Dear Mother,

A quick note.


I feel quite well, but for the rats,

That nibble loudly on our hats,

And gloves you packed so carefully,

Though strength I have none mentally

To see another comrade fall

As though his bones were nought at all

And die in pain upon the ground,

With tell-tale sign of rifle round.

The shells bombard us through the day,

And in our hole we sit and pray,

That none shall land upon our spot,

Resulting from some lucky shot.

But mother dear, I now must stop,

We’re due to climb up o’er the top,

And if I should survive the fray,

I’ll write you back some other day.


Lots of love,

Private James Todd



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