The Trench

The diary of a man watching as, one by one, the trench claims his friends.

February 21st

My name’s Tom Atkins and I want to make it clear from the start that I’m no great shakes with words. I’ll write what’s happening to me and those around me, but don’t expect no Shakespeare or nothing.

I’m a member of the 33rd Regiment (Our Captain’s old Willy) and I’m 23. That should be enough about me. It’s not like it’s an autobiography.

Diary entries are supposed to be about that day, right? So here’s what happened today.

Timmy was killed by a sniper. He died pretty quick, thank God, but I really liked Timmy. He was sorta the grounding stake of the group, if you know what I mean. The rest of us, we treat everything like a big joke out here, but he stopped all of us getting our heads blown off at one time or another. Always very serious.

He used to keep a diary. I found it in his pocket when we were scrounging his cigarettes. It’s not like he’ll need them anymore is it, poor sod. Anyhow, I saw his coat pocket was fair bursting its seams and I liberated this little red book. It was all curled around the edges from the damp, and smelled a little of mildew, but besides that it was in good condition. He must’ve really liked that book, because it’s not easy to keep paper dry in the trenches. Keeping it secret must have been no mean feat too. When you share a muddy hole in the ground with this many other guys for five months you get to know them, you know?

So I took this diary and I read the first few entries. They started a few days after we arrived in this death pit and finished only yesterday, and it struck me as kinda sad. I’m not your sentimental kind of guy, anyone will tell you, but it doesn’t take a lot to see the tragedy in it.

Then I got to thinking, what if I carry on the diary for him? It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do down here is it? Push mud around or listen for guns and planes, that’s about it.

That’s why I’m writing. The guys have been giving me some jibe for it, but I don’t care. Who knows, maybe Mr. Wilkes (My old English teacher) taught me something after all.

February 22nd

I’m going to tell you a bit about why I’m here. I was talking to Redwood last night (You know how it is, anything to make you forget) about the diary, and he suggested I explained what’s going on ‘So that future generations can fully comprehend what we’ve been through’, or something like that. Well, I can’t tell you much about how this war got started, but I can tell you how I got into it.

I heard from a kid down our street first that there was a war on. He said he would be getting right in there, and I said I would be too. That’s about it really. I told my mam what I was going to do and she was dead proud. My dad snuffed it six years before, so I don’t know what he thought of it, though maybe he was proud too, wherever he is now.

I registered like mostly everyone else and everyone I knew it seemed came to the port to wave me off, everyone who wasn’t enlisting that is. It all seemed like a lot of fun then, a way to show you were a man and teach the foreigners a lesson.

Might sound silly to you, but back then I didn’t even know France was on our side. I didn’t keep up with current affairs and all I knew was that Germans were the enemy.

I don’t think I need to bother with all that they did with us, because it was the same as happened to all the others, practically. They shoved us in a trench and left us to rot, is the simple way to put it. They say we’re holding the land against the German attack, but I can’t see it myself. All they do now is shoot the careless ones like Timmy and drop the occasional bomb on us. This has also become our long-term strategy, as they call it. I expect it all looks good on paper, with numbers and all, but when it comes down to it, it means me and tens of thousands of others, maybe millions, are laying around waiting to see if the disease and rats get us first or the Germans do.

Isn’t life grand?

February 23rd

Mud, everywhere. It’s in my helmet, in my clothes, in my hair, in between my toes, everywhere. I can even taste it, more often than not. When I go back home after this stupid war’s over, the two things I’ll remember most about it will be mud and rats.

There were rumours today about a grand victory ten miles West. They say it’ll be only a matter of time before the Germans give up. This sounds good, but you can’t believe everything you hear. Johnson and quite a few others thought it would be over by Christmas, but that came and went with a Ho, ho, ho.

The rats are getting worse. They’ve chewed the toes out of my boots and started on Timmy. We’d give him a proper burial, but he’d probably float back up (I don’t know why nobody has come for the body yet, because usually they do). If it rains anymore the walls’ll be falling down on us.

There’s been talk of extra food rations, and I hope it’s true. If I don’t get something other than bully beef soon I’ll shoot myself like Aspel did last week. I reckon the rats have got the right idea eating our boots. They can’t be as tough as what we’re given.

February 24th

There’re now officially no cigarettes on the British front for three miles. They haven’t sent us anymore after the last lot two months ago. Maybe the Germans are targeting ciggy trucks all across the country in an attempt to destroy morale.

Redwood’s been looking pretty bad lately. He just spends most of his time lying in the mud. He doesn’t even scratch the lice anymore. He’ll be blowing his own arm off soon, I reckon. Some of the guys’ll do anything to get out of the trenches.

Sorry about the mud on the page, by the way. My pockets are smaller than Timmy’s were, so I have to just tuck it in my belt. It slips out sometimes.

We lost two more men just from our Regiment today, Borough and Lee. Old Willy thinks they’ve got a new sniper. We’re all going to have to be extra careful from now on, it seems. They don’t have anything to worry about of course. Our sniper’s Crowther, and his vision’s all shot to shit. He couldn’t hit a snail from six inches.

February 25th

Crowther took a hit yesterday, in the eye. It was real bad, and truth be told I felt so terrible I nearly pulled out yesterday’s entry. He was in real agony.

The bullet went straight through him, finishing up God knows where. His eye burst like a fried egg and all this goo dripped down his cheek. Johnson lost his beef and I almost lost mine. You could see all the bits of bone stuck to his eyelid.

A shot like that ought to kill a man straight off, but he took almost two whole hours to die, wailing about his Sally back home. All the time the blood and gore was dripping down his chin and the rats were edging closer, sizing him up. At one point he was begging us to kill him, near the end, but none of us did him the kindness. We were all too bloody cowardly and we deserve anything that comes to us now. I’d be lying if I said it was easy to write, because it wasn’t.

February 26th

Two more dead to the sniper.

We’re now wondering who the worst enemy is: The Germans or the Rats. The vermin are getting bolder. A load of them attacked Roberts, who has a wounded leg, and might have had him if we hadn’t got in there. He’s shaken up bad about it, and has taken to limping everywhere with a stick of wood that’s got a nail in the end.

Redwood has stopped talking altogether. He doesn’t seem to be able to hear anything, and I saw him crying silently this morning. It’s getting to him now. I think the last death was too much for him. If the Generals had any decency, they’d take him away from it all.

It still rains for most of the day. We all look like rats ourselves, our clothes plastered to our bodies and our hair stuck to our heads. We’ll be drowning soon. The water is only in puddles now, but it’ll be a lake in a week. Maybe the rats will go away then.

February 27th

The new sniper arrived today. His name’s Mason. He’s come from somewhere North.

Their sniper didn’t get any of us today, although Jackson had a close call. He’ll have a bullet hole in his helmet forevermore. It’s probably because we’re all wise to him now. We walk around like cripples, keeping our heads as far down as possible. Mason says we won’t have to worry about him much longer, but I’m not sure.

February 28th

Redwood’s dead. He got up and threw himself out of the trench without warning. He started running towards the German front across No-man’s Land yelling something and got about three feet before the machine guns hoed him down. His body fell back into our trench.

Roberts’ leg has gone gangrenous and he’s terrified. He’s trying to put a brave face on, but it doesn’t fool me. He knows that he’s very likely going to die now. They don’t send much medical aid out here. We’ve got a Medic ourselves, Bannerman, but all he has left is bandages, which won’t do him much good now. The infection’s too high to amputate it.

There’s eight of us left now, including Mason. Our Regiment has got a reputation for being unlucky, although the story’s just the same pretty much everywhere else. When will this stupid war end?

March 1st

Cigarettes have arrived at least, but there’s no room for celebration. The brandy didn’t arrive, which was more important than cigarettes. It was the closest thing to warmth we’ve had, and now it’s gone. We’ve been trying to warm ourselves by the cigarettes, but it’s no good. Steiner tried to make things seem better by pointing out that there were more to go around now that we were down on men and Willy hit him. Steiner said sorry and that was that, but I know he was close to just hitting back, and that would have been a real disaster.

Roberts has taken to moaning, which is all we need. The smell of his rotting leg would be terrible if it wasn’t for the smell of the other bodies covering it up. They took them away, but they can’t shift the stench.

Fawkes isn’t too well. He’s all pale and his gums are blackened. He says its scurvy, from a lack of fresh fruit. The closest thing we ever see to fruit is condensed strawberry yoghurt, and that’s if we’re lucky.

March 2nd

Fawkes doesn’t need to worry about his scurvy anymore. The sniper got him last night. Mason says his own personal score is fourteen since he came. This fact, rather than cheering me up, makes me feel bad. I’d have thought I’d want the Germans to die, but any blood lust I once had is gone now. I only want the whole thing to be over. Whenever I hear him cheer, signifying another successful hit, I feel sick.

Roberts is raving. He shouted all through the morning about how the rats were plotting against him, all the time clutching his stick tight enough to turn his knuckles white. The gangrene will claim him in the next few days, if the rats don’t get him first.

I cut my finger yesterday and I think that may be infected. I only hope it doesn’t go like Roberts’ leg.

March 3rd

The sniper is dead. The news came officially from Mason at 2am. At first he wasn’t sure, but now he’s convinced. That’s one thing we don’t have to worry about for a while. It will hopefully take a couple of days to replace the sniper, and the next one surely won’t be as good at his job.

I miss my family, and I don’t think I’ll ever see them again. That’s what saddens me more than anything about knowing that I am going to die soon.

March 4th

It looks like it’s over for Roberts. He’s had a painful slog through the night, and now he’s all but spent. The rats are getting excited, like they can sense it, and I get the feeling that Willy could be going the same way Redwood went soon. He seems to think the whole war’s his fault.

The rain has abated a little, though the water’s still deep. In the thinnest mud it comes half way up to my knees, and I have now learnt, much to my disappointment, that rats can swim. I’ve been bitten on the ankle three times now, and Johnson has started trying to cling to the walls to stay out of the water.

Remember when I said we relied on comedy? Well that doesn’t happen anymore. Since the sudden rise in the death toll, we’ve all been very quiet. The last few weeks have been unlucky for our regiment, we’re just a handful of miserable men now.

March 5th

Roberts died this morning, but when the rats tried to get the body Willy went mad. He grabbed the stick with the nail in from Roberts’ hand and started swinging out madly at them.

Eventually he just fell to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably, his tears splashing into the rainwater. He left the trench, going back through one of the reserve trenches. We haven’t seen him since and I don’t reckon he’ll be back, one way or the other.

Mason was killed too. He fell to the ground and cried out “Remember Unity” at the end, his last words. None of us know why.

There’s five of us left now. Before the thing with Roberts Willy told us there would be fourteen new men filling in the places of those in our Regiment who have been killed on the 9th of this month. It’ll be seventeen now.

The cut on my finger is infected.

March 6th

No reinforcements.

I plucked up my courage and asked Bannerman about my cut. Thankfully he said it wasn’t going to be fatal, but he would have to amputate it. He’s going to do the operation tomorrow, and everyone’s going to save their brandy for me (new supplies finally arrived today) to numb the pain, except Steiner. He wouldn’t give his up.

I’m scared now of dying more than ever.

March 7th

-

March 8th

The operation went okay, though it was very painful. I can’t write too much now, as I’m down a middle finger. It hurts like hell, but I can stand it.

Midway through the operation Steiner took a bullet in the forehead. It could be God’s way of telling him to share.

March 9th

The four of us (Me, Johnson, Bannerman and Jackson) waited all day for the men who were supposed to be joining us, but they never turned up. The man who delivered dinner said they had been held up and may not arrive for over a week. I doubt that the trench will still be here then. The sound of bombs has been getting closer every day.

If I get out of here alive, I don’t think my life will ever be the same again. Not after everything I’ve seen.

March 10th

The rain never came today, but the rats are getting even worse. They wouldn’t let us rest. The moment my eyes close they start biting. We’re huddled against one wall together right now: Me, Bannerman and Johnson. Johnson shot five or six, but the gunfire seemed to draw the attention of the enemy, so he stopped.

Jackson won’t stay still. He splashes restlessly up and down the trench, kicking out at the rats. Bannerman snapped at him and he snapped right back, but they haven’t started fighting yet.

The amputation’s still aching me and I keep trying to scratch my head with my non-existent finger. Come to think of it, I never did ask Bannerman what happened to my finger. I suppose the rats got it.

March 11th

What a hellish night. The rats kept us up right through until dawn. I’d swear they were taking shifts. We’re so close to the Germans here that we could hear a couple of them snoring. Jackson never stopped pacing, not until he got a bullet in his head. Even then he staggered drunkenly for several minutes.

In three days the new guys will arrive, the food carrier said today. They’re down South, and were cut off when a section of the trench was stormed by the enemy. They have been forced to take a considerably longer route because of it.

What a terrible idea this war was. If I could only get my hands on the person who started it, I’d put this gun of mine to his head and bust his skull. Nothing has come of it except death. Every day more people on either side die, and for what? For nothing. The only ones gaining anything are the rats, who have probably never eaten this well before in the history of the world. I guess it’s like that on the other side too. If I got up and wandered across to the other trench over there, and by some miracle I wasn’t shot down, I bet the Germans would be in pretty much the same situation as us. It makes me sad to think about it, I guess. Yeah, it makes me sad.

The planes and bombs make it impossible to talk to one another now.

March 12th

Bannerman, who has looked bad for the last few days, (Haven’t we all) is dying. He told Johnson and me a short while ago. He says he’s got some bowel disease, probably from contaminated water. He has given himself four days, tops, unless he gets to a hospital very soon, and he must be more or less right, because he’s a doctor after all. That means there’ll just be me and Johnson left to greet the reinforcements. I feel

March 15th

My name is Carl Johnson.

I found this diary on Tommy Atkins’s body. He’s dead now. He was writing when the bullet got him, so I guess he’ll never finish that last sentence. Don’t think he needed to, really. I know how he felt, the way we all feel. Scared, miserable, cold, depressed… It’s a pretty long list.

Rod Bannerman’s bowel disease has earned him the privilege of being shipped to a hospital to die. I’m the only one left of the original 33rd Regiment, and I feel more isolated than ever now that I’m with a whole new fourteen men, many of whom still have some enthusiasm. I don’t doubt that will be eaten away before too long. They only arrived yesterday, fresh and raring for battle. I wonder how long it’ll be before they realise that there is no fighting, only the trench.

I read what Tom wrote (you didn’t make any jokes about his name or he’d go crazy), and what Timmy wrote before him. It was strange, seeing it down there in words, and while it was scary to see that it was only a month since we lost Timmy (time drags on in the trench), I also find it somehow comforting. I might just try to keep up this diary like they did. Already I can feel my mind drawing away from the bombs and guns, and even from the rats. And who knows: maybe writing will help me get through this stupid war alive. It certainly helped the last two cope. They were always a little fresher than the rest of us, even when Tom was getting his finger amputated.

There are plenty of pages left, but I think I might just need them all (assuming I survive that long). They’re saying that the war will definitely, definitely, be over for Easter, but I’ve heard that kind of thing before now. Personally, I don’t think the war will ever end. It’s just going to be one big slog. Lives will keep getting lost, and it will only come to a halt when there are no more soldiers left to fight.

One thing I know. I will not leave this trench alive. Of this I am certain. It is meant to be that I should die like every other one of my comrades has. This hole in the ground, this muddy ditch in which I sit, is to be my tomb. These walls around me are the sides of my grave. I will not run away like Old Willy. I will not go over the top like Redwood. I will just keep on going from one day to the next until a bomb drops on my head or a bullet stops my heart, like Timmy and Tom did.

For that is all there is in the trench.