said in her letter. Dear Mother. Had she any idea where her boy had come to? Hardly a place to inspire the sort of bucolic offerings he’d penned in peacetime. Maybe he’d been an idealist back then – something of a romantic perhaps. Whatever the case, those lyrical days seemed an awful long time ago, and war had a way of changing a man. His poetry had a somewhat darker tone now. Somehow Sam doubted his mother would find it quite so beautiful.
Then suddenly it had occurred to him. He would use the book to write a journal. A record of these peculiar times. He would scribble down his thoughts and make believe he was sharing them with Emily. It would be like a letter. One that he would never send of course. Yet one that they might read together some day, when they were older and times were kinder. And if, heaven forbid, he should find himself among the fallen, at least she would know something of the lad who’d thought the world of her these many years. Of course, he’d have to be careful. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know what he was up to. The officers weren’t too keen on diaries and the like. Too much secret information should a chap be taken into enemy hands. Anything deemed sensitive material would no doubt be confiscated without a second thought. Still, it was worth a shot. This war had silenced too many already.
On the mattress next to him, Harry Burton was trying to snatch a bit of sleep. Harry and Sam had been thick as thieves from the time they’d met at a training base in Kent and gone on to find themselves in the same platoon. That had been over a year, and many weary travels ago. Now their company had just arrived in new territory. They’d been drafted in from Bethune to help support the depleted 11 th Battalion stationed in the area of the Somme Valley. After suffering heavy losses in recent action at Contalmaison, the 11 th were being rested for a couple of days.
“Rest …” Harry yawned, stretching his arms till his joints clicked. “I remember rest. That was when you had Sundays off and you could go to sleep whenever you felt like it. You didn’t have to worry about dodgin’ shrapnel or some blinkin’ sergeant barkin’ orders at you.”
Sam grinned. “What’s up with you? At least we’re still here, aren’t we? Still here and in the pink, mate. That’s more than can be said for a lot of our lads.”
He became thoughtful. Everyone knew about the horrific slaughter of British troops that had been going on in the area for the last three weeks. This so-called Somme offensive had begun with a massive preliminary bombardment of the German lines. The gunners had been full of it. They were going to smash the enemy front line trenches to smithereens, cut to shreds the barbed wire in front of them, and let the infantry stroll over and capture the German lines. “It’ll be a picnic for you lot by the time we’ve finished,” they’d joked. “The Bosch’ll come out of their ’oles beggin’ for mercy!”
The initial bombardment had been planned to last for five days, but had been extended a further two because of bad weather. So terrific had the firing been, everyone had been confident that the follow-up attack would be a walkover. In the lead up to zero hour, infantry troops had been given the order that they were not to run, but to walk steadily towards the enemy front line. Word was going round that some had even been given footballs to kick through no man’s land, just to keep themselves focused.
The big battle had begun just over three weeks ago, on the morning of July 1 st . When the whistles had blown at 7.30 a.m., thousands of men had climbed the scaling ladders and gone over the top, believing the thing was as good as in the bag. They couldn’t have been more wrong. The British artillery bombardment had made little more than a dent in the enemy defences. What was supposed to have been a walkover had in fact been a massacre. German machine-guns had mown down wave after wave of
Then suddenly it had occurred to him. He would use the book to write a journal. A record of these peculiar times. He would scribble down his thoughts and make believe he was sharing them with Emily. It would be like a letter. One that he would never send of course. Yet one that they might read together some day, when they were older and times were kinder. And if, heaven forbid, he should find himself among the fallen, at least she would know something of the lad who’d thought the world of her these many years. Of course, he’d have to be careful. It wouldn’t do for anyone to know what he was up to. The officers weren’t too keen on diaries and the like. Too much secret information should a chap be taken into enemy hands. Anything deemed sensitive material would no doubt be confiscated without a second thought. Still, it was worth a shot. This war had silenced too many already.
On the mattress next to him, Harry Burton was trying to snatch a bit of sleep. Harry and Sam had been thick as thieves from the time they’d met at a training base in Kent and gone on to find themselves in the same platoon. That had been over a year, and many weary travels ago. Now their company had just arrived in new territory. They’d been drafted in from Bethune to help support the depleted 11 th Battalion stationed in the area of the Somme Valley. After suffering heavy losses in recent action at Contalmaison, the 11 th were being rested for a couple of days.
“Rest …” Harry yawned, stretching his arms till his joints clicked. “I remember rest. That was when you had Sundays off and you could go to sleep whenever you felt like it. You didn’t have to worry about dodgin’ shrapnel or some blinkin’ sergeant barkin’ orders at you.”
Sam grinned. “What’s up with you? At least we’re still here, aren’t we? Still here and in the pink, mate. That’s more than can be said for a lot of our lads.”
He became thoughtful. Everyone knew about the horrific slaughter of British troops that had been going on in the area for the last three weeks. This so-called Somme offensive had begun with a massive preliminary bombardment of the German lines. The gunners had been full of it. They were going to smash the enemy front line trenches to smithereens, cut to shreds the barbed wire in front of them, and let the infantry stroll over and capture the German lines. “It’ll be a picnic for you lot by the time we’ve finished,” they’d joked. “The Bosch’ll come out of their ’oles beggin’ for mercy!”
The initial bombardment had been planned to last for five days, but had been extended a further two because of bad weather. So terrific had the firing been, everyone had been confident that the follow-up attack would be a walkover. In the lead up to zero hour, infantry troops had been given the order that they were not to run, but to walk steadily towards the enemy front line. Word was going round that some had even been given footballs to kick through no man’s land, just to keep themselves focused.
The big battle had begun just over three weeks ago, on the morning of July 1 st . When the whistles had blown at 7.30 a.m., thousands of men had climbed the scaling ladders and gone over the top, believing the thing was as good as in the bag. They couldn’t have been more wrong. The British artillery bombardment had made little more than a dent in the enemy defences. What was supposed to have been a walkover had in fact been a massacre. German machine-guns had mown down wave after wave of
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