Letter To Martha's Death Letters

France, November 19, 1916

Dear Martha,

I am writing this bilious letter from the deep trenches and piles of dead bodies the most recent battle, the Battle of the Somme has left behind. Before you worry, I am doing quite well, considering the bit of shrapnel that got stuck in my head while I was running among the yelling men, bloodied bodies and screaming explosives. The men are once again smoking cigarettes and talking about nonsense, joking about loathsome Germans and evading death. Unlike them, I am feeling a pit in my stomach. I can still smell the acrid black artillery smoke, and see the ghosts of friends who got shot next to me. Do you recall Arthur, whom I talked to, laughed with and charged into battle alongside? He died, his
I walked ( or slugged, rather ) out of my dirty mud bunk, kicking rats off of the morsel of bread which made up my breakfast. The rats are everywhere these days, feeding off bodies from the last battle, carrying tiny pieces of the men I laughed with and drank with, rush into battle with, and watched die around me. I wish I could shoot them all, Martha, I really do. Is all this death making my head not quite right? Or am I simply falling into madness? Is there really an end, a shining light through the hurricane of blood this war has brought? Martha, I wish this would end, I wish I wouldn’t have to wake up in a ditch of dirt and mud then feel the weight of sorrow, depression and hollowness come crashing down upon me. The trenches are especially horrendous when there is rainfall. We are forced to sleep out of the trenches, since the fear of drowning in sleep is too strong. Fear is driving us
Now I was not sure either to feel honored, or terrified. About 4 o'clock the order came to get ready for the attack. We scrambled out of our trenches, trying to get our helmets on right and guns slung across our chests. The faint smell of gunpowder and oil was in the air. The whistles blew on the dreary day of July 1st, 1916, when the great bloodbath began. Men rushed forwards headfirst into death, tripping and tearing over little prickles of barbed wire while kicking up dust. We charged across the flat No Man's Land, the silence only broken by the scuffling sounds of soldier's footsteps shuffling across the grounds. The clear silent blue summer morning air was soon cracked, as the enemy machine gun fire opened. Everywhere was soon begrimed with the dark smoke curling up from the German artillery, and explosions were happening left and right. Instantly, men collapsed all around me, but I threw myself down on the grimy dead ground, feeling the tiny rocks scratching my palms, crawling forwards over the dead bodies towards some non-existent victory drilled into our minds. Many men never cleared the wire, but those of us who did were jogging, running, crawling, dragging into a myriad of a horrendous battlefield. At this time, we couldn't see the enemy anymore. I was blinded by a red haze of blood dripping into my eyes from hitting my head on the ground when I heard open