All language subtitles for The diary of an unknown soldier.ENG

Last day of my life.

Diary, 24th of September, 1916.

Near Combres.

I had spent the night
in an old ruined cellar

with its walls dripping green moisture.

And so now it was good
to feel the warmth of the sun

striking through the
folds of my damp tunic.

And the morning was perfect.

There was nothing to be heard, save the
occasional murmur of soldiers' voices

and the crunch of boots
on the loose soil.

And in the gentle lulling warmth,
the war seemed very remote,

for here was peace.

One time, I remember I slowly became
aware of the sound of men digging

on the other side of the bank
near where I stood.

I don't know what
they were digging for exactly,

but I do remember that they
sounded very cheerful about it.

Especially when somebody
nearby started a phonograph going.

It was very comforting
to hear those cheerful noises

because, well, it was such a warm
and peaceful morning,

and it all helped me
to forget about the war.

And perhaps,
not only me for all around me

in this desolate back area
there were soldiers relaxing.

Soldiers quiet and easy in the sun,
a whole army at rest,

like an unwound clock spring,

men released from a hell

in a merciful peace that
is suddenly shattered.

Shattered by the soft,
but deadly voices of guns,

an insistent clamouring from a heavy
barrage at the front two miles away.

Start to feel the certain pangs of fear

and the gentle breath
of the morning turns sour.

But does any of this affect
the other members of my section?

Seems not.

Pretzlav at the end is now concluding
some coarse joke.

Other men appear to be quite
unconcerned and relaxed.

I can't tell whether those men
at the end are as scared as I am.

I don't know.

They maybe able to cover up well,

for a couple of French soldiers
from the front are passing them

and the only reaction seems to be that
Pretzlav has some rude remark for them.

But to me, the sight of those
dusty soldiers clumping away

brings the physical feel
of war close the first time.

And then suddenly I hear
the rattle of rifle bolts

and the clink of steel helmets
and then the crunch of marching feet,

as men all around me
march off to the front...

Crunch! Crunch! Crunch!

Each seismic crunch of the boot
draws the war closer and closer.

Oh God, soon it will be my turn
and my feet, too.

Crunch! Crunch!
Dragging me forward towards those guns.

Those bloody blasted guns!

I suppose I must be making
a melodrama out of all this.

There's something so unnatural,

so horrible about the sight
of those soldiers,

plodding like soulless automatons
through a desolate land.

It's all rather unnerved me.

Anyway, I must try to pull myself
together like those other men over there

who seem to be quietly
relaxing in the sun.

Yes, Pretzlav there, who seems to spend
almost every waking minute

relishing one of the highly immoral
and vulgar leaves he spent

and of course solid,
dour Bill Richards,

who seems to spend
most of his time listening to Pretzlav.

Then of course,
there's dear old Tom Mason

who has been in the war
since early 1915.

He can be a little
old fashioned at times.

Particularly where a young
Ginger Morris is concerned,

who has without doubt the most
active bowel system in the British Army.

He's always emerging
from behind some bush or other.

And as he usually
has some cheeky answer ready.

Poor old Tom ends up by being furious.

But Ted Crompton,
I've never really liked.

Probably because I feel
he rather enjoys his war.

As for young Lieutenant Ferris,

I always think how awful
it must be for him, for an offensive...

He's always got to appear calm
and in complete control of his nerves,

no matter what he really feels.

It's probably a lot easier
for the experienced Sergeant Harman.

He's been in the front
a good many times before.

Oh God, those guns again,
they seem to be nearer now.

Louder and more insistent.

They seem to destroy every vestige
of the peace and beauty of this morning.

Air is foul, the trees seem
to become twisted and warped.

Branches jab at me, sharp, pointed
and hard like steel, like a battle.

Oh God, a battle. I'm scared.

I'm so bloody scared.

I know what's going to happen.

I can see it all in my mind.

I can see it.

I can see the details
of a battle in my mind.

I can... I can hear the noise.
I can see the blurred confusion.

Men running, men left to die.

I... Oh God! It's too awful.

Too bloody... Oh, I'm so scared.

Well, this...
This is what I'm going to go through.

Watch them cheering.

They've gained an area
of about 200 square yards of mud,

just heaving, stinking mud.

And in a short while, the game old
Bosch will win it back again.

In the meanwhile, let them cheer,
it's a wonderful achievement.

And that...
That is howl shall probably die.

Left like some torn,
screwed up rag on the battlefield.

When you know
this is going to happen to you,

your body suddenly becomes
something terribly precious to you.

Your flesh, soft and warm, is yours.

Your personal belonging,

not to be treated like some
discarded piece of offal.

You find yourself thinking about this,

realizing what a wonderful
thing your body is

and what an awful and wrong thing
it is to maltreat it.

But all that is to come.

At the moment it's just
the watching and the waiting.

Watching the lieutenant
and waiting for someone,

probably a brigade runner
to bring him our movement orders.

Orders that will take us
to the front, to those guns.

Oh, come on!
Why the hell doesn't something happen?

Time is just grinding by
and nothing is happening.

Or perhaps...
Perhaps the runner won't appear.

Perhaps... Hmm.

Oh God!

I should have known.

Should have known
that there'd be no escape.

The others must know it, too.

I wonder what they're thinking about.

What's going on behind that
cold front of Crompton's.

Crompton, who has vowed to run at least
three Germans through with his bayonet

before the battle is over.

Is he really as hard and as cold
as he would have us believe'?

Or is all this toughness merely
a front to cover his real feelings?

Only he knows.

Now, don't envy poor old Tom,

he's been to the front
so many times before,

he really knows what he's in for.

Must be awful for him.

Must be awful for all of them.

Just managing to control
their feelings on the outside,

they wait and watch in silence,
impassive, expressionless.

But what's on the inside?

Fear'?

Resentment?

Bewilderment?

Or just loneliness?

If that officer had only the power

to write down
what each of his men really felt.

And could then make the people
who start these wars read about it.

Then, maybe they'd... Maybe...

Oh, well.

Anyway I see now that
we're about to start our little war.

So, let's pull up our equipment,
pull it on

and get ready to play
at being tin soldiers

and go and fight
for a few yards of earth.

So, now I'm ready with my rifle and
bayonet and steel helmet and ammunition.

I suppose I must be everything that
those recruiting posters say I should be.

They don't tell you
you can get so scared, so numb

that even the rough canvas webbing,
you can't feel it.

You just don't know it's there.

The whole body
is a vacuum without feeling.

Except for the hands,
their cold, clammy palm.

To be a proper soldier
you've got to wipe your hand

by making little furtive moves
so that nobody can see.

There's...
There's an ache in your throat.

And your head hurts and your...

And your mind flicks
from thing to thing.

You can't think properly.

Your hands remotely do odd little things
without you knowing.

Oh God, my head hurts.

Why can't someone explain to me
just why I've got to die'?

Soon... Soon there'll be nothing.

Just a void. Nothing.

And Tom...

Tom, please help me.

Give me some of your strength,

so that I won't be scared,
as you're not scared.

Tom, please help me.

And he didn't say a thing.
Didn't try to help me.

I just don't know why,
or was he scared too'?

I shall never know. I shall never know.

So then it was time for us to leave.

Well, I suppose in years to come
people will say about us...

"They went with songs to the battle."

"They were young,
straight of limb,

true of eye, steady and aglow."

God, if only they knew.

As we marched along
the top of the ridge,

I saw below us a German prisoner.

He was the first German soldier
I'd ever seen.

As I looked at him, I saw the complete
ridiculousness of the whole thing.

He was eating a bowl of soup
or something

and he looked so ordinary, so harmless.

He might have been
Pretzlav or Morris sitting there,

just wearing a different uniform.

This man was meant to be our enemy,

one of the soldiers of the hated
imperial German empire.

One of the men
we've been trained to kill.

And he looked so harmless.

But the most terrible thing about war

is not just the fact that we have
to kill men so much like ourselves,

but that we have to hate them
and keep on hating them.

And now, meanwhile,
all that is left to us, to our section

is to go forward and fight
and kill men like him, like ourselves.

Seems so bloody pointless,
we go forward to those guns

and God only knows what'll happen to us.

God only knows.

We're told what a tremendous thing
it is to die for one's country.

Well, tell it to those two.