Dear FatherI have moved again since I uttermost(a) wrote. My platoon has been restationed to Belgium. I received your last letter on the thirty-first of July and I am writing this on the 3rd of portentous 1917. I read your letter while being transported towards Passchendaele, scrawny third battle of Ypres in Belgium. I am now writing this letter in a make-do foxhole with a poncho blanket me so the rain down does not spoil the composition. Writing motif is hard to come by these days, and in the bobble and never ending rain the paper is often wrecked. When we arrived to reinforce the associate troops already stationed here they were under heavy triggerman fire and had not besides finished their trenches. Artillery is the to the highest degree terrible thing. You hear a distant crack of a cannon tinder and thusly a few moments afterwards the shell hits. There is just about no warning and in that location is no trend to tell where the shell will hit. As soon as you he ar the sound of the cannon firing everybody scrambles to get top into the trench, or into some sort of c all over, come out of the water closet of the way of the white hot pieces of metal flying in all directions. Yesterday I was base on balls sand to the supply depot, which involved walking over a variant of duckboards natural covering the mud.
After the endless ordnance and rain the entire theater is one entire quagmire of mud and walking through it is especially dangerous as the craters from artillery are fill with mud and cannot be distinguished from the run-of-the-mill land. Anyway, I was walking back from the s upply depot with over 40 kilograms of suppli! es when my garter Jack slipped over the duckboard and into the mud. Except he just unbroken on sinking and then I realised he had fallen into... If you want to get a full essay, site it on our website:
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