《Pro Patria Mori》


 From the Journal of Corporal Lionel Morris: 18/1/1921

    My Dearest Mary,


    The unit had received our new set of orders last week. As soon as the boys on the frontline were brought back behind lines, we were to begin our duties in retrieving the fallen.


    We saw the last of the tommys coming back with their rifles slung over their shoulders a day before we were to set out. I heard one of those boys joke, ¡°Watch the vultures, they¡¯ll pick your buttons if they catch you sleeping¡±. Apparently, ¡°244th¡¯s Vultures¡± is the new nickname our unit has been stuck with.


    I had to explain it all to my new squadmate. You see, the night before our first day of operation, the Captain called for me to meet him at his office. I figured it was due to a sneak of an extra gin ration, but I was relieved to not be in trouble. I was introduced to, a young man about a third my age. A handsome boy, clean-shaven, but he¡¯s got a scar under his chin. Corporal Hayes, he was introduced to me as. He stood there in a clean and pressed uniform at attention as the Captain went on about all the battles he has taken part in. He¡¯s gotten several citations for bravery and marksmanship.


    He was being transferred to my unit, and it was when I went to shake his hand I noticed why. His left hand was missing all but his pointer and thumb. There was a very peculiar mechanical apparatus that replaced the missing fingers with metal ones. As we shook hands, I introduced myself and I learned his name was Jack. He¡¯s been undergoing a special treatment after a mortar blew off his fingers. Hence, the mechanical hand.


    The Captain explained to us that we have a special assignment separate from the other men. While they were to be toiling at collecting the corpses that litter the battlefield section by section, we would be on a specific hunt to find the bodies of officers and retrieve any valuable intelligence that may be on them. Better to retrieve them or else they may fall into the hand of the Germans. The Captain gave Jack the signature black armband that marks a designated retriever of the fallen. We¡¯ve been briefed before that the jerrys that have the same job as us will also have them to mark their intentions. Jack put it on and I was tasked with showing him to his bunk.


    I spent the rest of the night introducing him to the rest of the mates. I could tell that he was surprised at how much worse the other boys had gotten it from the war. Most of us here are old salts like me. Only a handful are about Jack¡¯s age. Benson is one of them, and he joked with Jack about his hook hand compared to the new-fangled contraption that Jack was lucky to have.


    An unexpected bonus to our special orders meant that we didn¡¯t have to get up at the same time as the others. However, Jack kept pestering me that we should get our kit together. I had to show him what he really needed though. The boy was planning on bringing a full kit as if he was being sent to fight. I explained that we¡¯d be returning to the forward headquarters for lunch and supper. I also had to explain to him that we¡¯d be wearing our gas masks for most of the time we would be out there and to apply enough of the issued scented oils properly within the mask before putting it on. We would need our rifles, wire-cutters, and entrenching tools for certain. He slowly and neatly put his unneeded equipment away, and soon we would set off.


    Jack has a very stoic appearance. Kind of like the one your father or Mr. Mayfield from the square had. His eyes stare out as if he were an eagle. I could see it through his gas mask. He seemed to be on edge for the entire day we were out the trenches.Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author''s preferred platform and support their work!


    The smell that day was no worse than any other day, but that doesn¡¯t mean it was good. Rotting flesh, from both the fallen and the animals, fumes the air. The oils do wonders at the start of the day, but it gradually wears off by the time we head back for lunch. At least then, we get to apply some more. I don¡¯t believe I¡¯ve ever truly explained, but the trenches are offensive in every possible sense. The aforementioned smell of rot and filth, the uncomfortable silence, the unsteady terrain carved by bullet and shell, and the unsettling sight of hundreds of bodies littered as far as the eye can see. You cannot take the time to focus on one corpse. Otherwise, you¡¯d notice every horrid thing that their body is going through. Their rot and the parts nibbled off by the rats that infest many of the foxholes are only a handful of things I can bear witness to before I must turn my head away. The new masks that were issued last year don¡¯t fog up as badly as the old ones, but they do blur which is actually a benefit to us who wear the black band.


    We¡¯ve tried our best in the past to keep the trenches close to the backlines as clear as possible, but no-man¡¯s-land is a different story. Bodies are stacked up where many a brave lad met the cold bite of a German machine gun. Those piles were slowly being brought down as the other men loaded them into carts to be wagoned away far behind the lines. I saw that they had made decent progress, but there are too many that litter the battlefield. It may take us months to clear them all out from this one area alone, and there are still many miles further to go.


    When Jack and I arrived at no-man¡¯s-land, we were given a list of officers and their last location as well as a map of the frontlines. I took the list and the map as Jack stared out over the hills and trenches with that gaze I had mentioned before. We were both called by the Captain which broke Jack¡¯s mile-long gaze. He told us both to affix bayonets to assist us in pushing our way through obstacles. Jack did so with a speed that I know none of us would be able to do even if the hun were charging right towards us. It seemed almost instinctual. He almost loaded his rifle too, but I told him that we most likely won¡¯t need to shoot anything. He hesitated, but he did place the clip back into his pouch. The Captain wished us luck, and we both set off hopping into a trench. The map showed that we would snake far up the line before we would have to walk over-the-top to search for one Lieutenant Barsby of the 245th. He was last seen in the Winter counter-offensive before the news of cease-fire reached the trenches. Poor man.


    We walked for about an hour before we found the point in which we were to step out of the trench. Jack took the initiative and slowly peaked out before pulling himself up. He then kept low keeping his attention out as I struggled to pull myself over the top. I had to throw over my rifle first before climbing out, and I stood tall as I slung my rifle and kept walking forward map in hand. I turned around to see Jack pull himself up and dust himself off before following behind me.


    The next hour or so was spent getting close to corpses to examine their identity discs to check for the Lieutenant. We did find him. At least, the second time around in the evening. He was strung out across a line of barbed wire. Bullet holes scattered across his body. His mask was on, and the lenses were fumed up. We pulled him from the wire, and we laid him flat on his back. Jack stood back behind me as I rifled through his coat pockets until I found a blood-soaked diary. I fingered through to see if he had left a map in between the pages, and there was one. Granted, it was unreadable. I checked his pockets further and found a letter with his orders from General Melchett. I turned to Jack, who was affixed on the cadaver. I gave one last look to the Lieutenant¡¯s body before standing up, and crossing his name from our list. By then it was too late to attempt to find the next officer, and we made our way back for the night.


    This is seemingly what the foreseeable future is for your old sweetheart. I¡¯ll be sure to write more about what is happening here. Tell Helen her father misses her, and to keep away from the tommys coming home. They¡¯ll only break her heart.


    Sincerely,


    -Lionel

 A Letter From Sergent Laurent Fortier to Emily Picot: 27/1/1921 (Translated from French)

    Dear Ms. Picot,


    I apologize for how long it has taken me to write back to you. The army has kept me moving constantly even with the ceasefire. I write from the cramped barracks in Paris. Despite the many days I have spent away, I have not forgotten my promise.


    I remember that you told me how much you wanted to revisit Paris in the Spring. I would highly advise against it. The number of sick patients has kept rising. My assignment, since we are no longer in the trenches, is to stand guard at the front of the hospital. Despite my warning, I will admit that Paris truly is beautiful. Although, I wish I was here during better circumstances. I have attached a postcard of L''Arc de Triomphe. I hope it brings you joy.


    I also remember how you did not believe my story when I last met you. I assure you, everything I told you back in December was true. My birth father and mother immigrated to France from Asia prior to my birth. I am a descendant of those from the Indochinese territories. I was born on their migration to France, and I was abandoned on a train station platform outside of Marseille when I was an infant. I was taken in by a coloured couple, the Fortiers, who I consider my father and my mother. If you¡¯re ever in Marseille, you can meet them for yourself.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it.


    I was raised in Marseille. I worked at the port helping my father who was a dockworker. I learned to read and write from my mother, and later on, in my childhood, I was able to be tutored by a family friend who works at a college. This is why you did not see me in the same uniform as those other Asian soldiers. They were conscripted from their home countries back in Asia. But for me, France is my home. I have known no other life, I have no connection nor roots to my racial culture. I am French. I see no other alternative. I enlisted in 1918 as soon as my parents realized that I would¡¯ve most likely been drafted against their will anyway.


    Hopefully, you remember me. I miss your laugh and your beautiful smile. I long for that week we met.


    A thousand kisses,


    -Laurent

 From the Diary of Rittmeister Walter Krause: 7/2/1921 (Translated from German)

    I flew my 100th mission today. Although, it wasn¡¯t a combat mission. It was a flight over the capital. I don¡¯t know exactly how to put in words my feelings about this tour on the homefront. I have gotten plenty of gifts from people celebrating my return, but I question the true nature of having me parade around asking for money to fund the war effort.


    There were many there, holes and patches on their clothes. Boys with grime on their cheeks, no doubt from working to make ends meet. They smile, but I cannot help but carry a great shame when I see them. I can only imagine what the photos will look like. A pressed uniform among a sea of rags. I cannot tell what kind of press that would stir up overseas. However, there is not a doubt in my mind that the Entente are doing the exact same at this moment.Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    What nobody will tell you about the war is that the two sides are quite the same. Of course, our language, our lands, and our customs are different. But, we all have been fighting for nearly seven years. I have only been in for about four of them. Longer than anyone should, I can tell you that.


    (Scratched out from the diary were these sentences. It has been reconstructed the best it could)<input class="spoilerButton" type="button" value="Show">


    I have seen many horrific things, even from the air. What still lingers on my mind is that soldier who was screaming in pain until his slow death in the hospital.


    I hope that I may find the time to clear my mind during this small time of peace. Hopefully those in charge can do the same.

 From the Journal of Corporal Lionel Morris: 8/2/1921

    My Dearest Mary,


    Yesterday, Jack and I were off once more. We had found six officers, all of them tommies of the 253rd. Awful sight to see them all bloated and rotting. Different chunks spread out. Kind of like when Mrs. Dalby found her cat out by her shed. Of course, it was all buried by months of other bodies and upheaved dirt, so we both had to get a little dirty in moving the corpses around. They were all on about the same level, laying right up against the dirt.


    When we were inspecting them, I couldn¡¯t imagine what kind of weapon had cut them down. I figured it was a grenade, but Jack was quick to correct me. It was hard to hear through the mask, but he said ¡°machine gun¡± whilst pointing at the large holes blown out in the officers¡¯ sides. Nasty thing to imagine a bullet tearing off a leg or a limb. But that¡¯s when I realized it was probably moved by some fat rat scurrying across the dead for their next meal.


    We checked their packs, took their journals, letters, and anything else we found of importance to take.


    An aspect of the job that I have told you before are the ¡°special orders¡± from those in the backlines. Since we are sent out to retrieve from particular officers, it usually draws their brothers or cousins or nephews to ask for us to bring back their lost one¡¯s valuables.


    Some nastier blokes from other scavenger units (a kinder name than vultures from higher up) charge a fee to bring back these items. I was glad to find out that Jack had a similar mindset as me. It¡¯s the least of our troubles to bring back a watch, wedding ring, or wallet. We don¡¯t charge, but we still get something usually as a token of gratitude.Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    One of the officers we were asked to fetch the wedding ring for was Captain Gerald Holt. The problem was, we couldn¡¯t find his left arm! Even after we collected their orders and maps to bring back, it took us another half hour searching for that man¡¯s arm. Fortunately, we did find it about ten yards away. Jack told me later that he was probably attempting to retreat after having his arm blown off and bled out there in no man¡¯s land.


    After washing up last night, Jack and I went to drop off the ring. It¡¯s almost as bad a job as being a doctor. Usually there aren¡¯t any words when a ¡°special order¡± is completed. Just a simple delivery, nod of head, and a handshake while we leave them to grieve. This one though, he was bawling by the time he saw our faces. He kept asking ¡°Oh was he ripped to shreds?¡± and ¡°Is his body in one piece?¡±. When Jack opened his mouth, I swore he was going to give the hard truth. However, Jack lied and told him that he was lying peacefully against a stump.


    I later asked him why he lied, he could¡¯ve just not answered. He told me that it didn¡¯t matter whether or not we said his body was intact or not. All the bodies were being cremated anyways, and the state in which we find them do not matter.


    Certainly a level headed thinker. But at least his heart is in the right place.


    Of course, my love goes out for you and Helen.


    Sincerely,


    -Lionel