Koritsimou,
I wish that I could write to you. I would not tell you of the trenches filled with fetid water, the harsh wind which forever besets us even when our enemy’s guns are silent. Nor would I tell of the rats and the stench, the endless death and those driven mad by it all. I would merely tell you that I love you.
At first, when we all arrived in this wretched place, none of us could make out the enemy, as the fog shrouded them. We soon learnt how to use the fog to our advantage, keeping quiet and clear of the enemy’s lines. We didn’t have much choice. We lost 13 men that first day,...
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