[Written in very correct, deliberate script]
Dear Mother – Paris is still interesting; it is a vast improvement upon the trenches. The girls are pretty, and the sights are impressive. I have not done much but eat and sleep since my arrival – it took me several weeks to grow used to a bed again – and the Commander states that we are being rewarded for our work.

Give my love to father, I look forward to seeing you at some point in the coming year.
Your affectionate son,
Richi.

[Here, the letters change to an ungainly, ink-spattered scrawl.]

…I wrote that this morning, sent it as well. A perfect creation of domestic lies – but Mother would never understand this. She never understood war, never understood soldiers, so to ever tell her of what I am…

I don’t see it working well at all. Ja?

I do not even know why I bought this journal. It smells of whatever they used to prepare the binding, still, and it is making my hands reek. I do not know what I shall find to write about. Nothing that I find entertaining is fit to be documented. A gentleman is entitled to his secrets, so who I am and what I do will remain just that to you.

My shift is to begin in an hour. This is all I shall write for now.

-Friedrich Köhler