A Letter From the Trenches

Dear parents,

I’m glad to tell you that I’m doing fine. That isn’t to say the same for some of the other men, of course. Why, just two days ago, Private Kerns and I were sent to patrol No Man’s Land. I’ve done it two other times besides, but it still makes me nervous; you never know if you’ll run into an enemy patrol or not. Anyway, the two of us climbed out of the trench once night fell and made our slow way across the scarred earth. The ground was, is, I should say, littered with rotting corpses that now provide the fodder for the rats and bugs abundant in the area. Bayonets gripped firmly in our hands, tense with a sort of nervous excitement that’s hard to explain, we made our way to one of the listening posts to see if we could find anything out about the Germans. It had rained heavily in the day, so the ground was muddy and difficult to walk through. You have to be careful where you step out here, as a few men have been swallowed up by the mud. Muddy quicksand, I call it.
Anyway, we had almost reached the post when I heard a loud crack. Without a sound, Kerns went down beside me, dead, a hole through his back. A wounded German lay nearby, his rifle raised. Before he could get at me, I ran over and stabbed him with my bayonet. I then immediately ducked, expecting machine guns to open up on me from the attention the gunshot had likely caused. Thankfully, nothing came and, after collecting Kerns’ dog tag, I rushed back to the trenches.
Of course, it’s never anything but sad to have a good soldier die next to you. And here, plenty of good soldiers have died. But we’ve got to pull on through, to keep up with what we’re supposed to so we can hopefully win this godforsaken war. I know this, yet I cannot help but despise this “war of attrition” strategy we’ve got. We’re expected to do whatever we can to kill as many of the enemy as we can while at the same time caring nothing for our losses? To me, and to some of my buddies, it doesn’t seem like a very good strategy. It doesn’t even feel like a strategy at all; basically, all we’re doing is going for broke. Children--excuse me for using them in such a horrible example--could stand and shoot others and would accomplish just about the same as what we are. Or so it seems, anyway.
It’s not only the strategy I loathe, but it’s also these trenches themselves. We have to sleep in a mess of muck, waste, and blood, we have to deal with the terrible smell everyday, and out here there is no such thing as fresh food. What is edible you have to fend off from the rats. Darn things are everywhere, most the size of cats and the like. At least they’re a lot easier to kill than the lice and fleas that have claimed our hair and clothes as their homes.
Apart from the vermin, bugs, and muck, the chores are also pretty tiring. It’s rare to catch a good wink of sleep out here, and when you think you might finally be able to get a few precious moments, we’re woken for stand-to. It’s when the sun’s just rising when we have to stand with our guns trained in the distance, ready for any Germans that might be coming this way. It’s a necessary thing, I guess, but as I said, tiring. Not even morning hate, squeezing off a few rounds into the distance to relieve tension, does much for me anymore.
But we’ve always got things to do. A couple of the guys and I play cards or, in a morbid form of entertainment, bet on how many soldiers we think we can take down the next day. And there’s always a strange satisfaction to be had from burning the lice from your skin until they pop. I find myself doing this more and more often lately, though there always seems to be ten times the next day anymore.
I know I touched upon the subject of the muck earlier. I’ve got to say, I’m glad I brought along extra pairs of socks to wear out here. Just yesterday, Lt. Riggs claimed he was getting trenchfoot. I didn’t see it myself, but it’s been proving a problem for many. Thankfully, the only thing wrong with me is exhaustion. Exhaustion and homesickness.
How I hope to get out of this war. The sooner, the better.

Love always,
C. Clites