I Will See You Again

Dearest Esther,

I am writing to

I hope this letter finds you

You mean everything to me. You're my world. And I never told you when I had the chance. I'm so so sorry. I know I'm a craven. I never had the courage everyone else has. My father always used to tell me to see and know what I have, because when you lose it, it's gone. He kept telling me to toughen up before I lost what mattered. But I haven't lost you. You're still there and I hope you always will be. And I know I don't deserve you.

You probably weren't expecting me to write you. I know you're strong, but I also know how much you worry when it comes to others. I'm sorry if I've caused you any heartache. I hope I can alleviate some of that worry, at least for a moment. I've never been good at writing, so I'm writing everything inside my head. Forgive me if I ramble.

Our division has been given a cushy break to write letters home. I saw Edward writing to his mum - you remember Edward from Mildred's Farm? His mum abhors violence. I asked Edward what happened when the Military Serving Act passed. He said she cried. She cried buckets. We both know my mother would never do that for me.

I know you'll visit Edward's mum after reading this. That's just who you are: the perfect girl who always helps others. Do you remember when I entered the tailor shop and when our eyes met? How you were helping that crying little girl, making sure she felt right at home in your care? I knew then how special you were, even without words. I wanted to speak to you forever from that day on. You took my breath and my heart, and I think about that day every morning. I don't ever want to forget.

I'm sorry, I don't even know what I'm writing anymore. The truth is, there have been rumours that the generals are about to order a charge over the fields. Some of the soldiers didn't take kindly to the news, saying we're lions led by donkeys. I'm no lion. But here I am, fighting and clawing blindly at the enemy with my rifle. It's not even mine. It was Ben's.

Ben didn't make it. He was telling me about his wife just the other day. Her name's Hazel, and Ben gushed about how it was such a pretty name for such a pretty girl. You would have liked Ben. He was a bit of a backmash, but we all liked him. After one day in the ward, he didn't make it.

He was with me on sentry duty during the night. We had to look up and check the fields, but to stay safe we couldn't look for long. Only quick peeks. Flashes always happened in the horizon of night from the German trenches, and then the gunshots broke any silence we had. We just had to ensure no one came close to our trenches, that no Germans chose to charge under cover of dark. Ben took a hit to the eye when looking out. Shrapnel maybe? There was a loud bang and he fell into my arms and his blood didn't stop. He struggled to speak and I called for a medic. That was the last I saw of him. Sergeant Cartwright passed on the message of his death as if it was unimportant and handed me his rifle after mine had seized up.

Ben had given me a nickname. He called me Lucky John and for some reason everyone started calling me it. He said it was because I could hit a target dead centre with my rifle. As if I know how to use it. The training they gave us was rough, and most of the time I wanted to throw up. They have us running laps before breakfast, but that's only when we're out of the trenches. While on the lines, I point and shoot, trying to keep my head as low as it can go. I hear the thumps on the sandbags where bullets should have hit me. It seems my luck didn't stop after finding you, so maybe Ben was right.

But it may have run out. That order to charge I mentioned, I think it's going to be today. We all know it. There is no division coming up to take our place and give us rest like before. Jack from downtown - you know the one. Old Dorothy's young lad - he said he wasn't afraid to charge, but I saw him shaking. We all did. Everyone is afraid. But we can't admit it to each other. If one of us breaks, we all will. The lions we are.

We're waiting for reinforcements before we attack, but I think the generals will make the order anyway. So I want you to know how much you mean to me. I don't know what will happen from here on out. I don't know if my luck will be enough. And I'm sorry, I took a cigarette from little Wilson. He offered me one, and my nerves got the better of me. I know you hate the smell of that stuff. But I think I needed it. I often wake up shaking and it's not from the cold. The cigarette helps. I know you won't like it, but I know you'll understand.

I also know you're thinking of Roger. I haven't seen your brother for a few months now. The last time I saw him was April before he was sent further north, while I'm stuck in Cambrai. He was doing fine. More than fine. He still smiled with those big teeth of his. I saw he had made loads of friends, and I think a nurse had taken a liking to him. I hope you get a letter from him too. When I next see him, I'll tell him what I will tell you when we get back.

I will make it back. Roger will make it back. We all will. I promise. I will see you again. I promise I'll treat you right. I promise I'll stop smoking. I promise I'll be a man you can be proud of.

So please wait for me dearest Esther. I love more than my heart could ever say.

Yours,

Private Rifleman John Jones from the Cambrai Western Front

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Author's notes:

I was thinking of giving this one a miss as my history is shaky at best, and my skill in writing letters is even shakier. But I had fun creating it over the course of a few evenings. A shout out to the wonderful L.K. Rolan for encouraging me to write a piece for this challenge. You can read her amazing entry here (I recommend for a good read):

And L.K. Rolan (and now I, after having read it) recommend reading Komal's entry. Another fantastic piece, which you can find here:

Thank you for reading!