World War One trench Diary.

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 …

…eye like me. I just hope he hasn't passed anything to me. This may be the last time I write in this diary from the front line at least, apparently my hearing and trench foot means I am being moved back to the reserve trenches, finally some peace from this place which has owned my life for nearly a year now, and I am one step closer to the white cliffs of Dover. Good night.