Before I left your care and marched to the frontline, I’d heard stories of soldiers in war. The pride of our nation, the bravest of the brave. I never missed a chance to hear one of Father’s tales about how honourable his comrades were. I was idolising men I’d never known or met. Mother, I’m not brave, I’m not honourable and I deserve no mention in any war story. None of us do.
Another man, young like me, sat across the battlefield in a trench very similiar to ours, writing out letters to family and friends, just like me but in another language. Do these sound like things a man should be killed for? Reasons that justify why I killed this man? I don’t believe so. There is no glory in war, I hate my Father for making me believe his lies.
I’m going over the top soon, I don’t expect to come back, I don’t want to, I do not deserve to. What I want to do, is say sorry to the man I murdered.
All my Love.