Dear Diary,

Outside, the crowds sing gleefully, their trumpets tooting while voices bellow tunes of victory and comradery. All but our family is down there, cheering on the young lads hungry for their country’s pride. Mum doesn’t join in, but rather chooses to spend her days sipping lukewarm tea and petting Roscoe in the living room, here eyes bloodshot from a lack of sleep and seemingly numb to any form of communication we all try. Dad says he’s proud of me and is no longer so stern, instead choosing to spend my remaining days mumbling about the immense responsibility I am taking on, fighting for her royal majesty and whatnot. Little Max seems already to have separation anxiety and refuses to leave my side, telling all his friends that his big brother Vince will be going off to war soon and that I’m already a hero in his eyes.

Inside, this house will no longer be my home and I know it already. My heart disagrees with me on that but I know it understands that before long I will have no choice but to move on if I hope to survive in the grubby trenches they will take us to.

My uniform sits freshly pressed on my dresser, my medals close by. My mate Tobey says it’s a good thing we signed up for the army a couple years ago, because now we won’t be cannon fodder like the rest of them. Tobey isn’t the smartest, but he’s brave and loyal as any, willing to anything for our battalion and and our country.

I must be leaving now, diary. For the cries on the battlefield don’t stray far from my mind and the cheers of the people oblivious so far, follow close behind.

Signing off,

Vince