"September 21st 1945
I don't know what day it is now. They all seem to merge into one.
I can barely hold my pencil. My hands are trembling, stained with a dark black blood. My own, my comrades and that of my many fallen enemies.
I've lost count of the number of adversaries I've shot, stabbed, burned, and strangled. But they're all insignificant because it's that first kill that still plagues me.
If I make it through another dreaded day it'll be a miracle.
Fuck bravery, fuck honour, fuck heroism. Where's my fucking trench knife?"