The war is stressful. The Germans are unrelenting in their assaults on our great land of France, and they gain more land everyday. However, we French are not to be trifled with, for we are giving them a hard time of it; countless Germans have fallen in their reckless charges. I have personally seen hundreds die, but the airplane scouts report fields littered with corpses, easily numbering in the tens of thousands. I would laugh in the face of the Germans and their commanders for using such outdated strategies, but our own commanders are equally foolish and mirror the Krauts' tactics.
Every day is the same, but different. Pitiful areas of land are gained and lost, and still people die. Both sides sit in their trenches, waiting for the other to make a move... the Germans usually go first. They charge with their bayonets and attempt to throw grenades into our trenches, but they are mostly gunned down by our artillery and rifles. Yet, some make it through, and woe is the soldier who's trench has a poison canister lobbed into it; a grenade can take several seconds to explode, giving us time to throw it back, take cover, or run away...but a gas canister usually begins to extrude its poison death while in midair, so that gas instantly covers the area it lands. We have gas masks, but not all of us are quick. Jean Luc, from our village, got his mask tangled up in his backpack while panicking and...he did not make it. It appeared a most painful death, as he coughed and coughed as though he was permanently choking. Please, lie to his parents and tell them that he died in a valiant effort to save his fellow comrades, and that we owe our lives to him; no one should have to know that their son died painfully due to bad luck.
I find myself numbing. I have seen countless comrades and enemies die, but they feel the same to me. One death is just one more soul lost in this hell of explosions, gunshots, and gas attacks. At this point, I care only for my own survival, which seems uncertain at best. I have grown so used to the battlefield that I almost cannot differentiate it from real life... just the other day, a soldier slammed down his canteen after a good gulp of water, but I heard it as an explosion... I screamed and ducked in cover, awaiting my certain doom. At another time, a soldier behind me dropped his helmet on the hard floor. To me, it sounded like a gunshot, and so I took out my gun and whipped around, ready to face enemies, yet succeeding only in scaring my comrade. The sound of artillery firing has become a lullaby to me, as it is present whenever I try to sleep. Even when the guns are silent and all is quiet, I hear the screams and sounds of war inside my head. In truth, I fear for my sanity. I am alive, but I am not well. If by some miracle I live out this war and find myself back at home, I doubt I will be the same young boy you used to know.
I hope that the farm is doing well, and I am ensured by the paymasters that my wage is being sent home. How is mother's illness? She seemed to be on an upturn when I left for basic training. Do continue to take care of Jac and don't tell him the truth of the war... my little brother should not have to hear of such horrors. In fact, drill it into his head that he wishes no part in war, for the pay is bad, the commanders are worse, and the land gains are so trivial that I fear thousands have died for nothing.
Your eldest son with love,
Marc L'graus
PS: I have acquired a pencil and surplus paper, and endeavored to sketch a drawing for your eyes. Enclosed is my latest piece and that which I have deemed as an accurate depiction of the war from my eyes.
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