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Dear Mother,
I write to you from this abhorrent place known as reality. Each passing day, every sleepless night, my thoughts ponder. Wondering why I am here. What is my purpose in life? At the moment, I do not know. I am lost, lost in a sea of forgotten souls, the men that have given their lives for some fruitless war. For now, our general guides us. The bitter saying, "Shoot Fritz or he'll get you first" rings in our ears as we load our rifles, trying to justify the killing of thousands. From amidst this horror lies my sanctuary, home. I press on, fighting for my country, for our country, for the innocent people, for you.
Mother, as I lay at night, picking dirt from my soup, home is all I can think of. I count the days I have spent here, yet no matter how large my time amounts to; it can never be justified.
Looking across the quagmires, there is only one image, Death. Death haunts us; the countless corpses that litter no-mans land prove its power. Forty-nines, the relentless enemy, pulled towards us by gravity- the same ironic force keeps us in this horrid place.
As the mutilating machine-guns fire, a constant reminder of our melancholy life, we look not to the future, but to our immoral past. As our bullets, made by the very same people we are trying to save, pelt into our enemy, the blinding green blanket descends onto us; the caustic cloud destroys our lungs. As we fumble for our masks, we try not to inhale the intoxicating mist. In the latest attack I was fortunate, and did survive, but many didn't, put into a harmful rest by a pungent cloud, eyes fixated onto nothing. The terror is indescribable. But Mother, the cold is far worse. Troops, left emaciated by the stinging cold, battle on, but for what?
My false pretentions are to blame. Misinformed by the newspapers, war was glorified. The reality of war is far from it. We, as troops, press on, bear the terror, the harsh cold, the mutilation of fellow companions, while the generals, who enlisted us, sit behind the lines. Chocolate, food, warmth- what we lack in luxuries, they have an excess of. The irony is soul-destroying.
Mother, I pray now more than I ever thought possible. I pray for you, for our country, for the safety of others and for the enemy.
In time, all I can do is pray. Pray for the future, for our freedom, and for you. I wait for the day when I can see your rosy cheeks- the warmth keeping me alive in this war. But for now, I pray that this horrid war never touches the fair land of our country.
I write to you from this abhorrent place known as reality. Each passing day, every sleepless night, my thoughts ponder. Wondering why I am here. What is my purpose in life? At the moment, I do not know. I am lost, lost in a sea of forgotten souls, the men that have given their lives for some fruitless war. For now, our general guides us. The bitter saying, "Shoot Fritz or he'll get you first" rings in our ears as we load our rifles, trying to justify the killing of thousands. From amidst this horror lies my sanctuary, home. I press on, fighting for my country, for our country, for the innocent people, for you.
Mother, as I lay at night, picking dirt from my soup, home is all I can think of. I count the days I have spent here, yet no matter how large my time amounts to; it can never be justified.
Looking across the quagmires, there is only one image, Death. Death haunts us; the countless corpses that litter no-mans land prove its power. Forty-nines, the relentless enemy, pulled towards us by gravity- the same ironic force keeps us in this horrid place.
As the mutilating machine-guns fire, a constant reminder of our melancholy life, we look not to the future, but to our immoral past. As our bullets, made by the very same people we are trying to save, pelt into our enemy, the blinding green blanket descends onto us; the caustic cloud destroys our lungs. As we fumble for our masks, we try not to inhale the intoxicating mist. In the latest attack I was fortunate, and did survive, but many didn't, put into a harmful rest by a pungent cloud, eyes fixated onto nothing. The terror is indescribable. But Mother, the cold is far worse. Troops, left emaciated by the stinging cold, battle on, but for what?
My false pretentions are to blame. Misinformed by the newspapers, war was glorified. The reality of war is far from it. We, as troops, press on, bear the terror, the harsh cold, the mutilation of fellow companions, while the generals, who enlisted us, sit behind the lines. Chocolate, food, warmth- what we lack in luxuries, they have an excess of. The irony is soul-destroying.
Mother, I pray now more than I ever thought possible. I pray for you, for our country, for the safety of others and for the enemy.
In time, all I can do is pray. Pray for the future, for our freedom, and for you. I wait for the day when I can see your rosy cheeks- the warmth keeping me alive in this war. But for now, I pray that this horrid war never touches the fair land of our country.
Very good story mate, I expect nothing less from you though.
Very good.
Heh.
I originally thought you said, "This shows up IN my American pizza Cheese topic", by which I was confused.
Damn my reading skills.
I originally thought you said, "This shows up IN my American pizza Cheese topic", by which I was confused.
Damn my reading skills.
Dear Mother,
I write to you from this abhorrent place known as reality. Each passing day, every sleepless night, my thoughts ponder. Wondering why I am here. What is my purpose in life? At the moment, I do not know. I am lost, lost in a sea of forgotten souls, the men that have given their lives for some fruitless war. For now, our general guides us. The bitter saying, "Shoot Fritz or he'll get you first" rings in our ears as we load our rifles, trying to justify the killing of thousands. From amidst this horror lies my sanctuary, home. I press on, fighting for my country, for our country, for the innocent people, for you.
Mother, as I lay at night, picking dirt from my soup, home is all I can think of. I count the days I have spent here, yet no matter how large my time amounts to; it can never be justified.
Looking across the quagmires, there is only one image, Death. Death haunts us; the countless corpses that litter no-mans land prove its power. Forty-nines, the relentless enemy, pulled towards us by gravity- the same ironic force keeps us in this horrid place.
As the mutilating machine-guns fire, a constant reminder of our melancholy life, we look not to the future, but to our immoral past. As our bullets, made by the very same people we are trying to save, pelt into our enemy, the blinding green blanket descends onto us; the caustic cloud destroys our lungs. As we fumble for our masks, we try not to inhale the intoxicating mist. In the latest attack I was fortunate, and did survive, but many didn't, put into a harmful rest by a pungent cloud, eyes fixated onto nothing. The terror is indescribable. But Mother, the cold is far worse. Troops, left emaciated by the stinging cold, battle on, but for what?
My false pretentions are to blame. Misinformed by the newspapers, war was glorified. The reality of war is far from it. We, as troops, press on, bear the terror, the harsh cold, the mutilation of fellow companions, while the generals, who enlisted us, sit behind the lines. Chocolate, food, warmth- what we lack in luxuries, they have an excess of. The irony is soul-destroying.
Mother, I pray now more than I ever thought possible. I pray for you, for our country, for the safety of others and for the enemy.
In time, all I can do is pray. Pray for the future, for our freedom, and for you. I wait for the day when I can see your rosy cheeks- the warmth keeping me alive in this war. But for now, I pray that this horrid war never touches the fair land of our country.
I write to you from this abhorrent place known as reality. Each passing day, every sleepless night, my thoughts ponder. Wondering why I am here. What is my purpose in life? At the moment, I do not know. I am lost, lost in a sea of forgotten souls, the men that have given their lives for some fruitless war. For now, our general guides us. The bitter saying, "Shoot Fritz or he'll get you first" rings in our ears as we load our rifles, trying to justify the killing of thousands. From amidst this horror lies my sanctuary, home. I press on, fighting for my country, for our country, for the innocent people, for you.
Mother, as I lay at night, picking dirt from my soup, home is all I can think of. I count the days I have spent here, yet no matter how large my time amounts to; it can never be justified.
Looking across the quagmires, there is only one image, Death. Death haunts us; the countless corpses that litter no-mans land prove its power. Forty-nines, the relentless enemy, pulled towards us by gravity- the same ironic force keeps us in this horrid place.
As the mutilating machine-guns fire, a constant reminder of our melancholy life, we look not to the future, but to our immoral past. As our bullets, made by the very same people we are trying to save, pelt into our enemy, the blinding green blanket descends onto us; the caustic cloud destroys our lungs. As we fumble for our masks, we try not to inhale the intoxicating mist. In the latest attack I was fortunate, and did survive, but many didn't, put into a harmful rest by a pungent cloud, eyes fixated onto nothing. The terror is indescribable. But Mother, the cold is far worse. Troops, left emaciated by the stinging cold, battle on, but for what?
My false pretentions are to blame. Misinformed by the newspapers, war was glorified. The reality of war is far from it. We, as troops, press on, bear the terror, the harsh cold, the mutilation of fellow companions, while the generals, who enlisted us, sit behind the lines. Chocolate, food, warmth- what we lack in luxuries, they have an excess of. The irony is soul-destroying.
Mother, I pray now more than I ever thought possible. I pray for you, for our country, for the safety of others and for the enemy.
In time, all I can do is pray. Pray for the future, for our freedom, and for you. I wait for the day when I can see your rosy cheeks- the warmth keeping me alive in this war. But for now, I pray that this horrid war never touches the fair land of our country.