I first wrote this for an english assignment a while ago. Please tell me what you think. This is written after Paul kills the French man in the ditch. Major spoilers for the book up untill that point.
Dearest Sister,
Firstly, I would like to inform you that it is not my intent to over-burden you with the horrors of this war our country is fighting. I have long found that the sole way to deal with the constant fear, guilt, and other emotions associated with war is to drop them, like a rock in a pool, to the deepest, most hidden, parts of your consciousness, and to leave those thoughts and emotions to be sorted over at a later time of peace, if that time ever should come.
What I wish to tell you, sister, is that today I killed a man. I have killed before, as often I have no choice, and it is a natural occurrence in war, but it is different to see his face, and watch him die, slowly, painfully, as his heart limps along in his chest, until finally it tires, and sleeps forever. His blood is on my hands, sister, and I can not wash it off. I covered it in mud, but I fear that the feel of the blood, my comrade's blood, will never leave my mind.
I promised myself, there as I lay in the shell hole, that I would write his wife, but I fear that I never can. How do you tell someone that all you saw of her loved one was a gun and a grenade, until he was mortally wounded? How do you make her understand the misconceptions that I have been given for so long? How can I tell her that it is my fault, and mine alone, that her husband won't return to her again? I cannot. My conscience, and the ghost of my newfound comrade, will have to make do with this letter to you. He had a daughter, too. I wonder what she remembers, how her mother will tell her that father will not be returning home. If only he had run two meters to the left, his body wouldn't be lying at the bottom of a shell hole, but instead would be writing another letter in his dugout, perhaps smiling softly as he imagined going home at peace time.
Yes, I did say comrade, for though he was French, and therefore our enemy, had it not been for our uniforms, and the guns that we had pointed at each other, he might have been my brother, as Kat and Albert are. For, you see, this war isn't my war, or Kat's, or Albert's, or mother's, or even the printer Gerard Duval's, but really the war of the emperors, and prime ministers, and generals, who all stand to be hailed as a hero if they win, but although they have so much to gain, they risk so little of their selves, so little of what is precious to them, for this cause. These men are the true enemy. Not the French, the English, or the Americans, but all of those who have always had all that they could possibly want except a good war, and so they all said "yes" instead of "no," and threw us into this disaster.
A disaster this is, Sister, for the damage is impossible to measure, and far higher than any could imagine. I doubt anyone is truly unaffected by this war, as almost all have a friend, a brother, a lover fighting on one side or another. Those who fight, and watch the devastation take place before their eyes, are the worst off. Our entire generation has been set apart, and has no future, no past. The past that we lived seems distant, no longer relevant, as if the memories were of some other person, and the future will for many not exist. For those who survive, nothing will seem right. There will not be a return to life before; that life has become unfulfilling and unimportant. Even if I survive, Sister, I fear that I killed my own future as surely as Gerard Duval's when I stabbed him with that dagger. As for hope, I have little. The hopes and dreams that I once nourished were blown to pieces by the grenades I threw at our enemy comrades.
Again, Sister, I must apologize, for this letter has become dark and wearisome, and I fear that it will burden you over-much. I almost wish for this letter to be lost, for the true point of this letter is not for you to read it, and be saddened, but to give me a place to state my thoughts, and to give me a way to ease the pressure of so many hidden, buried emotions. I also wish you to know, as I don't know when I shall again be able to tell you, that I love you, Sister, for being the one whom I can rely on, for being the one I can write this letter to. I can trust you to care for Mother, and not burden her with what I have told you, and to be calming when I am angry at Father. Thank Mother for the cakes for me.
Your Loving Brother,
Paul Bäumer