Last Words (Lyttlejoe)

30 2 9
                                    

My Dearest Mary, 

I can only beg forgiveness for not replying to your passionate letters. They reside, treasured in the pocket of my field jacket, giving my heart solace when the enemy shells shriek overhead.I cannot mention names or landmarks as the war office censors will only redact their mention. Yet, lying here in this muddy trench among the odious smells of death and dirt, I wish I could reveal where I may finish this mortal existence.The enemy is but a stone's throw away and when the shelling stops I hear the soldiers talking. The impression is, they are as distressed as I. Soon the whistle will blow and we will scramble from our shelter and run screaming and yelling toward the barbed wire and enemy gunfire.I will see, maybe for the last time, the spire of the church overlooking the valley leading to the sea. By some miracle it has survived this conflict. It reminds me of the church in your village back home. Be brave my darling and carry always my undying love, the love sequestered in my heart to help me in this charge across what once was fields of golden wheat. 

Love, Henry  

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