From Letters of War

Dearest Grandma,

         My freedoms were stripped from my unwilling grasp and I was bound by the forces of power into this dire service. I am writing you because you are the only one that seems to care. Every morning a horn that could wake the dead blares a ghastly tune at 0500 hours on the dot. My brothers and I shuffle out of our assigned cots and dress for the tortures the day will bring. Jumping jacks and crunches followed by a dreadful jog around the lake is how the morning starts. Oh how I have learned to hate that lake. It is a painful reminder of what comes next and a tease of what never will. Just once I would like to jump in it alone.

         I knew the food would be bad, but I wasn’t prepared for the slop I ingest each day. Yesterday, Sammy threw up so much that he popped a blood vessel in his eye and got a medical discharge. But word got back that his father was ashamed and embarrassed that his son couldn’t serve his full term. I say that bastard is lucky, most of us will not make it out of here in one piece. After chow time, we are expected to train with both primitive and modern killing tools. I suppose it is important for us to be able to defend ourselves from any threat by any means necessary. No matter the amount of training, the ranks from across the lake slay us every afternoon on our own terf. Whoever said war was Hell, never went to summer camp. 

With love, 

                     Your favorite grandson.

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