1917

December 3, 1917

  Across the world, the Battle of Cambrai raged on. It initially erupted in November 1917, stretching its grim shadows into December. The sheer devastation was heartbreaking, an endless cycle of sacrifice that seemed to have no end in sight. It was nearly impossible to fathom the suffering the soldiers endured amidst the chaos of war.

  The lack of medical supplies and vaccines only deepened my sorrow. In a time when hope should have prevailed, the absence of adequate care and treatment left countless men vulnerable to wounds and illness. Their cries for help echoed through the trenches, drowning in the relentless sound of gunfire and despair. Each life lost felt like a weight on my heart, reminding me of the brutal realities of a world consumed by conflict.

  It was a stark reminder that, beyond the battlefield, compassion and care were overshadowed by the harshness of war, and the human cost was far greater than any victory claimed.

  Unfortunately, I had a history class that day. The irony wasn’t lost on me; while the world was engulfed in chaos, I was sitting in a classroom, trying to wrap my mind around the events of the past. Our teacher droned on about battles and treaties, oblivious to the real suffering happening in the present.

  As I listened, I couldn’t help but think about Cambrai and the soldiers fighting for survival. The history we studied felt so distant, yet so intertwined with the pain of the present. Each lesson was a reminder of the sacrifices made, but in that moment, it felt trivial against the backdrop of such human suffering.

  I glanced around the room, seeing my classmates lost in their own thoughts, unaware of the weight of the world outside our walls. It made me wonder if they felt the same heaviness I did, if they were thinking about the lives at stake while we discussed dates and events long past. All I wanted was for the lessons of history to bring about change, to ensure that such tragedies would never repeat themselves.

“Does anyone have family in the war?” Mrs. Pinkton asked the class, her voice breaking through the haze of my thoughts. I hesitated for a moment, but then raised my hand. Carson had enlisted in the military, and though the reality of his situation weighed heavily on my heart, I felt compelled to acknowledge it.

“Yes, Jeremiah?” she prompted, looking directly at me.

“My brother Carson was fighting overseas,” I replied, my voice steady but laced with emotion. I could feel the eyes of my classmates on me, some filled with sympathy, others with a vague sense of curiosity.

  Mrs. Pinkton nodded, her expression softening. “That’s brave of him. How do you feel about it?”

  The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation. “They brought only his body back,” I admitted before bursting into tears.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Mrs. Pinkton exclaimed, her voice laced with empathy.

“Don’t be,” I shot back, a wave of bitterness surging through me. “It was his moronic decision to join the stupid war. He screwed himself over.” My anger bubbled to the surface, and I could feel the heat rising in my cheeks. How could he be so reckless?

  Only eighteen, yet he’d traded his future for a rifle and a uniform. He could have gotten married, settled down, lived a normal life, but instead, he’d opted to throw himself into the chaos of war. The thought of it twisted my gut; it felt like he was stepping into a meat grinder, a mindless sacrifice for a cause that felt increasingly pointless.

  I struggled to find the right words, but all I could think about was the image of him out there—lost, alone, and facing unimaginable horrors. It was a reality I couldn’t bear to fully accept. “I don’t know why I expected him to come home,” I continued, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I did.”

  Mrs. Pinkton nodded, her gaze understanding. “It’s natural to hope for the best, even in the worst circumstances,” she said gently. “But it’s also okay to feel angry and scared. Those feelings matter.”

  I appreciated her attempt to comfort me, but the anger still coursed through me. How could they send kids to fight their wars while the rest of us sat in classrooms, oblivious to the devastation? I clenched my fists, a mixture of frustration and sadness swirling within me. The world outside felt so distant and brutal, and all I wanted was for things to be different.

  Michael Weinstock leaned back in his chair, smirking as if he was already prepared to show off. “The Battle of the Somme,” he started with a cocky tone, “was one of the bloodiest battles in World War I. Fought in 1916. Over a million casualties. It was, like, a total disaster for both sides. A lot of men died for almost nothing.”

  I rolled my eyes at his tone, but I couldn’t deny the weight of what he was saying. The Somme had been a nightmare—soldiers thrown into the jaws of death, with hardly any ground gained in the end. I hated how he said it, like it was some trivia fact he memorized for a quiz and not one of the most brutal losses of human life in modern history.

  Mrs. Pinkton nodded, though her expression showed a hint of disapproval at Michael’s lack of sensitivity. “That’s correct, Michael. The Battle of the Somme was indeed one of the deadliest battles in history. But what makes it particularly tragic is the scale of loss and the lessons it left behind about the futility of some military strategies.”

  She turned back to the rest of us. “Does anyone want to add to that?”

  I wanted to speak up, to mention how the Somme was a prime example of how generals were stuck in old strategies—sending wave after wave of men into no man’s land, just to be gunned down by machine guns and artillery. But I didn’t. Michael shot a smug glance in my direction like he knew I wouldn’t speak. The anger I had earlier, thinking about Carson, simmered beneath the surface.

  The assignment felt almost ridiculous. How could any of us, sitting comfortably in our classroom, even begin to imagine what it was like to be a British soldier in World War I? The mud, the fear, the constant shelling. How could I, someone who struggled just to get through an awkward conversation with Peggy, understand the terror of facing death every day?

  I stared at the prompt, wondering where to even start. It asked us to write a letter home as if we were one of those soldiers. I could already hear Mrs. Pinkton’s voice in my head saying something about “historical empathy” and “understanding the human experience.” But I had no idea how to relate to those men who marched off to war, just like Carson had.

  I thought about what I would even say if I were in their position. Dear Mum and Dad, today I watched my best friend die in the trenches. The stench of death is everywhere, and the sound of artillery never stops. How could anyone write that?

  The assignment was a reminder of the distance between us and those soldiers. A distance I wasn’t sure we could ever cross. I sighed and started to write, feeling more disconnected from history with each word.

Dear Mum and Dad,

I hope this letter finds you well, though I can’t say the same for myself. The front is unlike anything I’ve ever imagined—mud and blood are everywhere. The trenches feel more like a graveyard than a battlefield. Some days, the only thing that keeps me going is the thought of coming home to you.

The constant shelling is deafening, and I’ve seen things no one should ever see. Friends I made here have fallen, their lives cut short by bullets and bombs. It’s hard to describe the fear that grips you when you hear the whistle of artillery overhead. We’re just boys, Mum. But the war has turned us into men far too quickly.

I dream of home every night. I dream of sitting by the fire with you and Dad, laughing, eating a proper meal. It’s strange to think that such small things mean the world to me now. Keep praying for me, and for this madness to end. I want to come home more than anything. But if I don’t... just know I love you.

Your loving son, William

  I stared at the letter after I finished it. It was as if I had stepped out of my own world for a moment, into that of a soldier long gone. Writing it made me realize just how impossible it was to truly understand what they went through. Still, it felt like I had given it my best, even if the reality was something I could never fully grasp.

  Exhausted from pouring all my energy into the assignment, I collapsed onto my bed. The class weighed heavily on me, but not as much as the bully who made it unbearable. He was a total jerk, and I couldn’t help but fantasize about knocking him flat on his back, giving him a taste of his own medicine.

  My mother came into the room and suggested I sit in a chair to finish up my other assignments. There was only one left, and it was for Biology. We had to write about Gregor Mendel and his discoveries with Punnett squares. I almost drifted off while working on it, but in a moment of desperation, I slapped myself awake. To my surprise, it actually worked.

  Next, I had to describe who Mendel was and here is what I wrote, Gregor Mendel was an Austrian monk and scientist who is often referred to as the “Father of Genetics.” In the mid-1800s, Mendel conducted groundbreaking experiments with pea plants in the garden of his monastery. Through his work, he discovered the fundamental principles of heredity, which laid the foundation for the field of genetics.

Mendel’s most important findings involved how traits are passed from parents to offspring. By studying pea plants’ different traits (such as flower color, seed shape, and pod color), he discovered that inheritance follows specific patterns. He proposed the existence of “dominant” and “recessive” traits and formulated the laws of inheritance: the Law of Segregation and the Law of Independent Assortment.

He also developed what we now know as Punnett squares, a tool used to predict the probability of inheriting specific traits. Mendel’s work was largely ignored during his lifetime, but it became hugely influential in the early 20th century, shaping our modern understanding of genetics.

“That’s more like it,” she smiled after giving me a quick peck on the cheek.

  I headed off to bed, crawling under the covers and staring at the ceiling. My thoughts drifted back to the day, the homework, and the nagging feeling that I wasn’t doing enough. But then I remembered what Mother always said: “Small steps lead to big things.”

  I closed my eyes, imagining myself at seventeen, towering over everyone, confident and sure. For now, though, I was still the small kid in class, the one trying to make sense of history assignments and bullies like Michael Weinstock.

  I let my mind wander before sleep took over.