Somewhere Along the Front, 1915(?)

My beautiful and dear Bridget,

I am writing to you from the front because it is unlikely we will be relieved any time soon. We have been in the trenches for almost two weeks now, and the reserves have not arrived yet. The captain says our lines have been cut and we will not see reinforcements for some time. It honestly would not be so bad if at least we had some food; the only thing we had was bread and just about all it has been ruined by the constant rain. A couple of days ago it was somewhat edible, but now we just give it to the rats. The mud is almost knee deep in some parts, most of our casualties lately have been from trench foot and fevers, I don't think anyone has been shot in a while. The truth is the Germans are as bad, if not worst than us, or at least that's what the reports say. But to be honest, being any worst would mean there is no one waiting on the other side: out of the 180 men in the company we came in with, some 50 have been killed and there are at least 80 wounded, so I have a feeling they're lying to us yet again. Fifty of us are holding this part of the line, and we are stretched so thin that there is one of us every ten meters or so. The problem is that since we are so few, we all have to watch the line constantly so sleep has been scarce, a few hours here and there. Not that sleeping would be possible with the constant shelling. Their guns have been going off every minute since before we moved in to the front. A bunch of the men have gone completely insane; yesterday, one of the boys snapped, tried to leave the line but was picked off by a sniper before he could even take his fifth step. That's how it is here, a constant psychological fight. I haven't fired a round since the last time I was here two months ago, and I haven't been shot at either. It's your head you have to watch out for, you either keep yourself under control or suffer the consequences of not knowing what you are going to do, like that boy who, without realizing it, got up, ran off the line and got shot in the back of the head trying to leave this God forsaken ditch. I'm starting to wonder if I have it in me to keep myself going. Here I have hit rock bottom, it does not get any worst than it already is. The only reason I am still going is you, my love. Whenever I close my eyes, your face flashes in my memory, and I can not but help remembering those times we made love in the country side, under the shade of the trees, while the sun shun in the background; the thrill and butterflies I felt afterward when I rested my head on your chest as I listened to your heart beat. Or simply holding and stroking your hand while walking around town. All these simple aspects of our love which I never took for granted and now appreciate even more so than before. My dear bridget, I am writing to you because all these things are making me hold on to life, because I refuse to give in this fight to stay alive and perhaps see your face once again. I promise you that I will do nothing foolish to demonstrate bravery in a place where bravery is rewarded with death; I have seen too many lives been wasted for a cause I have yet still to understand. Our great nation has slaughtered all these young men, whether they are lying lifeless on the battlefield or still breathing in the trenches, because our innocence has been forever lost. It is not normal for anyone to witness what we as soldiers have seen. I live, but my life along with my youthful soul have been taken away from me. I am no longer the boy you waved good bye to at the train station that dreadful afternoon, but a broken down man who will struggle until his last day, whether it be tomorrow or many decades from now, to make peace with himself and the world around him. Oh my Bridget, if you only knew the blood I have seen be spilled, the flesh I have witnessed be torn. The screams of anguish I have heard, the cries for mothers and wives and children I have had to bear. From now until my last day, I will hear every one of them, this is my sentence. I am writing to you to tell you that if you were not on other side waiting for me, there is no reason for me to live on. If you were not there, and a merciful God existed, then he would have me go in peace to heaven right here, right now. But I refuse, as long as you are there waiting for me. Living on with the weight I am carrying is worth it because our love for each other is too strong. My dear Bridget, you have been until now my only true passion and I intend to keep it that way. Tell mom and dad that everything is going just fine here, I know dad will certainly want to hear about our morale being high and I do not want mom getting worried. Tell Charles he may have my rifle, I know his birthday is coming soon and he has wanted it for some time. Write to me please, I do not know if the letter will find me, but if it does it will do me some good to hear about home. Just remember, when you feel sad and lonely, that I carry you in me: you are
now my soul and saviour. With much love and [.....]

[not legible/blood stain]


What he felt was unlike any humanity he had felt in some time. He was so immune to all the death that surrounded him and that it made him sick to his stomach. As a medic at least he did not have to fire a rifle, but he had to bear witness to some unbearable moments. A tear ran down his cheek. Love, he thought, is still existent. The boy could not have been more than 17, his tag was missing so he had no idea of his age or any form of identity. All he had was this letter half covered in blood he had found in the boy's jacket. It had been a wound to the heart. The bullet that finally killed him. He had been lying in a shell hole with his rifle nowhere to be found. The attack had been unsuccessful, the German line was as strong as a fortress; in no less than a single instant, with the firing of machine gun, men had dropped like pigs at a slaughter house. This boy had lost his life and ruined that of his loved ones forever. But in a way he still lived on, the letter was there, and as long as it was there he would live on. All these thoughts ran rampant through the medic's mind, but he found it comforting, it was a daydream that broke him away from the brutish reality he was in. One by one the bodies were loaded into trucks, most were not identifiable, some simply pieces of torn flesh. The medic placed the letter back into the boy's pocket and gave it a small tap...