A Letter Home From a Guernseyman on the Front

In the chaos of the First World War, the voices that reach us most clearly are often the simplest — the words of ordinary soldiers writing home. One such voice is that of Private C. Cooper of the 2nd Dorset Regiment, part of the Poona Division, who wrote to his parents in Guernsey from the battlefields of Turkey in Asia. His letter offers a stark, unfiltered glimpse into the brutal reality of the campaign.

Private Cooper explains that his regiment had already taken “a good many places and prisoners”, but at a terrible cost. Around 50 men had been killed, and about 200 wounded. He was among those injured.

“I got shot through the knuckles and the bullet went through my hand into my wrist and stopped there. I have had the bullet taken out since.”

Despite the severity of the wound, Cooper remained remarkably optimistic. He believed he would recover within a few weeks, though at the time he still couldn’t lift his hand or fingers. What comes through most strongly, however, is his sense of sheer luck — and the horror he had witnessed.

“I am the luckiest man alive, as the other poor chaps were falling down on my right and left, never to get up again.

I have never waited for death like I did that day.”

The ferocity of the fighting left him convinced that escape was impossible. Bullets flew so densely around him that he describes waiting for death as if it were inevitable. Yet somehow, he survived.

Even in the face of such danger, Cooper’s determination did not falter. His letter contains a mix of grim resolve and the hardened humour of a soldier facing the unimaginable:

“Never mind, we killed hundreds of them, and the others retired in different places. We are on a hospital ship now. Roll on; let’s have another rub at them, as it’s only once to die.”

It is difficult to imagine the exhaustion behind those words — a man wounded, frightened, and yet ready to return to the line as soon as he is able.

He ends with a reflection on the broader situation:

“Turkey is nearly done for now; a lot of them are giving themselves up.”

For his family back in Guernsey, receiving such a letter must have been both a relief and a shock: relief that their son was alive, and shock at the unimaginable violence he had endured.

Private Cooper’s letter stands today as a vivid reminder of the human cost of war — a single voice carrying across continents and over a century to tell us what it truly meant to fight, survive, and hope in the most desperate of circumstances.