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Journal Entry on April 23rd, 1917. The darkest of my days has not yet arrived, men including I lined up neatly in hundreds of rows in this harbor. Waiting, until our sore legs can finally enter the ship with pride and bravery in our eyes. I had promised to myself that I, Jonathan Smith would make my country and my dear father as proud as ever, for he has never seen the bad side in me. I could finally hear the honking of the gigantic piece of metal coming nearly to drop its famously tough anchor and for us soldier to sail across the great waves of the ocean and once more to defeat our rival. As I stood there, among other figures on the lines, knuckles white and legs widened as we stand proud, trying to hold tight to my greatest bravery. I've never felt more alive, but half of me has never been s cared than ever. We are now being ecorted inside the ship and are unpacking supplies. I stand here in my shared cabin thinking how this whole mess started in the first place. Some say it was the killing of Francis Ferdinand, some believed imperialism and nationalism was the case. But Americans cannot stand back and wait 'till Mexico take some of our land. I believe in peace, but if Germany wanted back-stabbing and to play rough, we can play rough too. I never really understood the hatreds between them, but the keg powder is nothing compared to what COULD have hit all the tenstion in Europe. The different conflicts and awkwardness stands between the countries, it wasn't long until some big hit came on top of it all; The assassination, the armies built, imperialism, natinalism, alliances and last but not least, Keg powder. Journal Entry on May 7th, 1917. After arriving in France, we men walked on feet to get to Versallies. Splitting in half, some of us started digging and on a battle site, while the others and I try to find materials and prepare machine guns. Then I piled up what seemed to be like abandoned metal roof on top of the gap in the trench. I slept through the night and before I knew it, the sound of machine guns, shouting, grunting woke me up from my sweet dream where I was back home. We started the day with some harsh greetings on our enemies. Someone had said that to me, his skin is dark, too dark to be brown but too light to be black. His friendly voice calmed me down, I was basically lost and whimpering then. "I'm Gregory," he said. I took his open hand and he lifted me up like swaying on the swing I had made back in South Carolina. Then I was literally face to face with those pink-faced yet tough looking Europe men with the exact same position as us. Leaning against the dirt, our face straightened out, a froggy, loud voice screamed "Fire!" from our side, and a bullet struck a red-haired soldier on the other trech in front of us. I knew the bullet came from my long-nosed, old-looking gun and that one piece of acid metal getting through right that soldier's forehead lead up the other to also fire their guns. Gregory whispered in such a hurried voice, "Nice shot. Keep up." "Thank you, I will try my best," though guilt came over me after I said that, the mental image flashed through my mind. The red-haired, being shot by my gun. I recalled my memory that this is also how I felt the first time I shot someone dead with a single crayon-shaped bullet right at the forehead. I'm starting to predict this is how I'll feel for the rest of the war, pain, shell shock. I guess I have to get used to that kind of feeling. While my thinking took over me, Gregory, literally at my right hand, shot non-stop and so did the rest of the men in our long trench. I guess their fathers never have respected them either. In my case, I wanted to make both America and my father proud of me; For I am an only child, as far as my life goes these tough 19 years.
Social Studies Project by Eirene Zanja, 809
