Within the Trenches.

June 14, 1918.

I write this to inform, not to remember. I never wish to glance at these pages again after filling them; only that, if I don't leave this place alive, it may be found and used as a first-hand account of the brutal and barbaric nature of this pointless, futile war. Why am I here? I've pondered this thought many times, and yet, I can't find an answer. When I first arrived on the western front, I feared, above all else, that if I were to kill here, I would burn for it upon death; but after seeing all that I have seen, and doing all that I have done, I no longer fear hell. I have lived the utmost worst that a man can live; surely no hell could compare.
The artillery shells fall regularly here, blasting unfortunate souls to broken pieces. But that is not the worst; some of these shells contain poisonous fumes that make the strongest men fall and cry, until there's no breath left in their lungs and foam pours from their agape mouths in rivers, and when they finally stop flailing and lay still, their faces bear the ghosts of their pain, their fear, their torment. One such man, an eager young man named Matthews, had hardly been here for a week. His death pained me, as I was one of the few who knew that the boy was only sixteen, and had lied about his age to enlist. Watching him die, safe behind my mask, watching as he sealed his mask just a fraction of a second too late, it destroyed me. We could not save him. There is, unfortunately, no way to avoid death in such a situation.
The dangers of our trench are not limited to artillery and poison gas, however. The impact of rifle and machine fire is nearly constant, and lifting your head above the wall, even for a mere second, is a quick way to lose it. The German snipers are relentless. I've watched five men die just today from making this mistake.
When the whistle blows and the order is given, we launch ourselves over the top of the trench and charge, and within an instant, no-man's land contains dozens of fresh corpses, left to rot among those who've already fallen. We retreat, count our losses, and eventually, we repeat. Why? This is madness in its purest form; we repeat the process, gain the same result, and repeat the process again, hoping, praying that this charge will come to fruition- and if it does, do you know what we do? We settle into the new trench, and we do it all again, throwing bodies and lives into the mouth of the great beast of war, watching them as they're swallowed, wondering if we'll be part of the beast's next meal. Within hours, we discover for ourselves. But, should I be honest, the fear of death has little place in my mind any longer. Better it is to die, than to continue this pattern of horror and futility.
The manner of death is a separate matter. Yes, there are ways that we die that are quick and painless- a bullet to the head, being too close to an artillery shell when it lands- and ways that are not so, such as inhaling the gases or being burned by German flamethrowers. But, in my honest opinion, the worst death that I've yet seen, was a man who was thrown into barbed wire.
We had gone over the top, and as previously stated, it wasn't long before we received orders to retreat. As we did so, the Germans began an artillery barrage, sending shells crashing down around us. Ahead of me, nearly reaching the trench, a man named Peterson was running when suddenly a shell landed near him. He flew to the side and landed in the midst of a cluster of barbed wire just beyond the top of the wall, his screams of pain echoing long throughout the rest of the day and night. Once you are trapped within the wire, any attempt to free yourself will only further entangle you, causing more pain, more anguish. He begged for two days, asking us to save him, to free him, and then his request changed; he began begging for death. Early in the morning on the third day, while the night still covered us and being seen by the enemy was small in chance, a man whose name I fortunately do not know lifted himself above the wall and relieved Peterson of his misery. I do not envy either of them, and I admire that the man possessed what I believe must've been a considerable amount of mercy and strength in order to commit such a deed. Godspeed, friend. May your memory not haunt you, for you did what needed to be done.
I do not know how long I've been here; the days, weeks, and months blend together, and time is irrelevant in this abyss of suffering and death. I do not know how long I may be here still, nor if I shall return home alive. Should I return to Ohio, it shall surely not be as the same man that my family and friends knew. How could it be? I have seen more horrors than I could ever comprehend, and I know, even now, that they shall always haunt me. For the rest of my life, however long it may be, the ghosts of the fallen will follow me, until I leave this world and join them once more.
I must cut this short now. We are preparing to charge. If this remains all that is written, know my fate, and know that I am finally free from this hell.

- Sergeant John McCormack, U.S. Army.