An End of Poppies

very well and to your darkest cost. They can strike London and they can strike here. The fear they impart is palpable amongst the men. The tension ramped up; clinging to every man like the thickest mud. As if our boots are stuck in the quagmire of fear.

  Even from this far distance you could see the great gouging crack in the structure of the Wall, an enormous jagged 'V' shaped split; smoke still billowing skywards. Unbelievable that they could pierce our Wall after all these years. Hundreds of men climbed like dotted ants high up into the fissure, sifting through the rubble. Not to look for bodies, but simply and desperately attempting to shore up the gap with their bare hands for fear that the German hordes would spill through and overrun our side of the Wall.

  Thankfully we were reprieved; no Germans came. I don't know why, everyone expected them. I suspect that this is because they are desperately short of men. Just like we are, just like always. Or perhaps they didn't expect that rocket to hit the Wall. Perhaps they hope to crush us with their new rockets instead of with hordes of soldiers. And the sad part is that they probably will. We have no defence for it, and no real way of fighting back against it. I wonder what kind of panic there must be in those chateaus full of those rich, privileged Generals. And in the bunkers of power in Whitehall and Paris.

  But, despite all this, my dear E----, I am saved, for now, along with my comrade H----. We are far from the Wall and the fear. It is a wound that has saved me. It was last week, just after that rocket attack, when H---- and I were lowered in the basket. I didn't even know the name of the third man. Sapper J---- made sure that he distanced himself from us once we were on the Wall, so we didn't see him much. I think that he blamed me for being put on concrete duty. I know he did. The last I saw of him he was raving and half-blind drunk on some smuggled liquor or other. I do not know if he survives. I hope he does for I cannot help but feel responsible for his fate. Poor man.

  I was surprised that they didn't send all the concrete teams to help fix the split in the Wall caused by the rocket. It seemed absurd to me that they would continue to order us over the side to fix a measly shell hole when the Wall itself was virtually breeched less than a mile away. But order us they did. Often there is no logic in such a vast undertaking that is war. Often many lives are lost for some whim or absurdity. For myself, perversely, I must be grateful that they insisted on ordering us to continue on concrete duty.

  It was night, which is the worst time to be lowered down the Wall. You have to have an oil lamp in the basket in order to see the hole that you need to patch. You might as well wear the brightest miner’s lamp on your head and announce with a megaphone for the Germans to shoot away. Any slightest pin prick of light is an easy target. It draws the sniper's eye like the scent of the fox to the hound. So we were hoping and praying that the snipers and batteries would be asleep that night. Our prayers were not heard.

  I remember peeping quickly around the edge of the basket as we shook our way down, trying in vain to see if the port holes from which their cannons fire were open. A ridiculously vain hope on a cloudy dark night. There was talk of gas, so of course we had our masks on. H---- crouched in the bottom of the basket, attempting to shield the oil lamp with a bit of dirty sacking.

  The first shot hit before we were anywhere near the our destination. The soldier with us slumped forward violently, hitting his head hard on the scaffold railing. He was already dead. H---- pressed his hand in vain on the large wound in his back. A hole the size of a saucepan in his jacket; blood seeping like oil from a sump. Then more bullets, one splintering the wood of the basket, another hitting metal. We tried to crouch low as we could but as I was moving I was hit. My back shifting against the wooden side of the basket and a large bullet went through my shoulder. I found later that many wood shards also travelled through me with that bullet, lining the hole it made in me.

  I don't remember any pain, or to be honest, much about anything after that. H---- says that he put out the lamp and then placed the poor dead soldier's body between us and the direction of fire. He says that lots more shots hit the basket and a shell hit to our left. The dead man had five bullets pierce his body apparently. H---- was hit too, but not by a bullet; a shard of metal shrapnel punctured his eye and is lodged in his head. He survives I am glad to say.

  I awoke three days later in the field hospital here. Apparently the bullet went right through, splintering my shoulder blade into several pieces and making a big hole in me. The doctors say I should recover but probably won't have good use of my left arm or hand again. They have screwed a metal plate over my shoulder blade beneath the skin. I still have many wood splinters in my body; the basket will seemingly be inside me forever.

  H---- is in the next ward; his face bandaged over. They don't know if he has brain damage and I am not sure they care. He seems in fairly good spirits and converses well considering. I think, like me, he is glad to still be alive. His right eye is gone, but they say he should be able to see fairly well with his left. Good enough to fight anyway. That's what they say. It seems that the whole purpose of this hospital is to patch up men just enough to send them back to the Front. That, I have concluded, is a barbaric idea.

  This whole bloody war is barbaric. Now that I can write freely I make no bones about it. I know in my previous letters I attempted to temper my views with claiming to be patriotic, but if patriotic means that I condone this stupid senseless waste of life that has been going on for so long, then I am simply not a patriot. In any shape or form.

  This war has been senseless ever since the very first shots were fired in 1914. Who honestly cares about some aristocratic duke who was assassinated in far off Sarajevo of all places? All those years ago. The reasons why it broke out in the first place are now lost in the mists of time, at least for ordinary soldiers like us. Those reasons have been replaced by perpetual hate. Hatred of them because they kill us, and they in turn hate us because we kill them. And the fact is that it is the ordinary people who suffer. Not the King, or the Dukes or landed gentry or the rich. Just the ordinary folk like you and I. Why we should suffer for them I will never understand.

  It strikes me that there actually isn't much difference between the classes anyway. Not when you come down to the brass tacks of it. I have seen a General blown in half by a cannon shell. It is very unusual to actually see them, let alone actually see them near the fighting, but this man was a particularly foolish toff. He even used to ride around the camps and trenches on a white charger with a sword on his sash as if we were in the Napoleonic wars or something. I suppose it was something to do with his heritage or some such hubris. As if he thought he was carrying on the good name of his family, school and regiment, by trying to show what a brave officer he was. But the fact is that no one cares about his lineage when he is split apart by the smoking shrapnel of a shell. His blood is red not blue, like everyone else. His guts spill just as easily. He was just a fragile human being like we all are.

  The only difference between them and us, those upper classes in charge of us, is simply the fact that they are in charge. And that begs the question why? Why should these men of high born families rule over us and send us to our deaths? The only answer to this that I can find right now, as I lie in my hospital cot in the dark of night, writing this secret letter under the blankets with a torch, is that they have the confidence and mistaken belief that they should rule over us. They believe they are born to it. Such a ridiculous notion. The King is no better and no more equipped to lead than any other man. He is there simply by chance of birth.

  It is all about the maintenance of their power and privilege. So they ply us with lies and propaganda from the moment we are born. And the real tragedy is that we mostly swallow their pills. We believe them, and if we don't we pretend we believe them through fear. We are like children in the playground joining in with the school bully for fear of not fitting in. We allow them to commit these crimes.

  And I know that I could hang for saying such treasonable things, but this war is a crime and t
hose in charge are criminals. Indeed it is the greatest crime ever perpetrated by man.

  It is true that there is an underground movement to stop this war, led by women risking their lives for peace, both in England and here in France. As you know, plans are afoot my dear E----.

  It would be truly wonderful if you and M---- could go and visit my mother, but please, please be careful. Be careful what you say and who you say it to. It might seem paranoid but I fear that the likes of us are being watched. It is not an idle fear.

  I do not know what the future will bring, but I still have hope. Hope that I gain from you. Please write to me soon if you can. I will understand if you feel it is too much of a risk, but please remember despite all that has happened I still cling onto hope. A hope of a better life with you.

  All my love,

  J----

  Xxx

  Miss B. Smith

  P.O. Box 47853

  Hammersmith

  LONDON

  (Defence Zone D)

  W60AF

  Monday 3rd September 1962

  Dear J,

  It was so heartening to receive your letter that I cannot tell you. Please be reassured that I am not frightened to write to you in this secretive way.