Into The Trenches: A World War I Journal [2019]

Chapter 2

The following chapters contain scenes of graphic injury and death. 

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24 August 1914

At long last, Mother and Father have agreed. Elizabeth is still vehemently against my going, but as she is fifteen she has no say. Mother is extremely hesitant, but after a lecture about the war and nationalism she is allowing me to go. I also reminded her that the war ought to be a quick one, and that I should be home before Christmas. 

I shall leave soon for the military training camp in Lyndhurst, and there will begin my experience as a soldier. I cannot wait. 

31 August 1914

I have arrived at the Lyndhurst camp. I shall begin to train in the next several days. Some men are professional members of the Seventh Division; others are new recruits like myself, the youngest round my age.

The Germans have captured Liege, Namur and Dinant and continue to press through Belgium. Yesterday Paris received a German air raid. Serbia has pushed back the Austrians for the time being, but the latter intends to invade again. I believe Europe has seen no war on such a grand scale. Even Japan has involved itself in what looks to be the beginnings of a world war. 

5 September 1914

We have been introduced to the basics of being a soldier: marching, formations, weapons and such. Many of the newer soldiers are also fresh out of school, and have joined for a taste of the glory of battle. I am a worse shot than I assumed-- my only experience with a gun has been for target practice and a bit of hunting-- but the practice is helping me improve. 

17 September 1914

I am learning quickly, and soon my training will be over. I shall be on my way by the end of the month, after which I shall travel to the coast and then France. I see no need to write of our tedious rounds until then. My station shall be in Ypres, West Flanders, Belgium, and I shall arrive on 5 October. I am so close to what I have dreamt of for nearly my whole life.

25 September 1914

I am ready. I leave tomorrow for Dover, from which I shall take the ferry across the Channel to Calais. From there I shall travel to Ypres. My parents and Elizabeth will see me off at the ferry port. 

I am anxious to be in Ypres, but also nervous. I do not know what is in store for me there. Even Elizabeth's news stories and my fantasies have not prepared me for true battle. I shall see death firsthand. By the end of the week I shall have killed. I have thought of this little, but now I cannot help it. 

1 October 1914

I have bid my family good-by for what may be a long time. Mother and Father were tearful. Elizabeth told me fiercely before I boarded the ferry that if I were to die in battle, she would personally raise me from the dead to kill me herself. I shall miss her.

It may be the last time I see her, or England. I shall keep this entry short because I am prone to sea-sickness, but as I sit on the ferry now it is truly striking me for the first time that I may die.

5 October 1914

I am now in the Ypres trench. It has finally begun.

I have met some of the soldiers. Jacob is a fellow soldier about my age; he is kindly but distant. Ned and Richard are other men I have met. The barracks are crowded, filthy and smelly; we sleep out in the open. There is waste at every corner, and rats scurrying all about. It is not at all as I had imagined.

I have been placed in the primary trench, the secondary and reserve connected behind. The Germans have a similar layout to the east. I am told that during defense we fight from inside the trench and during attacks we are out on the field. The stretch between our trench and that of the Germans is called "no man's land" by the soldiers.

The uniforms are khaki, with large pockets and a broad belt across the waist. I have also received a service cap, a knapsack and a gun. It is a Lee Enfield rifle, fitted with a bayonet. I used one of the same at Lyndhurst. 

Tomorrow shall be my first day of real battle. I spent the evening at target practice—I am not a very good shot, but I am improving slowly. 

I asked Jacob about the plan for attacks as we worked at the targets, though he hardly needs the practice. He said, "Climb up the ladder, shoot as many as you can, avoid shells and barbed-wire. Don't get shot."

"That's all?" I asked.

He shrugged. "It isn't as simple as it sounds," he said.

From now on I shall relate in detail the events occurring in this trench so that any reader may have some idea of the quality of living we have. 

6 October 1914

I have now seen no man's land, and there is no way to describe it but as Hell on Earth.

We were on the offensive, climbing out of the trench on ladders at the general's whistle. No man's land is covered in large craters from bombshells and spools of barbed-wire. There are rifle and machine gunshots from ahead and artillery fire from above. 

There is no cover, no protection save the thin wire fences to shoot. I do not know whether I killed anyone. It is near impossible to see through the smoke and haze.

And men dying. All around me, the sounds of bullets hitting their targets. An older man with whom I spoke yesterday was shot and killed at my side. The same fate could easily come to myself, or Jacob or Ned or any of us, any day. Hours later I still hear the screaming of the wounded and dying in my ears. I still see the blood at their chests and heads.

I do not think I shall sleep tonight from the horrors I have seen. 

7 October 1914

I have killed.

We were on the defensive today. I heard the whistle from the German side, and suddenly there was a scramble to take up our arms and press ourselves against the wall of the trench with our heads and guns at ground level. It is an uncomfortable position, half standing and half lying on the slanted terrain. Jacob was at my side.

We waited in anticipation, the camp deathly still. Then a shot was fired, and in an instant the air was filled with the sound. Jacob was shooting ruthlessly, handling his rifle with ease.

Then a man came running at the trench, suddenly mere feet from me. There was rage in his face, and his rifle was leveled at my head. I didn't think. I raised my own rifle and fired a round into his chest. He fell in front of me, stumbling and collapsing, finally lying with his face to the sky. 

I stumbled back, horror choking my throat. I could not stop staring at him; he was young, barely older than me. Crimson blood soaked his uniform and seeped into the ground below him. His head lolled towards me, his eyes open in the shocked oblivion of death. Overcome with the gravity of what I had done, I ducked into the trench and vomited into the dirt. When my stomach was empty I knelt, retching, the German's empty eyes ingrained in my mind. 

I shall never know his name, but I'll never forget that face. The face of the man—no, the boy—I killed.

Am I to become used to this? Used to killing my fellow soldiers, my fellow men, even if they are on the other side of the war?

How could I have dreamt of this?