Letter To Martha's Death Letters

France, November 19, 1916

Dear Martha,

I am writing this bilious letter from the deep trenches and piles of dead bodies the most recent battle, the Battle of the Somme has left behind. Before you worry, I am doing quite well, considering the bit of shrapnel that got stuck in my head while I was running among the yelling men, bloodied bodies and screaming explosives. The men are once again smoking cigarettes and talking about nonsense, joking about loathsome Germans and evading death. Unlike them, I am feeling a pit in my stomach. I can still smell the acrid black artillery smoke, and see the ghosts of friends who got shot next to me. Do you recall Arthur, whom I talked to, laughed with and charged into battle alongside? He died, his
eyes gorged out by numerous pieces of shrapnel, dying with his head in my lap, begging me to end his life, to put him out of his misery. His excruciating shrieking and the metallic rusty smell of blood spouting out of his mouth in his last moments replay in my mind. My nose still stings from the strong alcohol I dabbed on his eyes, in the vain hope he would by the least be able to go home to his wife. Oh Martha, the jarring noises of Germans laughing at Arthur's bloody eyes chills me to the bone. My hands wont stop trembling, and my heart feels the bittersweet taste of some false glory making it out of the bloodbath gave me.

When I woke up in the morning, there was an electricity in the air, sizzling from the anticipation of the soldiers.
I walked ( or slugged, rather ) out of my dirty mud bunk, kicking rats off of the morsel of bread which made up my breakfast. The rats are everywhere these days, feeding off bodies from the last battle, carrying tiny pieces of the men I laughed with and drank with, rush into battle with, and watched die around me. I wish I could shoot them all, Martha, I really do. Is all this death making my head not quite right? Or am I simply falling into madness? Is there really an end, a shining light through the hurricane of blood this war has brought? Martha, I wish this would end, I wish I wouldn’t have to wake up in a ditch of dirt and mud then feel the weight of sorrow, depression and hollowness come crashing down upon me. The trenches are especially horrendous when there is rainfall. We are forced to sleep out of the trenches, since the fear of drowning in sleep is too strong. Fear is driving us
mad.

I was feeling queasy, but adrenaline rushed through me when I was chosen to be in the first wave.
Now I was not sure either to feel honored, or terrified. About 4 o'clock the order came to get ready for the attack. We scrambled out of our trenches, trying to get our helmets on right and guns slung across our chests. The faint smell of gunpowder and oil was in the air. The whistles blew on the dreary day of July 1st, 1916, when the great bloodbath began. Men rushed forwards headfirst into death, tripping and tearing over little prickles of barbed wire while kicking up dust. We charged across the flat No Man's Land, the silence only broken by the scuffling sounds of soldier's footsteps shuffling across the grounds. The clear silent blue summer morning air was soon cracked, as the enemy machine gun fire opened. Everywhere was soon begrimed with the dark smoke curling up from the German artillery, and explosions were happening left and right. Instantly, men collapsed all around me, but I threw myself down on the grimy dead ground, feeling the tiny rocks scratching my palms, crawling forwards over the dead bodies towards some non-existent victory drilled into our minds. Many men never cleared the wire, but those of us who did were jogging, running, crawling, dragging into a myriad of a horrendous battlefield. At this time, we couldn't see the enemy anymore. I was blinded by a red haze of blood dripping into my eyes from hitting my head on the ground when I heard open
gunfire. I used my sleeve, quickly swiping it over my wound, feeling a dull sting. Within these first hours of battle, the second, third and so on waves followed the first wave. Like the first, they all tripped over the bloody wire, dizzy from confusion and tumult, death welcoming them with open arms. Yet undeterred, the British commander ordered the soldiers to keep attacking in the vain hope of breaking the German lines. The whole attack soon stalled and spiraled, deteriorated into bloody disaster.

On this day, out of all of the times I have been on the Western front has been the bloodiest, gory, unforgiving battle of all. We kept fighting at the rate we had on the first day through summer and fall. I keep losing the people who mean something to me to another German bullet, to another piece of shrapnel raining down onto a friend's life. Seeing the slimy bodies of my friends sprawled on the ground will forever be deeply etched into my memory. Now it is cold November, and battle has finally ceased, the hollowness echoing on all of the survivors, dragging feet, haggard faces and the stench of death reeking anywhere and everywhere. The Death report has come in this morning. The amount of lives lost, families destroyed and tears is unimaginable, simply astounding. Horrific. 420,000 British men were lost, Arthur among them. 200,000 French men and 500,000 German men. Is it bad that even though Germans destroyed us, I still feel some deep sorrow for the families I might have torn apart, the friends to the German men I have killed? The sad little prize won was 6 mile movement into German territory. This land isn't a prize. It is a constant reminder of the lives we handed on a silver plate to Death. Martha, I have the faded, worn , torn joy of having to made it through the battle, but I will forever carry the sweet sorrow that this battle has smashed deep into my head, pushing aside any pride I had for humanity.

Now Martha, I bring this letter to a close, hoping to see your wonderful face once more. I strain to smile each day, one slagging step over the battlefield closer to coming home. I truly miss you with all my damaged heart. The commander is calling me now, so I shall battle keeping your pride for me in mind. I love you. Please keep praying for me, for I will be praying from my trench in a battlefield far, far away.

From John Oster

To my dear and beloved, Martha Oster