02/16/23
KRB - Archives
Archive Number MT-1625N
Written By: Unknown Soldier
The following will be the transcription of a letter recovered in Mons, Belgium alongside other military hardware and personal belongings.
22nd of June 1914
Dear Mary:
I hope this letter finds you well, although, sending this one is not within my plans, it’s because of the content more than anything, I can not allow you to hear of the horrors we’ve been experiencing, i could never forgive me if i did that.
I do believe it has been three days since we have gazed upon the blue sky, stuck in this dug out with nothing to distract ourselves from the bombardment outside, Jack being the only one able to properly sleep, being knocked out by Joseph after trying to run home, that poor soul has already started to lose his mind, i i think that can also be said for the rest of us, getting more anxious and violent every day, having something to go back to being the only thing tethering us to our dwindling sanity.
The only moments where the artillery barrage stops is in the dead of night, that’s when we go out, not to bravely fight for our country, but to replace the razor wire and fix the support on some of the trenches, even if you look at the sky you’ll only be able to see dim stars behind a coat of smoke and dust and the warm light of fire only revealing more darkness, the air is borderline unbreathable being heavy with the sink of burnt and rotten flesh and grass and dirt, we had to keep Henry inside the dugout at night for this sight was too much for him to handle, a sign of the end he said, “the second seal has been broken, and the flames of war will consume us all”, that man used to be a priest, no longer, lastly he won’t even get close to a bible, the man just stares at it for hours on end, it’s quite a shame, his readings always used to rise morale among our men.
25th of June of 1914
We move under the cover of night, not to fight, but to replace the razor wire and fix the support of the trenches. Every time we go out we tempt fate itself and every time we come back we can only pray it would be the last, such is our routine in the dugout, our only distraction being the daily struggle against the rats that want to take our precious and scarce rations, the monotony only being broken down by the increasingly rare reconnaissance patrol or those days where the artillery stops and we need to scramble to charge the German line, only to come back with bloodied hands, less men and no more land than the day before. But it was in one of the former when we first saw it, or rather, what was left in its wake.
After the safety of the wire, deep in the heart of no man’s land, lives the hound, although, every man in this trenches has his own name for it and his own description, from “I saw the wolf, it got a taste for the rotten flesh, its grey like fur blends with the ash left by the shells and fire, making it almost invisible until is too late” to “i know the hellhound is a punishment from hell, with fur so dark it absorb the light around its shape and eyes red like they were crafted by the devil himself”.
Truth be, regardless of who you ask, that… thing is there and it hunts the trenches, both ours and the German’s.
29th of June of 1914
The first night i saw it we were on patrol, mapping trenches and locations of the German machine gun nests when the world was set alight, a hail of bullets sent us running towards a crater made by artillery where mud and water waited, poor Percy was caught in the hail of bullets, i don’t believe he was alive by the time his body struck the ground, still, there we were, pinned in a crater among the mud and the dead, but as quickly as the world was set alight, it was imbued in darkness, a deafening howl silenced the anguished screams of the machine gun and sent the Germans running, i had to stop Joseph from firing his rifle to the fleeing Germans, he didn’t take that too kindly “Bloody hell what is wrong with you” he said when i pushed him to the ground, but any answer i may have planned was stopped by a piercing, painful scream, followed by gunshots and more screaming, then we realized, everything was coming from the place another patrol should’ve been, like they were fighting against themselves, so against our better judgment, we went to check it out.
We found the patrol, what was left of them at least, mangled corpses is the best way i can put it, brave men alive not even 10 minutes ago now lay on the mud, spent casings decorating the macabre scene alongside still smoldering rifles, blood pouring from ripped throats, deep gashes made by razor sharp claws cut through skin, flesh, cloth and leather, limbs with bones crushed within monstrous jaws lay bent in unnatural angles, and the faces, oh the faces, those glassy eyes on the immortalized expressions of pain and horror.
The hound does not eat its victims, not at first, that thing lets the corpses rot first, we have seen the half eaten, rotten remains of our brothers and the Germans, that beast does not discriminate, it hunts us all, sometimes just for fun or sport, we have seen some of the bodies being claimed by the hound being claimed by the worms and dirt, forgotten by the hound.
2nd of August of 1914
Every soldier in this trench has a story with the hound, how it looks, what it does… what it is… the only consistency is that in all accounts, its hunting us and its hunting them and since a few days ago we started hearing the howls and screams from inside the dugout just to find the aftermath, every night that thing is getting closer and the men are getting more and more tense, we stopped laying on our beds for hours with the artillery keeping us awake, now we stay awake all through the night out of our own volition, guns trained at the entrance, with every moving shadow making our trigger fingers twitch, we were more anxiety than men.
Along with the sun, came news, it’s not uncommon for a dugout to fall under heavy artillery, the news got more vague until they stopped… people disappearing and dugouts falling for no apparent reason, even officers started looking away when soldiers stopped going out to lay the razor wire, day after they our line seemed less and less afraid of running towards the enemy line only to be cut down by machine gun fire than to go out at night where that thing roams.
4th of August of 1914
Our last line of defense, our dugout has become our prison, the friendly and hopeful chatter replaced with a silence so loud not even the artillery barrage above could break through it.
Yesterday we heard the howl behind our lines, it’s just a matter of time now, our rations are low, so if that thing doesn’t find us, we’ll be forced to face it regardless.
From the 7 men we started as, only 3 of us are left, the last 2 were just a few hours ago, after Henry finished one of his silent prays, he took a handgun and shot Joseph dead, I’m sure he saw it as mercy killing, we delivered fire when he raised the handgun again, maybe he did the right thing.
No one said anything, before or during that, we just turned around and kept watching that door, guns still trained on the hallway that leads to hell, no one took the bodies out, they will rot soon.
7th
i hear it outside our barricade won’t last i’m sorry my dear i won’t go back home