Though we have never met, I write to explain unfortunate interconnectedness. Please listen; I'm the contorted soldier that you have hated since the day that you received that parcel in the post bearing a brief letter, postmarked New Years 1915 that read "Your husband is dead." Please listen--don't destroy these words until you've read every one. It's not like I'm unique; I'm just one grain in a sea of wheat that's ever-expanding exponentially. We were all raised on cap guns and war. As soon as we could walk, we, boys, turned twigs into firearms. Who can remember a waking moment devoid of the faint yet distinct murmur of heroes, of glory for God and Country? And in school when the subtext of history class is the differences between "us" and "them" (highlighting their nation's atrocities and omitting that of our own) how could anyone expect that the war would ever end? Without second thoughts, we were soldiers before signing up.