Copyright 2012-2014 by J.T. Lewis
June 17, 1918
The current rise of temperature has brought out the stench of human waste in our little trench home. I fear my feet will rot in my boots from sloughing around in it constantly as we hunker over to avoid the enemy’s bullets.
Seems there is always someone available over there to fling bullets our way, some with deadly effect.
Willy Jones caught one yesterday, I was with him as he passed. Never have I seen such fear expressed in someone’s eyes as when he took his last breath. I had to work to remove his hands from my tunic after he grabbed my collar at the end. A desperate attempt to hold on to his life I suppose.
Was the fear in his eyes from his lack of belief in anything after this life, or the certainty of it?
I pray often…hoping there is something….someone there listening. But it seems less likely the longer I live in this hell.
And yet…it’s the only hope I have.
I closed the old leather journal, taking a moment to trace my finger across the strange tooled cross on the front of it. Gabriel’s cross they had always called it, my grandfather Gabriel.