When Hell Came to Earth

16th January 1917,

I sit here, and I write. I sit, feet submerged in the gritty muck, deep enough to twist ankles, and I write. I write about the hell that I live in, however, come to think of it now, hell would be but a mere understatement to this blooded war. Hairy, fat rats protrude out of unknown holes, scuttling across the filthy earth. Had I not known they were such rodents, they would appear as harmless shadows, save their sharp, razor teeth, glinting up at me...expecting a snack. I still write, for this is the only way I can let the public know, alert them of the several lies they are being spoon-fed, by the 'valiant' government. "Come, join the game, the biggest that's played!", they say. But this – this is no game. This is no pleasurable event, which everyone should want to participate in so willingly. This is a world of hellfire - one where heaven does not simply exist.

This morning was like no other, a small fragment from the bigger picture. I held an advanced post, a 'dug-out', in the centre of a large stretch of corpse-covered land, 'No Man's Land.' We had to march for three long miles over shelled road. My body began to ache. I could feel every nerve, pulsating through my veins, willing me to stop, if just for a minute, but I couldn't...how could I? We soldiers, walked along a flooded trench, for indeed what we did was not walking. I clawed my way, hands pulling on the free-falling clumps of mud. Slowed down by the weight of my gun, my feet trudged through the knee-high, sloppy dirt. The thick, brown paste was not cold enough to freeze, yet clung to my feet, sapping the little heat that I had tried to contain.

If only I were blind, then I would not have had to see the horrors that lay, buried beneath the earth. Bodies were dumped across the drowned trench, life sucked from their very bone. Some were young, too young to have had their identities taken and forgotten by this murderous war, too young to have had to manage the complexity of a gun and the guilt it brings, and yet, here they lay, silent and unmoving. I tore my eyes away and carried on until I finally reached my dug-out.

Accompanied by another twenty-five men, we all stood in the constricted shelter, shoulder to shoulder, side by side. Water replaced what should've been dry dirt, reaching a depth of one or two feet. The entrance on the left of our dug-out was blown in, obliterated. Only one on the far end endured the endless shelling, one tight entrance that would allow us to escape if need be. Why couldn't we just have stayed here, safe from the ongoing exchange of fired bullets on the surface? It was not long before we were forced to leave – the Germans knew of our sanctuary.

What came after, words cannot simply describe. Only eyes could see the terror of falling soldiers, crumble to the crimson ground beneath their feet, clear holes punched through their bodies. Only ears could hear the wailing shells, the endless rattle of fired rifles, the everlasting 'tat-tat-tat' of machine guns. I wonder now, what if I were deaf? Would I have had to deal with the constant ringing that I experience now? Would I have had to deal with so much pain, over a time which seemed to last forever?

Sundays used to be the days where I would normally go to church, hear the heavenly choirs sing. Their voices were almost like angels', high notes soaring gracefully through the clouds, singing to God only. Now, they sing for us, pray that our souls don't get torn right out of our bodies, begging for us to come back home, safely and in one piece. I'm not sure if that'll happen, not when the likes of it are so low, almost impossible.

The shelling was unfathomable. At every bang, adrenaline coursed through my shaking body, nearly knocking me off my feet. I clung to my gun, tucking it closer to my chest, like a child, holds tight its dear teddy bear. The shouts and screams of dying soldiers could be heard from the outside, followed by the repetitive round of shots, fired on end. Sweat began to trickle down my temple, "BANG, BANG, BANG, AAAAGHHH!" Then – silence. I reminisce the time in which such a thing would come so often, so easily. The seconds pass by, and I count. Could this be it, the moment where it all stops, the hour where all the sufferings end? Could this be it?

What stupid, foolish thoughts! If only I had known that before going 'over-the-top' before my life was put in unimaginable danger. I lurched, floundered, staggered over 'No Man's Land', escaping the metallic monsters that lay behind me, firing away. I had to get to my other post, hopefully without being blown to bits. On every side of me, terror struck. Bits of dead soldiers settled across the mass expanse of dried blood. My eyes could not look away, not when men I had talked to, now lay lifeless, mouths hanging open. Still, I ran, for if I were to survive, I had to get to my designated post.

I was so close now, only inches away, when a dreaded word, had made its way to the ears of every soldier, striking fear into their hearts. "GAS! GAS! GAS!" That was the last thing that poor soldier said before his insides were blown to bits. I fumbled for my gas mask attached to my hip. My hands trembled, sticky with sweat. Shaking, I managed to get the mask on, finally under the safety of its green lens. Others were not so fortunate. I witnessed men, cling to their throats as if choking themselves would save them from the impending smell of mustard gas. I heard men scream in agony as the gas twisted into and out of their bodies, destroying the organs therein. I felt the weakened grasp of soldiers indent their nails into my skin, pleading for help, my help. My body turned rigid, I couldn't move. Only when the soldier's dying breaths escaped his contaminated body, did I finally realize, death had decided to visit someone, right before my very eyes.

The shouts of departed soldiers still echo through my mind, reminding me of what was, and what is to come. How can we accept this horrific occurrence!? How is it permitted for such young, innocent boys to be lead to their gruesome fates, like cattle, lead to their slaughter? Are the lives of millions really, worth the price of victory? War should not be a word known for courage or glory but should be feared and dreaded by everyone, old and young, rich and poor, man and woman. Eyes cannot simply unsee the sight of amputated soldiers, and heart cannot simply forget the losses of this damned war!

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