Journal of Theodore Morrison

Entry 1

25th February, 1916

Dear Diary,

Lines and lines of fellow men around the age of 19 to 30 with wide grins smeared across their face were in line, bustling from apprehension on the first day of sign up. The queue was very long, and I had to fight my way through in order to see the first ever propaganda poster, declaring war over the greatly feared brutes, who represented the merciless Germans.

Everyone was so very excited to join the war, eager to stand in line and vow their faith towards our beloved country. I was no different, and it took a long while to convince my wife Betsie and son Charles that I had to fulfill my duty as a citizen of Britain. Although Charles was only fifteen, he begged to come along and fight alongside me. He's a fighter, that one, and though trenches are no place for young'uns, I greatly wanted him to join, for it would be a great experience to go abroad. But I knew that the age restriction was eighteen so here I was, standing in line to sign up for the British Expeditionary Force.

Soon, it became my turn, and I remember how the recruiting officer peered at me beneath his khaki beret hat.

"Your name?" He had asked.

"Theodore Morrison, sir."

"Age?"

"28 sir."

"Nationality?"

"British through and through, officer."

The recruiting officer had looked me up and down, then commented on my stocky frame. He nodded a few times, supposedly wrote down my name and age, then ushered me towards a building labeled The Medical Examination Centre. 

They measured my sight, hearing, speech, and more. To be honest, there was nothing much special about the measurements they had on me-they were barely accurate as it would take too long if they had to be more specific. The country needed soldiers, a lot of them, and a trivial health condition wouldn't be a good enough excuse to turn it down.

After the examination, the doctor declared I was fit enough, and I left, my heart swelling with pride as the recruiting officer told me that we would start training tomorrow. I was not at all surprised, since we couldn't waste any time on training. Every second was precious.

Across the street, I saw my wife and my son, Charles. I embraced them in my arms as they weeped, bodies trembling from fear at the thought of me not returning.

The war would soon be over, though, and by Christmas I would be by the fireplace once more, enjoying hot tea with my family.

I've seen the troops marching through the streets of London with their heads held high and gleaming badges on their military uniform, pride in each and every stride. I knew then that I wanted to join the army badly.

I would come home soon, I told them.

But doubt in their eyes told me they thought not.