Dear Amar Singh

By Tristan Fernandes

Dear Amar Singh 

I

1916

Boots seeped in muck. Rain from above. The scream of shells piercing the sky. Tiny soldiers hovering in their mud holes. No man’s land is a sea of barbed wires and pockmarked shell holes. 

Sunrays peaked from the misty sky and dawn was yet to arrive. For the men in the trench, it was cold. Yet, they were terribly clothed. Lacking even a good pair of boots, they squelched through the mud, their sandals no match for the sinking mud. When they got off the boat, they had no weapons. Now, all of them were holding the famous Lee Enfield rifles. The rimmed Brodie hats covered their heads, offering some protection from shrapnel. 

A shell roared right above them. 

Captain Amar Singh gripped the rings of the wooden ladder, its rough and splintered surface scratched his skin.  The summit of the trench was lined with a pile of sandbags. Even though the artillery bombardment upon the German trenches was terrifyingly loud, he could hear the deafening sound of his heartbeat. 

Once he climbed over, he would either be shot dead or, by God’s grace, he would survive long enough to take cover in some ditch. Or, he would be caught by barbed wires and shot full of holes. He had seen it happen too many times. 

“On the ready!” The yell came down the trench. 

“On-the-ready!”

“On-the-ready!”

“On-the-ready!”

The voices seemed to carry the message down the trench. 

Captain Amar Singh took a deep breath. Next… next would come the whistle. And then the charge out of the trench. He was the Captain of his regiment, he had to be the one who led his men; otherwise, they would not climb out. 

Then, comes the whistle. It seemed like a strange eternal sound that came from all directions in the trench. 

All he could hear was the sound of death. A part of Captain Amar Singh yearned for home, another part was pumping warrior’s blood through his veins – he would fight for King and Country, and for honour and glory. 

Yet, as he leaped out of the trench, just for a millisecond, his mind flashed back to home, to the first time he loved, to the first time he marched on this French-land, and to the first time he killed.

Outside the trench came a view of the whole world dying. And, he would die too. 

Captain Amar Singh had his pistol raised up in the air and yelled for this unit of Indian soldiers to follow him. 

He would die for King and Country, and for honour and glory. 

II

1914

In his heart was beating fear. 

Fear of what comes next. Fear whether he would live, whether he would die. Havildar Amar Singh was stationed inside the camp. This was their last stop until they were shuffled onto boats and sent off to another country to fight a war that had nothing to do with them. 

Sitting on his bed, puffing a cigarette, his eyes darted over the letter he had written for his wife. It was a response to his wife’s letter. Once he would ship out, all communication with Hindustan and his wife would become a time in a bottle. Her letters would reach him months after being sent out; his letters would reach her months after sending – every letter would become a time in a bottle.  

Between his fingers, he gripped the grainy texture of the paper. He read what was written. 

Dear Sonam, 

I know you worry for my life. But, this is no different than me visiting the North West Frontier. I may be gone for a few months, and like always, I will come back. I know that you are worried, you worry for my life, but there is no reason to be worried. You know what I dream of. I wish to be remembered like the warriors of old, people will remember my name like Havildar Ishar Singh who fought off a thousand Afghans. And what will do tilling the farmland back at home. We earn so little, not enough to pay back our debt to Paramjit. The British Army pay is much better. Think of the money glory and money I will bring back. This war will be over soon and I will be back home by Christmas. 

I urge you, my dear wife, not to worry for me. I am a soldier and I will perform a soldier’s duty, and I will come back alive. 

You have nothing to worry about. 

He was yet to send this letter out. He needed to send it out before he left this land. 

III

1916

Death knocking on his door. Death calling to him. Death was not far away. Miraculously, he realised, that he no wound upon him. How did he come here? Come did he come to this; how did it come to this? Lying around him were dead bodies. He was in an artillery hole, the German line at his back, his own line to his front. 

The offensive had failed. His men were dead, dying, or had managed to make a miraculous escape back to their trench lines. Yet, he remained here, hiding in an artillery hole. His gun missing, no food. All alone. Too afraid to crawl out and escape for the Huns would gun him down. Yet, he knew it would only be a matter of time before a patrol stumbled upon him. And then he would die. And yet, if he lived through this day, he would just die on another day… just like all the dead bodies that surrounded him. 

They lay still. 

The stillness of the moment was shattered when one body moved. What moved was not the body, but a single limb. A limb was visible underneath a stack of bodies and mud. Amar crawled, and soon his hands dug through mud and rotting flesh to try and pull the man up. He did it as silently as possible, least anyone from the enemy heard him.  The afternoon grey sky threw heat waves upon them. Halfway through removing torn limbs and pushing and pulling bodies, his heart sank at the sight of the soldier’s bloodied uniform. He gently pulled the soldier from under the mud and bodies. His muscles ached from all the digging. 

The coughing spurted blood, and Amar said a silent prayer that no one would hear him. Now that he had managed to completely pull out the injured man, he regretted it. His right leg was missing; a bloody pulp of torn flesh. He had a small bottle hanging from his belt, which he twisted open and gave to the man. He slurped and coughed ever so gently, and there was a slight dribble of water down his muddy chin. This injured man was a Hindustani soldier. 

It was evident to Amar that this man was dying. Wounds upon his body were big enough to stick his fat thumb in them; this man likely fell to a German machine gun while charging the trench.

“Pl..e..ase..” The words tumbled out of his mouth. “Kill me.” 

How long did they lay there in the trench? Amar Singh could hear gruff German voices from the trench behind. If a German stumbled upon them, Amar would be killed. He needed to get out of here, escape back to his lines. 

The dying man looked familiar, like someone from his own Company. He was responsible for the lives of a hundred soldiers and he could not remember their names. Here was one of his men dying in front of him and he could not remember the man’s name. 

Yet, what was this that he felt… his gaze fell upon the dying soldier. That could have been him; dying and begging for death… there was relief in that idea. 

He had to cross through no man’s land and get back. Yet – he did not wish to. What was this feeling? 

IV 

Time is eternal, yet its passing is measured by humans. For Captain Amar Singh, the clock ticked to a moment when he would be found by the Huns; he was sure of it. There were many things in the trench, but only two things mattered – his bayonet knife and the dying Hindustani soldier. 

He should be escaping back to his trench, beyond no man’s land, yet there was tiredness creeping upon his soul. In the morning, when he blew the whistle, he sent out all his men to take the German trench. Now, they were either dead, dying, or managed to make it back to their trench, leaving him alone. Here was one of his soldiers, dying second by second, yet clinging to life. 

“Kill me, Subadar Amar,” the man croaked. 

“What’s your name?” Amar asked. 

 “Subadar….” the man’s voice trailed. “My name – Jasdeep.”

Afternoon sun setting, blood trickling from wounds, and the anguish of an impending death that would not come. “If I knew this was what war is… I would not have come. I…” A cough, a dribble of blood. “I wanted to return back home with medals, just like some had returned after the last European War. And I wanted to fight for the Great King of English. Now, I am dying. Please kill me.

Please, I beg you, kill me.” Jasdeep had a deep cough and blood erupted from his lips. 

Amar Singh said nothing. He wished he could die too. Except, except, something forgotten came to him. He had something waiting for him back in his trench. In his rucksack, there was a letter waiting for him, a letter from his wife that he had still not read.

“Please… please… God will forgive you.” The man moaned again. 

Amar Singh closed his eyes. He hated this war so much. 

Time drifted. “Sahib… Subadar… Caaapytain” The dying man croaked at intervals. “Kill… me…please.” The soldier’s body had already become deathly pale. What was a worse fate than death? It was dying; dying slowly. If Amar Singh had a similar fate in the future, he prayed to God that he would have a fate as lucky as this. 

His blade punched into his chest cavity and into the heart underneath. There was a loud crack and the man groaned. And just as death came upon Jasdeep, he asked a question with his dying breath.

“Subadar, why did you join this war?” 

The lights faded from the soldier’s eyes. Why did the dead man ask him that question? Just like he blew the whistle and sent men to their deaths. This man was dead the moment he climbed out of the trench. All Amar Singh had was hasten the man’s death. 

And why did he ask him that question? Captain Amar Singh did not have an answer. What he did know was that there was a letter waiting for him. 

He had to get back to his trench. 

V

Mud. 

Overturned mud. 

Underturned mud. 

Shell pocked mud.

Mud that went up and down.  

Mud with sunken bodies.  

And upon this land, Captain Amar Singh walked. 

Actually, to say he walked would be a misdemeanor statement. 

Captain Amar Singh crawled, stooped, sneaked across the land. He knew the biggest killer of humans upon this battlefield was things unseen. Guns; rifles, machine guns, snipers; artillery shells, mines. So, Amar Singh crawled, hugging the earth, making sure that he too was unseen. His kakhi uniform blended with the brown colour of the earth. Were the really killers modern weapons? Or, the commanders who sent the men to death? 

“Subadar, why did you join this war?” Jasdeep’s final words; a final question. Amar knew the answer. He joined this war for money, but also for glory on the battlefield. The answer did not really matter now… 

What does the battlefield sound like when there is no battlefield. It is not silent. A fierce wind sweeps through. There are no sounds of birds or animals. There is no sound of the rustling of grass. The dead lay voiceless. It’s a battlefield that lies with anticipation. 

And upon this battlefield that Amar clawed and crouched through came a new sound. The best way to describe it is a putter, a rhythmic chugging. It is a steady sound, like a distinctive pulse; a deep guttural rumble that grows louder and louder. 

For a moment, Amar Singh does not know what to do. Should he continue moving? Should he move slower? Should he freeze? Should he hide in a ditch? He looked up into the sky and the aeroplane had a brown pattern and a parasol wing; a single wing that was held above the fuselage with pylons. Of course, Amar did not see such specifics from afar, but he recognised it from the training pictures… this plane was called Fokker Eindecker. 

All the while, the tiny aeroplane in the sky grew closer; its sound growing louder and louder. Until it is like a symphony that is bearing down upon him. There was no chance that it had spotted him, right? The doubt took hold of his soul. He wanted to run, to sprint, to dash to his trench lines, to where he would be safe, and where he could read that letter waiting for him from his wife. 

There was a change in the rhythm of the deep guttural rumble and puttering of the aeroplane. Every single fibre of Amar Singh froze. Yet, he managed to twist his head to look up at the sky. The aeroplane had dropped from the sky and come lower. And then it came lower down again. For a moment, it looked like it would pass over him and then its direction turned. The nose of the aeroplane took a dive towards him. 

Amar Singh ran. 

The muddy battlefield. Mounds of mud. Sunken bodies. Holes and ditches. Torn limbs. Fragments of barb wire. 

Amar Singh ran. Until he tumbled down.  

The sound of gunfire. 

Mud kicking up into the air. 

Flying bullets coming closer to him. 

He was about to die. 

He was about to die like Jasdeep.

Amar closed his eyes. The rapid mechanical barks of the machine gun cut through the growl of the aeroplane’s puttering.

This was the sound of death.  

There was another sound that came to his ears. It was so faint that only when it growled and changed in  rhythm that it was noticed. A speck appeared in the sky, like a wide winged bird that swooped down. Staccato bursts punctuated the air overlapping with the growling of the two engines. Once upon the North West Frontier, Amar had seen a rare sight of Golden Eagle swooping down upon a chukar partridge; the claw teared into the chukar’s flesh.  

Was the German aeroplane hit? 

As if to answer his question, the German plane swerved in the air, taking a deep left to avoid the incoming attack of the new plane. This new aircraft had red and blue roundels on its wings, markings of the Royal Flying Corps. The British aeroplane turned to the left, following the German plane. 

The British areoplane looked familiar; the main body was sandwiched between two wings. It had seats for two people. The name of the aeroplane did not come to him. 

This was modern war. Two warriors shooting at each other from flying machines. When they killed, they did not even look into the eye of the fallen. 

They danced in the sky. It was virtually impossible to follow the dogfight. All Amar Singh could do was lay still on the ground. So still that the German fighter would not spot him. So still that a sniper would not spot him. So still that no machine gunner or artillery spot would notice him. So still that the world and everything around him would not notice him. 

The Fokker seemed to have more maneuverability than the British aeroplane. Its turns were sharper, it dodged the attacks from the enemy quicker. The battle ended in the blink of an eye. When it happened, the German took a sharper turn, outflanking the British plane and in a millisecond, it was the British plane overshot, coming in front of the German aeroplane. 

That’s all the advantage the Fokker needed. Its machine guns barked. 

One moment the British plane was gilding in the air, the next it was spinning in a 360 degree arc.  British plane began to descend. It disappeared, crashing in some place far away on the battlefield.  

Amar Singh dared not move. The Fokker aeroplane shot over him. It took a few more rounds around the area and then drifted away. 

There was joy in still being alive. There was a want, a desire, to crawl back to his trench, to his read that letter that waited for him. 

VI

“Don’t leave. Don’t go. I’m afraid that you won’t come back.” That voice, he recognised it, and yearned for it. It was Sonam’s voice, his wife. He was looking upon a field bursting with wheat crop, but he could not see his wife. 

Captain Amar Singh knew he was dreaming because when he left his farm fields in 1914, the seeds had just been sown and not even the sprouts had emerged. But, here, he was walking through fields of wheat. The wheat crop was long and green; mature not yet ready to be harvested. He reached out and touched the crop as he walked through the field, the coarse leaves scratching his fingers. There was a musty smell in the air, of rain that had watered the crop. 

Rain… 

There was rain falling upon him. Amar Singh forced himself to wake up from his slumber. He had fallen asleep. A quick glance around, and it came back to him, he realised that he had climbed out of the previous artillery crater only to stumble into another one. He was closer to getting back to his own trench lines, yet still away. The rain only reminded him of his parched throat waiting to be quenched.   

He needed to reach his trench line and read the letter that was waiting for him. He had put it in his backpack; right at the bottom with his other letters. 

Amar Singh closed his mouth. He resisted the urge to open his mouth amidst the torrential downpour. His throat was parched and dry, but trying to drink from the rain was like trying to drink water from a cactus, it would never really quench his thirst. He had to keep going.   

He crawled out of the ditch and fell into a small puddle of water. The wet mud tasted bitter. He had to keep going. 

Maybe, once upon a time, this French land had been an open and beautiful land, flat with grass and towering pine trees. Now, it was pockmarked with artillery holes, mud that was upturned and trod over by thousands of soldiers, forming these up and down mini-hills. He crawled on. 

And upon this land was a terrible, festering smell. Amar looked down. He was crawling upon a body; its clothes and skin were stained deeply with mud, so he could not make out whether it was a German or British soldier. This whole land was filled with rotting corpses. 

He crawled from there onto a torn limb, which he pushed to the side. Bodies upon bodies were layered upon this land. The ones he was crawling over were probably killed this morning or yesterday. 

How long did he crawl for? Crawling under or around the tangles of barbed wires. The trench was not far now. He could hear sounds, maybe even voices. 

Almost there, after that… after that he can sleep how much ever he wanted. 

The silence of the midnight sky was broken by a screaming mortar shell from the German side, followed by several more. Amar heard the shells plough the earth and explode in the trenches at the back. 

Each explosion was met with a terrible sound and shaking of the earth that was not terribly far from Amar. Second blast – closer. Third – closer still. The next one….

He covered his ears and wished someone would transport him back to his trenches. He wanted to cry, he wanted to yell that he would not give up, he wanted to say that this war would not break him – because he had to, had to return home. An artillery shell screamed above him, the sound growing louder and louder, until, suddenly, it exploded right next to him. 

Darkness. 

VII

Dear Amar Singh, 

I write to you to tell you that everything is well at home. Your pita, your father, is well too. He hobbles around the house, keeping to his routine. He wakes up to bathe in the morning sunrays. The cold in the night keeps him awake, his rheumatism pains him during the cold and I massage his old knees with the oils you had brought. 

Every evening we visit the village gurudwara to pray for you. I hope that God continues to protect you and keep you safe during this war. I pray that you win all the glory and medals that you seek. 

Paramjit visited us yesterday. The wheat crops are yet to mature and yield their fruit and we have no money to give him. We have already given the money you have sent us, but he demands more, accusing us that we are behind on our payment, and this is true. 

The lemon grass you planted continues to grow, giving us a wonderful taste to our tea. I wish I could have made a cup for you. 

There is no news from the village to tell. Everything is fine. Yesterday, news came of a new war starting between Britain and Ottoman Empire. War has spread like a forest fire. Oh, how many people will die before it ends. 

I hope you are well and fine. I desperately pray for your safe return… hopefully by this Christmas? 

Yours Sincerely,
Your Wife 

Captain Amar Singh wondered what she would think if she could see the battlefield over here. He thought about killing Jasdeep There is no honour and glory in fighting this war. And the English King can go damn himself. But, he dare not say these thoughts out loud, he dare not have them written in a letter. 

He gripped the letter in his hand. Crumpled letter, faded ink, words re-read over and over, as if she were right beside him. He felt a sense of peace, knowing he could face anything with this letter in hand. This letter wasn’t truly written by her. It was her words and probably the penmanship of the village school master.  

He was back on his side of no man’s land. He was in a bunk bed in an underground shelter. The strangest thing was that even though he felt so sleepy, sleep did not come to him. He missed home, his wife and his father. And, if he were there right now, he would sort Paramjit – true they owed him money, but… 

Amar Singh’s thoughts drifted back here and how he managed to return to the trench; he honestly, couldn’t remember. What he remembered was the pounding in his ears from the artillery shells. All he knew was that… a group of stragglers, of retreating soldiers, had found him knocked out, but stirring and dragged him back. Amar Singh found the whole affair to be unbearable. Injured soldiers on the battlefield were left to die there. Was this just luck? Or, was this God? 

Somehow… lying on this bed with his injured arm bandaged, he felt that it was only a matter of time before he died out there – and he probably deserved it for all the men he had sent to their deaths. 

Or, perhaps, it was his wife’s prayers protecting him? 

Because he should have been left there in no man’s land to die. 

Ever since he heard the story of Pandora’s Box, Tristan Fernandes realised the power of stories. This led him on his journey of writing, where he was always in search of creating a story that was worthy enough to be told and read. His passion for history, politics, social theory, and tech offers an interesting combination in writing fiction stories.

Most of his time is spent working as a marketing professional in Mumbai for over 8 years, where he honed his writing skill. He self-published his first novel Collapse of the Hive in 2019; a book that reimagined the future of the world with the looming environmental crisis. He’s constantly working on new stories to put out in the world, but a crippling anxiety of is-it-good-enough stops him.

He is also part of a writer’s group called Blank Point and he runs a passion project called Letters of War – an Instagram page that showcases letters written by Indian soldiers taking part in WW1.