The Diary of an Unknown Soldier

Last day of my life.

Diary, 24th of September, 1916.

Near Combres.

I had spent the night in an old ruined cellar

with its walls dripping green moisture.

And so now it was good to feel the warmth of the sun

striking through the folds of my damp tunic.

And the morning was perfect.

There was nothing to be heard,

save the occasional murmur of soldiers' voices

and the crunch of boots on the loose soil.

And in the gentle lulling warmth, the war seemed very remote,

for here was peace.

One time, I remember I slowly became aware of the sound of men digging

on the other side of the bank near where I stood.

I don't know what they were digging for exactly,

but I do remember that they sounded very cheerful about it.

Especially when somebody nearby started a phonograph going.

It was very comforting to hear those cheerful noises

because, well, it was such a warm and peaceful morning,

and it all helped me to forget about the war.

And perhaps, not only me for all around me

in this desolate back area there were soldiers relaxing.

Soldiers quiet and easy in the sun, a whole army at rest,

like an unwound clock spring,

men released from a hell in a merciful peace that is suddenly shattered.

Shattered by the soft, but deadly voices of guns,

an insistent clamouring from a heavy barrage at the front two miles away.

Start to feel the certain pangs of fear

and the gentle breath of the morning turns sour.

But does any of this affect the other members of my section?

Seems not.

Pretzlav at the end is now concluding some coarse joke.

Other men appear to be quite unconcerned and relaxed.

I can't tell whether those men at the end are as scared as I am.

I don't know.

They maybe able to cover up well,

for a couple of French soldiers from the front are passing them

and the only reaction seems to be that Pretzlav has some rude remark for them.

But to me, the sight of those dusty soldiers clumping away

brings the physical feel of war close the first time.

And then suddenly I hear the rattle of rifle bolts

and the clink of steel helmets and then the crunch of marching feet,

as men all around me march off to the front...

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

Each seismic crunch of the boot draws the war closer and closer.

Oh God, soon it will be my turn and my feet, too.

Crunch! Crunch! Dragging me forward towards those guns.

Those bloody blasted guns!

I suppose I must be making a melodrama out of all this.

There's something so unnatural,

so horrible about the sight of those soldiers,

plodding like soulless automatons through a desolate land.

It's all rather unnerved me.

Anyway, I must try to pull myself together like those other men over there

who seem to be quietly relaxing in the sun.

Yes, Pretzlav there, who seems to spend almost every waking minute

relishing one of the highly immoral and vulgar leaves he spent

and of course solid, dour Bill Richards,

who seems to spend most of his time listening to Pretzlav.

Then of course, there's dear old Tom Mason

who has been in the war since early 1915.

He can be a little old fashioned at times.

Particularly where a young Ginger Morris is concerned,

who has without doubt the most active bowel system in the British Army.

He's always emerging from behind some bush or other.

And as he usually has some cheeky answer ready.

Poor old Tom ends up by being furious.

But Ted Crompton, I've never really liked.

Probably because I feel he rather enjoys his war.

As for young Lieutenant Ferris,

I always think how awful it must be for him, for an offensive...

He's always got to appear calm and in complete control of his nerves,

no matter what he really feels.

It's probably a lot easier for the experienced Sergeant Harman.

He's been in the front a good many times before.

Oh God, those guns again, they seem to be nearer now.

Louder and more insistent.

They seem to destroy every vestige of the peace and beauty of this morning.

Air is foul, the trees seem to become twisted and warped.

Branches jab at me, sharp, pointed and hard like steel, like a battle.

Oh God, a battle. I'm scared.

I'm so bloody scared.

I know what's going to happen.

I can see it all in my mind.

I can see it.

I can see the details of a battle in my mind.

I can... I can hear the noise. I can see the blurred confusion.

Men running, men left to die.

I... Oh God! It's too awful.

Too bloody... Oh, I'm so scared.

Well, this... This is what I'm going to go through.

Watch them cheering.

They've gained an area of about 200 square yards of mud,

just heaving, stinking mud.

And in a short while, the game old Bosch will win it back again.

In the meanwhile, let them cheer, it's a wonderful achievement.

And that... That is howl shall probably die.

Left like some torn, screwed up rag on the battlefield.

When you know this is going to happen to you,

your body suddenly becomes something terribly precious to you.