France, December 1916

My Dearest Mother,
I scarcely know how to begin, for the sights I witness here are not fit for the eyes of those at home. Yet I must write, if only to let you know that I am still alive in this place of endless ruin.
The trenches are nothing but rivers of filth and blood. The mud swallows men whole, sucking them down like quicksand until only a hand or boot remains above the surface. The ground is littered with broken rifles, helmets, and the bodies of comrades who fell days ago and now lie bloated and stiff, their faces twisted and crawling with worms. Some stare with eyes wide open, as though still calling out in terror. Others are torn into pieces by the shells, their limbs scattered like broken dolls. I have seen men carried back who were little more than a sack of torn flesh.
When the bombardments come, the world erupts. The earth shatters under us, flinging men into the air like ragdolls. Shrapnel slices through bodies as if they were paper. The screams of the wounded rise above the thunder, men clutching at wounds that spill their life out into the mud, calling for their mothers, begging for water, for mercy, for the end. The sound of a man drowning in his own blood is something I will never rid from my ears.
Rats the size of cats grow fat here. They gnaw at the corpses, tearing strips from faces and hands, and even crawl over the living as we sleep. One bold creature sank its teeth into a wounded man too weak to push it away. The lice torment us endlessly, burrowing into our seams, leaving us raw and scratching until our skin bleeds.
But it is the nights after an attack that torment me most. Out in No Man’s Land, caught in the wire, the voices of the dying carry through the dark. They call all night for help we cannot give. “Mother… mother…”  that cry echoes above all. By dawn, the voices fall silent, and only the crows and rats move amongst the wire.
Yet, dearest Mother, it is the thought of home that gives me strength. I picture your face, the warmth of the hearth, the sound of the church bell on a Sunday morning. These small memories are the only light in this pit of endless darkness. 
Pray for me, as I pray for the day when I may see you again, though I know the boy you sent away will not be the one who returns.
Your loving son,
Edward.