but it might do me some good to say it anyway.

Save my letters, and when I come home I’ll fill in

the missing lines for you. The rest of the letter

may as well have passed through the censors’ hands—

I can’t read it through my tears. When I can stop

crying, I read on: I was well trained, he wrote.

I thought I understood why we were over here,

what we are being asked to do. At first, it made

some kind of sense. I even thought I’d be able

to explain it to you, and maybe change your mind

about our being here. But more often than not these days,

you are the one who changes my mind. Your words

come back to me when I have to pull a trigger, or

when I can’t sleep after killing someone. “Why

is everyone just doing what they’re told?”

you asked, that night after your graduation. Sometimes

I find that hard to answer. I blink, back up, read again:

“after killing someone.” Frank killed someone.

More than once? I take a deep breath, read on:

We’re lined up on one side of a line, other soldiers

line up facing us, and then we shoot each other.

That’s about the size of it. When you read

about the war in the papers over there, it sounds

like we spend our days moving lines around a map,

half an inch a week. It’s easier to make sense

of who’s the enemy and who is on our side.

But when you see a soldier lying facedown

in the mud and he’s been there a few days

and everyone is marching past him because

no one has the time to move him, or give him

a proper burial—maybe say a simple prayer

over his body—it barely matters what kind of

uniform he’s wearing. Dead bodies

look and smell the same, whatever side

they once were on. I know I shouldn’t question

what I’m doing; they drill it into us: “A split

second can mean the difference between

killing the enemy and being killed.”

But do I want to lose that part of myself

that insists on taking stock of what I’m doing

every time I do it? That’s hard to answer, Muriel.

I’ll put this letter away for a few days,

and then decide if I should mail it.

If you’re reading it at all, no matter what

they’ve crossed out before it comes to you,

at least you’ll know that I was thinking of you.

Your friendship gives me comfort

through long nights in the trenches.

I hope this finds you well, my dear.

With love, Frank.

A bullet and a bandage for the wound

it causes, all in one small envelope.

My questions may have caused a hesitation

that cost Frank his … his certainty.