Determined to survive.

 Sunday, the 27th of June, 1915

Gallipoli

Dear Journal,

I am James Parker, I am nineteen years old and I am frightened. Not for myself. I deserve to die. I’m a soldier- I’ve killed people! No, I am worried for the innocent people whose whole lives have been taken over by this war. It has to stop. And I’m going to make sure that happens. That’s why I am here. That’s why I am sitting up on this hard dirt floor, with a thin blanket pulled around me and the harsh wind whistling in my ears. I can’t see a thing I’m writing, as it’s pitch black here. Luckily, we have had a bit of a quiet patch for these past few days.

 Well, quiet for the war, I mean. It’s definitely not quiet in the usual sense of the word- young John is snoring so loud the Turkish troops will probably think we’re attacking! He is curled up to the left of me. It’s impossible to get any sleep when he is nearby!

Philip’s a quiet sleeper, thank the lord. Although, sometimes I doubt he even sleeps at all. He misses his family an awful lot, poor lad. Well, we all do…

Anyway, I’m rambling. I have been sitting here for what feels like hours, but it can only have been 40 minutes. That happens a lot, in the war. Time becomes unintelligible. I can’t sleep, my mind is just too full, so I’ve decided to write. I need to get things off my chest.

            Today was a simple day. Rather uneventful. It was windy and cold, one of those days where I could have stayed in bed all day (as uncomfortable as it is), but I didn’t, of course. Thomas Knightly and John tried to. Philip slipped out of our trench even before we were roused from our sleep by Sergeant Tyer- the brute in charge of our lot.

            “Parker, Knightly, Harrison!” he called to us, and I scrambled off the floor immediately. I’m not scared of Sergeant Tyer- I reckon he’s soft on the inside- but I know better than to disobey him. I hurriedly pulled on my muddy khaki slacks and shirt. I stuffed my dirty feet into thick brown boots and pulled on my jacket and cap. That stupid cap… it offers no protection from bullets or shrapnel, yet they insist we wear it.     

Trying my very hardest not to grumble, I yanked Thomas and John out from under their blankets. I couldn’t help feeling slightly mad at them for taking up my time, as if we are not at the morning ‘stand to’ we get severely punished! But there is no way I could bear to see them get yelled at for sleeping, so I woke them anyway. I watched with a slight smirk on my face as John hopped about, with sleep in his cheeky blue eyes, his curly light brown hair rumpled, trying desperately to get the right foot into his pants. Thomas is more coordinated, and is probably the best looking of all the soldiers. He is also the oldest out of the four of us (us being Thomas, Philip, John and I) at 26 years old. I yanked them both forward and we hurried to join the other 25 soldiers in our trench. There are others of course, nearby. Not all of them are Australian, but they are all on our side.

            Gosh, I am rambling again. It’s just that I want to have everything important down on paper, I can not leave a single detail out

At ‘stand to’, Sergeant Tyer had his usual morning grumble, his black moustache bobbing up and down on his face. We were handed out large rifles and a bottle of rum to clean them with. Some of us skip the cleaning and just drink the rum, but I don’t. It’s not worth it, and besides I have never liked rum. It burns my throat.

            Then it was time for breakfast. Stale crackers and strawberry jam. It is nothing like the beautiful breakfasts my mother would cook for me at home, but I mustn’t complain. There are people in the world who don’t have any food at all. After we had shoveled down our minute meal there was not a lot to do. Several of us were sent to keep a lookout for any signs of attack from the enemy, but I was not among them. I wish I had been, anything is better than sitting on my backside and waiting. I need to be doing something useful, not refilling bloody sandbags! That is my chore, you see. Refilling the sandbags. It is a tedious job, as I have to scoop masses of heavy sand into numerous hessian bags throughout the trenches. It takes me hours, but it is a job well suited to me. I am quite strong, possibly the strongest of all us. I am not boasting, honestly. I am not bothered about the way I look, or my abilities.

            Nevertheless, I am getting off track again. The strangest thing happened at lunch. I had just filled the last sandbag and was wandering through the trench in search for food, when I found Philip deep in conversation with Sergeant Tyer! Sergeant averted his eyes from Philip’s dark locks and called me over.

“Parker, finished with those sand bags?” I stepped towards them, and spotted John jogging towards us. I beckoned him over.

“Yes, sir. They are all done,” I informed him. Sergeant nodded curtly.

“Very good, Parker,” he said, pulling his coat up around his neck to protect it from the harsh wind. “Philip and I were just… having a talk.”

“What about, sir?” ever so naïve John questioned. Honestly, he doesn’t have a clue when to keep his mouth shut! I thought Sergeant was going to lose it with John and tell him to get back to work but he didn’t. He just sighed wretchedly.

“Life, if you must know. Family, or lack of it…What we’ve left behind,” he said. The wind was whistling in my ears, but it wouldn’t have been hard to block out their chatter even so. My thoughts were swiftly brought back to my family. My life that I left behind. My everything. How I miss them.

My darling Annaliese… the way her soft auburn hair falls loosely around her shoulders, the way her green eyes sparkle when she laughs, the silver ring on her finger that means we will be married.

My sweet little sister, Mary. I can still picture her wavy chocolate hair, her dark blue eyes, her bony knees… so much like me. I miss the enchanting sound of her piano playing, and her jokes that just aren’t funny.

I would give anything for a hug from my mother, to hear her singing, loud and off-key… to tell her I love her. Because I fear I won’t get another chance.

Yours exhaustedly,

James.