November 166h 1916.
As I lie here in my dug out writing to you, by torchlight, under my lice infested, rat chewed blanket, I suddenly realise just how cold it is in these trenches. I think I don't usually feel it because I am so used to it by now. But after the heavy rain of today the usually cold and damp trench seems much, much worse, in fact I'm not sure if it really qualifies as a trench anymore; it has become more like a collapsing pit of flowing mud, with a few decomposing bodies, whom I once knew as friends and colleagues, thrown in. I sometimes wonder if this is all worth it, th…
