WW1 Trenches
My dearly beloved parents,
I have not written to you in quite some time, but not a day goes by I am not thinking about you. Much time has passed, but I don't suspect I'll be home by Christmas. Our soldiers are exhausted. Days are spent walking knee deep in mud and worse, sometimes waist deep in mud. Many of the men need rest but there is a war that has just begun. My sleeps are less than one hour at a time but I am constantly interrupted by the violent images I have witnessed.
The conditions here are horrific. Rats the size of cats are festering in the trenches. These rodents are polluted with disease, on the look out for relinquished remains left in these pits. Some of the boys attempt to club them to death or stab them with their bayonets for fun. It helps to distract us for a little while. On our free time, most men attend to personal matters such as reading, cleaning personal equipment or writing home. There is not much else we can do.
The lice are far worse than the rats; living everywhere and impossible to rid, many of the men have begun shaving their heads just for some relief. Although I will miss my dark black flow of hair, I will not miss the unbearable itching.
We have grown used to the offensive stench circulating our surroundings, an unavoidable odour from an abundance of sources. Most of us soldiers have not been given the luxury of washing up in weeks. Smells such as rotting sandbags, cigarette smoke and cordite are only few of the pugnant stenches we soldiers have grown used to. Countless decomposing men lay lifeless on the battlefields and I can only hope I will not become of them.
Numerous men avoid getting their feet wet in fear of trench foot. I've heard about it and some say the pain of a bullet is far more wished for than the intolerable pain of your feet swelling to the point of possible amputation. If you're lucky you may walk out with both feet. But although it is inevitable, we try our best to be quick and avoid sinking any
I have not written to you in quite some time, but not a day goes by I am not thinking about you. Much time has passed, but I don't suspect I'll be home by Christmas. Our soldiers are exhausted. Days are spent walking knee deep in mud and worse, sometimes waist deep in mud. Many of the men need rest but there is a war that has just begun. My sleeps are less than one hour at a time but I am constantly interrupted by the violent images I have witnessed.
The conditions here are horrific. Rats the size of cats are festering in the trenches. These rodents are polluted with disease, on the look out for relinquished remains left in these pits. Some of the boys attempt to club them to death or stab them with their bayonets for fun. It helps to distract us for a little while. On our free time, most men attend to personal matters such as reading, cleaning personal equipment or writing home. There is not much else we can do.
The lice are far worse than the rats; living everywhere and impossible to rid, many of the men have begun shaving their heads just for some relief. Although I will miss my dark black flow of hair, I will not miss the unbearable itching.
We have grown used to the offensive stench circulating our surroundings, an unavoidable odour from an abundance of sources. Most of us soldiers have not been given the luxury of washing up in weeks. Smells such as rotting sandbags, cigarette smoke and cordite are only few of the pugnant stenches we soldiers have grown used to. Countless decomposing men lay lifeless on the battlefields and I can only hope I will not become of them.
Numerous men avoid getting their feet wet in fear of trench foot. I've heard about it and some say the pain of a bullet is far more wished for than the intolerable pain of your feet swelling to the point of possible amputation. If you're lucky you may walk out with both feet. But although it is inevitable, we try our best to be quick and avoid sinking any