Status: Done.
Letter From the Trenches
Letter From The Trenches
November 11th, 1915
My Dearest Claire,
I promised you I would write at every chance I had, and so far I am ashamed to say I have not been able to. I promised though, so I shall also try and keep my other promise, to give you all the details possible about the war. To be honest, I know just about as much as you do about majority of what is going on, though I know a very different thing about being a soldier here, and it is not what I was warned of when I signed up for this terrible war.
My group is at the front lines. Which are not, in fact, lines. They are simply trenches, dirty, elaborate mazes dug into the ground. This is where we live. There are rats as big as Mrs. Bennett’s treasured ginger cat, though I would much rather see him then all these rats. They are disgusting and they fear very little about us, they eat our dead, they eat the little food that we have, and they are everywhere. It is rare to sleep without being awakened by a rat scurrying across one’s face, a very shocking occurrence at first I must admit, though most of the older veterans have become used to it.
Our days are long and exhausting. Even when given time to rest, we cannot always sleep. Shells scream over top of us and the most terrifying thing about them is that we never know where they will hit or when. There is just a high whistling sound that comes closer and closer and really rattles the nerves, it drives some of the newest recruits into insanity. If we are not attempting to sleep, we are trying to dry our clothes as best we can, we live in absolute filth. Other than the rats, there is mud and water everywhere, it rains more than you can imagine here in France, we are always soaked and muddy. The rats are both disgusting and a source of pleasure. To help ward off many of them, we tend to throw mouldy bread that even we refuse to eat onto the floor, then using our shovels, we smash them until they are dead. No matter how many we kill, there always seems to be more that come, our efforts are useless against them.
You have no idea how much I miss your cooking, and my mother’s cooking. We have rations here, but they are not always enough, and the bread always seems to be mouldy because it is nearly impossible to keep it dry. Fresh meat is a mere dream, unless you are prepared to eat rats, which can in fact be quite delicious. I have not had a good meal in the last six months and both my heart and stomach ache for leave so that I may eat something decent and around a table of family.
One of the brightest parts of my day is the friends that I have made here. They are all Canadians in my group, but due to a lot of the men from our town having been killed, as you probably have heard by now, I have had the privilege to meet a few new men. There is this lad who is a little younger than I, his name is Conrad Thompson, we have not known each other too long but he has been in the trenches for about as long as I. He is a nice man, he lives in Toronto and when I told him about our cottage in Muskoka, he became very excited, so I invited him for some time when this war is over to visit us, you will find him a respectable gentleman, and he has a child as well, a daughter, the same age as our Sandra. There is another soldier who Conrad and I talk to quite regularly as he tends to stay close to us, he is still a tad new, but he is learning quickly and listens to exactly what we say, he will be fine, his name is Milton Lewis, short, a little plump but my word, he moves very swiftly through no man’s land. Those are by far my two closest friends in this hell. We laugh together, eat together and fight together, the rest of our group is filled with good men, and I am honoured to serve with them. Our leader is a much respected man, he has taught us well and I swear it is simply by his efforts that we will get through this, I hope.
Claire, when I signed up for this war, I had not expected to be living in such conditions. Though I realize for the sake of whoever we are fighting this war for, it is beneficial. I have seen things I wish I had never seen, I have heard grown men beg for death after being gassed, begging between coughing up bits of their lungs, can you imagine a gas that kills that way? There is no way to treat it, it is a slow way to die, and I fear that my soul dies a little every time I see a young boy being dragged away on a stretcher, we all know they do not come back. I have had the good luck of not being injured so far, though just the other day during an attack on the Germans, I watched as a young boy who had been here barely three days, run across no man’s land and be shot in the leg, he collapsed and we dragged him back, we all know he will lose his leg, he is merely eighteen and he will only have one leg, he has barely lived.
I know I am not innocent. I would prefer that you not mention to Sandra or little Joe, but I am just as responsible as the Germans for killing people. I have killed Germans. I shot a man when he came too close to our trench. We are all humans, are we not? And here we are, killing one another. It barely seems worth it. I must keep the thought in my head that it is them, or me, and I must pick the selfish decision of killing them so that I may live.
We are making good advances on the Germans, I can only hope we will be able to end this all soon. Please give my love and do not let the children worry about me, tell them Daddy is doing well, please tell my mother and father that as well, mother’s health is not good, I would rather she not worry. It even pains me to say this, but I miss that monster of a terrier, Jock, give him a pat on the stomach for me.
All my love and forever yours,
Joseph Randolph Archer
P.S.
I will have leave for Christmas, so tell Sandra and little Joe that I am looking forward to seeing their cheery little faces. It will be a welcome relief from the mud streaked boys that pass by every day.
My Dearest Claire,
I promised you I would write at every chance I had, and so far I am ashamed to say I have not been able to. I promised though, so I shall also try and keep my other promise, to give you all the details possible about the war. To be honest, I know just about as much as you do about majority of what is going on, though I know a very different thing about being a soldier here, and it is not what I was warned of when I signed up for this terrible war.
My group is at the front lines. Which are not, in fact, lines. They are simply trenches, dirty, elaborate mazes dug into the ground. This is where we live. There are rats as big as Mrs. Bennett’s treasured ginger cat, though I would much rather see him then all these rats. They are disgusting and they fear very little about us, they eat our dead, they eat the little food that we have, and they are everywhere. It is rare to sleep without being awakened by a rat scurrying across one’s face, a very shocking occurrence at first I must admit, though most of the older veterans have become used to it.
Our days are long and exhausting. Even when given time to rest, we cannot always sleep. Shells scream over top of us and the most terrifying thing about them is that we never know where they will hit or when. There is just a high whistling sound that comes closer and closer and really rattles the nerves, it drives some of the newest recruits into insanity. If we are not attempting to sleep, we are trying to dry our clothes as best we can, we live in absolute filth. Other than the rats, there is mud and water everywhere, it rains more than you can imagine here in France, we are always soaked and muddy. The rats are both disgusting and a source of pleasure. To help ward off many of them, we tend to throw mouldy bread that even we refuse to eat onto the floor, then using our shovels, we smash them until they are dead. No matter how many we kill, there always seems to be more that come, our efforts are useless against them.
You have no idea how much I miss your cooking, and my mother’s cooking. We have rations here, but they are not always enough, and the bread always seems to be mouldy because it is nearly impossible to keep it dry. Fresh meat is a mere dream, unless you are prepared to eat rats, which can in fact be quite delicious. I have not had a good meal in the last six months and both my heart and stomach ache for leave so that I may eat something decent and around a table of family.
One of the brightest parts of my day is the friends that I have made here. They are all Canadians in my group, but due to a lot of the men from our town having been killed, as you probably have heard by now, I have had the privilege to meet a few new men. There is this lad who is a little younger than I, his name is Conrad Thompson, we have not known each other too long but he has been in the trenches for about as long as I. He is a nice man, he lives in Toronto and when I told him about our cottage in Muskoka, he became very excited, so I invited him for some time when this war is over to visit us, you will find him a respectable gentleman, and he has a child as well, a daughter, the same age as our Sandra. There is another soldier who Conrad and I talk to quite regularly as he tends to stay close to us, he is still a tad new, but he is learning quickly and listens to exactly what we say, he will be fine, his name is Milton Lewis, short, a little plump but my word, he moves very swiftly through no man’s land. Those are by far my two closest friends in this hell. We laugh together, eat together and fight together, the rest of our group is filled with good men, and I am honoured to serve with them. Our leader is a much respected man, he has taught us well and I swear it is simply by his efforts that we will get through this, I hope.
Claire, when I signed up for this war, I had not expected to be living in such conditions. Though I realize for the sake of whoever we are fighting this war for, it is beneficial. I have seen things I wish I had never seen, I have heard grown men beg for death after being gassed, begging between coughing up bits of their lungs, can you imagine a gas that kills that way? There is no way to treat it, it is a slow way to die, and I fear that my soul dies a little every time I see a young boy being dragged away on a stretcher, we all know they do not come back. I have had the good luck of not being injured so far, though just the other day during an attack on the Germans, I watched as a young boy who had been here barely three days, run across no man’s land and be shot in the leg, he collapsed and we dragged him back, we all know he will lose his leg, he is merely eighteen and he will only have one leg, he has barely lived.
I know I am not innocent. I would prefer that you not mention to Sandra or little Joe, but I am just as responsible as the Germans for killing people. I have killed Germans. I shot a man when he came too close to our trench. We are all humans, are we not? And here we are, killing one another. It barely seems worth it. I must keep the thought in my head that it is them, or me, and I must pick the selfish decision of killing them so that I may live.
We are making good advances on the Germans, I can only hope we will be able to end this all soon. Please give my love and do not let the children worry about me, tell them Daddy is doing well, please tell my mother and father that as well, mother’s health is not good, I would rather she not worry. It even pains me to say this, but I miss that monster of a terrier, Jock, give him a pat on the stomach for me.
All my love and forever yours,
Joseph Randolph Archer
P.S.
I will have leave for Christmas, so tell Sandra and little Joe that I am looking forward to seeing their cheery little faces. It will be a welcome relief from the mud streaked boys that pass by every day.