May 15th. Clear, light artillery, occasionally bombs.
Corporal Alfonso was initially pleased with the way his letter, trialed as a letter home but truly a farewell letter, was taking shape. Just as he picked up his pencil contemplating the next sentence, a profound feeling of helplessness caused the pencil to slip from his fingertips. He found it impossible to continue writing.
Cold, damp, boring, suffocating, nauseating—Alfonso could muster a thousand pejorative terms to describe his and his comrades' situation to his family but couldn't think of a single complimentary term that could accurately describe their current circumstances. Even the most bland of compliments written in his campaign diary would make him sick, like seeing rats gnawing at a wounded soldier's toes.
