January 3rd 1916.

I’m tired, cold, and my whole body is aching. Every body here feels miserable, no one feels the glory of war at the moment, for it is raining slightly, and it is freezing cold.

Joe is especially miserable, for his feet have been giving him trouble for the past two weeks. At first they were itching, and several layers of skin peeled off, because of the water that had gotten into his boots. Then they started to swell a little, causing us to have to find a new pair of boots for our friend in need. Bill, braving a dash up the slope, ran it to no mans land to grab the closest pair.

He was followed back in to the trench by an explosion of gunfire. For which the captain gave him a very stern talking to, because he endangered the lives of every body in the trench for a pair of boots. Well at least Joe was appreciative of Bill foolish, but daring efforts.

January 10th 1916.

I had to drop my pen and go the other day, before I could finish my diary entry.

I received a letter from Elizabeth yesterday. One that she had written a month ago. I don’t know if I’ll have time to sit down and write a proper reply until I get sent back to reserves.

I wouldn’t have even got the letter until I got back to reserves, but a mate of mine back there made a deal with me, that if either of us was to receive mail while we were on the front line, the other would run it up to us.

Joe is really not feeling well now, his feet are no longer giving him grief, because he can’t feel them at all anymore, even the tingling felling that he so often complained about is gone. Bill had a look at them last night, and they don’t look good. Both feet have swollen up and the skin has split in several places, letting puss seep out of them, whenever Joe puts pressure on them.

Bill strapped then up with several handkerchiefs, hoping to reduce the swelling, and we both tried to coax Joe down to the medic camp, but being a very proper person, Joe didn’t want to miss any of the fighting.

Even when Bill told him of the same sort of thing happening to his brother and how he ended up having both legs amputated below the knee.

Joe pretended not to care, but when he woke screaming during the night, waking up all the other front liners near us from an already restless sleep, we knew that it was starting to get to him.

January 12th 1916

Joe has a high temperature, but is still shivering a lot. He kept Bill and I awake last night with his coughing and moaning. Bill thinks it is possible that Joe has pneumonia.

I said that we should get Joe to the medic camp down on the shore, so Bill has gone off the tell the captain about our extremely sick friend, so we can get permission to leave our posts.

Joe is a sleep again, I’m surprised that anyone can sleep, as the heavy artillery bombardment on the Turks started about an hour ago.

January 15th 1916.

We did end up getting Joe to the medic camp, about five hours after I last wrote. He didn’t look good last time I saw him, and haven’t heard anything since.

We had the carry him down there, taking it in turns to sling him across our shoulders, having to stoop low, so we didn’t breech the six foot safety of the trench walls.

After dropping Joe at the medic camp, we had to hurry back to the trench, to start our rifle assault on the Turks.

Bill and I managed to grab a place on the fire step next to each other. Trying to make best of the situation I told Bill to watch his head, or a Turk might sniper him off, because he’s so tall, being at least six foot five. He replied saying that at least he could see whom he was shooting at, making jokes about my mere five foot ten.

The captain stood back with his whistle preparing to signal to start firing.

It seemed like forever we crouched there, every body pressed in close together. Up higher the smell of the rotting corpses of the dead soldiers, both ours and the Turks.

For a split second every thing went quiet, the machine guns stopped, all I could hear was my own blood pounding in my ears, and the guns still echoing in my head.

Then the captains whistle blasted somewhere behind us, and we all stood, moving as one it seemed, cocking our rifles as we went, not even thinking of the bayonets attached to end of our guns, or caring if we cut some one else.

One bullet after another left our guns, whizzing across the quarter mile of no-mans land to the Turk trenches.

I knew all along that this wasn’t all we would be doing, and that sooner or later we would have to run to the next trench, but for now we just shot, seeing as there we still Turks coming out of their trench.

We retreated to the safety of the trench wall and the parapet to reload. It continued this way for what seemed like hours, but in reality was only twenty minutes or so.

Then the rain came.

It pelted down for the rest of the day and into the night, forcing us to give up, because it had become almost impossible to stand on the fire step, so we were given orders to move any wounded down to the hospital, then retreat to our dugouts.

When Bill and I got back to our dugout, after wading through shin deep, slushy mud, we discovered the rats had already beaten us.

They were on every dry patch they could find, pissing, shitting and nibbling on every thing they could.

Their smell mingled with the already suffocating stench of the dead, and that of our own bad hygiene.

We herded them to one side, clearing enough space for us to huddle together, snatching whatever warmth we could from our already damp blankets.

Bill complained several times of the cold, but apart from that we didn’t speak, saving our energy for the job of shoveling out the mud that lay ahead.

One thing that will stick with me forever is the red tinge to the puddles outside. The colour given to the water by the blood of the dead and wounded.

I’ve just received news that Joe died about an hour ago. The doctor said that it was a combination of pneumonia and blood poisoning, because his feet went gangrenous.

I can’t find the words to express my grief, or the self hatred I feel. If only I had acted sooner, and had taken him to hospital weeks ago, when he had first started to complain about his feet.

In memory of a great friend

and a brave soldier.

Joseph Roberts

12. 4. 1892 - 15.1.1916

Rest In Peace.

To top everything off, I’ve also just received word that the trenches are good, and tomorrow we are to take the Turks trench. Which means we run.

January 19th 1916.

War takes young lives every day, but it is the death of the owner of this journal, and very good mate of mine that has really left a mark in my life.

In memory of a brave young man, who died for something he didn’t believe in. Fighting for a country that didn’t really care for him as an individual, but only as a soldier. To my dear friend. Thomas Sellers. Born. 19/2/1894. Died. 18/1/1916