France

April 8th/ 1917

My Dearest Tina,

Excuse me if this letter is written poorly, as I am writing it in the trenches of Vimy. I have received your parcel today, and I was delighted to find more of your cookies, much to the displeasure of Robert; he was sulking for most of the day. It has been over 5 months since I last wrote, and I have to blame it on the generals. We have been training for countless days and nights to prepare for the assault on Vimy Ridge. Over the past few weeks, we have been constantly shelling the German lines, and the troops are very optimistic about the assault.

We have taken every precaution against the Germans, especially their horrible gas weapon, which we dubbed “Mustard Gas”. Just a few days ago, the German’s tried to bombard our trenches, and launched a couple canisters of mustard gas. Still dream about that yellow gas floating towards us, and the panic we felt as we forced on our gas masks. Luckily, there were few casualties however, given that most of the soldiers were in their bunkers when the Germans hit. Unfortunately, as there is always a bad side, Mark didn’t survive. As he was running towards the bunkers, he got hit by pieces of shrapnel in the head, instantly killing him. That was a good thing, I suppose, for I don’t think Mark would have wanted a slow painful death from an infection on the eve of battle.

I must admit, three years in the trenches really did us in. We still joke about our wounds, and our life back in Canada, but the truth is we are all tired from the fighting. Three of the soldiers got caught deserting their posts, and trying to run away; another shot himself in the leg just to avoid the upcoming assault. All four of them were lined on in front of a firing squad on charge of desertion. Watching the procession sent a chill down each of our spines. Day after day, shell-shocked soldiers come back from the battlefield. I pity them, as their minds were totally destroyed. They no longer even act like the men they once were. Others come back missing eyes and limbs. Men die from accidents everyday, and the trench stinks of rotten corpses and waste. We are plagued by rats and lice almost everyday, and most of us have gotten use to living with them. I have come to realize over the years, that war is more horrible than you can imagine. We have stale bread and canned meat for food. What I wouldn’t give just to go back only to enjoy one of mother’s chicken soup.