Ww1 Letter from a Soldier

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Dear Annie, I am writing this letter to you from one of the support trenches, about half a mile back from the front line in Belgium. I am sorry that I have not been able to write properly to you for the past few weeks, but you can probably guess how it is out here. Everywhere you look, dead bodies are piling up, as we (our battalion) sit here, there is an almost constant flow of dead and injured soldiers from the front. When you hear about the glorious victories achieved by our boys, don't forget that we are losing men too; it is so depressing to hear the numbers at roll calls gradually going down. Whether you, or the man who is next to you dies, and also when it happens is completely random, there is no justice to it; great men, generous, cheerful men, who are lights to us all, they just disappear without warning, just like everyone else. It is impossible to get any real sleep here; yes you can shut your eyes, and call that being asleep, but you never really relax; there is always the fear lingering over you that the Boche might overrun the trenches at any time, the lice moving over my body, or that the perpetual thunder of the shells crashing down on the trenches might start to move in this direction, and the whistling projectiles might start slamming into the ground around you, throwing mountains of earth into the sky, or releasing their deadly cargoes of choking, blinding, gas into your lungs. Sometimes you do not take your boots off for days and days on end, and when you do, you suffer from Trench Foot, a rotting disease. The conditions here are worse than you could imagine; when it snows, it is so bitterly cold that quite a few of us get gangrene. But the worst thing is that generally the drainage in the trenches is awful - when the snow melts, it has nowhere to go to, the ground is already sodden, and so huge puddles build up. But they
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