the stuff I keep in the dugout seems to be coated in the stuff: As though everything is a magnet that accumulates more and more filth every second of every day: No matter how much I clean it, it still seems as filthy as before within an hour. Somehow, I’ve managed to keep the ring you gave me clean: It’s nice and safe in a little wooden bow I brought with me. I daren’t wear it for fear of it falling off and sinking in the mud, if it could be called mud at all, as it more closely resembles quicksand: I always liked getting muddy when I was a boy, but now I cannot stand it. And yet then I was told not to, now I’m told to be quiet and tolerate it ‘like a man.’ That’s all we ever get told.

I’m in the process of making a new friend it seems. There is an abundance of rats in this trenches, and my god, they’re as big as our cat! If we brought him here, he’d have a field day: But he would certainly have many scratches and bites by the end of it. Anyway, as I was saying, I’m making friends with one. Big fat thing, mind you. It’s sharing my rations with me. I must say, they are quite tame; they don’t seem in the slightest bit bothered by us. They’d be rather nice if not for the fact they wreck of cesspits, are covered in filth and blood and I’ve seen them eating and burrowing their way through the bodies of our fallen comrades. I haven’t seen this one before. He needs a name, I think. How does Ryan sound to you? Providing it is male, that is.

Silence.

Complete and utter silence. You could hear a pin drop it’s so quiet. When I came out here, I imagined that the fighting would be constant, that there would be not time to rest and there would be the constant sound of shells exploding overhead, cries of dying Jerry’s, and at the end of the battles, a huge victory cry and celebrations.

I suppose it’s just one of the many things that I got wrong.

The quiet is perhaps more unnerving than the constant scream of the battlefield would be. It makes me feel… insecure. I cannot hear what’s going on. I cannot hear if the enemy is about to strike. The occasional shriek of a bomb or rifle can be heard, but this is a rare occurrence. I am beginning to see through this, such as the wall for example. I can see… the table, and beds and chairs, basically the whole room on the other side. If I look at the ceiling, I see the sky. It’s rather frightening to think like that, but that is how I’m thinking constantly. I keep getting reminders that any moment could be my last. When I hear the scream of a shell I cower in fear, for I do not know is it is a stand alone bomb or a whole raid that’s coming. Jerry certainly likes to trick us into thinking that we’re safe, then strike us at the most inconvenient of times. You cannot even begin to imagine the horror of this war: In some ways, I wish you were here, but at the same time I would not want you to see the horrors I am seeing.

You probably wouldn’t recognise me anymore. I can barely talk without my voice shaking, and every sound makes me leap ten feet in the air. I can’t bear being fully aware all the time: I’ve begun to drink, excessively so. I know it’s a downright disgusting thing to do, but I cannot help it. If I don’t find some escape, I think I’ll go mad, and the only other thing for me to do would be to go home ‘sick;’ in other words, pretend to be ill when others who are truly ill are still out here, dying. That’s a right slimy thing to do though, don’t you think? I’d rather be a drunkard that a good for nothing traitor. I could not bear the guilt of having left so many fine men to their deaths when I am perfectly fit and healthy. It’s all in my mind, I just need to stop being weak. But something in my head tells me that it’s not my fault I’m like this, that I can’t help being as jittery as a horse in a thunderstorm. That’s all in my head as well probably, I’m simply making excuses for my cowardice.

I should stop complaining, I suppose. It must be hard for you as well, having to run the house all by yourself, and worrying all the time. I hope the children are behaving themselves for you: I shall have words when I next come home if they are. I hope to get some leave soon, so we can spend a bit of time together before I have to face these blasted trenches again. Look on the bright side, we’re earning enough money to live on, and I’m sure the teenage boys living near us will be motivated to help fight for our cause when they are old enough from my example.

Sending my love, Jeremy.

Author's Note

How realistic?

Reviews

[Dan Hiland]

Great descriptions of the living conditions! And on one hand, this does sound like a letter to a loved one. Trouble is, the author sounds a little detached from what is happening- at least in the second half of the letter. There is some loneliness and disillusionism expressed, as well as heartbreak about the death of his friend- but overall the voice seems too even, reasonable and calm for someone who has taken to drink to soothe his nerves. Maybe there needs to be a touch of hysteria seeping into the dialogue.
Very good effort, though. Seems a shame to not revisit this train of thought after all the work you put into it. You might want to expand this into a series of letters...