When The Sun Sets

Letters Harry Never Sent to Annaliese (May 1918)

Fromelles, France

May 1918

Annaliese,

Today it rained for hours. I hated every second of it. Rain turns the trenches to mud and I cannot bear trudging through that shit anymore. My hat feels permanently glued to my brain. My body feels too big for my skin.

I keep wondering if the other people feel the same. Not my company, but the Germans. I'll see the prisoners every so often, and I'm appalled by the image I see. Because it's myself I see in them, in a different uniform, of course. They are young men. What do they know about war? What do I know about war?

I have been hungry for days. For real food and for some sunshine. We haven't moved much. It's been quiet. We've been told that silence means it's time to begin writing letters to our moms, wives, fathers, daughters, sons, and whoever the fuck else. We're meant to kiss our crosses. Silence is never good. Annaliese, there was a time where I valued silence, but now I dread it and I wish to hear those distant whistles of shells to remind me of reality and my duty. My duty to who, I don't know. But I need to have a purpose or I shall lose my mind.

I want a hot bath.

Here, even when it's silent, it's not. I hear water rushing through my head, whistles, high pitched and shrill, forcing me into consciousness whenever I try to get some shut eye.

I hate silence, but sometimes I desperately crave it. It frightens the hell out of me, but wouldn't it signify the end of this barbaric life? Sometimes I feel as if I'm actually losing my mind. I don't wish to worry you, but something is permanently damaged in my brain. I've hit it multiple times on the ground already, so there must be damage. Something a doctor cannot fix, I fear. But most of all, I fear it's something you can't fix.

You must not worry about me. Physically, I am sound.

My words are running dry. Do you ever grow tired of these letters? Are you saving them like you saved that portrait of us? The one where I'm kissing your cheek and your hair is blowing into your face? You broke my heart that day when you said you loved me. You ruined me.

Do these letters make it to you, across the ocean, in one piece, or must you sit there on our large bed and solve the puzzles? Are the edges withering away? Is the ink ruined by water damage?

God, do I miss you. I don't know what I will do when I see you. I ache for you every day, for your fingers to run through my hair, for your sweet voice to softly whimper in my ear, pleading me to pleasure you in the way that only I do. Such sinful thoughts for a man who is on death row. In my fantasy, you allow me to love you as I see fit, whether with my bruising kisses or with my feather light touches that caress you in your more delicate places. I wish to leave marks on you, and then kiss them away.

Will you let me destroy you as you've destroyed me? Will you open the door for me when I arrive home? Will you kiss me as fiercely as I'd like you to? Will you grab me, drag your nails down my neck, and force every ounce of love out of me? Please say yes.

I do hope to see you soon. I'm tired of this silence. If I must suffer through it, I'd rather endure it with you.

Your faithful husband,

Harry