February 1914 

Dear diary, this is a lot harder than I thought it would be. Don’t listen to anyone who tries to tell you that soldiers don’t get frightened. They do. It took me several days to figure out what fear really was, but when I did it changed everything. Not those silly fears like being afraid of the dark but the kind of fear of thousands of men firing for you. Trying to kill you.

When the first set of bombs went off I could recall thinking of how lucky I was that I didn’t get hurt, how close that bomb was from exploding my trembling body to shreds. 

Every part of me aches, physically and emotionally. The bubbling blisters on the bottom of my feet, the aching muscles holding me up, the thought of being killed and killing, and the memories of my family back home.

April 28 1914

Dear diary, I had received my first parcel from home today just after lunch. My comrade whose name is Jasper was delivering the letters and parcels around the trenches. As he was making his way towards my trench a small part of me was telling myself that I shouldn’t get my hope’s up. I wouldn’t receive a letter from home – just like the past few months. Home. Sweet memories form in front of my eyes at the thought of home. Just the word home makes salty tears trickle down my face and drip onto my musky old shirt. The shirt that we get as part of the uniform once drafted. That stupid word, drafted. But when he passed me the brown, tatty parcel a smile broke out onto my face from underneath that dull, despaired look that I carry everywhere I go.

April 30 1914 

Dear diary, I’m using the dim light from the navy torch and ink pen that I borrowed from my Comrade to write this. The trenches are cramped, they smell like blood, sweat, dead rats and soldiers who passed from starvation or sickness.

July 24 1918

Dear diary, there is a constant smell of death. The constant feeling of getting bombed or shot. It is a really horrible sight, seeing so many men die in just a few seconds. I remember praying that I would survive just before going through no man’s land, I should’ve prayed for my friends. If only I prayed for my friends. I have a lot of if only, and if I lived by them then I wouldn’t truly be living.

July 28 1918

Dear diary, It’s over. Finished. The war is officially over. No words can describe how lucky I am to survive. No actions can show how grateful I am. We leave first thing tomorrow morning and the good thing is that we don’t need to pack our bags. We didn’t bring much with us and what we did was lost or damaged along the way.