The Shelby Diaries: John Shelby.

5th of March, 1915. Richebourgh, France.

5th of March, 06.00. Richebourgh, in France.

God, I miss Martha. I got a letter from her yesterday. It's 2 weeks old now. But turns out that I'm going to be a father. Mother already heard the news from Martha. She's happy. Martha says her illness is getting worse. We're low on money. Business in Birmingham is bad. Really bad. Not that weird. Not a lot of men available to be betting on horses now. I hope that Martha, Mom, Aunt Polly and Finn can manage until this bloody war is finally over. 

A father. Me, John Shelby, a father. I always thought Arthur was going to be the first of us, but turns out it's me (although, who knows how many illegitimate children Arthur has produced on earth). Martha told me that it happened during my leave in December, when I went back to Birmingham for a month. So the babe will probably be there in 5 months. There are very little chances of me managing to be there in time. We're starting an assault in Neuve Chapelle in a few days. I'm going to the trenches. I've heard terrible stories from Thomas' letters about the trenches. Stories that'd frighten any man. Even though I'm slowly losing my faith in God thanks to this war, I pray to Him every night, that He will allow me to see my first born. That He will give me that. And that He will cure mom, somehow. But it's never that simple. 

This military base is big. It consists of a lot of artillery units, and also a lot of Indian soldiers. Tough bastards, that lot. Most English soldiers don't even bother talking to them, but they are quite alright. They are generous, and more cheerful than the others around here. 

Time to go. Probably getting my instructions for the trenches today. 

John is walking through the busy streets in Richebourgh. All French people have been evacuated to the coastal places, so that the military bases can operate without the risk of endangering any civilians. It's a bright March day: the sun is slowly peaking, and the air is fresh, but not cold. John lights a cigarette, and takes a look through the streets. Every single shop has been transformed into an operation of the army: infirmaries, dentists, supply depots, gun maintenance, officer's rooms, tactical meeting rooms... There's even a butchery down the street, for those who can afford it. Business is business, right? On the streets, soldiers are hanging around. Some are fighting, for bets, others play card games. Most of them are drunk, and are singing loudly. And then there is the Indian quarter. It was more quiet in there. Most of the Indian soldiers valued their religion a great deal better than the English soldiers. Suddenly, John feels a hand on his shoulder. John grabs for his knife, but then hears a familiar crackling laughter. 

"John, you silly cunt, it's me ye bastard!"

John turns around, smiling. It's his oldest brother, Arthur. He hugs him. 

"Oh Arthur, you have no idea how happy your ugly face makes me. What are you doing here?"

"Ah I'm taking part in this operation little brother. I'm in charge of some of the big guns with a couple of other brummies. So, I heard you had a little luxurious trip back to Birmingham eh? How's mom?"

John's face turns serious. Arthur doesn't know yet.

"Arthur, mom's ill. Very ill. She needs medicine, but Polly's out of extra cash. Business is bad in Birmingham."

Arthur turns silent. He stares in the distance. "Bloody war. Everything is fucked, John". 

They both stare in the distance. John walks over to a bench in front of the church, and Arthur follows. John hands him a cigarette, and Arthur grabs a flask from under his coat, and hands it to John. "Cheers, Arthur" "Cheers, little brother". 

"There's other news too. Little Finn turns out to be quite good with money. He's helping them out down in the office during the races. Finn will probably running the place by the time this war is over".