The Diary Entry of a WW1 Soilder.
sorry if these words are scrawled. My hands are shaking with the
adrenline. These dark, trench walls seem to be closing in on me,
suffocating me. All I can smell is thick, dank smoke. Splatters
of crimson blood drip here and there. I cannot bear to look. The
sky is a dull grey, rain soaking my hair and clothes.
frozen to the bone. I am worried because I have lost feelings in
both my legs, and it pains me to walk. My hands are as purple as
the magled bodies lying about. I see rats the size of dogs
attacking dismembered limbs, and the sight is almost to much to
bear. Tatters of army uniform, like my own, are flown about
everywhere as I peep above the trench. Thick, gasey aromas make
my stomach churn as I do so. Some gets trapped in my windpipe and
I splutter. Each time I do, I am terrified that I will see dark
All I can
hear are exploding bombs, muffled by the trench and the screams
of agony. They carry on throughout the night, and I go made from
the constant cries of death. You can feel death here. It's mixed
with the smells, seeped into the walls, dripped into the mud.
Every hour, someone I know, well, knew, and respected
died. The greif is now numbness. I cannot feel it anymore. I
think about my family, day and night. My mind whizzes from: 'Will
I die tomorrow' to 'how is my sister doing with her studies'.
Telling the difference between sunlight and moonlight has become
almost impossible now. the remaining friends I have now cling to
life like a limpet in a stormy sea.
discuss many things, from family to the guns on our
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