Dear Rose,
Don’t cry. I’m serving for my country. At least I’m not a coward.
I always thought you were a bit squeamish, Rose – are you sure you want to be a nurse?
No, it isn’t anything like that.
I don’t really know how to describe it, really.
We sit around a lot. And we have to be deadly quiet, or the Huns will hear us. It’s a waiting game. I haven’t gone ‘over the top’ yet, as the lads say. Bobby – he’s from the North, Yorkshire or something like that – told me what happens. We all go marching over the trench, which is a sort of long hole we live in, and try and march and shoot and go into their trenches.
He didn’t describe it in detail much, though.
Anyway, how’s home? Tell me anything you can. It’s not that bad here, really, but a far cry from home. I miss having tea that tastes like tea. I miss Sunday roasts.
I miss school. Fancy that, when I used to try and skive then get the cane. Remember when Mrs Smith used to glare at me every day, and separate me and Jack when we tried to sit together?
I miss playing football on Saturdays with the boys.
I miss you.
I lied – it’s really horrible here.
All my love,
James xxx
YOU ARE READING
«letters to the somme»
Ficción Generala patchwork of letters and telegrams and shorts telling the story of a girl and a boy who are caught in the crossfire of the first world war. all through the heartache and the pain and the blood comes a gleam of hope, of peace. commemorating the ce...
