France, November 1916
My dearest Elsie
I hope this letter finds you well, as it leaves me. I'm still in one piece, so I can't complain, in the circumstances.
He scratches urgently at his groin, where the lice that nest in the seams of his uniform have emerged to feed. His skin is thickened and discoloured in places, and his underwear is flecked with dried blood. He stamps his feet to get the circulation going; numbness gives way to the tingling of trenchfoot, but warm, dry boots and socks are a distant memory. There is no point complaining.
Things are relatively quiet in this part of the line.
There has been some respite from the thudding bombardment as the main attack has moved further south. He can still hear the wailing as the shells go over, though, the crump as they land, the screams of wounded and dying men.
I have not seen the enemy.
He knows they are there, but to raise his head above the trench would be to risk having his brains blown out by a sniper. He wonders if their living conditions are as bad as his. He hopes so.
I’m not allowed to tell you where I am.
A trench is a trench, mud is mud. They are facing east. He knows this by the way the distant ridge is silhouetted in the mornings. The days are short now, the light dimmed with smoke from the shelling. Dusk lasts all day, until the weary sun drops to its knees and sinks back into the mud.
I'm with a great bunch of lads. We watch out for each other.
He checks each morning to see who's missing, who’s fallen victim to snipers, collapsing tunnels, gangrene. And who couldn’t take it anymore and made a run for it or put a pistol to their head. The ones they never talk about.
We spend hours sitting around waiting for something to happen.
Gas! Gas! Gas! Every hour he wets his finger and holds it above the trench to test the wind direction. Too many men have been caught by the insidious yellow tendrils because they were too slow, too clumsy, too scared to save themselves.
I miss you more than I can say and dream about you every night.
He tries to stay awake. Sleep brings only visions of severed limbs, mangled flesh, headless corpses and the remains of men hanging on the barbed wire like khaki sheets on laundry day.
I can't wait to see you again and hold you, dear.
If he still has his eyes. If he still has his arms. If he survives.
Take care of yourself, my darling girl, and pray for me.
He’s given up talking to God. God stopped listening to him a long time ago.
I send you all my love,
He has no use for it here. Here there is only fear and hate and mud. Endless mud.
Harry
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