You’re lucky, Martin. Whenever I close my eyes now, all I see are two, rolling mad eyes and a gaping, foaming mouth limping laboriously towards me. You wouldn’t want to be here. You wouldn’t want to experience what I’ve seen. This war is pointless, Martin – it’s a bloodbath of pointless massacre and I would, without hesitation give both my legs to be in your shoes right now. You never heard his gargling, gasping screams as he grappled around on the ground, or saw his limbs twisting and flaying in the mud. In the last few moments of his life he wasn’t even human. He was just an animal, just like the pigeons we used to shoot down before life was knocked out of them.
Martin, promise me, whatever you hear, whatever you are told, listen to me: DON’T COME HERE. It’s a lie; this whole war is just one big, terrifying lie, with a foundation of millions of smaller lies beneath it. There’s no glory; no adventure; no fun or excitement. There’s just sick fear, and the smells and the sounds and the niggling little thought at the back of your mind, reminding you that it could have been you; once lucky, how much luck can you have?
I didn’t tell you about John in my last letter because the memory was too painful to face. However, I’m going to tell you, no matter how much this hurts me. I want you to realise the seriousness of the situation I am in. I need you to fully understand why you must not come here.
They blew him up right in front of my eyes, just as he was going over the top. I remember vividly seeing the blood as it sprayed the trench floor and spattered my face. It got in my mouth, its taste hot and salty on my tongue. And then I felt a slice of pain stab through my stomach. I felt like I was on fire. I remember choking and falling... The explosions were pounding through my head and I couldn’t see, could only feel... Pain.
The throbbing pain in my stomach was hot and raw, the dull light above me burning through my eyelids. Dizzy. Sick. A bit of shell had hit me, was cutting into me, ripping my skin and leaving a gaping hole like a shining lipstick mouth on my belly. I remember forcing my eyes open and looking into myself. I could see thick, snaking rivers of blood and ugly, shiny liquids and soft, bruised tissue through the blinding pain searing through me. I was butchered, puckered and stained – mustard brown, yellowy black and red. I remember my heart screaming dully as my bruised, torn body sank into unconsciousness; as the fountains of blood continued to pour from my ruined stomach.
But this is a war. This isn’t justice or glory – this is torture. When countries plan a war and predict how many soldiers are going to die, they don’t really care. They’re just using numbers, just like toys, just like fun and games. They never think about the pain and the sounds and the cold and the screaming of men and guns and children. They don’t care how sick you are. I’m back at the front line again Martin, because they don’t care. My stomach aches and I feel like retching; it’s swollen and battered and badly stitched; scars I will carry with me until my dying day. Yet I can still call myself lucky. John’s agony in the last few minutes of his life was beyond pain. It was beyond anything you could ever imagine; we all felt his stinging screams as they cursed through our frozen bodies like electricity, all heard his shrieking cries ripping through the sharp, cold air, and the sickening thump and splash as his broken body hit the mud.
Don’t let a white feather get you down, Martin. If you get one, you’re only bearing the extra weight of a feather upon your back, but here you have to bear the guilt and sadness and pain of lost friends, and it gets heavier and heavier until you feel like crawling into a hole at the bottom of your trench and wishing that that death would just claim you. I would rather be a shirker then be gassed to death, rather be called coward then be shot stone-dead and let my body decay on unfamiliar soil, a thousand miles away from home. You’re not a coward.
No part of living in trenches is fun. When you’re not living in fear of snipers round every corner, or the paranoia of a mine destroying your trench, you get boredom. There’s nothing to do, nothing to take your minds off things. You stop feeling completely human in the trenches. You just feel like some primitive beast, living in the rain and the mud alongside rats and fleas with the single objective to kill or be killed.
I don’t want you to ever be in the same position as me, Martin. Do something clever for once in your life and don’t come here. Don’t be bullied into coming, and resist social pressure. Remember, you have a choice now; don’t make the same mistake that I made.
Love,
Rob
Elizabeth Isles 10RK 20/9/09
