This is the third night that I have spent in the trench. I came up with the reinforcements from England, they are all new recruits and although I have spent more than enough time in the trenches myself, most of them have never been on the front line. On the first day one of the recruits decided to make the bad decision of looking through the loop hole and bang, a Jerry sniper got him, it was fortunate though, the bullet went through his mouth and out his back cheek. The bullet knocked out all of the teeth on the right side of his mouth. He did live though. The poor boy, he was only 19, hadn't had a single battle in him and he was already being sent home. He was lucky in a way, although he will have a physical scar for the rest of his life, he won't have to suffer what we will have to endure. Going over the top.
It makes me sick in the stomach just to think of it. Going over the top. I have been sent to three, now four, different trench lines, yet none differ from the others. All had the same rats the size of a canteen, all were filled with sickly, wounded and dead. And soon, like the rest, most of everyone here would be dead.
I know that we are going over sometime soon, I heard a bombardment of shells from about 6 am, and it hasn't stopped. Why would we waste the shells if nothing was going to be happening? I met a man on my first night here, William, who was about five foot eleven, hair as black as the night sky and eyes as brown as an old oak. His skin was a tan olive, hinting an Italian heritage. But his accent would disagree. It was sharp and thick, British I assumed, quite mature as well, as mature as an accent can be for an 18 year old. William was broad boy, with the shoulders of an ox and the chest of a barrel. Any rational man would run if they saw him charging them. Although having the brawn, William (or Will as he liked to be called) also had the Brain. If he was a little older and wiser im sure he would make the perfect soldier.
The barrages were light at first but have gotten heavier. It's starting to scare some of the recruits, they say that the shells are getting closer. It was all just paranoia, they were our shells hitting their trenches. The marksman wouldn't hit us would they?
It was funny though, every man here has some item or trinket that they keep for good luck. Some men have pictures of lovers, others have rings, pocket watches. Most have no real value, just sentimental importance. These trinkets are what keep most people sane. They are their only anchor to their previous life... their civilian life... their normal life. Even I have an anchor. A pocket knife, given to me from my grandfather when I was just a child, I have keep It ever since.
Two days before July, the shelling had increased tenfold it was a lot stronger and heavier than it had been at any time of the past week. I was right, the officers, had informed us that we would be going over the top, the day after tomorrow. It was no surprise, everyone knew what was happening. We were just waiting for death to knock on the door. We were informed that there was a listening post dug underneath our trench. Everyone was told to be quiet. It wasn't like we were going to be loquacious that night anyway. We were all being sent to the vestibule of God in the morning, what reason was there to be happy.
That night, the officer of our battalion had drawn us all into the widest area of the trench, it was a sort of H shape, a crossing of two trenches. He was a clean cut man, with a chin that could break diamond, hair like butterscotch and eyes as blue as an English sky. He held out straws and told us to draw and that, he and who ever draws the shortest straw are going over on reconnaissance to destroy the listening post. As all the men reluctantly drew straws, one of the petty officers dressed and equipped the Sergeant. It turns out, I was chosen but didn't worry me. It was either be shot out there now or be shot out there later. I was given a satchel with explosives, rope attached to the Sergeant, boot polish and a black trench coat. I was told that we needed a pass word for when we came back into the trench. I said Shakespeare, but it was overruled by post office.
