Someone asked, “Which is worse, to die now or to die later?” No one answered, it used to be we would talk of those who had died and have a drink as a memorial: now we can’t, so many have died we no longer know who is dead. But which is worse I thought, dying now saves you from the agony of having to go through this whole thing again. But dying later leaves the chance that you could get home. But what would happen if I do go home. I hear that questions are asked and heroes are welcomed personally, I’d rather stay here if it means talking about it at home and as for being a hero, well heroes win the war. I am only a toy in a general’s game. I can remember in my naivety thinking it would be a short war in which no one would die; me and the lads all went and signed up except the lads are dead and in the morning I think I will be too. Though it won’t be too bad, I’m not married and have no kids, so it could be worse though how I don’t know. I longed for the day that I would one day walk up the aisle not only to marry but to give my daughter away. I suppose in a way the thought of home is keeping me sane at the minute.
I remember earlier in the day when we were told that it was “our day” to help win the war. But how many people have been told that before, how many people have been read the same patronising speech while our great general is not here in a physical state, he is in the spiritual form. He wished us luck that we would all do our duty and make those at home proud. I wonder how we can make anyone proud when we may never make it back. I feel like we are lambs who know that we are going to slaughter yet while we are not happy to go we put up no fight because they fear it will be unpatriotic, what’s unpatriotic about not wanting to die. What makes things worse though is that some boys who are only sixteen are lying about their age to get into the army and do their bit, and what’s worse is the people taking their names know their age and don’t stop them. What comfort have the families who know their son or brother lied about his age. Perhaps the registrar should just kill them there and then; at least they would have the chance of a funeral which the family could attend. The comfort though for my family is that everyone on our street has lost a son so mum won’t be alone.
I see the sun has started to rise, the owl has stopped but the cockerel has taken over the noise making. The time is drawing near and I have had no sleep but I suppose I am going to for an eternal sleep, so all is not lost in a strange way. People often say that heaven is on earth. If that’s true I dread to think what heaven I am awaiting. But if I get through this then I promise, I will buy a quiet piece of land in which to live out my quiet life and never speak of this hell again; this hell that is life and the horror that is war. If anyone ever asks how much mental torture can one man suffer, tell them to ask a survivor of the great war; then ask why it is called the great war?