April 21, 1918
Somewhere in Germany
Dear Baba,
I know I shouldn't have gone to war. I'm sorry I went against your wishes, but you'd be surprised at all the new things I'm learning here. I now know how to deconstruct and reconstruct several firearms. I also know the different kinds of German beer (along with learning that I don't like alcohol).
But now that I'm laying in an infirmary, shells dropping just outside, I've learned one last thing, from the man next to me. Dulce Et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori. It's Latin for "it is sweet and right to die for your country". So many people believe in this here, so I've slipped in to the mindset as well, but I can't help but be reminded of home. Buying the restaurant's papers every day, being able to do what I like with my time, your gumbo and not to mention sunlight. I miss it all, and I hope I make it home, but don't be surprised if I don't.
The nurses don't think my stomach will get past the infection, they say I'm unhealthily underweight and losing strength every day. I had to have Casey write this for me. I'm sorry I left home, Baba, but dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.
Love,
Jayce H
YOU ARE READING
Short Stories
General FictionSome short stories based on characters created by myself and my friend. ((Strong language warning))
