Lt. L. Swift

3rd Bn., 1st Can. Div.

12.11. 1917

Dearest Marianne,

The battle is won, the village is retaken, but at what horrible cost? I cannot close my eyes now without seeing the dead, strewn across No Man’s Land, unclaimed and forgotten. We have lost so many men, so many of my brothers dead, shot down by enemy rifles and artillery. Do you remember little Jack, from by the river? He is dead too, cut down by the Germans. I did hope I avenged him, of course, but I am so tired of this, my love. The fighting is unrelenting, the suffering and pain unending. Some days I wonder, if God is truly so powerful and forgiving, why does He not stop all of this? Why does He force His sons to kill, to take lives? Did He not says in His commandments that Man shall not kill Man? The killing is random, the unrelenting fire cutting down anyone, no matter Private, Lieutenant, or General. Why was I left alive, I wonder? Perhaps the Lord decided to show mercy, so that I may come home to you, my wife. But why not others? Every dead man leaves behind grieving family, so why was I chosen to live and not them? Why has Fate chosen to claim such young lives, not yet in their prime?

Men are still trudging in from the trenches, covered in mud and blood from head to toe. What acompletely different sight it was! Back at Vimy, men walked back with their heads held high and a weary smile on their faces. Now, none can find the strength to talk, let alone smile. This battle has taxed our forces very much. It was truly a sea of blood out there on the battlefield. Some men even drowned in the huge craters left behind by shells! This was not what was expected, especially not by our commander, Lt-Gen. Currie. Did you know, dearest, that he is one of us? Yes, he is a Canadian, born and bred; the first to lead his brothers in combat. All the men look up to him, including me as well, of course. In fact, he actually tried to get us out of fighting at Passchendaele! I heard that he went and spoke to General Haig, arguing that the village was not even a strategic location, and therefore unimportant to the cause. He was shut down, however, Haig being determined to gain the fallen ridge. So, we came in to relieve the lads down from Australia and New Zealand. They had already tried to retake the ridge for a while now, but were always unsuccessful. I am guessing that Haig thought us Canadian troops might be more likely to gain him a victory, having the victory at Vimy under our belts. The Lt-Gen. complained, of course, but what could he do? He was still under the command of his British superiors, like the rest of us. The attack commenced, in four phases carefully planned by him. If not for his intelligence and extensive strategies, we might have lost more men. I, for one, am immensely grateful. The fighting ceased 2 days ago, and we have since moved into this nearby village to make repairs and treat any injuries. I am very glad that I only sustained a small wound in my shoulder, nothing more. I am extremely lucky compared to those dead on the field, and those lying on pallets, waiting for death. This was not a battle, I feel, but a massacre. The Lt-Gen. estimated before the slaughter that there would be around 16,000 fallen, and by God, was he right! So many lives lost in this hell that they call war. I would not wish this kind of suffering upon anyone, not even my worst enemies.

I am, however, immensely glad for this respite from the war, no matter how short it is. It give us a chance to get out of the horrendous trenches that we have been calling “home” for the past few months. No more of the dull routine, no more “Stand to”’s, no more nighttime raids, no more constant shelling and explosions. We finally got a chance to wipe off some of the mud on our bodies from the ocean of mud out there, and clean up a bit, picking out the lice in our clothing and washing them out of our hair. Of course, coming out of the mud, many men have discovered that they have gained trench foot, and some even have to get their legs cut off! The smell of rotting flesh, fresh blood, and death is evident whenever one steps close enough to the hospital. Most others like to avoid it as much as I can, but I feel a sense of duty to my comrades, and have been helping out all morning. Now it is noon, and I am writing this over a meal of fatty gruel and beef jerky. You may not think it’s much, the food, but it is a long ways better than the hard tack we had to eat in the trenches. Every bite I take is like heaven, reminding me again and again of your wondrous cooking, and how much I would love to taste it again. How I’ve missed you, dear love, oh how I wish I was by your side again. And there goes Danny and Garron, helping along their little brother. Joshie had shellshock, it was evident, but his brothers dared not report it, not wanting others to think the youth cowardly. Anyone with eyes and a brain could see that Joshie needed medical assistance; why does he not get the help he needs?

For the victory, each man have been awarded an extra tot of rum and an extra pack of cigarettes. You’d be pleased to know, darling, that I have not broken my promise to you yet. I gave them away to Joshie, who got his ration taken away because of cowardice on the field. He needs it more than I, anyway.

Apart from our own men coming into the village, there are also prisoners that have been taken marching in. Looking at them, I am a bit shocked and confused. We all have this image in our minds of the Germans, seeing them as wicked-looking men with spiked helmets slung low over their heads and cigars hanging out of their mouths, but these men does not come close to that image at all. They are just ordinary men, the same as any of us, any of the Allied soldiers. There are weary, grizzled men; young, fresh-faced boys; hot-blooded and arrogant youths. Are these really who we have been fighting against? If I did not know better, if I did not know they were of the enemy, would I think they were any different than any of our boys back home? Looking at them, I can see their families at home, waiting patiently for their safe return, as Mother and Father is doing for me. I can see them kissing their girl goodbye at the station, as I kissed you goodbye, dear love. Are they that much different from us, so that we must regard them as enemies?

Oh, darling, have I upset you with such talk? I am truly sorry, but I must have somewhere to vent. I beg you not to take these words to heart, and only know that your husband is safe for now. My break is ending, and now I must go back to the hospital again. Yes, love, back to the despair in there, but with your love in my heart and your beautiful smile in my mind, I know I can bear it. Pray for me, Marianne, so that I may come home safely to you, to see you and Mother and Father and our little son again. I will try to do what you expect of me, to be the man you think I am, but I fear that in my heart, I am not the same man I was when I left home. The next time I write might be a long time, so please send me lots of love in your letters.

Lots of Love for you and our child,

Liam 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX