Dear Alfred,
How are you and Peter? Not in too much trouble, I hope. Is Rose looking after you well? How's Flying Mint Bunny? Is he behaving? He always was a cheeky git.
In your last letter, you kept talking about how you want to fight, you want to be a hero. Please, Alfred, don't follow me to Germany. You know what happened to Scotty. Don't make Peter and Rose lose three brothers.
Please don't tell Peter or Rose this, but I don't think I'll be coming home. The conditions here are pitiful. We live and sleep and eat and work in the mud. The reason turns the trenches into a sludge so thick that even the rats hate it. And there's plenty of them, and lice. I'm covered in bites, and I'm cold, and I'm hungry, and I'm in rags. If we are apparently heroes, why are we treated as less than beggars?
This isn't heroic. We shoot, and are shot at, as bombs shatter the no man's land between our trenches and the Germans'. We're all afraid. Just the other day, I saw a soldier flailing, his green uniform slowly turning red. He was screaming, for help I think, but I wouldn't know; I think he was Italian. I know that makes him our enemy, but I still feel felt sorry for him as a fellow soldier clutched his lifeless body to his chest. The second soldier didn't say a word as he carried the Italian away.
I'm sick, Alfred. I'm sick of this war. I'm sick in the mind. I'm sick in the body. And if I'm not killed by bullet or by bomb, this sickness will kill me.
As your brother, I hate to tell you this. But I would rather tell you than let you learn for yourself. Soldiers are not heroes.
Give Rose a kiss and Peter a clap on the back from me. Give Flying Mint Bunny a carrot. And put a flower on Scotty's grave, too.
Arthur Kirkland.


A/N;

I don't own Hetalia

Scotty is Scotland
Rose is Yorkshire

This was written as English homework. We're comparing Wilfred Owen's WW1 poetry to Romeo and Juliet. Weird, huh?