This is about a year old, just found it on my harddrive. It's a WW1 story written for history, pretty crap to be honest but the short diaristic style is kinda unusual for me.
[big]To End All Wars[/big]
A soldier’s account of the Great War, 1914-1918
June 11, 1915
We have reached the front lines at last. Private John Mernson, Ninth Essex, twelfth eastern division. For the last few months we have trained for this, all of us, and we’re all ready to push the damn Germans back where they came from.
We are approximately two moles from the front trench, in one of the main camps. It’s amazing the noise the artillery is making! I’m sharing a tent with a rather pale, nervous young fellow called Bernard, who says the noise scares him. I explained to him how all the rockets could blow up the German trenches and let us win quickly, but I don’t think he was listening. Poor lad – I don’t think he’s older than sixteen.
We are ready to die for our country, and die for our families and friends at home. This is what war is about.
June 29
Today I had my first sight of a front line trench. It’s a bit muddy, but not too bad. We were constantly being shot at, so we spent most of our time with our heads down, hoping we wouldn’t get shot. We lost a couple of men, in other bits of the trench, but the fellows round me were all safe. Our NCO’s a good chap called Lance Corporal Frompton, who was very good at chivvying young Bernard along. We’ve got a good few others in our little band; Fred, who used to be a milkman, Jim, who used to be a farm hand, Danny, who’s got a hare lip, Bill and George, who are best friends, Edward, who worked in a bank, and Harry, who like me worked as a grocer.
July 2
Jim got shot today. It was just after noon and he poled his head out to see if anything was going on over the other side, when a sniper got him. His forehead was just splattered all over the place – ran to help, but I was too late. I felt sick. Bernard fainted. I didn’t know him very well, but he seemed a good fellow. Was his death really necessary?
July 10
At last we’re back in camp. It’s a relief not being shot at.
July 18
Back on the front line. Muddy and smelly. Nearly got shot.
July 25
The trenches are getting worse every time we go back. It’s simply not possible to clean out the excrement for fear of getting shot. It’s dangerous too; we can’t even look out to see the enemy without having bullets whistle overhead.
August 7
Trenches are getting muckier. Nearly got hit.
August 8
Got new gas masks today. Apparently the enemy have some kind of gas that can blind you – it sounds rather bad…
August 11
A shell hit number 1 section, just up the trench from us. Big explosion, poor fellows.
August 19
Thinking of the family today – the old timers, hoping they’re OK. Jenny at home; we were going to get married this year. I can picture her smiling at me…
August 20
Tried to muck trench out today, failed when I nearly got shot.
September 12
Worse and worse. Saw rats in trench today. Danny got hit, but his helmet stopped it luckily. He got knocked clean out though.
September 14
Rain. The trench is muddy and foul, and smells something terrible. Danny’s recovering, but he’s got a cold.
September 26
Moved out of the hell-hole at long, long, last. We kept chin up, and moved out, marching to someplace called Loos to relieve the Brits there.
Sep 30
Sick. Scared…
On Sep 29 we reached the Hulluch quarries near Loos. Bastard German machine guns kept us out – we kept on coming. Danny shot dead, poor lad. We had to dig those damn trenches right through the night, with bullets slamming into the soil right by us. Then the shells began. The first one hit command, Major-General Wing killed outright. Then one hit near me. Fred was dead before he could scream. Bits of metal ripped him to shreds, like a rotten apple being dropped on the floor. Blood spattered my trousers. Flesh hung limp over the floor; his wavy blond hair was full of bits of bone and grey brains… I retched - it was a sick, sick sight. We didn’t stop digging though. We couldn’t.
Oct 2
Odd day. Shells rained down around our huddled bodies, and we thought of home. Talked of home. We were shown posters of a green homeland to die for – and so we’ve marched off to a wasteland of mud to die in. Thought of Jenny.
We couldn’t bury Fred – he just lay where he’d fallen, trench mud oozing around all that was left of him.
Oct 5
More rain. Trench getting muddier, filthier and colder by the day. Fred’s corpse looks like it’s been bitten – damn, damn rats.
Oct 7
Gong sounded up the trench. I wasn’t sure what it meant until Frompy roared at me “ Get your bloody gas mask on, lad!” – I fumbled with it, but got it on just in time. The gas billowed up the trench, a wall of smoke and death coming straight for us... A man in second section got blinded.
Oct 10
Two days back, we got a hell of a shock. Germans started coming right at us, and all – rifles out. I grabbed my gun. Was this it? Was I really ready to use this thing? I peered, aimed, hands shaking, body shaking… And one of the bastards shot an inch from me. Thinking of Fred, I fired back. Most of them went down to machineguns, but we footsloggers did our fair bit as well.
Oct 12
Tomorrow we’re going over the top. Just been announced. Bernard cried – we’ve seen what those thrice-damned machine guns and shells can do to a man, and we’re not desperate to have it done to us…
Oct 14
Edward’s lost an arm, Frompy’s lost an eye, and Harry got gunned down. Bastards. Harry didn’t stand a rat’s ass against that machine gun – tore right through his stomach. I bent down to see if I could help, but he was blowing blood bubbles – and if Bernard hadn’t pushed me away from over his dying body I’d have gone down too. Still, it wasn’t those poor German buggers we clubbed down out of their trenches today shoved us in this mud pit, was it? What the hell are we doing here, anyway? Bastards.
Oct 15
Another gas attack today. Chlorine just blew across, but thank god, the wind took the majority down trench so it stayed in No Man’s land.
Oct 16
Edward’s arm’s gone mouldy. The wound’s still bleeding raw and it’s seeping green. He’s going to have to have it amputated soon.
Oct 17
Frompy’s still here with us, Edward’s gone back home. He was never a fighter – a quiet sort of man, he liked numbers and thinking – and now he’s disabled for life. How did he deserve that?
Oct 20
Tomorrow we’ll be relieved. Lice are everywhere now – and so are rats. Bloody big rats too. There’s three men died today from a shell – and every one picked clean by the rats. Bill chucked his vest away; it was moving with lice all over it.
Oct 22
Rest at last. Too tired to write much – no more injuries for now, thank god.
Oct 24
The artillery battery here is keeping us awake at night. We’ll be back on the front in four days. Home, that’s all we can think of now. Why did we sign up to these trenches? What are we here for? Fighting for? Killing for? Dieing for?
Oct 27
Dreamt of Jenny last night, her long, blond hair and her smile… then it turned into a twisting, tossing nightmare of shells and guns and mud…
Oct 28
Like bedraggled sewer rats we stumbled, groaning, back into another set of trenches – near Hohenzollern’s Redoubt this time. The mud was above our ankles, and we had to step on boards to avoid the dung all over the trench bottom.
Oct 30
Shell just behind us, Captain nearly hit.
Nov 3
Repaired barbed wire.
Nov 8
Nearly lost this book in the mud today. A rat bit the corner off before I slung it back down into the oozing mud. Can’t sleep. Feel faint.
Nov 10
Wading about in this mud isn’t human – it’s barely even fit for the bloated, gorged rats making this pit their home.
Nov 11
George’s foot’s gone bluish white and is seriously pasty, like soap.
Nov 13
George carried on doing trench duties. Foot now gone green. Medic says he’ll have to amputate the toes.
Nov 16
Relieved at last.
Nov 18
George had toes amputated. He can’t walk properly, but Bill has taken the job of helping him around if he needs it.
Nov 25
Still in reserve. George learning to walk better now.
Nov 28
Bernard can’t sleep at all – can’t keep the memories of the things he’s seen out his head for long enough. Poor Bernard.
Dec 1
Bernard and I had a talk today while we repaired the banks of the trench. Damn hard work.
“Bernard” I said. “Who did you leave behind back home”?
I was thinking of Jenny again.
“Me mam” said Bernard shyly. “And Nancy, me… me gal.” He started sobbing; I did my best to comfort him, but he couldn’t stop. He’s seen more than any sixteen year old should have to in a thousand years, and I’ll be damned if I ever forgive those what started this war.
Dec 4
Still in camp, thankfully. I’ve no idea when we’ll be back in the trenches; us footsoldiers don’t get told anything about what’s going on.
Back in England, they made out that war was so – brave and heroic, that people would rush bravely across No Man’s land to look for their comrades, that they’d bravely race across to take the enemy trench, that everything was a brave adventure, to be over by Christmas…
Dec 9
9th Royal Fusiliers were out rounding up spies in Bethune. Food, and spirits, getting low.
Dec 10
Moved out to just north of Givenchy. It’s getting bloody cold, and the trenches are slippery, muddy, smelly quagmires – the mud’s up to my knees in places. Rat-gnawed boards are the only way of getting out of the mess.
Dec 14
George’s foot’s gone bad again. He’s carrying on for now, out of comradeship with Bill and me more than anything, but I doubt he can carry on forever
Dec 18
George’s foot’s mouldy. His toe stubs are going black.
Dec 20
Bill dead. Shell. Gruesome. George can’t speak.
Dec 21
We can’t get George to do anything but weep silently. He’s a nervous wreck – we can’t even put a gun near him without him collapsing in a faint. He’s going to have to go home again.
There wasn’t enough of Bill left to move him without all that was left falling to bits. Rats ate most of him.
Dec 22
George gone home. Just Cap’n, Bernard and me left.
Dec 25
Christmas. No shells. Snow and trench freezing up. Wondered how the old timers are. Hope Jenny’s not in bad nick… hope I’ll still be around to see when all this is over.
If it ever ends…
Dec 27
“It’s the end of man and bloody god too, and that’s a fact,” Frompy muttered as he spat into the urine and mud flowing past our bare sleeping-boards this morning. We tried to dig some of the mud onto the earth bank in front of the trench, but it was too wet, and it flowed back down, covering our rat-mangled boards with effluent.
January 1, 1916
There’s not much left alive in this landscape. Just a white carpet, a shroud for the dead whose corpses sink, one by one, into the thick mud.
Bernard and I looked out, two tiny mice finding the wide and cruel world too big for us. His shrew-like face was thin and drawn. He had no tears left to cry.
