May 13, 1917

Dear Beloved Father,

            I have been stationed in near the Somme River, near Calais, ever since the actual battle of Somme occurred. I regret terribly not writing, Father. Mail carriers are hard to come by, and even the best in the business are not a guarantee. However, as I was saying, I have been stationed here for about a year. When I first arrived in France, coming from our humble home in Oxford, the ground was seemingly still green in some parts. The river was not nearly polluted and birds actually sung their melodious tune.

            But, I digress. The point I am trying to make is that it has all changed.

            Let me remind you, Father, never have I regretted going off to war. It was my own decision and I am proud of my respect and dignity for Britain. Yet, I do wonder if the French will ever see their land even remotely beautiful again. Now, there is nothing but deep trenches and water that gives off an aroma horribly unpleasant. I manage, nonetheless. We all have to.

            Just the other day I witnessed twelve bloody hours of trench warfare that did not cease with death, or darkness, or mud, or rain, or sweat. I do not want to frighten you, yet I have a quite understanding that you are apt to hear the information which I am expressing. Twelve hours, father, and two miles of territory (in the German’s favour, nonetheless) was accomplished. Decently and without doubt, I can say that I can walk two miles in less than a half an hour. See the difference? Fantastic and horrible is what it is. But that is trench warfare, and you, being a great soldier once, can understand the ignorance of fighting for scraps of land.

            Does the government even care you are fighting? Or does the man aside you weep if you take a bullet? I hope, but I cannot be certain that either of these are true. Sometimes, Father, I feel as though I do not matter in the big scheme of things. But that is the least of my fears.

            Death would be the biggest fear of any soldier, I would bet before I came to France. That is hardly true. We are not afraid of simply dying painlessly and mercilessly. We are afraid we shall die a most horrible and gruesome death—perhaps after being paralyzed or smothered in horrific gas the Germans first unleashed.

            The other day, during the twelve hours of trench warfare, I’d like to point out that the Germans did, in fact, expose us to the deadly substance. The gas masked covered our faces entirely, sometimes I myself wishing the gas more than the horrible contraption covering my face. I could hardly see, hardly breathe, hardly move my lips. Can you imagine being suffocated like that, the dreadful thing making you alone decide between living in misery or merely dying by gas?

            The food I have been eating is bitter and spoilt, but we do our best to tell ourselves we are eating gourmet meals. It never works, but it brightens our gloomy spirits. A comrade of mine laid his rotten bread out for the rats, and they came in hoards to nibble upon it, he shot them all. The problem was, however, that he ended up shooting two fingers off. Most gruesome. To say that trench foot is easier, however, would be a lie.

            Ah, trench foot, the nightmare of all soldiers who thought their lives would not end in this war. Like some severe wound, trench foot does not kill its victims all of the time, but often times puts them literally through hell. The problem is, Father, that there are no doctors to aid us when we catch this horrible thing from standing in these putrid, muddy waters all bloody day! My comrade (who died the fortnight by suicide, God rest his soul) had a truly hopeless case of trench foot. His toes and heels simply began rotting. There is no other word save rotting. They pealed and wore away like some eroding surface. I cannot imagine, and I do not want to.

            There is insanity that plagues us as well. We have seen the most ghastly of things. Ghastly, Father. You have seen them too, though. Explosions and blood and bodies and rotting things! Enough to drive a man mad, I say.

            There are days I get off when I can recover from the momentary insanity. With me is my copy of Byron poems and choice philosophies… “The all of thine that cannot die, through dark and dread Eternity returns again to me, and more thy buried love endears than aught except its living years.”

            I will not bore you with more horrors. I tried to be brief and leave you out of the worst of things. I tried, Father, but you and are I so alike. We cannot keep things from each other. It can simply not be done. So I finish this letter, hopefully it will come in good time, thinking of you and Mother. To finish it off, without trying to be poetic and superficial, saying rather plainly—Father, I can face the Devil because by the time you will have received this most cherished letter, I will have seen Hell fully.

                                                                                    With most ample love,

                                                                                    Private William F. Hampson

::received august 13, 1917, after death near calais, by french officials::

::dated the 13 of may from private william f. hampson of the 23rd infantry division of great britain::

::sent to mr. john hampson but never received::

::sent on august 25, 1917 to residential home in oxford, great britain::