Letters From the Coffin-Trenches by Ken Catran

Author:Ken Catran [Catran, Ken]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3
Tags: Fiction, Historical, Love Stories, Romance, War & Military, Young Adult
ISBN: 9781775530732
Google: m_OcDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Penguin Random House New Zealand Limited
Published: 2012-12-01T00:00:00+00:00

Dear Jess

This will follow hard on the heels of the last — you may even get it at the same time. I have a priceless hour to myself and even the foe is behaving — just the occasional artillery shell (returned by us as manners dictate) and the ever-present snipers. Raise your cap an inch over the trench and ‘ping!’ — the Turk will neatly ventilate it for you; just as neatly ventilate your head if you are careless.

Don’t worry, Jess, I have no intention of offering the snipers a mark. Our trenches are narrow but deep, with side areas dug out for men to sit. ‘Coffin-trenches’ they are nicknamed and, like many a soldier’s joke, it is half serious. We of course have snipers too; Moran is ours. He stands all day with O’Donnell spotting through a periscope and has a tally of six so far.

The food and water are slightly better as the clutter on the beach is sorted out but the only regular thing in our diet is flies. Hooter goes to great lengths to avoid eating them, without success. He says you’ll get to go to an officers’ ward because that’s where all the pretty nurses go. I let him know that remark was out of order but he just laughed. Even through the worst fighting, Hooter has kept his sense of humour. You may as well try to freeze hot coals as subdue him.

We had a bad day yesterday that had nothing to do with the fighting. Rather the aftermath of war. It was an odd day that I am still thinking about. A half-day truce had been agreed to so we could bury the bodies. After a week of hot sun, they were badly in need of it. So the Turks came out and it was our first real look at them.

They are shorter fellows for the most part: skinny with curly black hair. There were some big ones among them, though, and they stared at us boldly enough. We all got to work, with Creel stalking up and down, telling us not to go near the Turks or we’d be up on a charge.

He went quite pale, though, then slipped in something unmentionable and sat down, spoiling his nice whipcord breeches. He muttered something about changing and we did not see him again.

The first hour or so passed in silence as we took one another’s measure. They worked well and their officers are not above kicking them. But about noon their own officers thinned out and our boys took smokes. The Turks did too and Moran, our deadly sniper, offered one a cigarette on a bet from O’Donnell. Then those Turks who spoke English essayed a little talk with us. One gave me a bit of sticky fig cake and I ate it to please him. He showed me a photograph of himself, a baby and young woman, her head wrapped in a scarf. His wife, I assumed, so I showed him your photograph (complete with hockey trophy).

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