World War One trench Diary.

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November 166h 1916.

As I lie here in my dug out writing to you, by torchlight, under my lice infested, rat chewed blanket, I suddenly realise just how cold it is in these trenches. I think I don't usually feel it because I am so used to it by now. But after the heavy rain of today the usually cold and damp trench seems much, much worse, in fact I'm not sure if it really qualifies as a trench anymore; it has become more like a collapsing pit of flowing mud, with a few decomposing bodies, whom I once knew as friends and colleagues, thrown in. I sometimes wonder if this is all worth it, there is so much death surrounding me that it has shaken my faith in what I am doing, when I first entered the trenches I was a young lad full of enthusiasm to serve his king and country, but now I often lie here wondering who is more to blame for this war, our government or Germany's. I would however do anything I could to get this war over with as fast as possible, just to get back to good old Blighty, t see my wife and kids again, I would do anything for that. And the food, sweet lord how I miss the food, you know you do when u start drooling over the rare rasher of bacon that makes it here, the smell of it is a god send compared to the usual stenches which fill our lives here, the stench of death is the most unavoidable, it is everywhere you go, like a thick blanket of smell which just descended upon you nose one day and has never left. Your nose is not the only sense under attack here though, oh no, your tongue comes in for a time of it too, not only can you smell the bodies, but it's almost like you can taste it too, the food here is bad enough, all of which already tastes like sand, but every time you sink your teeth into bread or sip your cup of tea you can't help but feel you are some how ingesting you dead comrades that lie sometimes just feet away. I sometimes wish I was actually born German, not because I agree with what they are doing or anything like that, but for...
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