August 3, 1916

Dearest Joe,

It is with a heavy heart that I sit here in a bloody trench with my pen in hand. No longer am I blinded by thoughts of nationalism and defending the fatherland. It is now, after spending the last three weeks here, that I have come to realize the sad truth. Joe, old chap, I am a broken, disillusioned man. I wish I still was the frolicsome, innocent young man that I was when I first put this British uniform on. I, like my fellow comrades, was motivated by the thoughts of war being an adventure, not realizing the true hell that it really is. The only way that I hold onto sanity and the will to live are thoughts of you, my dear Joe, and Biddy also. I have a picture of you in my locket and every dark night I lay there and gaze at the stars, remembering my life of old. But then I think of Miss Havisham, and I get this raging feeling of hatred and I strive to pull the trigger and end a man's life. And then I am ashamed, and I pull the locket out again.

Woe is me! Ever since that fateful day when dearest Britain was pulled into this terrible, ghastly thing they call war, I have pondered why I am here and why this is all happening. If it were not for the corruptive, destructive ways of man, I would not be here today fending for my life. Instead, I would be with you, dearest Joe, sipping a spot of tea and eating some cherry tarts I stole from the pantry. And we would be fearing the Tickler, that wooden cane of misery, would we not Joe? Oh, the good old days when a man could sit in his home with his family, not worrying about poison gas entering his body through the nostrils and enveloping his lungs in a death cloud of anguish. But that is all gone forever, is it not? If only we could go back into the past and stop the chain reaction from occuring. First it was Serbia, and then Austria-Hungary, and so on right down the line to our homeland. If only we had not vowed to keep Belgium in a state of neutrality. But it is not so...


I have many a tale to share with you, many dark things that I must relieve myself of. I have seen things that no man should ever be witness to. Do you remember Herbert, my exquisite companion? Well, it was only the other day when I was sitting in the false serenity of the trench in the midst of the front conversing with my unblemished chum. It was then that I heard a shrill whistle of cannon fire from the distance. I dove into the mud that is my protection that is the trench and I met the ground with a thud. As soon as I sensed that the danger had passed, I looked to my side where Herbert had been sitting a second before, expecting to look into the eyes of my lone ally. Instead, I viewed crimson death. Herbert was no longer there...only the shell of a man. No longer was the beautiful, muscular frame of my dear Herbert there beside me. Instead, it was only a skeleton with flesh dangling from the bone. At this point, I felt overcome by nausea and had to choke back the partially digested bread and crumpets I had consumed the hour before. That eve, I lay there haunted by the sight of death. It was only when I discovered my locket that I could free my mind from the depths of agony that had buried my soul.

And then there are the rats, Joe. These little devils come along every time I fall into a slumber of sorts. The scurrying sound of their evil little bodies of destruction promptly awakens me. It is then that I whip out my ration of bread and water. The rats overtake me like a miniature army of bloody Germans, plundering my provisions like the booty of an abandoned ship. After being robbed, I am faced with yet another burdensome day seemling like a duplicate of the last. I find myself going through a constant routine day after day, sitting in the trench fiddling with the locket and a deck of cards. The monotonous environment is driving me mad. I fear that one day I will turn out like one of my fellow comrades, commenced into insanity by the constant rumbling of the guns in the distance with nothing to do but wait for one of the shots from enemy guns to find their mark in the juicy meat that is my bosom.

This abrupt change from the calm vibes of our country cottage to the dastardly conditions and destruction on the front is extremely austere for me to adjust to. My socialized ways were not prepared for this. I was always a shy, peaceful young boy, not wishing to harm any person. Now it is totally different. I am expected to be a killing machine day in and day out. And worse yet, Joe, I fear that I am starting to enjoy this murdering. The conditions here are also unbearable, at least compared to my old ways. You know very well that I was always a very polished individual, constantly making sure that my figure was tantalizing to a curious stranger. No longer can my ways be satisfied. Now, I live in constant filth and human feces. What I would do for a fresh bar of soap and some fresh water to rinse my body in. Then again, it would be very dangerous to drop the soap around my comrades.

Yet, being a dirty, filthy man is not my worst of fears. No, Joe! It is the mustard gas. Oh, it was bad enough with the old poison vapor that threatened to scar your lungs if you did not have protection through a gas mask on your side. With these mustard fumes, there is nothing to save you. The pain is truly horrendous with the gas seemingly burning the skin right off of the body. Worst of all, this particular gaseous substance attacks your most moist spots. As you know, I am a particularly sweaty fellow and when my trench was enclosed by the volatile substance, I could only pray that my normally moist regions would be spared and that I would still be alive after its passing. With the warning of the gas, I truly believed that I had reached the end. Luckily for me, the winds of change blew in my favor and I was left unharmed, for the most part. However, I do have some gruesome spots...but I don't think you want to know where.


Since July 1, a little over a week after arriving at the front, I have been fighting in a massive battle with the French against the Germans (Battle of the Somme). This is the first major conflict that I have been in, along with the rest of Kitchener's Volunteer Army. How I regret signing up for that. Many of my fellow soldiers have been killed in the fighting, as this has been an extremely bloody battle between foes. It is here that I killed my first man. It is true that throughout this impotent showing of wits, I murdered many a-man. But how are you to know for sure when you are shooting blindly into the never-ending tide of fiends? I know for sure about one man that I inflicted death upon, however. Yes, this poor soul picked the wrong crater to leap into. Unknown to this German imbecile, I had taken cover in this ditch while sprinting across the stretch of barren earth that they call "No Man's Land". I sensed the footsteps of this foe only a second before he resided in my chasm. He noticed me in the shadows and quickly offered me some bread. Being the blunt fool that he was, he apparently thought that I was one of his comrades. Yes, Joe. It is true that he offered me bread...but I offered him death. Wait, I did not offer death. I forced it upon him with such a blind force that would make you think that I had once again called forth memories of the old hag Havisham. But it was not that which beckoned this monster from within. It was fear for my own life. So, as I muttered "Say hello to the devil for me", I drove the icy steel dagger into the left earlobe of my adversary. Noticing that the job was not yet done, I stabbed twice more, this time with precision. You see, Joe, I did not enjoy the act of halting the bodily processes of that mongrel. I did, however, enjoy his sweet flesh afterwards with a fresh Chianti and some fava beans.

Currently, I find myself acting as a pawn in this sick game of antipathy. This battle has revolved solely around attacks across No Man's Land, at least for us British. The distance between enemy trenches is truly a sight that one may only expect to come across in the worst of nightmares. Running across this land of ditches and craters is a chore, especially with the constant sound of artillery and the smell of death all around. Once you find yourself in the vicinity of the rival's trench, you come across the barbed wire, which is not passable by any means. That is, unless you would like to risk being carved up by its thorny edges or mowed down by machine gun fire. The passage across this wasteland is not only a test of will, but also luck. Luck is on my side, Joe. Let's hope it stays that way... 

One thing I do not seem to comprehend is why all of this violence must occur. This war is dragging on much too long with little to be gained on either side. It seems that we are in the midst of one immense stalemate, never again to move from our positions. Is there any winner to this madness? The only winner is death and Satan, who has mankind on his body appendages like finger puppets, forcing us to commit demented acts of indiscretion. I see no victory here, Joe - only death and inhumanity. Every soldier on this great battlefield of our world is left to either die or lose his mind, falling prey to the ongoing psychological effects of the devastation around him. This is all a waste. I only wish to return to my dwelling and feel the warm sensation of tea tickling my vocal cords as its property of viscosity drives it down my esophagus. Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive. I don't quite know if that has anything to do with what I was saying. I just like the way it sounds.

My despair grows by the hour and I am beginning to find that the real beast is within. It is extremely difficult to maintain a firm grip on coherence and rationality in these conditions. My days and nights are haunted by the sight of rotting bodies strewn about the trenches and caught on the barbed wire, their faces with a fixed expression of agony. It was just the other night when I awoke abruptly from my slumber covered in a cold sweat recalling Herbert's vile departure from the living. I cannot help but feel guilt, as I was the last person to speak a word to the pale young gentleman. If I only knew which flagitious individual smoked my partner, I could avenge the death and free myself from this blame that I place upon myself. The grief that I feel eats at me more than the yellow sores from that frivolous gaseous haze, and that's saying quite a lot. If it were not for the letters that I send to you my dear, sweet Joseph, I would most likely regress into a state of numbness, no longer sane. The memories of my life of old keep me going, old chap.

I walked into this believing that I would become a hero. If I am able to walk out of it, I will be a morose man, downtrodden by all I have endured during this war.  I am losing far more than I can ever gain, and I do not want to walk out of this with less than I came with. However, this seems unavoidable, as my old self has perished, leaving only a shell of the man I once was. My pride and optimism have given way to a cynical view of the world, leaving a man old of heart, yet young of years. I know that I can never be the same as I once was with these harsh memories breaking my spirit like a brittle crumpet, subjugated to the elements and weakened by the natural forces of my thumb and forefinger. I have changed my view of war. It is not at all intrepid or courageous. In fact, I was foolish to ever believe that it could be. My naive young self was not ever prepared for this, and I expect that this holds true with the millions of others that were seized and spellbound by Great Expectations. I am truly heartbroken by the waste of human life during these dark times. A human life is the most important thing on this earth and once it is taken, it can never again be restored. I am fortunate to still be here and I look forward to seeing you again.

With love and kisses,

Philip Pirrip - Private British 6th Infantry

10th grade Honors World Cultures "Letter from the Trench" by Dan and Vince