My Neighbor I Know So Well (AmeCan)

Should I Give In the Effort? (Canada)

31 October, 1899

        Dear Diary, I know not of the day we will dock at our destination. Almost a full day had passed (only a few hours remain) that I had been aboard this ship. I do know that, considering the distance between us and how fast this ship is moving, it will take over a month or two. Already letters were sent to the one person I want to see and punch. A question has appeared in my mind the second I step foot in my cabin: "Do I want to document my experience throughout this war?" After all, it IS my first war oversea, at least, up close and personal. How many times shall I say the events yet to come chill my bones? My conclusion for the question about documenting should rest between the answers "yes" and "no". By that I mean I will only document the really significant events in my whole time deployed there. The significant events according to me, if I can keep up with how many there could be.  An example is my first injury (and I'm expecting to receive one eventually) or a victory won only by the hands (and bullets) of our troops. Honestly, dear diary, I discourage the act of Britain implying us to take part in this war as their fast run-to assistant. Sure our relations are that of a mother and her son, but I  hate to see one's life taken by another. I've conversed with a few of the troops and nurses aboard the ship I'm in, very nice people. I wouldn't cope with the sight of them being penetrated with either bullets or metal or any other kind of sharp, piercing material. It's a quarter pass one o' clock and I need sleep. I don't think the sight of the unexpected will affect my perception on things concerning war. I've read about it, wrote about it, seen it. Do others see me differently, a boy full of innocence? Do they think my whole personality will change completely once I endure whatever awaits me? The probability is high, so I'm settling with the answer "yes". Goodnight, diary, I'll make sure to get as much sleep as possible despite my lack of comfort on the mattress I lay in. (P.S. I felt a warm sensation rush to my forehead not too long ago. I wonder what it was.)

...

18 February, 1900

        Forgot to record Christmas, New Year's, and our arrival; was too distracted by the rifle shoved into my arms. Rendezvoused with British forces and began marching towards the banks of Modder River. I don't have to be specific if you don't want me to be. Our first assault was a horrible one at sight. We suffered eighteen dead and more wounded. One solider I had a pleasant conversation with collapsed motionless, red and brown all over. Stationed in my personal tent; it's two hours past my limit on staying up. Doing my best to rest these heavy eyes. I sent a letter telling of this event.

...

7 November, 1900

         A desperate battle yet. Had to make do with a faltering regiment, but combined it with an other regiment the both had great experience in cooperating. I've seen how a Victoria Cross looks like, such a high award of military decoration for the four men who acted in kindness and respect in those life or death situations. In the end, the other side lost their footholds and tumbled down back to square one. What a bad displacement. Have you noticed the slight change in my tone as I write? Do you perceive it to be more direct and stiff? Ha, stiff, what an inflexible word. It's bland. Forgot to mention a few months back: I've shot a man, killed him with one bullet. My group was dividing into two sections and I was distracted by bombings here and there to notice the split. Caught in the bare middle, I faced a row of enemies readying their guns. I had to act fast, so I aimed, focused, and shot the nearest man to me in the head. I pulled the trigger so abruptly that I fell back instantly. When I looked up, I saw the same man lie on the ground, facing me with wide, soulless eyes and blood dripping down his forehead from where I shot him. Dear Lord, I have someone's blood on my hands, MY HANDS! This counts as committing a murder, doesn't it? He had a clear aim and was about to shoot me, what other choice did I have? I was thinking whether my strange healing would resurrect me if I got shot anywhere in my vital regions (head, heart, etc.). He was about to shoot ME. I'm a murderer. I can't be here anymore; I didn't even ask to! Did I have a voice to this? No! Take me back, away from here! Away from where I have to take the lives of people who didn't do anything to harm me! No, no, that cannot happen. I will be situated here for as long as it takes until our enemy surrenders. I can't even decide if writing a letter will be appropriate. They can't know! I won't want them to! Yet, they do expect me to kill in this war; war does involve some people dying. Rings have formed under my eyes, sleep deprivation is becoming more severe. Insomnia? What else would it be.

...

31 March, 1902

        I should've foreseen this war to be more than a spell long, about two years spent in this sizzling wasteland, well, until the first gunshots fired. Already I've gotten questions reoccur in my head asking why I am still alive and why I should be. I should be dead, like any other person who would have three bullets embedded in their chest  and their wrist snapped in combat. I didn't surpass one second in the combat, apparently shielding my face with my left arm and not giving out essential military information causes me to have my wrist vulgarly snatched and snapped. Close to passing out from the sudden pain, I pulled out my gun and tried to shoot the person. They took notice and pulled their trigger before I could pull mine. Landed directly over my right breast. What brute force! However when my group found me huddled in an abandoned blockhouse, I was told to be found unconscious and "on the brink of death", although I disagree with that statement. I've embraced and believed the fact of my immortality. I hadn't confided in anyone about it. The wound was cared for, all bone fragments set back in their appropriate positions, all is well. Not really; all will be well once I get out of this mess and back into the safety of my country. Every night I struggle with sleeping because I'm kept awake at the slightest fear of being discovered, being shot, having more body parts broken, or having to shoot another person. I should keep a chart and mark tallies for every "murder" I commit. 

...

        I've lost track of what day it is, month even. How much time had passed? Enough for me to forget. I didn't know a progress report concerning me was being sent out daily; didn't know till today. Supposedly they tried to keep me from finding out otherwise I'd take the letter and, forge the returning of me back to Canada, in the writer's handwriting. I've mastered the art of forging, I did throughout my spare time. That's exactly what I'm going to do, twist the report and order them to take me back. I'll sneak in the dead of night around the back of our camp and into where it's being kept. Wish me luck.

...

        I was woken up by a man I've never seen around here. He told me to pack all of my things and follow him. At first I didn't catch sight as I was packing and began following. Then it hit me, by the sight of a red ship docked along a coast I knew where I was heading: home. Excited, I ran straight up the stairs, burst open the entrance, dashed to a room at the end of a narrow hall, and captivated myself which brings me where I am now. Rifle and handgun in the storage compartment, clothes thrown at a corner in the room, I'm laying on a better quality mattress than the ones they provided us. I'd very much prefer the safety of this room, where it's just me in peaceful isolation. Looking forward to the familiar snow and serene maple trees.

Your friend, Matthew