18th Dec 1917
Dearest Diary,
I don't know how much longer we can survive in this trench. The smell of death and decay assaults my nostrils and attacks my eyes. We are overrun with rats and our attempts to cull them have been futile. The little sleep I get is filled with nightmares of invasion, flashes of the horrors I have witnessed over these past three and a half years, and the fear of not returning to my family - or not having a family to return to. Every day I think of my beautiful, loving wife, my dashing son and my charming daughter. I fantasize about returning home for Christmas, seeing the pure joy on their faces as I walk through the door; embracing them all; my love flowing through my veins. Yes, it is Christmas in exactly one week. It feels more like Doomsday, but we are all trying our best to keep each other's spirits up. We sit with each other, reminiscing about our lives at home before we were ordered into this hellhole. We remember our wedding days with much glee, we shed a tear thinking back to the birth of our children and we laugh over family gatherings past, just a distant memory now. I remember, with much fondness, the last Christmas I spent with my family. My son, Fred, was three years old - he's seven now - and my girl, Martha, was just a baby - one month old. She was only eight months old when I left. It pains me to think that my daughter does not know me in person as she was too young to remember me. All she has to go on are her mother's memories of me as we never had enough money to afford a camera. I only hope that when - if - I return, she will recognise me as her father, just as Fred will. I hope he will, anyway.
Dearest Diary, I must leave for now as paper is running low on supply and it is getting too dark to write. Farewell for now, I shall write in you again when we have another rare moment of ceasefire. Goodnight.
