Original Writing - A Soldier's Diary
Original Writing
Surreptitiously, she placed the corroded, antiquated key into the timeworn lock of the decrepit leather trunk, glancing circumspectly over her shoulder to distinguish whether or not she was being watched. She wasn't. Her tenuous, slender fingers trembled with tangible trepidation as she gradually rotated the ancient, rusty key. Click. The lock was open. Breathing heavily, she apprehensively raised the lid of the chest, blew away a mountain of dust and extracted a dense, elaborate chronicle.
Inscribed on the exterior in ornate, interwoven characters were the words, 'Kenneth Walker: Diary of a Warrior'; the familiar sight of his delicate, meticulous handwriting sent a heartfelt shiver down her spine. Poignantly, a solitary tear rolled soothingly down her cheek as she caressed the intimate journal of her recently deceased husband. A fifty year old memoir was all that remained of her loyal, affectionate spouse. His innermost thoughts and feelings from bygone days were concealed in one neglected account that she had previously never contemplated touching. Would this be the day that she finally summoned the vast amount of courage necessitous in order to peruse this confidential journal? She broke out into a nervous sweat whilst retiring to Kenneth's cherished armchair, inhaling his lingering transcendent aroma. The aroma of a hero. An oscillation of nausea swept over her as she tensely opened the front cover. Delicately fingering the discoloured pages, she began to read...
January 18th, 1915
I have done it! I have pledged to taste the salt of life, I have scaled the first rung on the ladder of prosperity, I have enrolled in the British Armed Forces!
Hurrying down to the local recruitment office with my comrades, exhilaration pulsated rhythmically through my veins. The four of us eagerly expressed our patriotism, confabulating the depth of our enthusiasm at the prospect of assailing the nefarious Fritz on the Front Line. Gordon affirmed that he would never wish to endure the sheer humiliation of being deemed a coward and forced to wear a degrading white feather in his cap. I agreed. Conscientious objectors infuriate me; I cannot cognize the motivation for their incongruous decision.
Throughout my life, I have continuously felt as though I am meant for something remarkable, something extraordinary. By joining the Sheffield Pals Battalion, I feel that my opportunity to leave a legacy has arrived. I am determined to succeed.
Approaching the extensive queue, it soon became apparent that the number of young men applying to enlist is monumental! After months of being persistently bombarded with propaganda, masses of vigorous young chaps feel morally obliged to comply with Earl Kitchener's cogent commands and sign up to our country's prestigious army. Each and every one of us yearns to be involved in Britain's perpetual military success.
Whilst we patiently waited in line, withstanding the blistering winter snow, my comrades and I discussed our dissimilar justifications for joining up. Predominantly, I enrolled for the reverence, distinction and veneration that soldiers inevitably gain. I also yearned for the adrenaline rush of fighting for your nation. Percy avowed that he primarily anticipates travelling abroad as he has not yet experienced the elation of visiting overseas.
As the length of the line imperceptibly decreased, my anxiety manifested. Peculiarly, irrational reservations regarding joining up began to wander through my mind. How would my darling Lily manage alone? Would I be capable of withstanding the inordinate isolation? What if I never returned? I instantaneously cursed myself for having the audacity to imagine such a preposterous vicissitude.
After a short while, we found ourselves leading the queue. As the Lord Mayor vociferated "Next!" my heart ephemerally terminated beating. Putting on a brave face, I strode towards the desk; I strode towards my auspicious future. Butterflies danced around my stomach as I signed my name on the ceaseless indenture. An inexorable smile spread relentlessly across my visage as I recognized that I had transformed my life forevermore.
Hitherto, I earned my wage as an unadorned coal miner; a blue-collar worker who scarcely managed to earn sufficient money to survive. However, I resigned from my laborious occupation in the hope of, at twenty-six years of age, accomplishing something in my life. My only true reservation is that of abandoning my devoted fiancée, Lily. I sincerely hope that she will be competent whilst alone, and that my absence will not consume her half as much as the guilt of leaving her is devouring me.
Personally, I feel that it is up to us, the Sheffield Pals Battalion, to justify the hopes of our friends and to carve for ourselves a niche in the temple of history. Contrary to the opinion of conshies, we will return to Sheffield having won honour for our city and our country. I impatiently await tomorrow's sunrise, for that is when we commence our military preparation.
Now that I have ultimately enlisted I am in an overwhelming state of bewilderment. My lifelong aspirations are about to be realised. I am one step closer to achieving my eternal ambition of one day witnessing my name amongst the victorious articles within the broadsheets: Kenneth Walker, Hero of the Great War.
3rd February 1915
My dearest Lily,
Despite the fact that I pine for you dearly, I am currently relishing in my time at Redmires Training Camp. My insipid preconceptions of the other fellows couldn't be more amiss! Personally, I feel that each and ...
This is a preview of the whole essay
Now that I have ultimately enlisted I am in an overwhelming state of bewilderment. My lifelong aspirations are about to be realised. I am one step closer to achieving my eternal ambition of one day witnessing my name amongst the victorious articles within the broadsheets: Kenneth Walker, Hero of the Great War.
3rd February 1915
My dearest Lily,
Despite the fact that I pine for you dearly, I am currently relishing in my time at Redmires Training Camp. My insipid preconceptions of the other fellows couldn't be more amiss! Personally, I feel that each and every one of the chaps has topping charisma and we are all decidedly compatible. Moreover, there is a profound sense of camaraderie within the group. We are proud to be British.
Fortunately, I have effortlessly become pals with some exceptionally congenial, encouraging and supportive chaps. Due to our shared aspirations, we excel in cooperating with one another; this will be greatly profitable when we serve in the Great War. Furthermore, we regularly delight in obtaining a recreational beverage from the nearby public house, Three Merry Lads. We have a ripping time.
Surprisingly, our living quarters are relatively spacious and my bed is unexpectedly comfortable. Frequently, along with the chaps in my hut, I will stay awake into the early hours of the morning and candidly converse about our hopes and dreams; no wonder we barely sleep. Bizarrely, it is not uncommon to wake in the morning and uncover a snow drift blocking the doors to our hut! In such peculiar circumstances, we have no other option but to force the smallest comrade, John, out of the window to release us. How spiffing!
On the other hand, the cuisine at Redmires leaves a great deal to be desired. After all, the preponderance of the chefs are trainees, therefore it is arbitrary whether the food is edible or not. Nauseatingly, a couple of nights ago one cook inadvertently discharged the ashes from the oven into the stewing pot! It was revolting. Needless to say, the vast majority of us went hungry that night. On account of this substandard matter, it would be immensely appreciated if you could dispatch a food package.
Although the incessant exercising is fatiguing and the artillery practice is arduous, I remain in high spirits. The awe-inspiring training has roused my jingoistic temperament, considerably intensifying my anticipation with regard to the Great War. I cannot wait. In addition to this, the concept that my newly acquired chums and I will soon be an acclaimed battalion of soldiers defending our King and Country on the Front Line is overwhelming.
Latterly, a pal brought to my attention a well-known phrase: behind every great man is an even greater woman. To me, you are that woman. You are the woman who I cannot live without, you are the woman who presides over my deepest thoughts, you are the woman who I love. I confidently assure you that I shall be back in your arms, where I belong, before you know it. I guarantee that I will write again soon.
Love Always,
Kenneth x x x
3rd February, 1915
Tentatively, I studied the intimate epistle which I have recently composed for my beloved fiancée, Lily. I shroud the personal letter in secrecy as I fear the chaps from my dormitory may unearth it and ridicule me due to my ulterior vulnerability. Repeatedly reading through my exaggerated glorification of Redmires, I laughed half-heartedly to myself. If only she knew the truth.
Although merely a few days have elapsed since my untimely departure, I miss Lily disproportionately. I yearn to hear the reassuring sound of her benign articulation, sense the soothing floral tones of her ravishing perfume, and experience the compassionate touch of her angelically smooth skin. She is my soulmate. With each passing second I pine for her increasingly, optimistically counting down the days until I return home. Her letters are a welcome ray of dazzling sunlight glistening through the formation of dismal, discouraging clouds that are military life.
In my opinion, the most ignominious and intolerable aspects of Redmires are the icy draughts, relentless precipitation and blistering winds that howl each and every night. Even when I am wrapped up cosily in my densely padded overcoat, I suspect my internal body temperature to be well below freezing point. Nightly, I scavenge every available piece of clothing in the hope of remaining temperate. I never succeed.
When morning ultimately arrives, conditions rarely ameliorate. Once we have eradicated the immense layers of frost that have amassed on the inside of the glass, we must propel the smallest fellow out of the aforesaid window so that he is able to unblock the door. This is onerously time consuming. Once we have escaped the utilitarian cabins, we commence our training.
The physical activity is excruciating. Compulsorily, we seize a 60lb rucksack and stomp up and down a colossal hill with a severe incline. At the culmination of each session, I am thoroughly exhausted. I have never been one to excel in the physical side of matters, therefore I often feel as though I am on the verge of collapse. It takes every ounce of energy to trudge back to my meagre living quarters and I am certain that my chums have similar feelings. On the upside, my muscle is building by the minute; before long I will have legs of steel.
If I had the confidence, certainty and conviction, I would stand up to the irreverent majors. Iniquitously, they seem to cantankerously subordinate us due to our lack of refined education. This is unwarranted. Our superior commanders should respect us as we are the ones who shall be honouring our King and Country.
Despite the dismal time I am having at Redmires, my emotions towards the war remain expectant. I am progressively fervent when it comes to defending my country; I cannot wait to assail the Kaiser. I am driven by an unprecedented force greater than myself which compels me to fight for what is moral, even though that may never be clear to me whilst I am alive. The prospect of prevailing in the war against the beastly Fritz is the only thing that keeps me going. Aside from that, the wages are dire, the circumstances intensify with each passing day and the exercise is strenuous. Uncharacteristically, I'm beginning to wish I did not join up.
6th June, 1916
My beloved Lily,
Initially, I must show gratitude for your amorous response to my preceding letter. I am sincerely appreciative. Reading your solicitous words and seeing your elegant calligraphy brings a myriad of tears to my eyes. It feels as though there is an element of you within each of your missives.
Presently, I am industriously serving in the perpetually pernicious trenches of Sierre, France. As I write, I am partway through the eight week duration of my invigorating term in the reserve trenches, approximately three-hundred metres behind the front line. Regrettably, due to my increasingly busy schedule, my letters to you have been sporadic within recent months, However, I intend to discontinue this tendency by corresponding frequently.
Trench life is thoroughly spiffing! Possessing a Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle makes me feel amply equipped for battle and scrupulously primed to assail the malicious Fritz. Furthermore, the food here is decidedly palatable; the bully beef and maconochie stew are utterly appetizing. It is a considerable improvement on the substandard cuisine that was served at Redmires. Occasionally, we are permitted a ration of bacon, cheese or jam as a merited indulgence. How spiffing!
Last week, Percy caught a Blighty one. Spending days on end immersed in contaminated water had led to him developing Trench Foot; the calamitous open sores were unmitigatedly repulsive. Catastrophically, Percy's symptoms exacerbated, resulting in his decomposing foot requiring amputation. I hope his condition improves rapidly. Yesterday, the chaps and I waved goodbye to him as he returned to Blighty.
How are you managing? Although I habitually pine for you, I find solace in the certainty that the sunrise I perceive each morning is the same sunrise that you witness. In the end all that matters is love.
Love Always,
Kenneth x x x
6th June, 1916
"Trench life is thoroughly spiffing!" Never in my twenty-two years of existence have I heard such a deceitful untruth. A deceptive fiction flagrantly fabricated by me. Ashamedly, I cannot bear to divulge the true details of my military life; I abhor the concept of my beloved fiancée ascertaining the full extent of my anguish.
To begin with, I have contracted lice. Perennially, I find myself abrading every inch of my body in the hope of eradicating these repellent creatures which reside in the seams of my uniform. I am in constant agony. Occasionally, I resort to scalding the lice with matches, enraging myself when my seams begin to fall apart. My yearning for the lice to perish is ongoing. Despite my suffering, I consider myself to be comparatively fortunate. Developing Trench Foot like Percy would be cataclysmic; he was forced to have his decaying limb amputated and almost gave up the ghost in the process.
In my opinion, operating on the front line is intolerable. Theoretically, we are supposed to spend a week in a front-line trench, four weeks in a support trench and eight weeks in a reserve trench. However, the generals are so busy resting their exceedingly over-worked bodies that they often forget to interchange the soldiers' positions. Unfortunately, when it was my turn on the front line I ended up out there for twenty-six days! Ordinarily, I would take up my grievance with the field marshal, but I perilously fear being discriminatorily slaughtered like poor Henry. My comrade was inhumanely beaten by the generals and then slain with a fatal strike to the pate. He merely purloined a piece of cheese.
The front line is a living hell. Shells are catapulted towards us at rapid speeds, G8 bullets hurtle over our heads like an incessant meteor shower and our Vickers guns put on an ostentation as psychedelic as Bonfire night. The constant reverberations of gunfire echo ceaselessly around my head, deteriorating my eardrums with the amplitude of each shot.
One of the chaps who tragically reached his demise was my pal Gary. Earlier this morn, he was utilizing the trench latrine when a punctiliously aimed bomb soared through the air and landed with great accuracy. Instantly, Gary was fallen. We are told that death is not to be feared. We are told that death will, in due time, come to us all. How are we expected to embrace the end of our existence when we have witnessed firsthand death's devastating aftermath?
However, the mortality rate of our Battalion is negligible in comparison to that of Fritz'. Recently, we have been inundating them with lethal shells day and night in the hope of forcing them to surrender. An insider from our foes' regiment told one of the Generals that their force has lost over half of its' soldiers! This is a major achievement for us and has given our troop a much-needed morale boost.
Being a sniper is...bizarre. We have the job of picking off any of the Kaiser's troops who dares lift his head above the parapet. Astonishingly, each time I compress the trigger of my Lee-Enfield, it spells the end of a life in the German camp. Anyone who feels no remorse at that sickening fact is utterly callous; I simply overlook this fact and effect my duty. If I took the time to contemplate the consequences of my actions, I would have great difficulty shooting somebody. After all, Germans are only people. People just like you or I. Why should we discriminate against someone simply because of their nationality? I feel that we should unify, not conflict. Regrettably, I must push my rational thoughts to the back of my mind and carry on with the conflict. In all honesty, the masses of dead soldiers from both squadrons have led me to realise that it is not my choice whether I live or die.
It breaks my heart to think that the fallen troops have families. Each and every one of them has loving relations back home. Pitifully, there are millions of children who have lost their fathers, millions of mothers who have lost their sons, and millions of women who have lost their partners. I am determined not to let my dear Lily become one of those millions of women. God will protect me.
st July 1916
Dearest Lily,
Today could be the greatest day of my life. Presently, we are on the verge of terminating the seemingly ceaseless stalemate. We are exceedingly close to making an immense push, defeating the Fritz once and for all and bringing the war to a judicious end. We will be the fellows who win freedom, independence and sovereignty for ourselves and for future generations.
For the past few days we have been preparing for the climax of the war. In mere hours we shall go over the top. As I write, I am watching dawn break, listening to the tender, soothing birdsong as I gaze up from my trench dugout. I am decidedly confident about the day ahead. Morale is running exceptionally high.
Hopefully, I will return home very soon. As I climb over the top of the trenches and play my significant part in the Allies' victory, I shall be thinking of you. Everything I do is for you. I love you forever; no matter what.
Love Always,
Kenneth x x x
4th July 1916
If I could turn back the hands of time, I would return to the fateful moment when I stood back home in my Local Recruitment Office, pen in hand, contemplating whether or not to sign my name on the military contract. If only I had listened to the few trivial doubts in the back of my mind. Maybe then I wouldn't have joined up; maybe then I wouldn't have witnessed such deleterious devastation...
I am a survivor. I am meant to be providential. I am expected to be grateful. How am I meant to be grateful for the salvation of my being when I have to live with the harrowing memories? Occasionally, I imagine that the outcome would have been superior if I had died in battle. At least then I wouldn't have to live with the demise of thousands of men on my conscience. Why me? Why am I one of the minority that deserve a life when my entire livelihood has perished before my eyes? I am hardly a hero. Mere days have elapsed since the day that changed my life forever: the day of the Battle of the Somme.
On that morning, I was overwhelmingly agitated. I was incredibly certain that we, the Allies, would triumph with ease; I thought that our shift would conclude the Great War. How could I be so naïve? Imprudently, I actually trusted the deceitful Generals when they stated that we would effortlessly prevail. They told us that the majority of Fritz had been killed in our bombardment of shells. Foolishly, we believed them.
After days of wearisome preparation, we were equipped to go over the top. Fatefully, I was selected to go over in the first wave. As my fellow warriors and I aligned, shoulder to shoulder, I glanced down the line at Gordon. Assertively, he winked at me and I thought everything would be alright. How wrong I was.
The events seemed to occur in slow-motion. Upon the General's command, we fixed our bayonets and scrambled over the top. Following strict instructions, my comrades and I marched towards the German trenches at walking pace. They were ready for us.
The resonance of G8 bullets was deafening. All around me, hundreds of men were falling to the ground, caught in the cross-fire. Screams, yells and cries for help filled the air. Disfigured silhouettes of courageous soldiers loomed in multitudes on the churned earth, intensely subsiding as they failed in the extensive battle to reclaim their lives. Tears of anguish began to cascade from my weary eyes yet, along with a small number of others, I continued marching. The earth shuddered underfoot as I fathomed that I wasn't ready to die; I had to get out of this battlefield alive.
A bullet thundered past my skull. Instinctively, I collapsed into a heap, feigning death. Clandestinely, I crawled a few metres to my left and concealed myself in a cavernous shell hole. Seconds seemed like hours, minutes like days. I was convinced that I was going to die; at least I had looked each day and night in the eye. The hostilities above me were unrelenting. Isolated in the dystopian shell hole, I thought of my fiancée back home. My heart was numb. She had no idea what I was going through. Would I ever see her again? I sobbed uncontrollably as I comprehended that I probably would not.
Finally, nightfall descended. Gunfire had begun to decelerate and I felt ready to endeavour to escape from my refuge in no-man's land. Gradually, I raised myself out of the protection of the shell-hole and lay, motionless, amongst the corpses of thousands of fallen tommies. The men I had once shared jokes with, confided in and trained with were now nothing but buttered green flesh laying in a pasture of shattered dreams.
Slowly crawling over the cadavers in a frantic attempt to salvage my life, a familiar face caught my attention. Hysterically, I shuffled over to the remains and stroked the icy cold skin of the corpse. Gordon. Several bullet wounds to the chest, he was evidently dead. I cried as I clutched him to my chest. How could this have happened?
A shell blast brought me back to reality. Instantaneously, I knew that I could not let myself endure the same deplorable fate as my lifelong companion. Tenderly, I kissed his deteriorating head and uttered a heartfelt farewell. Tears streaming down my dirt-ridden face, I painstakingly persisted on my journey towards protection. After what felt like an eternity, I made it.
Mustering my final degree of potency, I propelled myself over the perimetric sandbags and into the shelter of the British trench. Excruciatingly, I landed on the nauseatingly filthy ground with a strident thud. Everything went black.
Upon regaining consciousness, I found myself in the rehabilitation marquee. Although I have fractured my left femur during my agonizing descent, I do not wish for sympathy. My injury is severely insignificant in comparison to the thousands of lives lost in the Battle of the Somme. They are the real heroes.
The culpability is overwhelming. I am unworthy of living when so many of my comrades have departed this life. I have infinite deference for all the valiant fellows who perished in honour of their King and Country. How could the merciless Fritz commit such debauched genocide? As for the Generals, they did an utterly spiffing job - only 600,000 of us have died.
What have any of us done to tilt the world into this aberrant orbit? This convoluted carnage has guided me into the obscure understanding that we humans are merely pawns on a metaphorical chessboard being forced around by destiny's indistinguishable hand. No matter how much we attempt to challenge the inevitable outcome, we are never ready. We are powerless.
Atypically, I have not yet verbalized my thoughts and feelings since that momentous day. Nobody will ever understand. When the corollary is so atrocious, why bother being a hero?
Amy Collins
Page 1 of 10
