Its was hell. That's the best way to describe it- it was muddy, frozen hell.
November 18th, 1915
I've arrived at the trenches of the Western Front. It's much worse than they make it seem back in Berlin; here, you feel firsthand the pouring rain and burning sun. You see the dead rot. These damn ditches crawl with disease and insects, lice and frostbite alike eat away at our skin. I swear if not for the weapons I would think these trenches to be a mass grave.
I'm so sorry I won't be home for Christmas; when we arrived, my comrades and I thought we would have finished this war weeks ago. Yet still, those damn simpering French franzacke and snot-nosed British Tommies. They don't give up, even when it is clear that neither of us know how to continue this damn war. Every charge is slaughter.
Please Alice, visit my family this Christmas. Tell them I'm alright; that I'll be home in the spring. I love you my dear, I promise I'll return safely.
My true time to shine will be in WWII when I can call the French "garlic eating surrender monkeys"