1915

You sighed as you entered home as you sifted through your mail that the mailman delivered to you. You didn't think just moving in to your new home in Small Heath that you'd already have mail.

There was one that gave you pause as you looked down at it... Nice handwriting on the front of the envelope, it unmistakable had your address on it.

To Whomever Hells of France, The Fucking Trenches

It made you chuckle at the words on there despite the sympathy you felt knowing this was some soldier. As you read over the penmanship once more... you couldn't help but wonder if this was one letter that managed to skip over being censored by the Army? It didn't even look as though it had been resealed...

You decided to humor your mystery writer as you grabbed the letter opener and moved to sit down in the living room and cut open the envelope carefully to read what had been written.

It was indeed from a soldier, a man about your age.

Hello, stranger... whomever you are or whatever you are.

This War is absolute shite, every single bit of it. I am tired of the aching cold, I am sick of hearing real shells fire off or dreaming they might be. The sound of dynamite and crumbling rock seems to haunt me equally when I close my eyes... when I am lucky too. They say to be grateful as at least I have a full belly and I am still breathing, perhaps they aren't half wrong... but what I wouldn't fucking give for a blanket that's warm, a meal that doesn't taste like paper, and a glass of whiskey.

Not to mention I miss being in company that holds any ounces of intelligence... the Pvt. assigned to my unit... dumber than the rocks we blow up... Can't catch a fucking break. Idiot about blew up two of my best men yesterday. For fucks sake...

I doubt you'll even care or have even made it this far, so give the trash my fucking hellos

SGM. Thomas Michael Shelby

At this you decided to go to your desk and grab your pen and paper to write back. As there were even coordinates to have the letter sent off too.