He's dead, Mary. My sister's husband is dead. He was killed in action a few miles from where I was last. I could've seen him and I had no idea. There were so many bodies that we walked by, that I stopped looking for familiar faces. Frederick could've been caught in the barbed wire. He could've been the dismembered body I saw in the crater that a German bomb had left in its wake. My sister is now a widow because of this goddamn war and I can't do shit about comforting her since I'm so fucked up in the head.
I apologize for my harsh words, I seem to write you when I'm in the worst mood, but it seems that your letters are the only things that I look forward to nowadays. Your writing allows me to escape the war, just for the few minutes, I get when I read about your orchard or your small village that is too quiet for you. They moved my station, further from the front line, which means it's more mud to sit in and less to get distracted by. Though, I will say, your letters are a wanted and very sought after distraction. It's a bit of home. However, the military never loses mail, they were probably holding it since I spoke of my assignment, something I was told I was not allowed to do. They read the letters going out and the same with the letters arriving. So, maybe don't write something that may make them take me in for questioning, it's a long ways down the trench from where I am.
Your French is excused, though you needn't ask permission from me to swear. I was expecting something worse, knowing you're a Blake. He had the strangest swears every time he and I had something to do, but somehow, I picked up a few. He had the worst mouth, our sergeant hated him for it, but the rest of the regiment loved him for it. Swearing is expected in a war, especially when you're being shot at from every which way. It's a common thing from soldiers, myself included. It's almost bizarre reading your letters and seeing that your words are so delicate, it clashes with the harsh words of war.
I've also slept, just a few hours here and there, but more than I had when I wrote to you last. I've been taking care of myself, as much as one can out in the middle of France. The Americans seem to be enjoying the war, they're constantly laughing and smiling, almost like they're in a pub somewhere, not in a cold trench. The rest of us, the British and the Irish, are taking bets on how long it will take them to realize why we all haven't laughed for months. I've placed my bet on three more weeks. By the end of June, they'll be just like us.
My men seem to be respecting me, at least a bit more. I took your advice, I talked to a few and soon enough, I had their friendship, which in turn, meant I had their respect. Tom was the born leader, I knew that as soon as I saw the position he was going to be offered, I knew that I was going to have to struggle, but they're fighting back just as hard. Americans love being in charge it seems, though they don't like the responsibility that comes with it. So, I thank you for the suggestion that worked, though, if the men knew that a woman was behind my strategy, I'd lose all their respect. Not that I don't think women are capable of plans, just the way that these soldiers speak of women as if they are objects, I'm frightened if they ever found out that I had a sister, that they would urge me to write to her, just for them to see how she speaks. I'm afraid that if they ever found out I was speaking to you, they'd hound me for questions, questions that are too crude for me to write.
Thank your mother for the socks from me and tell Joseph he wasn't wrong in assuming I'd need socks soon. They never gave me a new pair after my mission and with the weather we've been having, they never properly dried. So, the socks are something that I will be cherishing. As for the photo, I wouldn't mind having a photo of you to carry, though that may be a bit bold. Though, I have no woman waiting for me to get home besides my mother, so no one would question why I have your photo. If you're comfortable with sending a photo, I would not object, but if you wish to not send one, I won't argue, since we're only speaking since I could not save your brother.
London is beautiful. It's a gorgeous city that I never quite appreciated until it was the one place I wanted to be, but the one place that I can't get to. It was a city that was always too loud, too crowded, or that the air just never smelt right, but now I'd do anything to go back to London before the war. After I get home, I know I won't want to go back and I know I won't be happy there, with the mud and the backfiring of cars. I barely can sleep in a French field when another soldier snores. It's for this reason I don't think I'd be able to work in the bakery. It's on one of the busiest streets with cars going by and hundreds of people who walk by. All those eyes on me with the vehicles that could backfire at any minute, I just don't see how it's possible.
Unlike some soldiers that are here, I can admit defeat when it happens. I'm defeated, Mary. I'm utterly defeated and have no chance of overcoming that defeat. I'm the celebrity of the battalion, having run across enemy land for two days with my rifle and no backup. They're constantly asking me about the journey when all I want to do is not speak of it. I'm simply shellshocked to the point that even a clang of my own spoon on my pan, makes me jump. A snore makes me grab my knife that I keep under my pillow and my rifle is constantly in my hand, even if all I'm doing is sitting in a trench with the German's miles away. When a soldier touches my shoulder to wake me, I startle and when I close my eyes all I see is blood on my hands that belong to my friend. I don't think I'll ever recover from this war, Mary, and if I do come back, part of me will always be in a trench in the middle of France, half-starved, lonely, and just sitting around, waiting for death.
