The Letter

Dear family,

            I write to you now in hopes that this letter will truly reach you. It was amazing how I found this paper, for I’ve been saving this pencil, a last resort if you will. The bombs are dropping all around us, shattering the silence and taking lives. There isn’t enough food; who doesn’t die on the field dies by starvation. Not even the rats can find a morsel to eat; without doubt they’d turn cannibalistic if they didn’t seek the dead. I know I must go out to fight soon, for the lull in this nightmare is almost over. Those men come charging across the no-man’s-land, struck by bombs and having their life ripped from their mutilated bodies, but probably not fast enough.

            The dying screams fought to be heard above the thundering booms and angry ratta tat of the machine gun. I saw them, they were there on the barbwire, fighting for their lives but being picked off one by one like we did so mercilessly to the caught avian back home. This place is a slaughter house, a meat grinder where lives are thrown away uselessly. This war was a foolish, zany, and utterly suicidal nightmare that they claimed was a dream. I wish I could wake up and find it all over, but it’s not.

            Someone brought cards, and while our fidgeting hands go about the game a bomb will strike and dust will rain down. My companions are slowly falling into a self-destruction and insanity. I try to read and block out their whimpering, but not even a book will take me from this nightmare. I haven’t bathed in months; I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in even longer. When food does come we all break into a chaotic mad house as each scrambles for a bite to eat. I wish this fool’s war would end; I miss you all so much. All I can do is hope that I live through this nightmare, but then again, maybe death would be the sweeter escape. I’ll fight to the end, may the world have mercy on me.

P.S. Write back soon, the normal is a cool drink of water, something else I haven’t had in so long…