For my WWI history project, I wrote letters written by a young fictional Canadian soldier who took part in the Battle of Passchendaele, also known as the Third Battle of Ypres. This battle was a hard-fought victory for the Allies, one that Canada played a vital role in securing their triumph. However, the battle served to be useless, as the Germans re-took the ridges they had fought over only a few weeks later. There were countless casualties. This battle has gone down in history as a symbol of the senseless slaughter of the Great War.
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Letters From Will
By: Sunny
October 15, 1917
Dear Reggie,
I was delighted to receive your latest letter. I hope all is well with you! The past while has been quite sullen, and I did not realize how much I needed to read something from home. I also got some magazines from Aunt Mae and a stern note about taking care of my hygiene and updating her on my health. I have not told her anything about the conditions out here for fear of this exact response, so I suppose she must have interrogated some other poor soul! Regrettably, I cannot bear to spare her details, for I worry she might have a fit and faint. If she asks you anything about me, I implore you to pretend as though you know nothing.
Anyhow, a few days ago we arrived in Passchendaele, east of Ypres, to relieve the Australian and New Zealand troops and join the fight in taking the ridge. I heard rumours going around that Lieutenant General Currie objected to the Corps joining this battle because of the potential casualties. That's not really something that gives me courage, but I must have faith. We all have to, for how can men fight if they have no hope to spare? That's what Archie tells me, anyway.
When we got here, we were shocked with the most terrible of conditions. The ground's been fought on so many times; it's a foreboding landscape with continuous artillery fire, and the rotting, unburied bodies of soldiers and horses, both ours and the enemies'. And the smells, oh the smell! It is revolting! Moreover, the continuous rain makes it tricky to get anywhere, with the mud coming up to our knees. You have to be careful not to get lost trudging through the blasted mudscape.
They've kept us quite busy to be prepared for our coming attack, so I've had to write in any spare moments I can. We've had to build new roads, repair and extend tramlines, and remove the dead, though very few were buried. Transporting troops to the front lines is treacherous, with the battlefield being a vast expanse of muck and scarred with crump-holes filled with water. We had to make our way on duck walk tracks that wound around the craters. You can't slip off them, or you might drown. The worst part of it though is the bodies piled on top of one another, entanglements of limbs and unrecognizable uniforms. You don't want to look at them, but somehow your eyes can't draw away. I think I saw somehow still alive. He'd lost two limbs by the look of it. He was not moving, but I saw his eyes through the blood and mud caked onto his skin. They were glassed over, but he managed to keep his gaze on mine until I turned. I couldn't tell if he was one of us or them. All I know is that he was under unimaginable pain, and that I'd never seen a man look so empty. I did not like looking at him. I hope he passed that night.
Throughout all of this, the Germans atop the ridge unceasingly fire upon our efforts. I would think it annoying if it did not end in the wounding and deaths of my comrades, so instead it makes me very angry. Even though it's all horrifying, there is still this thrill that comes over me when I'm in danger. You know, when your heart is pumping fast and ears are ringing. It's hard for me sometimes to discern from dread and excitement. But every time I come back to safety unscathed, I just think how incredibly lucky I am.
