When The Sun Sets

Letters Harry Never Sent to Annaliese (April 1918)

Somewhere at the Western Front, France

April 1918

Dear Annaliese,

Happy birthday.

I've tried to write this letter twice already, but I keep discarding the paper. I fear I will discard this one as well and write a happier, false letter that suggests I am happy and excited for your birthday. But that would be a lie. Instead, I've been dreading this day. I have no right to write this letter, or any letter to you that expresses my happiness.

I could never admit to you what I've done today. It is loud here, dark, yet humid. The smell is something I don't think will ever leave my nose. I never thought there could be a Hell on Earth, but there is, Annaliese, and I'm living in it.

I have been assigned as a sharpshooter. I have never detested being good with my hands like I do now. Annaliese. Annaliese. What am I doing? They look just like me. And the men in my company are terribly young. Nedjem, a boy from Newport who enlisted on his 18th birthday, is barely of age. I wish to protect him as an older brother would, but I cannot as I spend all my hours on my stomach, perched behind a rifle.

The horror books you occasionally read are incorrect about the weapons that are used to easily maim others. These weapons are actually heavy, and by the time my shift ends, my arms are screaming with pain. I have been vomiting more recently, as well. It's the stench. I wish to feel your cold hands on my skin. I wish to be coddled by you, held to your chest, as if I know nothing aside from your warmth.

After all I've done, do you think I deserve that?

This is the first time I will admit I am scared. The thought of returning to you or receiving leave to visit Mum and Thea is all that keeps me going, though I'm beginning to dread that too.

The men in the previous companies who have been stationed here and helping us adjust have told us that it gets better. We'll get accustomed to it, they say, easily carrying their weapons over their shoulders or across their chests. There's something different about them. I suspect it's the death in their eyes and lack of empathy. They are machines now. They do as they are told and we do as we're told, us with slight hesitance. Their eyes are dark, faces gray. They seem to tower over us, or maybe we're just cowering.

I don't want to become accustomed to all this death. I don't wish to tower over people.

I want to say that I wish you were here, but I would never allow you even miles near this Hell. I will continue to fight to keep you from here. I wish to come home. I will make it happen. I will have those nights again where you read to me as I'm falling asleep on your stomach, your fingers stroking my cheek. I will lay my head in your lap all day. I will hear your sweet accent in my ear again. I will take you anywhere you'd like. I will let you do with me as you please. It will be just the two of us again. We'll be happily in love. I will lay my life down for you. I will treat you as if you are royalty, kissing your fingers and rings, lingering my lips on your wedding ring.

Will you let me? Knowing all the crimes I've committed? It would take days to fill these pages with what I've done. I've taken a peek at other letters. The men keep it short. Brief. I shall try to do the same and not lament about my life here. It is not a competition, your suffering versus mine. I wish I could relieve you and I pray you can relieve me from this hell.

I don't know what else to write. Some men keep diaries. I think I'll just write these letters and not send them. That's a diary, isn't it?

I'll draft your true letter now. Happy birthday, ma femme.

Your devoted husband,

Harry