I miss home so much. I miss the joy of being a jaunty Italian man; of having my Mamma and sister to talk to. I even fondly recall our intermittent spats. I have been away from home for so long. There is nothing familiar here. We are at the mercy of British or Afrikaans’ orders that are inconsistently carried out, dependent on whom is in charge for the day or what mood they are in.
When you are fighting in a battle there isn’t time to think of anything but surviving. Even when blood splatters your jacket and sometimes your face, as your comrade is hit by a bullet next to you and goes down, you are in the thick of a battle; there is no time for thinking. But here, we are subject to the caprice of these foreigners, who seem to have no joy in life and use us like slave labour. Of late, my thoughts wander erratically. I begin to worry that I will lose my mind.
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