Wilfred Owen's last letter dated October 31, 1918. He was killed on November 4, one week
before the end of the war.
So thick is the smoke in this cellar that I can hardly see by a candle 12 inches away. And so
thick are the inmates that I can hardly write for pokes, nudges, and jolts. On my left, the
company commander snores on a bench. It is a great life. I am more oblivious than the less,
dear mother, of the ghastly glimmering of the guns outside and the hollow crashing of the
I hope you are as warm as I am, soothed in your room as I am here. I am certain you could
not be visited by a band of friends half so fine as surround us here. There is no danger down
here - or if any, it will be well over before you read these lines . . .
What is the attitude of Wilfred Owen in this letter? Why?
Where is he writing from? Why?
How does he feel about his fellow soldiers?