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The Diary of Leonard Williamson

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At last! I can see the coastline of France in the distance. Finally this two hour journey will be over. I am sailing to Boulogne, along with my fellow soldiers in the Royal Lancaster regiment, and I doubt anyone could be more excited than I. Who'd have believed it … me, Corporal Leonard Williamson, number 15929, off to fight for my king and country!

I can't wait to get off this sickeningly swaying ship, let alone begin training. At least things won't be as bad as this from now on. I had to endure the stench of someone's freshly regurgitated lunch on my face, and I will not be prepared for another experience like that any time soon.

I have been told that we are going to be transported – though in what form of transportation I cannot say – to the town of Etaples, where the base camps are waiting for us. That is where the training will take place. I'm not sure just yet how big these camps are, but I have been told that they are big enough to house us all. All one hundred thousand (plus) of us...

I will wait and see.

*

We have just had our first day of training – I take back all I said about looking forward to it. Throughout the whole day, lecture after lecture were drilled into me. My brain felt hammered after the first talk alone; learning about how to cope with gas attacks. When it had finished, I had to suppress a groan when I realised that there were three more hour-long lectures to go, about trench-foot and lice. I didn't even know there was such a thing as trench-foot! It's just appalling. Maybe it's just ... scare-mongering?  

One week and six days of training to go, and then we're off!

*

60 miles. 60 long, dreaded miles. I am on the train at the moment, and my mood has certainly not lifted since the lectures. Of course, I wasn't expecting to be travelling first class, nor second, but I did think we had a reasonable chance of grabbing third class. But no. Instead we have been sent to travel in about 7th class! Right now I am squashed in the corner of a plain, open-topped cattle-truck, with a little straw on the floor. The army have no consideration for men at all. I think they have mistaken us for farm animals! If the army officers want to be liked by their soldiers, then they have some serious work to do.

It gets worse. I overheard a group of soldiers complaining about the train's conditions, and I don't think matters are about to improve. After this glorious train-ride across a million and one countries, the cherry on top of the cake will be several hours of marching. This is apparently known as going 'Up the Line'. A perfect ending to a perfect journey.

*

Things have gone from worse to worst. My first day living in the trenches did not go as I thought it would. The pictures have burned into my eyelids; the image of the first man I ever saw killed.

I and another soldier, Harold, were wading along the communication trenches (trenches that are connected to others via telephone wires in order to communicate with soldiers in other trenches) when a shell burst ahead of us. Just by chance, I happened to be behind my fellow soldier, and escaped the worst of the explosion, but he wasn't so lucky. We both were blasted off our feet, but my body remained intact. Harold's, however, did not. Both his legs were blown off and the remnants of his body were peppered with shrapnel. The sight of the disfigured corpse made me wretch, and I stood shaking, knee-deep in the sluggish mud. I couldn't move; I was frozen with terror. There I stayed until the stretch bearers finally found us. They urged me to move on, reminding me to use my emergency field-dressing to treat my own wounds, and I could do nothing but obey.

Now, as I press the cloth from the kit onto the deep gashes on my body, I realise that I must live with the weight of guilt and absolute fear on my shoulders. I am no longer brainwashed with the lies of the propaganda back at home. I know now that I am not in a place of pride, but in Hell itself.

*

After a sleepless night, I dread today. I have been told that we should write letters to our families to tell them how things are over here. Most of the men around me think it is best to conceal the horrors of this place, but I think that loved ones back home should know the truth. However, it wouldn't be as easy as writing down everything and expecting the letters to arrive in the same state as they were when they were written. Oh no.

An act has been passed recently, the Defence of the Realm Act. It states that all letters the soldiers wrote must be read and censored by junior officers. This means that no information about the whereabouts of us soldiers can be sent out, as well as giving the government the power to suppress published criticism of the War. If any of us sent out any information, then we could be imprisoned without trial. This is why I came up with this idea.

Now that I must call this wretched place my home, the chance of my survival is nil. The only way I can communicate with you - my darling Dorothy, my son and lovely daughter - is through this diary. Of course, I shall send you letters at every possible opportunity, but I will have to be careful with what I say. This diary is your only hope of finding out the truth. Be strong as you read it.

*

It is the middle of the night, and once again, I cannot sleep. I wish I could just stumble into blissful forgetfulness, but that is impossible when shells are exploding every second and guns are firing and tearing open the starless sky. Even if all that was taken away, all the bangs and screams, sleep still would be an inconceivable option in a trench. Nor can I ignore the constant rumbling of my stomach. Food in the trenches isn't much better than the appalling conditions we have to put up with. With so little to share around 40 or 50 men, sometimes the poor state of the food doesn't matter. Tinned stew, corned beef, and dry biscuits are only half of the bland concoction we have to live on. We are lucky in a way, I suppose, to have so many horses. When a horse is killed, well ... meat is meat.

Often the walls of the trenches are not high enough to conceal me when I am stood upright, and we have to build many walls along the top to gain more protection from the sight of the Germans. However, some trenches reach about 15 metres underground. We have to dig the trenches by hand, and are often the cause of the raw blisters that become our gloves.

I was talking to a soldier I have befriended, named George, and I asked him about how the trenches had come about. He told me that, ironically, the idea of digging trenches was though of by a German; General Erich Von Falkenhayn. The General had ordered his men to dig burrows in the ground to stop our side from advancing any further. When we realised that there was no way we could break through these new defences, us British and French had no choice but to dig trenches of our own; otherwise we would be easy prey for the Germans.

Describing these burrows as 'not nice' would be an understatement; these places make up half of the Hell hole that Belgium has become. They are almost always waterlogged, and they have little - if any - simple comforts such as heating or toilets that I used to take for granted. At the moment, I am in one of the trenches that are further away, but there are some that are barely 40 metres away from the enemy. These are the trenches where the offensives are launched; when men go over the top of the trench and charge at the opposition. I dread the day that I am sent to fulfil this duty. The horror of charging straight towards the enemy; straight into the face of Death. There will be no way I would survive. No soldier ever has, and I doubt any soldier ever will.

*

I miss my family. So much it hurts more than the cuts and bruises gained from the gun-fire and bombs. I look around and realise that this is as bad as it gets. I wouldn't wish this on anyone, not even my worst enemy. Not on the Germans, not on the Austrians either. I want to get out of here. I want to be free. I want to be me again.

*

I have just been speaking with George. He was telling me about the equipment that a soldier who had gone over the top before we were shipped in had to carry.

"Abou' thir'y kilos o' stuff he 'ad ter carry," he said, in his gruff, Northern accent. "There wuz a rifle, two mills grenades, abou' two 'undred an' twenny rounds o' ammunition, his steel 'elmet, wire cutters, his field dressin', an entrenchin' tool, greatcoat, two sandbags, a rolled ground sheet, water bottle, haversack, mess tin, towel, shavin' kit, extra socks, message book an' preserved food rations. I ain' half surprised it takes so long ter ge' across No Man's. I'm surprised I even remembered all tha' stuff. Believe you me, I can flippin' wait 'till our turn."

I agree with him; there's no way I want to go up there any time soon. The thought of bowing under the weight of all that equipment makes me even more worried; every time I think of the day I go over the top, my hands begin to shake, and it is all I can do to stop myself curling into a ball and crying like a baby.

*

I can't believe it. Are my eyes and ears deceiving me, or have I really just spoken with …
I was eating when he came over to me. I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned. Standing beside me was a soldier; he was quite a bit shorter than me, and he looked very thin, although it was difficult to tell under the layers of uniform we all have to wear. He had his head drooped towards the ground, so that his face was hidden, and he wouldn't look me in the eye.

"Sorry to disturb you, sir," he asked. His voice was muffled, but I could still detect the softness of it, as well as the slightly higher pitch. "But can you tell me where I can find some more bandages? I cut myself when I was digging." He lifted his sleeve to reveal a bony wrist, with a deep gash slicing through his hand.

"Here," I said. "Have some of mine. I have plenty." I handed him a bandage from my own kit, and wrapped it around his hand.

"Thank you very much, kind sir." the soldier said, before turning away. But before he left, I stopped him.

"If you don't mind me asking," I said. "What is your name?"

The soldier answered that his name was William Smith. "What about you, sir?"

"I am Leonard Williamson." I answered. "And also, I hope you don't mind me asking for your age?"

The soldier hesitated, before he leaned in, "Promise you won't tell?"

"Of course not," I said, confused. "Why would I?"

The soldier paused again. Then he lifted his head and stared me straight in the eye. I gasped as I saw his thin, pale face, and the ghost of a child in his eyes. "I'm fifteen, Mr Williamson. I felt I had a duty to help protect my country." He coughed, and made his voice sound deeper. "I shall hold you to your promise, Mr Williamson. Good day."
With that, he left, weaving his way down the trench and leaving me sitting there dumbstruck, my stew long forgotten.

*

I can't believe this. Ever since my meeting with William, I have been spotting more and more boys at the age of what looks like 15 or 16 in amongst the army. How can they? The officers are letting children in the army, leading boys to their deaths. Boys who have so much life left, so much potential, so much more they could do, and yet, they are living in the same Hell hole that even I - a grown man - cannot handle.
Someone is shouting. I must go. Gas!

*

I have been told about gas attacks before, and I have been trained how to launch them. The weather must be suitable before one could be set off; I was told this during training. Training that feels like millennium ago. One time, the army launched a gas attack, and the wind blew the gas back into their own faces. This happened only last year, but officers have said that the problem has been solved by making the gas shells that we are so familiar with.

I can still smell the stench of my own urine that lingers around my nose from the pads that I had to hold to my mouth. The attack had been so sudden that I didn't have time to fit my mask on. I have been told that the ammonia in the pad neutralises the poison of the chlorine, so I have not been too badly affected by it. Even so, I do feel a little light-headed.

*

I have just been going around the trench and tending to people who have been affected by the gas but are still alive; I couldn't believe what I saw. Here and there, bodies lay motionless, bodies of the soldiers who were unlucky, the soldiers who drowned in the suffocating green sea. But it was not this that drew my attention, and my tears. In the midst of the men, was one still body that I will never forget. As I stumbled towards it, as I knelt by it, I couldn't help but break down.

No young teenager should die like this. No boy could deserve it. William Smith's pale green face stared up at me, no emotion in his blank eyes. I shuddered and wailed, glad that there were no other soldiers in this part of the trench. I wrapped my arms around the boy, pulling him onto my lap. I cradled him as if he was my own son, his body cold and hard as stone. I thought of his home, and his parents. I couldn't possibly imagine the sadness and despair they would feel when they received that dreaded telegram.

I didn't know how long I sat there for, but it felt wrong to leave William's side. I kissed his forehead, and shut his eyes, letting my tears wash onto his face as I pressed my cheek to his. That was when I felt the drops of rain splatter onto my head. Before long, it was throwing it down, and it was then when I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I looked up to see George beside me. He knelt next to me and smiled sadly. "Ther's nout yer can do, buddy. The stretch bearers are on their way. They'll make sure 'e gets 'ome, don' yer fret. He'll 'ave a proper funeral an' all."

I nodded, unable to speak. I refused to move until the bearers came, and George stayed with me until they arrived. Finally, I gave in, letting them take William's body off me.

"Make sure, er..." I said to one of the bearers. "Make sure he gets home OK. Tell his parents that a friend of his apologises for their loss."

I gulped down the lump in my throat as the stretch bearer nodded. I don't know why I said it. There's is no way that that message would get back to William's family. Stretch-bearers don't have that power, and I doubt they even care. But what is done is done, and I just stood and watched them take away the body of William Smith; the bravest boy I ever knew.

*

So this is what trench-foot is. I had never heard of it before the lectures we'd had on the disease during training. Now I am able to get a real insight into what it is like - because I am one of many who have been infected.

Trench-foot is an infection of the feet, and it's caused by the cold and wet conditions in the trenches. We have to stand for hours on end in the waterlogged trenches, unable to remove our soaking socks and boots. After such a long period of time, the skin on the feet turns red or blue, and if it goes untreated, then it could turn gangrenous and could result in an amputation. Thankfully, I spotted the early signs of my feet beginning to turn blue, and I managed to have it treated before it got any worse. However, many of the soldiers around me were not as lucky, including George.

*

I have just returned to the trenches after visiting George in the hospital. I couldn't look at his right foot for fear of throwing up my lunch, which I cannot afford to lose.

"How are you doing, mate?" I asked him.

"Fine," he said, wincing. "Trench-foot. Ha! People who gave this bummer a name could 'ave come up wiv somat a bi' more imaginative."

Typical George.

"How long have you got in here?" I asked.

"Dunno," he answered. "Nurse said tha' if i' gets any worse, gonna have ter take me leg off. Can' say I won' miss it."

"Will they send you back?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely. Better make the most o' this, then, eh?"

I nodded, smiling sadly. "Lucky you."

"Hey," he said, nudging me with his elbow. "Don' be thinkin' this is better than livin' in the trenches, 'cause it ain'. If I were goin' 'ome, maybe, bu' I'm no'. Trus' me, you don' wan' this."

I don't, don't get me wrong. But I long for a bit of a break. Even if it meant getting trench-foot.

Or a self-inflicted wound, perhaps.

"You know about the other diseases?" George asked, cringing as he lifted himself up the bed. "Trench-mouth, trench-fever. Yer know, these disease-namin' people 'ave no creativity do they?"

"What are those diseases?" I asked, unsure I even wanted to know.

"Trench-fever? Oh, that's when yer ge' an 'eadache, puffy eyes, skin rashes an' leg pains. 'E's got i', 'im over there." He nodded to the man lying on the bed beside him, and he was right - the man had very red eyes, brought out by the greyness of his skin. "Poor chap, 'e's go' trench-mouth too. As the lecturers might say," he put on a posh British accent that uncannily resembled the voice of one of the trainers who taught us, "Trench-mouth is a rare form of gingivitis that usually develops suddenly when the normal mouth bacteria grow too heavily, causing infection and ulcers. Yer weren' listenin' back there were ya?"

"Oh come on, gimme a break. It wasn't the easiest thing to do, was it?" I laughed.

"Nah, yer righ'. Anyhoo, better ge' some rest. I'll be back before yer know it, don' worry buddy."

"See you soon, hop-along."

*

Other than the constant deaths and severe wounds caused by shells and guns, I'd say that the worst thing we have to endure here would be the lice. Typical how a tiny creature can be such a major problem. George told me they are the causes of trench-fever ("The lecturers called i' pyrexia, but I'm stickin' wiv trench-fever. Easier to say, really ...").

The lice gets into the seams and hems of our clothing and breeds thousands of eggs. They soon hatch, and we're forever itching our skin. Each louse has its own bite, its own itch. And we are constantly infested with thousands of these individual bites and itches. You couldn't possibly imagine how irritating it gets! The size of grains of rice, they are pale fawn in colour, and they leave blotchy red marks all over my body. And to top it all, they leave the most sour, stale smell that makes me feel like a piece of rotting food left too long out in the kitchen.

One method that we have all tried in attempt to get rid of the little beasts is burning them with the wax from a lighted candle. This is fairly effective but it takes skill to burn the lice without setting your clothes on fire. I have had plenty of practise with it ... I could start a profession in it. Roll up, roll up, all soldiers who want their clothes delousing!

... Perhaps not. It is already a gruelling job to get rid of the lice on my own clothes. They pop like Chinese crackers when they're burned, and I often finish the job with spots of blood on my face from the rather large ones. I wouldn't like those spots to multiply.
I must say, I give the army credit for their own added attempts to get rid of the lice. As often as possible, they arrange for us to bathe in huge vats of hot water, whilst our uniforms are washed and burned in the delousing machines. Unfortunately, despite the relaxing break in the baths, the delousing rarely works. There are still a fair amount of eggs in the seams when they come out of the machine, and when we put the uniforms back on, the heat from our bodies help them to hatch and the whole itching thing starts all over again. Still ... good excuse for a nice bath.

*

I had been asleep in a dug-out for about three precious hours when I felt something nibbling at my hip. I tried to feel what was biting me, and my fingers closed around a huge rat! I guess it had managed to bite through my haversack and my uniform to get to my flesh. I cried out with horror and threw it from me. It was a most disgusting and freakish experience that I fear every night would happen again.

After going through that ordeal, I see that the trenches are crawling with the monsters. With every gas and shell attack, they come swarming in their hundreds to try and get a taste of the freshly killed bodies. There is so much waste here that they seem unafraid to show themselves, and they are thriving! Some are as big as cats! I don't know if I'll ever get another wink of sleep for fear of being eaten alive.

*

I was awake all night. I couldn't shut my eyes, I couldn't relax, and I couldn't get the image of that rat out of my head. Time meant nothing; it wasn't until the sun began to rise when I realised it was the dawn of a new day. A few weeks ago, I would have rejoiced in the knowledge I had survived another day, but now? Now I couldn't care less. All that the sun brought with it was more pain, more death, and a mocking beam that rid me entirely of the little hope I had left.

Now I truly see the pit of despair we have to live in, and I cannot bear to spend another day in it. It is time.

I need to get out of here.

*

As the sun rose higher this morning, I spotted the most peculiar shape. Up on the edge of the trench, in the protecting shade of the barrier we had to build to make the trench walls taller, was a silhouette of ... something. It was tall and thin, stretching up into the air like a flag pole. When the sun rose higher up, I realised that the peculiar shape was connected to a strange bundle lying on the ground. Just as the sun projected its rays onto the shape, I noticed that it was a man, lying on his back with his leg in the air.
"What are you doing up there?" I called up to him.

"Shh! They'll hear you!" the man said, pointing to the soldiers who were lucky enough to catch a few hours' sleep. "I'm seeing if a stray bullet would go through my leg. Then I'll get out of this cess-pit and back to my wife."

That was when I had the idea. But it would be risky. Self-inflicted wounds are capital offences, and is punishable by death. It is seen as an act of cowardice, when it is really an act of desperation.

*

I had only ever thought of self-inflicted wounds once, when I visited George in the hospital, but I had quickly dismissed the idea. But now it doesn't look like a bad option. Every day, faced with the prospect of being killed, every day! Constantly at fear that the next victim of the War will be me. Forced to watch innocent men die. Forced to kill innocent men when we go over the top. Well, I guess that is how it goes. Innocence; the innocent people die. And evil goes untouched. The Devil roams No Man's Land, everyone has agreed to that. We have become his puppets. Well I am not going to be a puppet any more.

A gun to the foot. That is all it takes. One gun, one twitch of a finger, just as easy as that. I need to get out of here, and if it is a self-inflicted wound that is my train out then I am not going to miss my stop. Good bye, death and destruction, and hello family!

*

I tried. But I couldn't do it. As I placed the gun against my foot, I heard this whispering voice in my mind that just said, Don't. And I listened. I listened to that voice. It is too risky. My plan was that I would get home, but if I was caught, I would be killed anyway. I couldn't do that to my family. All these men here, we've all been sentenced to death for innocence. The real sentence had been inflicted long ago. Two years ago, when the War began.

My family. My family and George, fresh out of hospital. Those two thoughts were what made me pull my hand away and stopped me driving the bullet through the flesh and bone. I imagined what it would be like if I had gone through with it. If I had got home, if my plan had worked, all I could see was guilt on my shoulders, knowing that my best friend was still out there, knowing that he could be dead, and I had abandoned him. I couldn't do that to George. No.

I must stay.

*

It is incredible to think that when I was enlisted and transported over here, I had been excited. My mind has been long since changed. All around, if I don't see destruction, I see madness. Men who have gone insane from the strain of the War. Some have gone so far as to kill themselves. I don't blame them. Last night, I had been tossing and turning, trying to block out the usual shell explosions and gun shots, trying to sink into a blissful oblivion that I knew was unreachable. I had turned onto my side just to see a soldier with his rifle to his head, and his big toe around the trigger. He looked at me. I looked at him. I remember smiling sadly, and I had lifted my hand in farewell. He did the same, before his hand dropped to the side as the bang rang through the trench. The rifle clattered to the floor. The echoes finally stopped ringing. And I looked away from another body that would never move again.

*

This is it. The General has ordered a bombardment of heavy artillery to 'soften up' the Germans before the offensive. A barrage that would last ten days. Ten days and nights of explosions, bangs, screaming. Non-stop. Ten days until we are sent over the top and attempt to kill as many Germans and take over as many trenches as possible - that is, if we get to the other side of No Man's Land alive. I want to curl up in a ball with my hands over my ears like a child. I feel like a child. Every night of the barrage I tell myself that all the shells are fireworks, but I have no story to replace the screaming of soldiers driven mad, or Germans being hit. Ten days. Ten days until we go over the top. Tens day until we are sent to our deaths.

This is it.

*

Nine days.

*

Eight days.

*

Seven days.

*

Six days.

*

Five days.

*

Four.

*

Three.

*

Two.

*

The time is 11:59. In one minute, a new day will greet me, the 13th November, 1916. And in a few hours, so will death. George can't sleep either. Then again, no one can. I look around. All the soldiers around me will be dead by morning. All the friends I have made. All the soldiers I do not know. And me.

I look at George. We do not speak. All we do is look. Everything that needs to be said is done so in that one gaze. And I know all I tell him through my eyes he understands.
Thanks. You were a great friend.

And now to you, Dorothy. I love you so much. When Dylan and Rose get older, I want you to tell them everything. Show them my diary. Don't hide anything. They need to know the truth. As for you ... Be strong. Know that I will always be with you. Tell Dylan and Rose I love them. Hug them and kiss them for me. Don't lose hope. Don't give up. Keep fighting for what is right. War is not. Don't be sucked in by the propaganda. I love you.

The guns are suddenly silent.

I must go.

This is it.
This was a diary I wrote for a History project, in the view of a world war one soldier named Leonard Williamson. What I find amusing is that the project was a four week thing, and I did it in three days. Plenty of relaxing time XD Please tell me what you think, and if you learnt anything from it.

:icondonotuseplz::iconmyartplz:
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