Dear Mother, Father, David, and Betsy,


I am writing to you to free myself from the hysteric boredom of the trenches. At the moment we are not engaging in combat, but I can hear the explosions of grenades near by. My ears are keenly tuned to the different sounds of flying explosives. The new recruiters are not so lucky.


Do not fret about how I am fairing. Only yesterday we won some ground. It was high noon, and the no man’s land had been quiet all day. Nervously, our troops got ready for my commander yells to charge. When the order was given, I climbed out of the trench, and scrambled across the field. Comrades were falling on either side of me like flies. Bullets whizzed past my ears. All I could think of was getting past the barbed wire and into the Germans’ ditch. I will spare you the details of our welcome by the Germans, but we conquered the trench in the end. This was the first victory either side has had in three weeks. Even with our tanks, we lose more men than feet of land we gain. Yesterday we moved about five yards forwards. Now we are resting and picking off any soldiers from attempted attacks.


The German’s trench is more hospitable than our last one was. Being at the bottom of a hill, it had flooded whenever it rained. I had to sleep in a bed made of mud. All twenty of us were crammed in a ditch a yard wide. In order to fit, we lie diagonally. Lucky for us, it never rained hard enough to drown any men. My friend Timothy got trench foot from all the dirt and moisture, and had to get a few toes cut off. Now we call him Toeless Tommy.


Those are the worst of my complaints thank the Lord. There has been no more fever outbreaks or rat infestations since I have been on the front line. Most days are a repetitive cycle. Wake, eat, stand guard and shoot at the Germans, rest, eat, stand guard again, eat, and then sleep; occasionally charge over no man’s ground. I try not to think about the fly covered bodies and machine guns’ banging. All around me is grime and filth. My world is brown and grey. So every night, I close my eyes and think of home; think of you all. Our warm house with a table piled high with a home cooked, English, dinner. Of corned beef, spinach pie, mashed potatoes, custard... my mouth waters just at the thought. The general says the war should only be a few months longer than anticipated. I fear he is dodging the truth, and only says that to keep us working. Without hope of going home, what reason is there to live through the ordeal?


A month a ago or so, a man named Roger took off his gas mask during a gas attack. His face was eaten away at, and became disfigured. Hideous burns scared his skin . I am ever thinking of what he did. I had been obsessing over his death. Out of all the men I’ve killed, and all the friends who have died beside me, Roger’s death is of seemingly little significance. I barely knew him. But his death, and his decision, has invaded my head and will not leave. I know that to live with the lung injuries and blindness caused by gas if I were to live through a gas attack with no mask would be torcher; getting shot at would be better. But he made his own choice of how to go. Do not worry; I will make certain that I will come home, for I would not leave you intentionally. But if I knew I would die, as most of my comrades have, is it really worth waiting? I would never get home again anyways, so why go through all the pain of war. Only for my country do I fight. I am already halfway to heaven.



I miss you all so dearly. I have tried to shield you from the realities of life on the front line, but my life is absent of happenings to make pleasantries of.


May God keep you well,


John Dean Wellton