Dear Father,
I wish I could begin this letter by telling you how marvelous life is in the army, and how wonderfully we’ve been able to do our jobs. Yet, one of the virtues you so faithfully taught me in my childhood was that of honesty. And so, in honesty I confess: life is miserable.
Our atrocities began many months ago (in fact nearly two years now), which I hope will give you reason to forgive my incompetent correspondence since that time. You will remember from previous letters how our acclaimed Hannibal chose, after much dispute amongst the officials, to march our forces across the fearsome Alps. I was, at first, awed at the bravery and endurance of this man Hannibal. He has truly been an example to me of what I might become one day if I follow in his faithful leading of courage. But, despite this admiration, our whole company was soon weary from the tumult which our journey began with, and distraught at the trek to come. How were we, so large a company, to maintain our strength and fortitude for what we knew would be a strenuous struggle?
Whatever miseries we thought we had faced, though, became miniscule in light of what we next encountered. Trouble after trouble placed its way in our path as we went along through the Alps. Many men were lost, and many beasts as well. Yes, our difficulties were many at that time. Of what I informed you after that I do not know, for we have been so preoccupied with our military work. Therefore, I will do my best to summarize for you what has happened since we crossed the Alps.
For a time, after crossing the Alps, fate seemed as though perhaps it was again turning in our favor. After a glorious three battles won on end, I thought that just maybe we could win this war after all. While my strength at Ticinus was little, it became renewed upon victory. Then again at Trebia, despite my strength being worn out from the intensity of the battle, I found myself rejoicing. Still, we remained very busy and so of course the details which I relayed to you were vague. Allow me then to share with you the one time in these past months in which I really did feel at ease. Hannibal was truly at his best at that time, a time in which he saw to it that all our forces hid in the hills while the weary Roman forces swam across the river. Just as they were coming across, we rushed at them and victory was ours! Ah, that was a happy day. Finally, there was one other battle, also showing the wisdom of our general in battle affairs. This one, as I am sure you heard of in Carthage, took place at Lake Trasimenus, and was of equal greatness to the one at Trebia. But that was months ago, Father.
Again I stand without hope. This time, I truly believe it may be the end, at least for this regiment. We have been now, through a painful and truly frustrating series of events, cut off from our food supply. I am just thankful to even have water in this forsaken place. It seems every day that another man falls ill. Those left with strength are so few in number. Frankly, I don’t know if we’ll last the remainder of the spring. Everything is so beautiful here in Italy around us, and yet, our men are feeble and lack anything to renew our old strength.
You know how much I, and the rest of the men here in the camp, admire Hannibal. Any of us would have declared just months ago that we would follow him to death – yet, now, with the reality of this hefty darkness looming before us, none of us is quite sure if even the man himself would go so far. Talk has been around of Hannibal considering a desertion of the mission, though I wonder whether perhaps it is just a rumor spread for the personal comfort of my comrades. For, as you know, our commander has devoted his life to this cause. Leaving it behind now would not only be a treachery to our country: it would be the death of all this man has ever been! His whole time on this earth has been for the sole purpose of conquering Rome. Surely he wouldn’t quit now. Or would he?
Conflicting rumors spread around the camp day after day, night after night, and I do my best to shun them from entering my mind, but still they do! When faced with the reality of near death, especially for a person as young as I- nineteen- even to think of doing it for one’s country is a burden. I want so badly to escape this thing, almost a disease, which is creeping into my mind, but I cannot. Perhaps it is the lingering cold, or my lack of food, that affects me so. Maybe all we need is a jolly song from Carthage, or a war theme to put our minds back at the work that has become such a drudgery to do.
Despite these possibilities, I know it is nothing but wishful thinking. Turning back now would be a foolish thing to do, because it would cause us to die simply on the way back. No, we must stay here. Our only hope is that perhaps some miracle will come about and we shall win whatever may next fall in our line of battle, or some good natured person will have the compassion to send us something in the way of provisions.
Until that time, though, I must endure to the best of my ability. There is nothing more to keep me going except life itself – and even that is an uncertain possibility. Father, please, give me a reason, any reason, just to live! Surely the world was never meant to suffer so, all for the sake of our desire to rule.
Send my love to mother. Speak nothing of this to her: it would alarm her too greatly. And if you still pray, then please, pray that deliverance might come upon us. I feel the end is near.
Your son,
Gisgo
