Dear mother, it’s hell here.
The trenches are full of mud and rats,
bullets whistle above our heads constantly,
and they keep dropping the bombs,
we can hardly get any sleep.
This is not war, it’s a game
rigged for both sides to lose
and no one seems to realise.
Jimmy died a couple of weeks ago,
out in no man’s land scouting the German trenches,
he got too close, they saw him,
machine-gunned him down.
Took his legs clean off above each knee.
A couple of other guys dragged him back
and when I saw him, he was still alive,
loose skin and tendons sliding through the mud.
He didn’t recognise me, too delirious.
They left in on the ground by the medical tent,
the rats taking the meat from his legs.
I miss you, mother, I miss father, too.
The farm in the valley, green fields,
the brook babbling away at the foot of the garden.
Millie singing songs about those faeries.
Nothing I miss more than the Sunday roast, though!
Fresh-cut beef, three Yorkshire puddings, thick gravy,
carrots on the side if they grew well.
They don’t have any of that here,
enough bread for a couple of sandwiches a day,
just enough cheese, butter, jam and pepper.
How can we fight when we’re all this hungry?
I have to finish up, it’s my turn in no man’s land.
Don’t know if I’ll make it back,
to the trench, never mind the farm.
I love you, mother.
I will see you soon.
I just want to come home.
