This is a series of diary entries written by Private Anthony Lewis of the 8th Shropshire Regiment - a naive 17-year-old from Shropshire who discovers the barbarities of warfare after being deployed into the battle zone. Inspiration for this writing is drawn from Wilfred Owen's poem Dulce Et Decorum Est.
What a great morning, waking to a sunrise shortly before a breakfast with my closest mates.
Running was always my forte in high school so last night's five-mile run was a five-mile doddle.
While I was sitting in the mess eating my porridge out of my canteen, I remember seeing a poster on the wall nearby. It was the same poster that I had seen once when I was a lad.
It described this location and how they needed soldiers to fight any evil that might reveal itself.
I felt a sense of pride after a brutal obstacle course and 50 press-ups, that I was in that place and that I was doing my part for the country I love.
• July 29, 1917
We were all woken at 5.30am.
Usually it's 6am but there had to be some reason.
Apparently we were being deployed to Passchendaele to serve for a month.
I was buzzing with excitement.
Finally I could prove myself to the world that I'm useful.
Packing my rucksack was the worst part of the day. I always had to do it when I was sent away to boarding school.
I felt so disappointed when I realised that I hadn't finished packing.
On top of already having to carry a gun, I had to carry things like a gas mask, my canteen and my shabby wet-weather gear.
My Mum would be disappointed.
She was always so pedantic and obsessive. She always hung and arranged all my clothes by type and colour.
She liked us to have a better education even though we weren't very wealthy on our old sheep farm.
I keep a photo of Mum and Dad with me at all times. It reminds me of who I'm fighting for.
Captain Marshall came over and helped me and Eddie out with our rucksacks but mine wasn't nearly as badly done as his. I think he was putting his things in the opposite order.
We were all on the HMS Lancaster, a leaky old tub that groans over every wave - like being towed in a wagon behind our old horse Chester.
The worst part of the trip wasn't the bumpiness, it was the rattling.
Anything that you think could rattle did - including my fillings.
It was horrible, absolutely incomparable.
Captain Marshall sat without moving. I think he was immune to the noise. Either that or stone deaf.
He must have fought many battles because I've heard rumours that he once single-handedly took on a tribe of Zulus when he fought in the Boer War in South Africa.
• August, 1917
It's been a while since I've been able to write anything in this diary.
Honestly, I haven't had the time, not to mention losing it a few days ago.
I can't remember how long it's been since I was deployed. I'd say about a fortnight. The rain has been pounding against the ground for hours now and the trenches are now decaying faster.
Robert and Eddie just trudged past in a daze as if they were sound asleep. They walked all stiff like they needed a good oiling.
The gas attack a few days ago took the lads by surprise.
I almost wasn't able to strap on my gas mask because my hands had aged so rapidly these last two weeks.
Other soldiers' gas masks were damaged or broken so they couldn't use them, forcing them to run from a green sea of gas.
I saw Captain Marshall through the mist on the ground. But when I ran to help him it was too late. I watched his hanging face as blood splattered from his flooded lungs as he gasped for air. But he knew his fate.
The green gas continued to creep over what was left of Passchendaele until it slowly lifted, showing its bitter wrath.
But Captain Marshall did not die in vain; he gave his mask to another helpless soldier so that he could live.
I will always remember him. His calming presence and his nobility on the battlefield made him one of the best captains in the battalion.
Me and the lads were just remembering that time when he stole a few beers from the quartermaster's stores. That sort of thing always kept our spirits up.
I was so naive to think that war was a good idea.
It was so obvious that the people that I grew close to were bound to die.
Why else would we have guns?
All I can do now is go forward, and do what Captain Marshall would have wanted. He was a bit like an elder brother to us, just like in Shakespeare's Henry V:"From this day to the ending of the world, But we in it shall be remember'd; We few, we happy few, we band of brothers; For he today that sheds his blood with me shall be my brother."
And maybe next time we manage to steal a beer from the quartermaster's stores, we'll drink a toast to Captain Marshall: our brother who sacrificed his life for another.
