Answer:
Look below
Step-by-step explanation:
Dearest Mother,
This past week of mine has been spent in the trenches, as you’ve probably guessed. I sincerely wish for you to not celebrate my sixteenth birthday in my absence, for I know that it’ll only cause you pain. exposed to on the daily.
My first day was something out of a nightmare. I spent most hours of the day unwinding barbed wire for other soldiers to place in front of our trench, nearly cutting my fingers to mangles in the process. It didn’t help that the trench rats were attracted to the scent of my blood. I could hear guns and bombs exploding during every moment of my consciousness, and even in my sleep I continued to dream about their horrid echoes of death.
We are forced into the trenches out of fear of the machine guns. If we rise onto our feet, we’ll be shot down with a hail of bullets. None of us want to man the gun, for if we do, we’ll be the main target during every enemy assault. No machine-gunner appointed has lived to see the next day.
Aside from the looming reality of death by war, us soldiers are also in danger of starvation. There’s hardly any food here, and the food we do have is so rotten and moldy that only the trench rats will eat them. Good bread is rare… good cheese is a luxury. Most errand men never make it back to the trench, either. We’ve lost many to amputations alone.
While we are drunk on sleep deprivation, we’ve found ways to sneak in a wink during the most unusual of times. I’ve seen men sleeping against the trench, and some even dozing while holding bags of gunpowder to reload the machine guns, and once, though he didn’t last very long at all, a man sleeping at the machine gun itself. War is cruel, dear mother. We fight violently for the hope that we will not have to fight ever again, but I ask you, what is the point of fighting for peace, if fighting is the opposite of what we wish for? I have the blood of many French men on my hands. If one jumps into the trench, it is our duty to stab or shoot him to death. We’ll stack the bodies high before having to burn them, but the rancid smell of their scalding flesh stays for days and weeks on end.
I’ve seen enough horrors in one week to last a lifetime, but I can tell you that from what I’ve seen, I don’t think the war is going to end anytime soon. I’m afraid that when I return home, whether it be from injury or victory, you won’t be able to recognize your own son beyond his flesh and looks. So for this, I apologize. I wish I had never enlisted, but I know that with the men we go through every day, I would’ve found my way into the army sooner or later.
Sincerely, your poet,
Albrecht