There is a little matter. Tomorrow we are about to take part in some very severe fighting and there is no doubt that those who come through it alive will be very lucky. If I should go under, there is no need for me to say of whom my last thoughts will be. Mere written words could not convey my feelings regarding you, Dearest. I know that you know, and that is sufficient.

Sgt M. J. Ranford, age 35
Gallipoli, 1915

This will be about the last letter you get from me now, as one doesn’t know the hour his number is called and Fritz has a bad habit of trying to put a man’s lights out.
      My word, Ern, the part I don’t like is when a chap has to sling his cobber into a hole and say farewell to him. It’s a hard thing to see your mates, that have had all the good times with you, drop dead a few feet from you and you never know what shell or bullet is going to cut through you. But on and on you have to go, half mad, half dead, yelling, shouting through a hell on earth, trying to pick the best track through the shell torn and battered ground, with mud in places up to one’s knees and deeper, bullets passing and whistling overhead. Then Fritz waits with eighteen inches of cold steel.
      Take good care of your parents and never give them any trouble. I regret all the trouble I gave my mother. 
      Well, Ern, time is scarce and I have a duty to do and I must say farewell. By the time you get this I may well be knocked rotten.
      I remain your loving uncle, Harry.

Pvt H. Wells, age 18
France

Letter to the Editor
The Argus
November 1917