WW1. A Soldier’s Nightmare

Words 1528

Dear Dad,
The good news is, they haven’t killed me, yet.
My mate Charlie died today, the way I feel these last few weeks I wished I had gone with him. Writing this makes my heart ache, but no doubt the poor chap is better off and it’s us that’s left behind will suffer. I pray to God we will meet again in the next world.
Everything visible here is ugly, the mud is a real, living monster, it sucks at us constantly.
We have been here under fire for almost three weeks. The trenches are only twenty yards in some places from the enemy.
There was a nine hour armistice last Monday to bury the dead lying between the trenches and stinking us all out.
I’m sure the news back home is that we’re winning this war, and the boys will be home soon, victorious. Well, from where I am, up to my backside in mud, that’s not the case.
We are constantly under fire, Dad, sometimes I think everyone is going to die, fighting for inches.
Keeping dry is the hardest thing, the trenches are full of water and our boots are too.
I miss you all at home, thank Mum for the socks, I got a Red Cross parcel last week.
Pray for me. Remember me.
Your loving son,Tom

         Private Tom Harding, leaned back on the sandbags which lined the trench and tucked the letter he’d just written to his father into his top pocket. He had no idea if this letter would reach home, but he hoped it would. Hope. That’s all they lived on these days. Hope there’d be another day and hope this bloody war would be over.

         They had received orders they were to advance into ‘No Man’s Land,’ tonight; an expanse of desolate wasteland of mud and barbed wire which separated them from the enemy. Tom, closed his eyes and tried to sleep. The enemy too were probably taking advantage of the lull in hostilities and doing the same. All of them young men like him, dragged into a war not of their making.


         The night sky was pitch black, the clouds obscured the moon and stars as Tom and his mates waited for the order to go over the top.

         “You alright, Sam?” He could hear his mate’s ragged breathing next to him.

         “Fuck’s sake. It’s this bloody waiting for the signal to go that gets to me, mate.”

         “Yeah, I know,” Tom whispered back. “Did you write home today?” he asked, in an attempt to take Sam’s mind off what they were about to do.

         “Yeah. Told the girlfriend I’ll be home on leave next month, but shit, Tom, what’s the fuckin’ odds, hey?”

         “We’re still alive, mate.”

         They were waiting for a whispered command. Tonight’s foray on the enemy was intended to be a swift, surprise attack. They felt a shift in the air, the feeling of unease and a tightening of the tension sweeping in from the end of the line. A whisper from soldier to soldier. “It’s time!”

         Tom could no longer feel the sensation of his flesh as he dragged his body over the top of the trench. Ice cold fingers scrabbled into the black ooze, seeking any purchase to help lift him from the knee deep, icy water and out into the viscous mud and the stench of death. Private Tom Harding lay breathless, face down, aware of his mate, Sam, less than a few feet away. He swore under his breath as he inched his way forward, commando style crawling through the stinking mud. At last he dared stand, body crouched low, his footsteps muffled by the cloying mud. He and his comrades crept silently towards the enemy trench, each yard a victory. Tom’s heart beat rapidly, each beat promising to be its last.

         A sudden flash, followed by more, shattered the silence as the enemy aimed blindly into the darkness. Tom dropped to the ground and rolled into a shell hole but not before an enemy bullet smashed into his knee. He lay motionless where he’d landed, trying to get his breath under control and listened to the skirmish going on above his head. Shouts and screams; both in German and English, filled the previously silent night.

         At last it fell quiet, except for the odd gun fire, and the sky began to lighten in the east. A few feet away from where he’d landed he thought he saw the shape of a man. Tom held his breath and squinted into the gloom at the shape before reaching out and daring to touch it.

         “Hey!” he whispered into the semi-darkness.

         There was no answer and although he still couldn’t tell if the man was still breathing he knew he was in no danger.

         “You alive?” He crept a little closer. The smell told him otherwise. It was light enough now to recognise the uniform as that of the enemy.

         “Fuck this.” Tom began to climb out of the hole. A bullet whistled past his ear and he ducked down again, falling backwards on to the corpse of the young German soldier.

.          “I guess they know we’re here, mate.” He gave an hysterical laugh. “Looks like it’s just me and you.”


         The sun cast long shadows and warmed the earth. Tom had realised he’d lost his canteen of water and knew if he couldn’t get back to his trench he’d be forced to drink the stinking water lying in the bottom of the hole. He decided he’d wait until nightfall before chancing a return to the relative safety of his trench. He forced himself to look closely at his companion and realised he must have been here for some weeks. The flesh of his face was rotting, the white bone of the skull showing through in places. His gaping mouth was crawling with maggots and gave Tom cause to wonder if his new friend was about to say something profound.

         As Tom stared at the lifeless form he smirked weakly and muttered, “Well, mate, you don't look like you're rushing to go anywhere fast. Fancy waiting for a cuppa with me?” The absurdity of his situation pressed down on him,

         Hundreds of fat, white maggots shifted in the dead soldier’s mouth, this movement seemed to change his facial expression from one of surprise and Tom heard, or imagined he heard, a strangled voice. “It’s been a while.”

         “I must be losing it, mate, I’m fucking hearing things.” He dared another look in those dead, staring eyes and thought he saw a tear slide down the ravaged cheek.. “You thinking of home? Have you got a girlfriend waiting?”

         The corpse’s bony hand twitched, slowly it lifted and pointed a finger at his blood-soaked, uniform jacket..

         Tom, gave a crazed laugh before speaking. “You’re kidding me. You’re dead.” Glancing around the desolate, war-torn landscape he had a sudden thought, “Or perhaps it me that’s dead.”

         The dead soldier’s finger tapped his jacket again.

         Tom pulled at the stiff fabric, retrieving a photograph from the inside pocket. Shaking off the maggots which had crawled on to his hand, he stared at the picture. The image showed a young, smiling couple. The pretty girl, holding a bouquet of flowers, was smiling up at a young man wearing a German Army uniform.

         “Is this you? You were recently married? You poor bugger. She’s a looker.”

         The corpse’s hand dropped; lifeless, bony fingers lay in the dirt.

         Tom felt the need to carry on talking. “So, what's it like then? Being dead?” Tom chuckled; he knew he was crazy through blood loss and thirst. “It’s all just shit, mate. We could have been friends back home. We’re all the same, you Germans, we Brits, just doing what we’re told, trying not to get killed.” He gave a glance at his companion. “ Didn’t work out so well with you did it?” He paused, surveying the sky as if it held any answers. “They say we’re all equal in the trenches and in the grave.” He sighed, laying back against the earthen wall.

         He kept up his one-sided banter throughout the day, though his voice became fainter and uttered through cracked and swollen lips. Occasionally a rat would crawl out of the bottom of the dead soldier’s uniform and Tom would kick it away, swearing at the bastards to leave him alone.

         At last the sun began to sink into the west, the shell-hole began to darken until he could no longer see the dead German. Tom knew it was time to get out of there, back into the trench he’d begun to think of as home.
He tried to stand on his injured leg, the blood loss had slowed to a trickle. He knew the injury was bad enough to get him sent out of this hellhole and perhaps out of the war forever.

         “Looks like I’m going to have to leave you, mate,” he whispered.

         He wondered if he’d ever tell anyone about the dead German. Would anyone believe him? Did he believe it himself?

         Private Tom Harding hauled himself out on to the black cloying mud and dragged himself back home.

Words 1528