Want to be moved? A Letter from the Trenches,
By: Beatrice Faber
Tags: Cry, Perpective, Storytelling, Letters From War, Letters

Want to be moved? A Letter from the Trenches,

To my love, August 5, 1916

I am writing this letter from the trenches’ depths, down below the dark, smell filled, death land. I love you from the bottom of my heart, I miss you, I need you, but I am stuck here to rot away and die, an honoured death. I am at Somme River valley in northern France, living in the grey, dusty, smoke-filled trench line. I fear this may be the last thing I ever write, the last time I picture your porcelain face in my head, the last time I hear your voice telling me it’s going to be okay. It’s not okay here. The battle of the Sommes got to my Madeleine; there are many things I didn’t realize I was getting into.

I have been put into the Front line, even though my shooting skills are not at their finest; they say I’m healthy and fit and that maybe I could make it through. I’ve learned to shoot in between the sandbags, and unfortunately, between the dead bodies at the top of the trench; that way, I’m blocked from other gunshots but can still shoot without being visible. I don’t think I will live long enough to feel the warmth of another daylight. Madeleine, the rats. Ugh, they look like your childhood cat, whiskers, huge and fat, and know too much for their own good, on top of that, tanks, the horrible death-bringing machines that have been introduced into the fight. Many of our troops have been killed by this horrendous piece of metal. The smell, oh the lousy smell Madeleine. It reeks of death, reeks of human and rat crap. And the food here is very scarce, and even when I can get ahold of some, well Madeleine, It tastes like your dad’s cooking. All I can see from sitting down in my trench is open land, full of traps made from barbed wire and dead souls laying there, finally at peace, no mans land is gonna be the death of me. The war doesn’t look like it will end soon, I’m guessing a few more months, even when our troops are weak. They’re tired of hearing the blasts of bombs and gunshots. They’re tired of the horrible feeling of mud in their shoes, hair, body, and improper sanitation. I am tired of the smells, tired of seeing people drop dead at their feet. When I stand on my fire step, waiting to shoot down the Germans, I’ve been so bored, with nothing to do, nothing to work for. Instead, I’ve done a lot of thinking. I’ve realized that there is no more deep orange sunset or stars in the night sky. Do you remember our long walks on the beach at sunset or laying in the quiet field looking up into the glorious star-filled sky? I fear we will never be able to have those moments together anymore, only in our dreams, my dear.

One dugout that I have been able to find rest in, it’s almost like my safe place. I Have a duckboard to sit and occasionally sleep on that I took from a pool of urine, blood, and water. But recently, I have learned that I am never safe, not even in my dugout, not after my two closest friends died right in front of my eyes from a bomb thrown from the deadly enemy. I know this is unpatriotic, but I wish I would have stayed home and not participated in this war. Many of the fellow soldiers that I fight alongside are suffering from trench foot. If I were to show you, you would be squeamish, these poor men Madeleine, these poor boys, what did they get themselves into. What did I get myself into? Madeleine, there is something I need to tell you. I am sick, and I don’t think I will survive, whether I am shot, poisoned, or of disease. Don’t expect me back with you. All you can do now is hope, pray, and wait. I am sorry.

Remember me when I have gone away, Gone far away into the silent land. And that you would remember to not grieve, for in the darkness and corruption leave. A vestige of the thoughts that once I had, and that you won’t forget, yet smile. It will be late to counsel then or pray, then that you remember me, you will be sad. Goodbye, my love, forever.

Your love, Melvin

(Not real, written for perspective)