Father, Son & Bigfoot fight in the trenches on the Western Front

14 min readSep 21, 2021

Author’s note: One of the advantages of the epistolary format in fiction is the fluidity, nuance and subtlety it affords the writer in terms of telling narrative truths. The following passages illustrate that the same character discussing the same incident can portray it in myriad ways depending on whether he’s speaking to himself (his diary), his wife, or fellow soldiers. Epistolary writing equips authors with the tools to illuminate the multiple “faces” or facets that people present to the world in much the same way an anthropologist uses ethnography or participant observation.

At its best, this affords us the opportunity to give fictionalized characters a richness, texture and depth of complexity that real human beings possess; it shows us how people are fraught with contradictions, paradoxes, and motives that may not make sense unless multiple contexts of their behavior are revealed and examined. It also muddies the waters between facts, truth, and lies as objectively stated, opening the door to subjective realties where uncertainty is the rule and questions regarding motivation are often inconclusive. This may drive some readers mad. My goal is to have readers feel that — whether or not my stories are filled with mystical creatures — they’re getting an intimate perspective into how people think and act, especially under duress, in impossible situations, and as the unwilling victims of incompetent leaders.

September 19th, 1916

American Ambulance Hospital. The Somme. Battle of Flers–Courcelette. 3rd Guards Brigade, Delta Battalion, B Company, F Platoon. Letter from Lieutenant Horace S. Browntrout to his wife Effie Browntrout.

I am just sitting down to write after having survived my first skirmish on the Western Front. The Somme is a lovely little river but Stanley and I haven’t had much time to enjoy it. They made Stanley a sergeant in my platoon.

The work of a lieutenant is actually quite simple. Major Ellingson yells at Captain Davis that we’re “going over the top.” Then I pull out my revolver, fire a shot in the air and tell Sergeant Stanley to blow a whistle. Then I climb a ladder and yell, “Come on everyone, it’s perfectly fine! We’ll all just go for a little stroll.” Somehow or other they all follow me into No Man’s Land, which I’m sure you heard about — it’s a rather depressing place, filled with holes…and people…well, former people. At any rate, the whole gang follows me into No Man’s Land — Stanley included — or else they get shot. Or so says Major Ellingson. Loudly. And frequently. And with a very red and puffed out face. The irony, as I learned quickly, is that they get shot anyway. They meaning “we.”

Now please don’t be too cross with me darling! It’s VERY difficult not to get shot, what with being a platoon leader out ahead of everyone else with nothing but a pistol and a big, hairy Saysquack looming behind me. Added to that, I’m expected to literally lead the men to a particular location. “Forward” is not good enough. Dashed if I can read a military map to save my life! Or anyone’s. They make those things with awfully fine print and very difficult to read and one can never tell if an X is supposed to represent your own trench, enemy artillery, or if it was a mistake that Major Ellingson simply crossed out with a pencil.

The wonders of technology never cease, it seems. One of those wonders is a new war machine, a fighting behemoth called a “tank” that can lob bombs and bullets and is virtually indestructible. The one drawback of this machine is that it’s very difficult to control or direct (or see out of), so even though only our side has them, a few of them came upon my platoon in No Man’s Land and attacked us, thinking we were Germans. Thankfully, they stopped in time to spare Stanley and I, but not before they gave me a bit of a scratch. All it means is that I get a vacation before going back into action and have more time to read and write letters to you, so we can be thankful for that, yes? Stanley and I have also been put up for DSO’s (Distinguished Service Order medals).

Your somewhat ruffled but otherwise well,

Hory-Bory

October 17th, 1916

Letter to Effie Harris Browntrout from Edith Roosevelt (wife of Theodore Roosevelt)

Dear Mrs. Browntrout,

I know our husbands have had their quarrels in the past, and I pray you won’t find me out of line in reaching out to you. I just wanted to tell you that we heard about your husband and son’s service at the front. Our own children ache to serve — to say nothing of poor Theodore, who makes machine gun and bomb sounds in his sleep. We also saw that Stanley the Saysquack is with him; we wish him well too. Our hearts go with you all as you face this menace to freedom and know that we long to join them. Our daughter Ethel has joined them. She has been serving at the American Ambulance Hospital as a nurse since the outbreak of the war. Ethel informed us that she treated an officer with an unusual last name along with a giant ape-man, Bigfoot or Saysquack who required a special bed be built for him. It did not take many inquiries to determine that your husband Horace was the man with whom her father once had a rainforest rivalry over the very creature laying in the bed next to him.

I will take the risk of sharing news you may have already heard, since letters from the war often arrive late or not at all. Horace was hit in the shoulder and abdomen by machine gun fire — which apparently came from our own side, from a new type of armored vehicle (which Theodore tells me is called a “tank”), the drivers of which were lost or confused. Stanley was also hit, but not quite as badly; he carried Horace until the tank driver could be made to slow down. The wounds both received small miracles: they missed arteries, bone and major muscle tissue before exiting the body. They are both expected to recover soon and be back at the front lines. I do hope you heard this information from Horace before you heard it from me.

Know that our children bear Horace no ill will for what happened between him and Theodore and consider the matter closed. Some of Ethel’s colleagues even asked Horace and Stanley to autograph Horace’s book. Stanley loves to play “Go Fish” and smoke cigarettes with the rest of the wounded men and his uncomplaining and speedy recovery is a great source of hope and inspiration. Horace too, has brought good cheer to the wards. He and Stanley put on an “education show” with improvised materials and hand puppets as a way to pass the time and amuse the men. When Horace learned that Ethel was Theodore’s daughter, he was especially tender with her and said that if she needed for anything she should think of him as her “war father” and he would do his best to perform any service that Theodore could render — though knowing full well he could never live up to the standards he’d set.

What history will make of Horace and Theodore, I cannot say. There are those who say Horace is a villain and Theodore is a hero, and some who say the reverse. But ultimately, they are just two men who became caught up in their quest to write the history the Saysquack — to not just write it, but make it. It is a history that is still being made. Perhaps it will be the Saysquacks who will write their own history one day, if only someone will show them how.

At any rate, along with this letter please find a box of Belgian chocolates. They were among the last made before the war began so they’re a bit stale, but they’re still sweet and held up well and that’s what counts. I have sent some on to Horace as well. I hope you are bearing your heavy share of these burdens well, in these troubled times we live in. However you are, know that you are not alone.

Your friend,

Edith Roosevelt

September 19th, 1916

American Ambulance Hospital. Battle of Flers–Courcelette. 19th Guards Brigade, Delta Battalion, B Company, F Platoon. Diary of Lieutenant Horace S. Browntrout

I was hit when I stopped to read the map. Stanley — our platoon’s Lewis Gun man — set up his machine gun near me to provide cover fire. He really is the envy of all. He’s so strong that he can hold and fire a Lewis Gun in each arm at the same time whilst carrying a third one on his back, along with several extra pans of ammunition. Normally, one of these guns takes seven men to operate it.

Well, as I was puzzling over the map, Stanley, “umphed!” rather urgently and tugged at my uniform. When I looked up, he was pointing at several metal, armored contraptions rumbling towards us at a high rate of speed. They lumbered forwarded awkwardly yet quickly and looked rather like detached train cars on castors. One lobbed a bomb at us, but missed by a few dozen yards. Another fired a high-calibre machine gun through a gun port whilst belching thick, black puffs of diesel smoke from a hidden engine. Their advance was slowed by shell holes, barbed wire, uneven terrain and the usual bric-a-brac of No Man’s Land.

A half dozen of my men were run down by one of the unseemly contraptions before Stanley could train his Lewis on it and let fly, but wouldn’t you know it? The thing was impervious to gunfire! Of course, I could do nothing but plink away them with my pistol and foul language. More shots from the behemoths took out the rest of my doomed platoon as they scrambled for cover, whilst an exploding shell lifted me off my feet and into another shell hole.

Just as the metal beasts were about to role over us, we saw the Union Flag painted on the sides of the machines and I started singing God Save the Queen. They both rumbled to a stop inches from Stanley and I as we lay prostrate in the mud. A hatch at the top of one of the devices opened and a pale, dirty face appeared with a pair of sheepish, downcast eyes. The man saluted and I saw the stripes on his shirtsleeve. After I returned his salute, he began profusely apologizing for killing nearly every man in my platoon. My ears were ringing and all I could hear were the words, “terrible mix-up,” and “got horribly lost,” and “can’t see a blasted thing out of these bloody holes in here.” After he saw the gash in my side from a shell fragment and bullet holes, he sent for a stretcher bearer and began apologizing even more rapidly.

“That will be all, Sergeant,” was all I could muster. I could see something bright and bulbous attempting to creep out of the abdominal wound. “Stanley,” I whispered hoarsely. Would you be so kind as to keep my intestines from spilling out until help arrives? Thank you kindly.”

Thanks to the ministrations of an excellent field surgeon, I am on the mend and will be right as rain before long!

September 20th, 1916

Casualty Clearing Station/Field Hospital at The Somme. 3rd Guards Brigade, Delta Battalion, B Company, F Platoon. Major Frederick Ellingson. Military Despatch to High Command.

Dear Sirs,

I wish to inform you of the gallantry of an officer and a noncommissioned officer under my command. Lieutenant Browntrout of B Company, F Platoon and his sergeant, Stanley the Saysquack, held off two tanks single-handedly even after the rest of their platoon was decimated by fire. Stanley not only returned fire, but also carried his wounded commanding officer off the battlefield under confusing circumstances. Stanley is a crack Lewis man. He can carry three Lewis guns, lob a Mills bomb 200 yards and carry a man on either shoulder all whilst bolting in a flat out sprint across No Man’s Land without any boots on. If each one of my units could have but one Stanley, we would win the war in a fortnight. I recommend both Sergeant Stanley and Lieutenant Browntrout for Distinguished Service Order medals in recognition of their bravery and dedication to duty under adverse conditions. I also wish to commend the tank commanders they faced for their gallantry and dedication to duty, in continuing to forge ahead into the unknown in spite of being unable to navigate, as well as for their sporting and gentlemanly attitudes when they were informed they were responsible for the unintentional deaths of most of the men in F Platoon. They were awfully good-natured about the entire mix-up, and for that alone they deserve DSO’s. God save the King.

“I say, I do believe we’ve wiped out everything but the rats!”

September 21st, 1916

Cable from High Command to Gen Douglas Haig

Have received request from a Major Ellingson for “a Stanley in every unit.” Supply Officer wishes to requisition 50 Stanleys for 3rd Guards. Also, DSO’s for several officers. Names listed below. Please advise.

September 22nd, 1916