The Never-Ending Battle

Battle of the Somme, 1916

Dear Mary,

It’s cold and damp here today. I’m chilled and shivering. I’m dreaming of my favorite chair and a steaming, hot cup of coffee. The comforts of home are foremost in my mind. How I long to hold you and the children in my arms. Thinking and dreaming about all of you keeps me sane. I don’t know how I could survive without these special times. I can close my eyes and see the children playing in the garden or playing in the snow, and our precious little dog, Snappy, chasing around with a favorite toy. How the children love him. How much I miss all of you. It’s so lonely here even though I have brave and gallant comrades with me to share the challenging times, the horrors of war and the noise of the artillery and bursting shells. It is still so lonely. What joy it will be to finally finish this awful war and come home.

The mortar shells have stopped falling and the terrible noise has abated giving us respite. My ears are at rest momentarily, but it will not last.

I’m sorry to burden you. I should be brave and lead you to believe all’s well here, but I find that I must share my pain with someone who truly cares. I need you near me if only on the printed page and in my imagination. Your letters are the nourishment I need to comfort my soul. Your happy news and funny stories do so much for me. I love sharing them with my buddies. We all smile and laugh while I read to them. It is so uplifting--much more than I can tell you. You should see the joy we experience when you talk of how the dog walks around on his hind feet and yaps at you. And, when the children star in a school concert. It was hilarious hearing about the mouse running around the house and you chasing after it. How can I possibly repay you for giving us these wonderful moments of joy. These things are etched on my memory. Thank you, thank you, thank you for being the great person that you are.

I must go now. I must leave you. The advance has been sounded. I am bound to join my platoon and ready myself for battle. The rifles are loaded. The bayonets are in place. Helmets are on our heads to protect us. We are about to confront the enemy once again. We are about to enter no-man’s-land and try to gain ground. We will struggle through the muck that attempts to bog us down. Many of us will die. Many will be maimed. But. our determination and courage will ensure that we do reach our target. We must try to push the enemy further back. It is imperative to win this encounter and we will. And we will win the next one and the next one so we can finally come home victorious. And we will.

I love you so much. I will write again soon.

Bert

Battle of Ypres, 1917

Dear Mary,

The nights are long and dark. The flashes from the never-ending barrage light up the sky. The smell of death surrounds us. The fighting is fierce. Many have died. Many are wounded. Everyone is suffering.  The moaning and the screams fill our ears. If there is a hell, it is here and now.

How long will we be allowed to rest, if rest is possible in this hell hole. Food is in short supply and what there is defies description. How wonderful it would be to lay in a clean bed. How wonderful to take your boots off, to sit at a table, to hear music, to hear you laugh. How I long for the simple things in life—not a grand automobile, not a Rolex watch, not a banquet but simple, ordinary delights. The smell of beef stew cooking on the stove while the snow beats against the windowpane. Oh, how I long for home.

Yesterday was another nightmare. We went over the top into a torrential rain of bullets—guns firing from both sides, bayonets flashing through the fog, men rushing to the kill, the enemy mortar shells blowing great holes in both the earth and the fighters. We dodged and crawled forward with guns held high, aimed towards the target. The muddy ground grabbed us and pulled us down. Our suits were clogged with it. The struggle to stay alive was foremost in every man’s mind. Comrades dropped down in death all around. “Medic, Medic,” we cried. To often the word filled the air. I prayed for help to get me through to the next ditch. We all moved forward, pushing, pushing, pushing with all of our might and strength. We had to gain ground. We had to make it to the next point of advance. When I reached the point-of-no-return my anxiety lessened somewhat, my heavy breathing calmed down. Confidence returned and with a mighty effort I fought on through to the target area. The goal was achieved. There would be rest and food if the enemy allowed it. We prayed for time to heal before the next assault.

Again, I burden you with the horrors of this war. But I do not apologize. I want you and everyone to hear about and know about how much suffering and waste of life is caused by the ruthless, power-seeking monsters in this world. I want our children to learn about it as they grow and mature. There must be a great, global understanding of the useless pursuit of ruling the world. There will always be resistance. Righteous nations will never lay down.

Dear, dear Mary. Dear, dear wife and mother of my children, I love you. I love my children. I fight for the right to live in peace. I carry you all in my heart and long for the day I’m with you again. So long for now. Please keep your letters coming. They are a great comfort to all of us over here.

Bert

Battle of Cambrai, 1918

Dear Mary,

The day drags into night. Sleep is shortened by the alert signifying a gas attack. Masks are quickly put in place. We peer over the trenches and the landscape has an eerie green mist covering everything. We are afraid. Afraid of the pain suffered by contact with the threatening substance. The choking as the lungs fill. The blisters on the burning skin. The blindness. We crouch down in the trench staying as far away as possible, wondering who will be next to writhe in agony.

In battle we dodge bullets and flee from bursting shells filled with mustard gas. The enemy is equipped with terrifying flame throwers that burn men to death. We have no defence. We wait for the necessary protective suits to arrive. God willing, they will be here soon. Meanwhile we continue fighting, and we are maimed, and we die.

These are terrible times.

As I write to you on my scrap of paper I am lightened. I hear the distant roar of the tanks approaching. For the first time we will be supported by an advanced attack. The tanks will clear a path for us. I’m so grateful. The odds are turning in our direction. The tide is turning. Tomorrow the platoon will not lead. Tomorrow we will follow the tanks. A great sigh of relief is spreading down the line. We cheer them on. We are almost happy. This is a rare moment. Hope has returned. We will endure. We will win. We will come home.

The German defence is weakening. Their supplies are becoming less and less. We know this because the guns do not roar as often. The shells do not explode as often. The bullets do not fly as often. We do not see the glowing red sky as often. The gas attacks are fewer. There is some respite. There are moments of, almost, peace.

The Canadian Corps followed the tanks into the battle. They took the advance and overwhelmed the enemy. Tanks, infantry, and air support won the day. We will follow with a renewed confidence.

I write this with hope in my heart. I love you.

Bert

Battle of Amiens. Aug. 11^th, 1918

Dear Mary,

We came to the town of Amiens today. There was an eerie quietness. The streets were empty. Where are the people? Where have they gone? Will they ever return to their homes? Will this war-torn place recover and become the warm, welcoming town it once was? I wonder.

I am standing in the street with old friends, new friends and we are comrades. Together we are victorious. British, Canadian, Australian, and French stand shoulder to shoulder and celebrate the victory. We laugh, we cry, we sing, and we cheer. We are delirious. We are mad with joy.

My dearest, it is over. It is , at last, over .

We celebrate and we mourn.

 We celebrate the victory. We celebrate freedom. We celebrate success and we are happy.

We mourn for the dead. We mourn for the maimed. We mourn the destruction, and we are sad.

And we will never forget. Nor will we allow others to forget.

The War Is Over.

Bert

London, September 1918

Dear Mary,

How I love you, How I love my children. I can’t wait to be with you once more. It has been a long separation. We have all changed and grown. I suspect we are quite different people now. The reunion may be strange at first, but it will be joyful. You told me about a lot in your letters, but I think actually being home will be exciting and new. How strange it will be to take off my uniform for the last time. How strange to sit in the garden without fear or caution. How wonderful to eat fresh food.

There will be a short stay in London, and then I’ll be on my way. Nothing to be concerned about. Just a little medical problem to overcome. See you in a few days.

Bert

Dover, October 1918

Dear Bert,

I’m so glad you’re home safe. I want to come to London to see you and talk to you, but the children need me. I’ve no one to look after them. They are excited to meet you once again. They were so young when you left, and they really don’t remember you very  well. They only know you from your letters. You didn’t write much I could read to them, so I made up a lot of stuff and they thought it was in the letters.

I know I shouldn’t be telling you this in a letter, but you must be told. I am going to divorce you as soon as I can. While you’ve been away I met another person that has become my whole life. The children love him, and he is so good to us. I also love him dearly. I know this is a shock, but these things happen. I hope you understand. We plan to marry before Christmas and the children and I will be living in his lovely home in Nottingham. I don’t know what else to tell you. I’m sorry this happened, but it did. Please come back to your house in Dover. We will not be there, but, If you want, I’ll bring the children to visit when it’s convenient for you.

Once again, I’m glad you made it.

 Mary