Mud, Sweat, and Melee: The Story of A British Soldier, 1916- 1918

Part 1-Section 2: Bloody July

July 1, 1916
We have finally arrived at our designated location. Already, our artillery is firing away. We have been told that the artillery has already been firing on upon the enemy for a week now. In only a few hours, we'll be "going over the top". Im feeling nauseous already.

July 4, 1916
I have not been able to write until now, merely for the reason of constantly being pummeled with fire from the enemy. The last few days have been worse than all my previous days on the front. We are now positioned at the front of some woods, although i have no idea exactly where. I've seen many of my fellows killed right in front of me. Tom, one of my best friends, was struck by the bullets of a German machine gun. They penetrated his chest and stomach, as he twisted in a contorted manner before falling to the ground, eyes lifeless. He was the most innocent, fun chap you could ever meet, just a optimistic 19 year old. And now he's dead, and for what? Nothing. It seems like we have barely gained any more than a few hundred meters of land, and already we've have lost half our battalion. This is hell.

July 15, 1916
More and more fighting. Every day. I can't take it. We are down to sixty men, but the bloody awful command won't take us off the front. I've been pierced by shrapnel in the knee, and have been transported to a field hospital. The treatments are crude, but anything is better than sitting in that trench, waiting to hear the whistle blow, only to run to your death for the reward of another 30 meters. I won't be able to write for the next few days, so I am attempting to write my thoughts now. This is pointless. This whole campaign, these daily firefights, everything. I even heard from one man that we took 50,000 casualties across the entire front in just the first day. I don't get how a general could be so oblivious of these facts. Our command is either brain dead or just plain idiotic.

July 23, 1916
I've been given a few bandages and sent back to the front instead of being taken back to Britain like I had hoped. Our last officer was shot yesterday, we are at least a hundred yards away from any other unit, and the enemy persists in counterattacks. Forty-two of us remain. There is talk amongst the boys of finally getting pulled out of the war, or at least this offensive.

July 27, 1916
It happened. We are surrounded. Twenty left. This will be my last letter. I have a bullet lodged in my leg. This is my last stand. We are low on both ammunition and hope. Lord have mercy on our souls.

Private Wilson was shot in the head defending his position as German troops overran the remnants of his battalion on July 28, 1916. His bravery was never remembered, as his body was never recovered and everyone in his battalion was killed.