Into The Trenches: A World War I Journal [2019]

Chapter 10

I nodded. "I'm going to miss you," I told him quietly. 

He swallowed and stared at me for a few seconds, then ran forward and embraced me, nearly knocking me off-balance with my crutch. "God, Henry," he whispered. "I... I'd be dead without you."

"Forgiven me for that, have you?" I said, meaning it as a joke, but he gave a half sob and squeezed me tighter until I gasped with pain. 

"Thank you for everything," he said. 

"No, thank you." I hesitated. "When you're out of service... visit us in Chatham?" 

He stopped, thinking. "I... I've never thought of what I'd do if I was ever out of service," he said. "But if all goes well, of course." 

I scribbled my home-address on a scrap of paper and pressed it in his hand. "Write to me."

Jacob nodded. "Go on," he said. "You've got a train to catch."

I thanked Margot for her help and service, as she saved both of our lives, and Jacob as well. I have brought the crutch with me, for I still have difficulty walking. I shall be in England in three days' time. My days as a soldier are finally over. 

11 June 1915

Home at long, long last, and with Mother, Father and Elizabeth. They were waiting at the dock when I left the ferry. I do believe their gazes passed me several times before they recognized me. When they did, Elizabeth ran to me and hugged me so tightly that I could not breathe. "Oh, Henry, Henry, Henry, thank the Lord," she sobbed. I am unafraid to admit that when I saw her I, too, began to cry like a baby. 

"I... I missed you so much," I murmured to her when I could speak again. 

"When we received the report... Henry, I was sure it would tell us you were dead," she said, then stepped back, surveying me with worry. "You look... different." 

I had not seen a glass in ages, but I reckon I looked like I had been through Hell: dirty, scarred, bandaged and leaning on a crutch. In truth, she, too, looked very different. Now sixteen, she had grown nearly to my height, and looked practically a woman.

"How are you feeling?" she asked anxiously.

I stopped, the question far too difficult to answer. My relief to be home and with her was buried beneath a flood of awful memories: shots, bombs, gas, blood, killing, nightmares, Ned, Jacob. "You were right, Elizabeth," I said finally. "I never should have left. The things I've seen, the things I've done—"

I swayed and she steadied me, hushing me gently. "It's all right, Henry," she whispered. "You're safe. You're home."

I am in my bedroom now for the first time in months. I scarcely remember the boy—I think I may say "boy"—I was when I left for Ypres. I feel that boy was someone else, another Henry with wild dreams of glory and nationalism. He is dead now, and replaced by this scarred, traumatised, broken man.

12 June 1915

I woke the rest of the house with shouts after a familiar nightmare of Jacob dying in my arms in no man's land. Mother came running and comforted me as she has not for ten years, sitting on my bed and stroking my hair. 

Later that day, when Elizabeth and I sat on her bed, she asked quietly, "What was it you dreamt about last night?"

I looked at her. "Do... do you really want to know?"

"Only if you wish to tell it," she said, laying her hand upon mine. 

I told her everything. I started from the beginning, from the first day in no man's land and the first man I killed. I told her about the trenches, the shells and gunshots and fences and rifles and gas; about Ned, about killing, about the dreams, about Jacob's attempt at suicide. Several times I stopped speaking and wept, sobbing into her shoulder. Elizabeth sat beside me and listened, though some of it I know she would rather have not heard, and comforted me when I could not speak. I took off my shirt and let her see the scars I will forever wear on my chest and shoulders and back. 

When I finished, Elizabeth's eyes were bright with tears. "Henry," she said, pulling me into a gentle embrace, "you are the strongest person I ever knew."

Thus concludes the journal that chronicled the most harrowing year of my life. I have no wish to continue to write, but know that I have safely completed the journey back to Chatham, and do not plan to leave for a long time. I shall look into university, jobs and the like, as my foolish nationalistic ideas of glory and battle have long been laid to rest.

I may be a different man than I was when I left England, and I may never be the same. The scars may never fully heal and the memories never fully fade, but I am alive, and I am home—something I never thought I could hope for.