1917

Roy Lawler

December 7, 1917

13:41

To: Mr. Roy Lawler

The war is not going to end any time soon. I honestly don't believe that I will last for the duration of the year. We are all worn out soldiers, with no more soles to our shoes. I cannot sleep right knowing that bombs could rain down at any moment. I prayed for rain on Joan's behalf, but what a harsh sense of humor the Lord has. This constant artillery bombardment is killing without any warning, and I have seen many a good man succumb to the light. I look at the faces of the men still standing beside me, and I notice the change in their eyes. They don't feel, just act according to instinct. They don't live, they survive. I wonder if I look like them, lifeless and without hope. As aforementioned, I have seen many fall in battle, but I have only recently witnessed a friend die. His name was Whitney. John Whitney. A boy of eighteen so eager to fight for his country that he would lie about his true age. What a foolish boy, to give up his life of pleasantry for a world of pain. Or perhaps he should be called courageous to show such a devotion to his country. Over here, we engage in trench warfare. The trenches mean sure death; daily life in the trenches drive men insane. Let one single hair on your head show, and dirt is flying, as well as your limbs and weapons. Older soldiers have wounded themselves to only not go back there. I am afraid. On the morrow, I will be sent to the god-forsaken trenches.

Sincerely,

Private Anthony Harvey