«letters to the somme»

purgatory.

James lies curled up in the corner.

He is naked, pathetic like a new-born babe, shivering with fear and exhaustion. Scars of red and pink and blue and purple clutter his pale, translucent skin. These wounds are infected in some places, encrusted with dirt. His eyes are bruised and dark, hair falling out. When he breathes in harsh shudders, his ribs are prominent.

He does not know if it has been days or weeks or months since the Germans – or the Austrians, he does not know the difference – dragged him here. All he can remember is creeping up on the enemy trenches on a night raid, then being knocked out when a shell exploded near him.

James woke up in a cell then, with a slit of candlelit, dim hallway in the wall. His hands were tied behind his back. There was a menacing-looking soldier with him, holding a whip.

"Wh-where am I? Who are you?"

The guard had remained silent.

"So you have woken." A voice, heavily accented, rang around the small cell. James supposed it was underground, due to the smell of earth and the dirt ground.

"S-show your face, don't be a coward. German scum." He spat. Oh, what a foolish young lad he had been. He soon learned when the guard lashed the whip across his face, leaving a stinging, bleeding mark.

"What is your name?"

"I'm not telling you anything."

Another lash, this time across the back.

"I think you will. What is your name?" The voice enquired, slightly amused.

"James. James Waters."

"English, by the accent of your voice?"

He was silent. Two quick lashes on his hands.

"Yes." He bit on his lip, and a droplet of blood trickled down his chin.

The man went on to ask him about the battle plans. James did not know what those were, being only a lowly soldier. But even so he was lashed countless times. When he did not cooperate, he was stripped down to his skin and forced to answer the man's questions. What was Britain going to do next? Soon he was bloody all over, and unconscious. Every time he woke, he was subjected to the same questions, the same lashes. Sometimes a few stale biscuits and water were given to him, but James could never manage a bite before throwing up. The cell soon attracted a couple of rats.

He stays quiet, not making a sound, keeping his swollen eyes closed. James thinks of home, thinks of Rose, a million miles away. But most of all, his mind replays the sounds of the shells over and over again, boom boom BOOM BOOM BOOM, and then he sees Bobby dying all over again, and he screams sometimes in his sleep, and sometimes when he is awake. This is worse, because the guard comes in and the voice starts asking questions he cannot answer.

And then he is whipped, fresh scars painted over the old so that the pain is a million times worse, and it is so unbearable that his emaciated body collapses onto the cold, hard dirt floor and he is left alone.

Perhaps death will give him the mercy that neither side will give him. 

Note: I wrote this I while ago, when I did not know the importance of research. It is highly unlikely, historically, that this ever happened or could have happened to German prisoners-of-war or suspected intelligence agents. Take it as a psychological message of what war is doing to James.