Major Jamie Stewart is tired of the war and after the death of his best friend, he can only be open in his letters to his fiancée, Rose.
28th of November 1917
419 Richmond Rd
Twickenham
Middlesex
TW1 2EX
My beloved Rose,
I am alone in my dugout writing the letters I must write and the letters I want to write, you are the latter. How is England? I hope this letter finds you and the rest of the family in good health. Is father feeling better? Mother told me he was in bed with a bad cold. We've had a spot of pneumonia here. I am fortunate; I have not caught it, though it is not ideal conditions for treatment of the men who have here. England cannot be as cold as the trenches and the days cannot draw out as long. The men keep their spirits up by playing cards, but I, as a Major, remain separate. Sometimes I miss Nichols, even his confounded drawings.
We remain in the trenches, but do not worry; I shall do my best to stay healthy. Life is not too bad for me. As a senior officer I have my own dugout, so other men do not drive me crazy; they all stay away from my living space. It is just small, but it is something, with a rickety writing desk I sit at now, a metal-frame bed and a small wooden chest of draws; that is where I keep your letters wrapped in a blanket to keep the damp away.
Is it possible you could write more often? Could you ask mother to write more too? I know father is busy but could he write as well? Reviving letters is always the highlight of my day.
I was in the Field last Sunday. Countless injuries and deaths, I cannot imagine the number of condolence letters that have been sent and revived this week, the number of tears shed.
I am scared Rose. It has got the point that all I feel is numb. Since Nichols died I just wake, work and sleep. I see horrific injuries and appalling deaths all the time. Boys, who barley know how to shave; men, with fiancées waiting at home; fathers with sons who are growing up without paternal guidance aside from small snippets in letters, I see them lying face-down and unmoving in the mud, but I feel nothing. I watch poppies grown on their graves and see as condolence letters are posted to their families. I see the cycle of Life cut short every day, but I feel no pain. The worse thing is I know it would be the same if I died. No one here knows me, no one talks to me, I am an alien to them.
But I shall be fine. Please do not worry for me.
Yours forever,
Jamie.