Arras, France

August 1918

Dear Annaliese,

We received blankets today. It's awfully cold for August. Nedjem thinks it's because of all the smoke covering the sun. Most days, we can't see the sun and it's depressing as hell to say the least.

What shall we talk about today? What did I do today?

I don't know how many hours I spend on my feet these days. I don't know how many hours I spend laying in my bunk. We've been stagnant for a long time, just near Arras. We've been out of the trenches for some time now. I'm both relieved and anxious. There isn't much cover over our heads, but there is a decent area to sleep and eat. Have you been to Arras? It's supposed to be beautiful. Looking across the land at it now, I don't see the appeal.

It's been difficult to count and monitor the days. Nedjem is able to tell the time based on the position of the sun, but alas, there is no sun. We rise when we're told to, eat when we have time, and sleep if the option is available. There is a bath area, but the water runs cold quickly. Some people have taken advantage of a brothel two miles from here. It's risky to walk there and back, however, these men are growing impatient. We're trying to keep Nedjem from going, though. I've chaperoned once to ensure the men go and return safely but I cannot stand the accents of the women.

Right now, the candles are out except for mine. I've taken up the desk in the room to write this letter. The others should be asleep behind me, however, from the rustling sheets and restlessness, I suspect they are just as awake as I am. Most of us wish to sleep for a full year after a long day, but when we're actually in the bunks, it feels as if we can do anything except sleep.

My purpose for writing this letter was to congratulate you. Bear with my frustration for a minute, darling. Congratulations for surviving a year without me. If you feel the need to return the gesture, I'll allow you to congratulate me for surviving in this war, not for surviving a year without you because I have not done that. I've died every day that I've been away from you.

Bake a cake for yourself. Buy those macarons you enjoy. I cannot be there to brush the crumbs from your mouth, but I shall be imagining you having the time of your life with that insufferable neighbor of ours.

I intend to write more tomorrow. My hand is cramping and I still need to write to my mother.

I think it's amusing that by the time my letters reach you or her, ensuring my safety, I might already be buried.

Your husband,

Harry