Creative Writing – World War I: Letter HomeDear Mum,How are you getting on? I hope that Dad’s cold is better.
Send my bestwishes to everyone!I am writing to you from the barracks of our regiment. My training isgoing well; I have many good friends here, and although the training I have beengetting is necessary, I cannot wait to finish it, and get out to the Front,because the chances are that the war will be over within a few months, and Iwant to get a good chance to have my go at the Boche. All kinds of rumours are spreading through the regiment about the thingsthat the Boche are doing. They are supposed to have committed all sorts ofatrocities in Belgium, such as butchering defenceless, innocent women andchildren, and also raping and pillaging. I cannot understand why anyone would not want to take their place inKitchener’s New Army; it makes me angry that cowards should be able to duck outof their responsibility to their country. The whole idea of conscientiousobjection seems absurd to me; it is just a front used to cover cowardice.
Conchies don’t object to war, they are just scared that they might get hurt. They should see this war for what it is: a chance to help and serve theircountry, and earn some glory, both for themselves, and for Britain. The Boche needs to be taught a lesson; they cannot expect to just marcharound the globe, invading countries for no reason, other than selfishness. Ifwe do not step in and act decisively soon, who knows where they will stop?How can the army act decisively if many of the men who should besoldiers decide to stay at home because they are scared?Those who claim that their religion stops them from fighting are in thewrong as well; I am a religious man, and God has said to me (and I believe him)that He agrees with our fighting the war; God is on our side!Lots of Love——- END FIRST LETTERDear Mum,I am writing this letter to you from one of the support trenches, abouthalf a mile back from the front line. I am sorry that I have not been able towrite properly to you for the past few weeks, but you can probably guess how itis out here.
Everywhere you look, dead bodies are piling up, as we (ourbattalion) sit here, there is an almost constant flow of dead and injuredsoldiers from the front. When you hear about the glorious victories achieved byour boys, don’t forget that we are losing men too; it is so depressing to hearthe numbers at roll calls gradually going down. Whether you, or the man who isnext to you dies, and also when it happens is completely random, there is nojustice to it; great men, generous, cheerful men, who are lights to us all, theyjust disappear without warning, just like everyone else. It is impossible to get any real sleep here; yes you can shut your eyes,and call that being asleep, but you never really relax; there is always the fearlingering over you that the Boche might overrun the trenches at any time, orthat the perpetual thunder of the shells crashing down on the trenches mightstart to move in this direction, and the whistling projectiles might startslamming into the ground around you, throwing mountains of earth into the sky,or releasing their deadly cargoes of choking, blinding, gas into your lungs.
Sometimes you do not take your boots off for days and days on end, and when youdo, you suffer from Trench Foot, a rotting disease. The conditions here are worse than you could imagine; when it snows, itis so bitterly cold that quite a few of us get gangrene. But the worst thing isthat generally the drainage in the trenches is awful – when the snow melts, ithas nowhere to go to, the ground is already sodden, and so huge puddles build up. But they are not normal puddles; they have a consistency like treacle, and inplaces they are so deep that it is not unusual for injured Tommies who fall intothem to drown, especially if they are trying to make their own way to a firstaid post.
I expect that we will be sent back up to the front-line trenches inthree or four days. The atmosphere in the trenches just before the order isreceived to go over the top is about the most depressing imaginable – you lookaround at the men who you are serving with , and you realise that this may wellbe the last time you see some, or all of them. The number of casualties wesustain in this action is the highest of any of the action we perform. Theground in no-man’s land is more like glue than treacle, because it is churned upso often by the shells that rain down on it.
You are supposed to advance calmlyas a line, but the line breaks up quickly, as men fall from machine gun fire, ordrop behind because they cannot move through the thick mud. Then we reach therazor wire, which is supposed to have been cut by shellfire, but hardly ever has,so you have to stop, and pick your way through it. While you are doing th. . . .
. is, youare a sitting duck for Fritz’s machine guns. If you do take the Boche’s trench’then they will probably counter-attack within the hour. The whole cycle repeatsendlessly. Some of the Tommies, upon realising the sorry state of affairs thatexists here, resort to getting a self inflicted “Blighty” – a wound that isserious enough to merit their return to Blighty (hence the name), but notserious enough to cause any permanent damage. You may think that such behaviouris understandable, given the circumstances, but I urge you to withhold anycompassion you may feel for them, because they, like Conchies, are just cowards.
Their course of action could be seen as even more cowardly than that of Conchies- They are abandoning their share of the fighting, and increasing the burdenupon others, who are supposed to be their friends. Conchies, though, are the worst without exception; they openlydisapprove of the war, they claim that their consciences forbade their takingpart in the war, and also from helping in the factories, because that would beencouraging the war effort. Yet they are more than happy to eat the food thathas been brought to England for the nation by sailors who risked life and limbto bring the food to them from abroad past the Boche and their mines, and ships. How are you and Dad getting on at home? I hear that the Zepp. raids aregetting quite bad around you.
All that you need to do is to pray to God; by amiracle, He has kept me safe and alive here, and if He will do that, then Hewill surely guard you if you ask him to. We were all so misguided and naive to believe that the war would be overas quickly as by Christmas, but I think that this war cannot go on for muchlonger; we are gradually pushingFritz back, and we have been told that theyhave been taking far worse casualties than we have. I think that the Boche willget fed up of this war before we do. Pray to God that He should keep me safe here until the Boche admitdefeat, and I will pray that you and Dad are kept safe from the Zepp. raids. Lots of love,——- END SECOND LETTERDear Mum,I am still in the St.
Mary’s Nursing Home in Broadstairs. They say thatI have almost completely recovered from the trauma, and I should be able toleave this place within the next two months. I think that I should be impatientto leave, but being here gives me a lot of time to think – do I really have thatmuch to leave for? I know that I will always have you and Dad, but have I reallyreturned to “A Land Fit for Heroes”, as had been promised by the politicians?The country to which we have returned seems to be an entirely differentone to the one that we left – when we left, the country was full of enthusiasm,we were encouraged to enlist – indeed, anyone who did not enlist for service wasmade into a pariah. The country to which I have returned is recession-hit, andscarred by battle.
No-one here can even start to understand the loss experiencedby all of the Tommies who fought. That is not their fault, it is impossible tounderstand how it feels to watch your best friends dying one by one, and beingtotally unable to prevent it, or the fear that the next attack of the Bochemight be the one where a bullet hits you in the head, that that you might notmake it back from the next offensive, or that maybe you won’t be killed but justbe left stranded in no-man’s land, with one of your legs blown off, that thenext shell might explode on you. That this moment might be your last. Very few realise that the scars carried by Tommies are not just thosefrom amputations, but also from the things that we saw, and heard. Thecontinuous drumming of the deluge of shells that continued for four years hassent large numbers of Tommies mad. The evil shells that spewed mustard gas intoour trenches will be remembered for ever by those who saw them and their effects.
Men who are in this nursing home still complain that the pernicious gas hascaused them permanent damage, they say that their hearing has been impaired, ortheir eyesight, or their breathing. What am I supposed to do upon being discharged? I have been trained onlyin how to kill, but I couldn’t stand up to a life in the army. I have killedenough people for one lifetime. What kind of job can I get? I couldn’t go andstudy books now, not after what I have seen and done.
For four years, I have lived close to all of the friends I had in theworld; the friends changed, but the camaraderie was always the same -now Ihave no-one in the world apart from you. The loss is not just my own. The country has been robbed of an entiregeneration of young men, and what have we accomplished, in return for this greatloss? We are called the winners, but what does that mean? Have we actually wonanything? It feels as though we have been betrayed, not just by the politicians,but by everyone.Yours,
