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

Chapter 4

18 November 1914

Tragedy has struck us, though I have been here so short a time. For one of the fatalities was one I knew.

Jacob, Ned and I were in no man's land, all the soldiers spread about in twos and threes. There were the usual shots and craters which we dodged. Finally, in need of shelter, we found the momentary relief of a barbed-wire fence and crouched behind it.

They sighted us a minute later, and Jacob shouted "Henry, your left!" I dove aside as a bullet shot past. A second sped between Jacob and Ned, whose helmet came free as he dodged.

"We need to get out of here," said Jacob breathlessly.

"There's no time," said Ned. "We'll never—"

We never saw the third bullet coming until Ned was sprawled on the ground, blood pouring from his forehead. He did not cry out, but fell backwards and did not rise.

"No!" I lurched forward and knelt by his side. His hair was plastered to his brow, his eyes open in shock. "Ned!"

"Henry, get up, we need to go!" Jacob shouted, tugging on my sleeve.

I shoved him away. "We can't leave him!"

He forced me to look at him, and his eyes glistened in stark contrast to his shockingly steady voice. "He's dead, Henry. There's nothing you can do for him, except get back to the battle."

The horror sinking in, I turned and vomited on the ground. A moment later Jacob pulled me to my feet, and with a final glance at Ned, I let him lead me away.

When the attack had ended, we saw Richard climbing into the trench from another ladder. He glanced at us and asked, "Where's Ned?" Jacob came up to him first to break the news. Richard's eyes widened in horror as Jacob spoke. He slumped miserably, and Jacob put a hand on his shoulder.

At this time I could not bear to see Richard in this state, and retreated to the reserve trench, sick with shock and horror. 

I heard footsteps in the dirt a while later as I sat against the wall of the trench, gazing at my hands soaked with Ned's blood. 

"I'm sorry, Henry," said Jacob quietly, sitting down beside me. 

Somehow the steadiness of his voice caused anger to rise up inside my chest. "How can you be so goddamn calm?" I demanded, turning to him. "Ned is dead. You saw him get shot. How can you just sit there and tell me you're sorry? Do you even care?"

He was silent for a moment, staring at me with clear eyes. "Of course I care," he said, his voice still frustratingly calm.

"Well, you've got a funny way of—"

"Will you shut up for one minute!" Jacob snapped, shocking me into silence. He took a deep breath, then continued. "I didn't join the army because of the draft, or glory, or nationalism. I joined for revenge."

"What for?"

He paused before replying. "I had a family back at home in England. My parents and two sisters, thirteen and ten. I worked long hours-- I came home later than my father. So I was away when it happened."

He stopped and swallowed, refusing to meet my eyes. "Two months ago— a shell was dropped on our house. They. . . they never made it out." He shook his head. "I joined the army a week later. It was the only thing I could live with doing." A strange light was growing in his eyes, and his voice grew harder with every word as he continued, "I don't care why they started this war. I'll keep fighting it until every one of those bastards that killed my family is dead."

He looked up at me, and his face softened. "So I'm sorry if it seems like I don't care. I've seen enough men die that if I were to break down every time, I would have quite literally gone mad."

He is asleep now, though I do not know how he manages it. I still feel sick; though I did not know Ned well, he was a soldier and a man like myself, and he now lies dead in no man's land. I wonder who shall be next; whether it will be Richard, or Jacob, or myself.