«letters to the somme»

dodging and dye.

The Somme is a river in northern France. It flows from the English Channel. Perhaps this is why James feels a little more reassured. The water flowing near him is flowing all the way back to England, the shores of his homeland.

It has almost been five months, and he has been bruised and battered and scratched into a careworn soldier. His hair is a thatch of mud and dirt, squished under a helmet, and his skin brown and blotchy, the freckles mixing in. It has been long since he tried to keep himself clean.

He has also forgotten that the mud is mixed with the blood of his comrades and his enemies.

The atmosphere in the trench is tense when he wakes from his sweaty, restless two hours of sleep. The heavy, dank June weather beats upon him as he crawls out of the dugout, and into another. Four soldiers are playing cards – although they are all whispering amongst themselves as they do so.

Bobby stands in a corner, nibbling at a ship’s biscuit and staring warily at a rat just outside. James moves to join him.

“Sleep well, bairn?” He grins at James as he comes in. In the five months that he has been here, Bobby has taken him under his wing as a little brother of sorts.

“Not exactly the Savoy, but all right.” He takes a ship’s biscuit and eats it hungrily, ignoring the stale taste.

“Well, you’ll not be ‘appy to hear this. Haig’s planning a geet walla battle plan from what I’ve ‘eard’, gonna go over the top in a week or two.” Bobby shakes his head woefully. He lights up a cigarette and pulls on it thoughtfully.

“A what?” Even after living and fighting with Bobby for months, he is still not used to his northern slang.

“A big plan, lad, a big plan.”

And two days later, it seems that the ominous, silent air of the trench has given way to something. A massive offensive on the Germans, and they are ordered to march through no man’s land and get to the enemy trenches, according to their officer.

“How do we get there if they’re shootin’ at us?” Bobby pipes up.

The officer spits on the ground.

“You better bloody well dodge the bullets, then.”

James observes Bobby furtively writing a letter out of the corner of his eye. The man is struggling, scribbling out words frustratingly.

“I used to skip school lots, to go swimming down at the lake.” He’d told James.

James walks over, in lieu of helping his friend.

“Who’re you writing that to?”

“Ann.”

“D’you need help?”

“How d’you spell ‘die’? Is it d-y-e?” Bobby muses and keeps talking, but James bends down and reads his letter.

“Why’re you writing that for? You’ll worry your wife, won’t ya?”

Bobby looks up at him thoughtfully, and cocks his head as if to think very carefully as to what to reply.

“It’s in case I won’t get to say goodbye, James.”

“But – but – you won’t die, Bobs, you’ve been here for two years now.” James blusters, not able to comprehend what Bobby’s death might mean, for him, for his son, for his wife.

“How old are you, James?”

“Nineteen, you know that.”

“Then you know it’s always possible. S’like a will, innit? In case. Don’t worry, I’ll try to ‘dodge.” He smiles insolently then, and James laughs.

“I’d better go write one too, then, just in case, as you say.” And the younger boy lopes out of the dugout.

Bobby stares sadly for a moment, and then resumes his letter.

James is so very young.