The trip from the hospital to my new post wasn't long, but it gave me time to reflect. As I stared out to sea on the ferry and later on out the window of the train rattling through the countryside, I tried to reconcile the fragments of my past lives. The war I now lived in wasn't something I studied in school; it was raw, visceral, and entirely too real. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw those two months as if I was living them again.
When the train slowed to a halt near a bustling station just miles from the front, I disembarked into chaos. Supplies were being loaded, officers barked orders, and wounded soldiers shuffled by in grim silence. My orders directed me to a mobile photographic unit attached to an intelligence section, and after some confusion, I found myself in a makeshift barracks where a group of soldiers lounged around a wooden table.
One of them, a wiry man with a crooked grin, looked up. "Oi, fresh meat," he called out, and the others chuckled.
"Lance Corporal Jameson," I said, straightening. "I believe I've been assigned to this unit."
The wiry man stood and offered a hand. "Sergeant Collins. You'll fit in fine, mate. We've been short-staffed for months. Hope you know your way around a darkroom, 'cause these other sods barely knew which way to hold a camera at first."
Over the next few days, I settled in. The unit was a not-so-ragtag group of misfits. There was Sergeant Collins, sharp-tongued but fair; Private O'Malley, an Irishman with a quick wit and a knack for getting into trouble; and Corporal Davies, a reserved but brilliant photographer whose glass plates captured the war's brutal beauty.
By the time I reached the Somme in mid-1916, the offensive was already infamous. Our job was to document trench systems, enemy fortifications, and the aftermath of battles from a mix of ground and aerial photography.
The darkroom truck was a cramped haven of chemicals, glass plates, and faint red light. It felt oddly comforting, like slipping into a forgotten corner of myself.
One day, as shells thundered in the distance, I developed a set of aerial photographs. The images revealed lines of barbed wire, craters, and the shattered remnants of a village. Collins leaned over my shoulder, muttering, "We'll be sending boys into that? Bloody madness."
"Lions, led by lambs," I replied, my voice bitter.
One would think that quote, with all its power, would have prompted someone to stop, to take a moment to ponder it, but this wasn't a movie; this was real. Everyone just carried on with their work.
During lulls in the fighting, we'd swap stories. O'Malley once asked me about the Easter Rising, his voice tinged with a mix of anger and pride. "Would you have stopped it, Jameson, if you could?"
I hesitated, the weight of my dual memories pressing down. "Maybe. But revolutions are like wildfires. Even if you put one out, the spark lingers." In all honesty, I was conflicted since my mum had been Irish in another life, but knowing the amount of death and suffering that was to come, it just didn't really seem to matter, did it?.
He nodded, but the tension between us lingered. The war had drawn men like him into its maw, even as they dreamed of a free Ireland.
In April 1917, we moved to Arras. The offensive was a mix of triumph and tragedy, and our unit worked tirelessly to map newly captured ground. It was here I met Lieutenant Thompson, a stoic officer with a keen mind for tactics. He often visited our darkroom, studying photographs for enemy weaknesses.
One evening, as the lamps burnt low, Thompson and I shared a rare moment of quiet. "You've a sharp eye, Jameson," he said, examining a print. "This work saves lives."
"It also takes them," I countered.
He didn't reply, but the weight of our unspoken agreement hung heavy in the air. The work was grueling. Long hours hunched over trays of developer left my hands raw and my mind weary. Yet, in those darkened moments, I felt a strange clarity. The images we captured told the story of a war no one would soon forget.
By mid-1917, we were deployed to the Ypres salient for the Third Battle of Ypres. Passchendaele was a nightmare of mud and blood. Our darkroom truck struggled to navigate the quagmires, and more than once, we had to haul it free by sheer force. The conditions were soul-crushing. Rain turned the battlefield into a morass where men drowned in mud. Despite the horrors, we worked relentlessly, documenting every inch of the terrain.
One night, as I developed plates by lantern light, O'Malley stumbled in, covered in muck. "You won't believe it," he said, handing me a camera. "German positions, clear as day. Got it from a downed balloon."
The images were remarkable, showing trench lines and artillery emplacements in stark detail. But the cost of obtaining them was written across O'Malley's face: exhaustion, fear, and a lingering sense of doom.
By late 1917, the war had become a blur of battles and blurred loyalties. My dual memories often collided, leaving me questioning my identity. Was I a soldier? A chemist? A man out of time?
One thing was clear: the war was reshaping me. The camaraderie of my unit, the weight of our work, and that sense that I was inside the relentless march of history all left indelible marks. As the new year approached, I resolved to endure. Whatever came next, I'd face it with the resilience forged in the trenches and the darkroom alike.
The months that followed Passchendaele tested every ounce of resilience I had left. By early 1918, our unit was transferred to the Italian Front. The Alpine scenery was breathtaking, a stark contrast to the muddy hellscapes of Ypres. Yet the beauty masked a brutal reality: high-altitude warfare brought its own horrors.
Our darkroom truck, modified for mobility, groaned as it climbed the steep, icy trails of the Dolomites. Snow blanketed the terrain, and frostbite was as much an enemy as the Austro-Hungarians. Despite the cold, the work continued.
"Looks like a bloody postcard," O'Malley muttered one morning as we surveyed a valley below. His voice carried a mix of awe and weariness.
"Until the shells start falling," Davies added grimly.
Our task was to document enemy positions for an upcoming offensive. The clear air made for crisp photography, but it also meant visibility worked both ways. One afternoon, as we developed plates in the truck, a shell struck nearby, shaking the entire vehicle.
"That was too close," Collins said, his usually steady hands trembling as he retrieved a plate from the developer.
The offensive, when it came, was swift and brutal. Watching men charge across snow-covered peaks under relentless artillery fire left scars deeper than any physical wound. Yet, our work helped guide the way. By early March, the Austro-Hungarians were pushed back, and our unit was reassigned.
In March 1918, the Germans launched their Spring Offensive, a desperate gamble to end the war before American reinforcements tipped the scales. We were redeployed to the Western Front, where chaos reigned.
It was generally sensed at this point we were guaranteed to win the war, and the American entry only made that feeling ironclad.
The photographic unit worked tirelessly, capturing images of rapidly shifting front lines. The pace was relentless; trenches changed hands within hours, and the constant movement made setting up the darkroom nearly impossible.
During one chaotic week, I found myself exposed to enemy fire while trying to retrieve a downed aerial camera. Crawling through mud and barbed wire, I narrowly avoided a sniper's bullet. When I finally returned to the unit, covered in filth and clutching the precious camera, Collins shook his head. "You've got a death wish, mate."
I laughed it off; in all honesty, that hadn't even fazed me. I definitely had changed.
Despite the Germans' initial successes, their advance eventually stalled. The Allies regrouped, bolstered by fresh troops and resources. The tide was turning.
By August, we were part of the Allied counteroffensive at Amiens. I knew it would eventually be dubbed the "Black Day of the German Army"; it marked the middle of the end. Tanks rolled forward in coordinated assaults, supported by waves of infantry.
Our unit played a crucial role in documenting the destruction of German defenses. One evening, as I developed images of shattered artillery positions, Thompson entered the darkroom.
"Good work, Jameson," he said, studying the prints. "These… These will help ensure we keep pushing."
There was a quiet determination in his voice, a resolve shared by everyone.
The final months of the war were a blur of relentless advances. The Hundred Days Offensive saw the Allies break through German lines repeatedly, forcing them into a full retreat. Our unit documented every step, from the liberation of villages to the capture of enemy strongholds.
By November, rumours of an armistice spread like wildfire. On the morning of the 11th, as the guns fell silent, a strange stillness settled over the battlefield. We stood together outside the darkroom truck, staring at the horizon. "It's over," Davies said, his voice barely above a whisper.
O'Malley let out a shaky laugh. "About bloody time."
But for me, the silence was deafening. The war had consumed so much of us. What remained? This was supposedly the war to end all wars, yet I knew it would be pointless.