Dear Mami and Papi,

We’re in the trenches again today. The sergeant seems to be worked up over something, but I can’t tell what it is. There might be another big offensive coming up, so that’s probably it. I’ve made some friends here, despite everyone at home saying I couldn’t. Some of them are watching me as I write this letter, in fact.

I received Johanna’s mail the other day. I’m glad her pregnancy is going well. When I left, her belly barely seemed any different, but according to her, it is getting harder and harder to roll out of bed every morning because of how big she’s gotten! I hope I am home before Johanna becomes a mami. I’d very much like to be there to give her some support.

Suddenly, my right arm fell into a horrible agonising pain. Through the cast on it, I could see a dark stain growing ever steadily. The bullet inside must have been making itself quite at home embedded within my muscle. Ignoring the pain for the moment, I continued to write.

Anyway, Mami and Papi, I must leave my message off here. Soon, dinner will be served. Bean-stew with bread. Maybe some meat if we find any. For dessert, we will be given fresh biscuits and tea, taken right from a British trench. This will be my first time drinking pure British tea, Mami! I love you all.

-from, Heinrich G.

I deftly tore the page from my notebook, taking care not to rip into the words I’d written. Then, I snapped the notebook shut, tying it closed with the thin piece of string I’d attached to its side. I stood up, swinging my legs over the bar on which I sat, then I leapt over three sleeping bodies on the floor to the exit of our bunker.

“Heinrich, where are you going?” One of the “sleeping” boys asked.

“I’m going to put a letter into the mail. It’s for my parents,” I whispered back. “You should go back to sleep, Otto. If Sergeant Schwenck catches you awake, you’ll be put up for double guard duty tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Otto rolled his eyes at me and fell backward onto his thin sheet of bedding. I held aside the flap covering the entrance to our tent, making my way toward the communication trench that connected the infirmary sector to the main battle-line. It was dimly lit with the dying flames of torches lining each wall. Big white arrows were painted on the wooden slats, pointing the way to each major stop along the entire line. I followed the path that led to our only connection with the outside world: the light rail system. As I was about to round a corner leading to the main trench, I stopped dead in my tracks. Two voices echoed into the night, just barely overtaken by the sounds of very, very distant artillery shellfire.

“...So, get this, man. An American, an Englander, and a Prussian walk into a bar. The barkeep goes to serve them their drinks, right? And then, the three get into a fight. You’ll never guess what the barkeep says next,” one of the men giggles.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“Yeah, yeah, Fritz. The barkeep tells them they’re going to start a world war over who has to pay the tab. We’ve been friends for how long now, and you’ve told the same joke at least ten times.”

Ignoring the pitiful attempt at a joke, I made a dash for the hut built beside the railroad tracks. In it was the post stop, dead silent at this time of night. Quickly, I gathered a stamp, a glob of wax, and an envelope. I folded my letter in half and put it into the envelope. The stamp I held above a nearby candle until it glowed red hot, then I pressed it into the wax atop the envelope. Then—quite proud of my handiwork—I slipped it beneath a small pile of other letters to finish off the secret operation.

I was about to congratulate myself on a successful mission when the sirens sounded. At first, I thought I was hearing things. Then, they got louder; their shrill whine echoing through the trenches. I got down, expecting a hail of shells to come and crush me any second. Instead, a blinding barrage of floodlights from every direction, not focused on me, however. Gazing through the window, I could see the bobbing heads of a wave of men approaching our lines.

An enemy offensive.

Without a second to spare, I threw myself to the floor. My chin bashed against the rough wooden surface, forcing my teeth up and into my tongue. I cried out in pain, but my shriek was drowned out by the tinkling of glass and the splitting of wood and poorly-masoned stone as a grenade exploded beside the mail hut. I had to get out, but before I did, I dug through the upset pile of mail to find my letter, which I folded in half and shoved into the upper left pocket of my blouse.

Then, I ran. Burst through the door, down the nearest trenchline, to a bunker. Any bunker. I didn’t have a weapon, save for the meager butterknife that had—prior to it falling victim to rust—saved me many-a-sandwich. I practically flew through the canvas covering of the bunker and slammed face-first into the chest of a fellow German. He spat expletives at me, which I warded off with a profuse apology.

“Bitte, Kamerad, haben Sie etwas, womit ich mich verteidigen könnte?” Please, comrade, do you have anything I could defend myself with?

The soldier, probably taken aback by my bloodied mouth, shoved a spare G98 into my hands and pushed past me, adjusting his field cap as he went. The bunker heaved under the concussion of each shell that fell around us; dust rained down onto my head from fractures in the ceiling.

It was time for me to go. Swallowing my stomach that had leapt right up into my throat, I heaved my body up and over the edge of the trench and ran.

I ran and ran and ran until my legs couldn’t go anymore. Then, I collapsed into a shellhole for some momentary respite from danger. My breath formed wispy clouds of vapor that curled up and into the air, dissipating after a few seconds. My fingers shivered, gripped firmly around the barrel of my rifle. Looking up, I could see bullets whip past, quicker than the speed of sound. Other soldiers ran right past me, none of them aware of my presence. Some of them were hit. They fell slowly, dramatically, and sank to the ground. They didn’t move again.

I flinched with every impact, and slowly, the realisation settled in. If I didn’t leave this shell hole, I would die. Whether it be drowned in the mud that trickled down ever so often, or fried by a flamethrower.

As I sat there, awaiting an opportunity to escape, a surge of exhaustion overcame me like a tidal wave. My kit suddenly felt as if it weighed hundreds of pounds, not to mention the rifle which may just well have been made of pure lead. My eyelids drooped, no matter how much I tried to force them open. I drifted further and further into unconsciousness, and then…

Lights out.