25 May 1915
I am alive and awake, though sleep was far more comfortable. I write with my left hand, for my right is injured and heavily bandaged. I remember little of the events of several days ago; only being out with Jacob and the explosion. My right side is in constant pain, and I shall have permanent scars. My ears are ringing, but my hearing is slowly returning. The Second Battle of Ypres ended today, so I am told. The news means nothing to me.
I awoke in pain in the infirmary this morning. Margot was at my bedside and asked me how I was feeling. "Your friend left a letter for you," she said. "And we have one other from a girl." She handed me letters from Jacob and Elizabeth, then left for several minutes. She returned with Jacob. "He has asked about you every five minutes," she informed me.
Jacob seemed more injured by the blast than he had described in the letter; he was bandaged and sported several impressive scratches. "Henry," he said. "How are you feeling?"
I tried to sit up and groaned in reply. "Brilliant."
He winced. "How much do you remember?"
"Nothing after the explosion. What happened?"
"You... you were caught in an artillery shot," he explained. "Serious shrapnel wounds. I got you here as fast as I could, but I... I thought you were going to die." He was making a valiant effort to keep his voice level, but it shook nonetheless. He set the bag containing my journal and other belongings beside my bed.
"You saved my life?"
He nodded. "We're even," he said, attempting a smile.
28 May 1915
I write painfully with my right hand, but Margot says it shall be weeks before I can hold anything heavier than a pen, let alone a gun. As soon as I can walk I shall be sent home. I dictated a note written by Jacob telling Elizabeth this.
I shall live to see Elizabeth again. I had reconciled myself with the fact that I would die here, and now I shall return to England. I shall never be so glad to be home. I shall miss Jacob, but I never wish to see another gun.
29 May 1915
I am recovering slowly. I am regaining motion, though limited and painful, in my legs and right arm. I have not yet walked, and my strength has not returned. Jacob says he is happy for me but shall miss me, and I him.
30 May 1915
Henry,
Thank the Lord you are alive. I don't know what I would have done if you had died. Tell Jacob and Margot that we are forever grateful.
I am beyond relieved that you are returning to us. I did not sleep before I received your letter. You are finally to come home, and I shall not truly rest until you are home and safe. I love you, Henry.
Elizabeth
1 June 1915
I can walk with a crutch. It is strange to hear the battle going on nearby and to not take part, though I do not miss it. When my strength returns I will travel to Calais and take the ferry to Dover. Margot guesses that it shall be within a week, and she will not let me go until she is certain I will be safe in my travels. I cannot wait to be home.
8 June 1915
Finally I am on my way back to England. I bid Jacob good-by this morning. He saw me with my crutch and the bag that holds what remains of my belongings, and said, "On your way out?"
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.