Whispers in the Trenches

France, November 1916

The earth had been torn apart by months of shellfire. Once-verdant fields were now endless miles of churned mud, the kind that swallowed boots and blurred the line between land and death. The trenches stretched for miles like festering wounds, filled with men who hadn’t seen a clean sky in weeks.

Private Thomas "Tommy" Whitaker sat in the darkened corner of the trench, scribbling in a small, leather-bound journal. His fingers were stiff from the cold, and mud stained the edges of every page. Around him, the low murmur of soldiers carried in the still air, the sound of humanity trying to stay sane.

> “Dear Sarah,” he wrote. “The mud is everywhere. It clings to you like fear. But I keep thinking of your laugh, the way the corners of your mouth lift before you even speak. That memory alone keeps me warm.”

A nearby explosion sent a tremor through the trench walls. Dirt crumbled from above, falling onto his helmet. Tommy didn’t flinch. He was used to it now—shells that exploded too close, comrades who disappeared in the mist, orders shouted through rain and chaos.

“Still writing to your sweetheart?” came a voice.

Tommy looked up to see Corporal Elijah “Eli” Carter, his best mate and trench companion. Eli was a lanky, sharp-featured Londoner with a grin that refused to die, even here.

“Only thing that keeps me grounded,” Tommy replied, sliding the journal back into his coat. “That and your awful singing.”

Eli chuckled. “My singing’s the only reason Fritz doesn’t attack. They’re too busy covering their ears.”

They shared a quiet laugh, the kind that barely reached their eyes.



That night, the trench grew colder. The sky above was a sheet of black, pierced only by the occasional flare or muzzle flash. Rats scurried in the shadows. Somewhere farther down the line, a man cried out in his sleep. No one woke him.

Tommy couldn’t sleep. He sat up, looking over the edge of the trench. In the distance, no-man’s-land glistened under frost. Corpses frozen in grotesque postures reminded him that life here was measured in inches.

“You ever wonder what’s the point?” Eli asked quietly from beside him.

“All the time.”

“Feels like we’re ghosts already. The war just hasn’t caught up to us yet.”

Tommy looked at his friend. “If we’re ghosts, we haunt together.”

Eli smiled weakly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Two Days Later

The captain announced a dawn raid. It was the kind of suicide mission that made the air feel heavier, even before the attack.

Tommy’s hands trembled as he checked his rifle. Eli stood beside him, unusually quiet.

“When this is over,” Tommy said, “we’ll go to Brighton. You, me, Sarah. We’ll eat fish and chips, drink cheap wine, and never talk about this again.”

“I’d like that,” Eli said. “But promise me something?”

“Anything.”

“If I don’t make it back… keep writing to her. Let her know you lived.”

Tommy swallowed hard. “You’re coming back.”

Eli gave a nod that said he wanted to believe it.

The Raid

Whistles blew. Men surged from the trench, bayonets glinting, boots sloshing through mud and ice. Gunfire erupted instantly. The roar of machine guns shredded the air. Explosions threw up geysers of earth and bodies.

Tommy ran, heart pounding, lungs burning. Beside him, Eli charged, shouting something Tommy couldn’t hear over the chaos.

Then it happened.

A shell exploded ahead. Dirt and fire swallowed the space where Eli had been.

Tommy dropped behind a crater, screaming his friend’s name, but the only answer was more gunfire. The world narrowed to sound and fury and the terrible realization that he might be alone.

Aftermath

Hours later, Tommy stumbled back into the trench. His uniform was torn, face streaked with grime and blood. The sun was setting behind smoke-filled clouds.

No sign of Eli.

Medics worked frantically. The wounded moaned. Officers shouted numbers that no longer made sense.

Tommy sat in the mud and opened his journal with shaking hands.

> “Sarah,” he wrote, “today I lost my brother in everything but blood. His name was Eli Carter. He told me to keep writing to you. So I will. I’ll carry his voice in mine. I will whisper his name when you laugh, when we walk again in the sunshine. I swear I will.”

Two Weeks Later

A letter arrived for Tommy. It was from Sarah.

> “My darling Tommy,”

“I read your last letter ten times. I can’t imagine what it’s like there, but I felt Eli in your words. When you return, we’ll remember him together. I’ve started a journal too. Maybe we’ll share them one day. Just promise me you’ll come home.”



He wept silently in the dark.

Spring, 1917

The war ground on, but the snow melted, and green returned to the French fields. The trenches were still there, but they didn’t feel as deep.

One evening, Tommy sat in the same corner and opened his journal.

This time, the voice in his head wasn’t just his own. It was Eli’s too.

Together, they wrote:

> “There are whispers in the trenches. They’re not all death and fear. Some are of home, of laughter, of friends who never truly leave you. The war takes much, but it cannot take everything. It cannot take hope.”



And for the first time in months, Tommy smiled.



Epilogue – Brighton, 1919

Tommy and Sarah sat on a weathered bench overlooking the sea. The journal lay open between them. Pages filled with mud-stained memories, grief, love—and whispers.

He kept his promise.

Eli’s voice still lived there.

In every word.

In every wave.

In every whisper of peace.