As the following letter shows, life in the trenches now is not much different from 106 years ago. Thanks to the monstrous activities of the fascist murder gang led by V.V. Putin.

As we move into the Holy Season, let us spare a thought for today’s heroes; the warriors of Ukraine, as they defend their country and Europe from a gigantic horde of nightmarish savages.

LETTER WRITTEN BY WILFRED TO HIS MOTHER SUSAN, 16 JANUARY 1917

16TH JANUARY 1917

My own sweet Mother,

I am sorry you have had about 5 days letterless. I hope you had my two letters ‘posted’ since you wrote your last, which I received tonight. I am bitterly disappointed that I never got one of yours. I can see no excuse for deceiving you about these last four days. I have suffered seventh hell. I have not been at the front. I have been in front of it.

I held an advanced post, that is, a “dug-out” in the middle of No Man’s Land.

We had a march of three miles over shelled road, then nearly three along a flooded trench. After that we came to where the trenches had been blown flat out and had to go over the top. It was of course dark, too dark, and the ground was not mud, not sloppy mud, but an octopus of sucking clay, three, four, and five feet deep, relieved only by craters full of water. Men have been known to drown in them. Many stuck in the mud and only got on by leaving their waders, equipment and in some cases their clothes.

High explosives were dropping all around out, and machine guns spluttered every few minutes. But it was so dark that even the German flares did not reveal us.

Three quarters dead, I mean each of us three quarters dead, we reached the dug-out, and relieved the wretches therein. I then had to go forth and find another dug-out for a still more advanced post where I left 18 bombers. I was responsible for other posts on the left but there was a junior officer in charge.

My dug-out held 25 men tight packed. Water filled it to a depth of 1 or 2 feet, leaving say 4 feet of air. One entrance had been blown in and blocked. So far, the other remained.

The Germans knew we were staying there and decided we shouldn’t.

Those fifty hours were the agony of my happy life. Every ten minutes on Sunday afternoon seemed an hour.

I nearly broke down and let myself drown in the water that was now slowly rising over my knees. Towards 6 o’clock, when, I suppose, you would be going to church, the shelling grew less intense and less accurate: so that I was mercifully helped to do my duty and crawl, wade, climb and flounder over No Man’s Land to visit my other post. It took me half an hour to move about 150 yards.

I was chiefly annoyed by own machine guns from behind. The seeng-seeng-seeng of the bullets reminded me of Mary’s canary. On the whole I can support the canary better.

In the Platoon on my left the sentries over the dug-out were blown to nothing. One of these poor fellows was my first servant whom I rejected. If I had kept him he would have lived, for servants don’t do Sentry Duty. I kept my own sentries half way down the stairs during the more terrific bombardment. On spite of this one lad was blown down and, I am afraid, blinded.

This was my only casualty.

The officer of the left Platoon has come out completely prostrated and is in hospital. I am now as well, I suppose, as ever.

I allow myself to tell you all these things because I am never going back to this awful post. It is the worst the Manchesters have ever held; and we are going back for a rest.

I hear that the officer who relieved me left his 3 Lewis Guns behind when he came out (He had only 24 hours in). He will be court-martialed.

In conclusion, I must say that if there is any power whom the Soldiery execrate more than another it is that of our distinguished countryman. You may pass it on via Owen, Owen.

Don’t pass around these sheets but have portions typed for Leslie etc. My previous letter to you had just been returned. It will be too heavy to include in this.

Your very own Wilfred x

WILFRED EDWARD SALTER OWEN

Born 1893

Died 1918

British Army Artist’s Rifles

British Army Lieutenant Manchester Regiment5th Battalion

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Extract from his wiki page :

“Wilfred Edward Salter Owen MC (18 March 1893 – 4 November 1918) was an English poet and soldier. He was one of the leading poets of the First World War. His war poetry on the horrors of trenches and gas warfare was much influenced by his mentor Siegfried Sassoon and stood in contrast to the public perception of war at the time and to the confidently patriotic verse written by earlier war poets such as Rupert Brooke. Among his best-known works – most of which were published posthumously – are “Dulce et Decorum est“, “Insensibility“, “Anthem for Doomed Youth“, “Futility“, “Spring Offensive” and “Strange Meeting“. Owen was killed in action on 4 November 1918, a week before the war’s end, at the age of 25.”

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Wilfred was one of the first to publicly criticise his commanders. Thankfully, Ukraine today has much better leadership. The dross are almost all contained within the invader horde.