Recovered Materials
Forward: The following documents were recovered along with the rifle. It is conjectured that they are letters/journal entries drafted by a basic infantryman in the British Army, some time before the Battle of the Somme, although the papers were only dated with the year. They have been arranged in what analysts believe is chronological order.
1916:
I do not understand how I can manage to walk towards the front again. Each of us jokes with one another that we appreciate the opportunity to earn a medal, but to earn that kind of brass usually requires ending up in the field medic tent, and even if you make it there, there's no guarantee you'll live to see the officers pin it on you.
Perhaps I manage by lying to myself that eight days is a short period of time. In summers back home as a boy, eight days flew by without notice. Yet when there are shells raining down, and the poor lad you met yesterday cops it a few metres down from you in the trenches, you lose track of time, and I'll be damned if I ask the officer to check his watch. Instead, I hope not to hear those fateful words, "over the top," or hear the harbinger of death, the shrill cry of an officer's whistle.
Eight days. Find yourself a nice cubbyhole, and make it eight days.
1916:
You can't get a damned bit of sleep around here. It's not the shells this time though. No. Its the voices. The strafes have let up, only a few shells here or there. It's not the explosions I fear anymore. It's the screams. You can expect them after a shell, or a volley of gunfire. In the night they seem to come from no where. You can never find a wounded man to whom they belong. I can never find the source. It would ease my mind to know whoever the man in pain is, he is getting treated; being dragged back to the reserve trench. It would even calm my nerves to know the poor sap has traded his uniform for a wooden overcoat. Instead, I never know anything.
Rumors develop in the trenches, beings and beasts only the rage of war or the cries of a dying soldier can bring into existence. Jerry's flesh smeared across his trench like butter on bread. They say the patrol that found him were doomed right then and there. Though they returned, not one of them lived much longer. A Scottish outfit claimed to have spotted a "Nuckelavee," some wretched amalgamation of a centaur. They claim it only brings death and destruction in its wake.
I have heard suspicions of a planned assault. Perhaps the Scott's eyes do not deceive them.
1916:
Originally, I had believed that finding the origins of the screaming would calm my nerves, but the truth frightens me more than any supernatural entity could. They're our screams. Some men cry as though they have been mortally wounded, lost an arm or a leg, but when you pat them down they are fine. No blood, no flesh. Just screaming, shaking…
My mate, Edward, tries to calm them down. Even shares some of his precious supply of gin or cigars. After serving with him for two turns in the trenches, we share a tight bond. I love him almost as much as I love a brother, but he's too kind. I want him to survive, but I don't expect him to make it. I don't think he'd ever even dealt with loss prior to the war, and now it is a part of his daily life. His mind isn't built for it. Then again, neither is mine.
1916:
We faced a sudden artillery barrage yesterday. I think the Germans suspect we're up to something. I suspect we're up to something. The rumors of an offensive haven't ceased, and the trenches have become a little more tight with men I've not seen before.
The screaming was especially bad last night as a result. Some of the afflicted can't shut their eyes. The artillery barrage flung mud onto their faces, into their eyes. Once they manage to wipe it off with shaky hands, their eyes seem to glow white amidst the dark colors on their body. Mostly muck… sometimes blood.
1916: Note: Handwriting less distinguishable than previous entries.
Tonight, I know I will not sleep. If another had seen what I saw today, I would forgive him for never sleeping again. The squareheads fired over several pear drops. The men closest cheered and laughed for a second, thinking they were duds. The bloody fools; its rare to see several duds from artillerymen as skilled as Jerry. By the time they heard the hiss, it was already too late for the closest ones. A chorus of screaming erupted from further down the trench, as well as calls to put on our gas masks.
As soon as I secured mine, I searched for someone who needed help. But the damned convulsions started up again in several of them. They screamed, cried, shook, before the gas even neared them. I saw one man curled into a ball on the floor of the trench, burying his head in the mud. I yanked him up and yelled at him to put his bloody gas mask on. He would die otherwise! But the idiot, the bloody idiot, he wouldn't do it. I grabbed his mask and forced it over his head but he wouldn't let me. He kept fighting. Even as his screams grew and the pain increased - I could feel the gas burning the exposed parts of my skin - he fought me. He threw up and in shock I recoiled, dropping the mask in the mud. I searched for it, I promise I searched for it as fast as I could, but when I got it and turned back he was gone.
I tried, I really tried.
*1916:* Note: Handwriting was significantly clumsier and more difficult to analyze.
I knew it. I bloody knew it. I could have had him sent back days ago, I'm certain. Could have surrendered all my rations, cigarettes, or whatever else it took, and sent him to the back, maybe even home. What does this disease do to people? Why are they still up here on the front lines?
Eddie died. After the gas attack yesterday, I suppose he had a similar experience as mine, but it took a heavier toll on him. That night, he joined the screaming. I tried to grab him and shake him back to normal, though I knew it was futile. It hadn't worked before. Why now?
Day came, and the Germans picked up their barrage. This time, it was largely directed further behind us, possibly to damage our supply lines into the forward-most trenches. Every once and a while we would receive a stray though. Just one wimpy shell, but that was all it took.
It didn't even go off. Just landed and sat right there. Wasn't a gas attack either. Just a bloody dud. But it was enough. Eddie lost it. The convulsions returned, he began screaming bloody murder, in the break of day. This triggered a couple others, but not to the extent Eddie was afflicted. He tried to run, but our officer stepped in the way. Said if he passed him, he'd have him executed for desertion. The cold-blooded idiot. Eddie was intent on getting away, so he climbed up the trench wall. Any soldier in his right mind knows that is certain death. Apparently it didn't matter to Eddie. We all made futile attempts to call him back, some of us even pulled him back down but he drew his knife and flung it around. We all backed off after that. Once he cleared the trench wall, I looked away.
They told me he made it two steps, before a crack rang out, and Eddie fell back into the trench. I rushed to him, so did our medic, but once he reached Eddie, he just put his hand on my shoulder. They caught him straight through the chest. I looked Eddie in the eyes. They were no longer filled with fear and chaos like they had been earlier. Despite his imminent death, his convulsions and screaming had stopped. I stayed with him until I was certain he had passed on.
I understand why we are plagued with this disease of the mind. It is the price God forces upon us for defacing his creations.
Follow Up: No more letters beyond this were recovered. Given the deteriorating handwriting, it has been hypothesized that the author was beginning to suffer some form of Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). It is suspected that the author died soon after, either before or during the Battle of the Somme.
Per 
