“Can you remember anything of why you came here?”
Silence, then “I don’t want to talk.”
“Samuels, I… ”
“May I leave? I don’t want to talk.”
Captain Rivers walked into his room around 10:30pm, after finishing his rounds. He started to run his nightly bath. He found it impossible to relax without them. He walked into his office and set down his mug of coffee that sister Rogers had made for him. He went to walk back into the bathroom, when something on his desk caught his eye. He glanced back at his desk to see a off white envelope with his name on it. He went over and picked it up. Rivers was confused. He opened in. it was written in small cramp writing. It looked like it was written in a rush; or the writer had an appalling skill with a pen. He flashed back to a conversation he had earlier in the week with Prior about capitals. He shut off the taps and headed back to his desk. He looked at the signature on the bottom ‘Wilfred, Elliot Samuels’. He never knew his forenames before.
Captain Rivers,
I had a meeting with you this morning, where we discussed the return of my voice. I can talk. You wanted to talk to me about my voice. I don’t want to talk. I like my solitude. I like to keep my thoughts to myself. I don’t like voicing them to anybody. Nobody at all. I’m not purposely trying to be difficult; I do want to get better.
You asked me about the dream. The reoccurring nightmare that haunts me each night. The reminders of the reality I faced; the reality that I live now, each and every day. I will explain them to you. I think I owe you that at least.
We moved off in fighting order and good spirits. We marched for a while over the uneven shell-holed captured country. We went into a trench fixed up by our boys. An odd mixture of different personalities and backgrounds, bound together by tragedy and comradeship. We passed into the open. No flares were going up, then we were taken by surprise. This very heavy firing started on our right. The Germans had decided to attack on the same night as us, but beat us to it. Shells, bullets and shrapnel were flying all around us, hitting men everywhere. Cries of agony and pain all around, a state of confusion upon us. The stench was bad from the dead; we’d passed many on our way. Barely any of our guns were being used, only the men from behind us open fire. When our line went forward to the wire most of us were mown down by Enemy machine guns, a bloody massacre reached my eyes. When the wire was reached, it was almost intact. Shell holes were filled with dead, dying, and wounded men. We were ordered to get back into our trench and try to help whatever injured we could. The boys all fought gamely, it is obvious now that we were up against certain death whatever we did, I don’t know how I survived. The whole ground was swept with shrapnel and men’s limbs. I collapsed and blacked out.
I woke up to find myself in a stretcher, getting shrapnel wound in my thigh sewn up by a doctor. He rushed away to attend to a screaming man. I looked over to my right, to see Collins. He was only 17, a soldier in my platoon who had illegally signed up. I had bonded with him. He was crying, agonizing pain etched into every line of his withered face. He was calling for me. I was trying to comfort him, speak words of encouragement and care to him, but the words that I was desperate to tell him couldn’t come out. I watched him become as silent as me, his eyes roll back, and his lifeless body become still. No matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t help him. And I did want to help him; with all my heart.
Out of the 200 men that went to fight that fateful evening, seven returned, all injured. I couldn’t speak. The dead lay thicker than anywhere else. To me this ground is the holiest on earth.
This is what I dream every night. This is what I see when awake. His face, looking at me, so helpless and tortured. I could do nothing for him, or the rest of my platoon. I was sent home to rest and recover, and then sent to Craiglockhart; while their bodies rot in France.
I cannot voice these memories no matter how hard I try. The thoughts are enough. I will never be rid of the horror I have faced. I know I am making your job difficult, and I apologize for this. I cannot do it. I might as well not have it back, I don’t want it. I was happier silent.
Wilfred Elliot Samuels.
