October 1st, 1915, Loos

My darling Es,

It has been three days. Is that possible? It feels like more. They were endless. We were to be kept back for a day to rest and then we weren’t. We were already exhausted, but we had to keep on fighting. Is that what we were doing?

Mostly we were dying.

I’ve not slept. I can’t think straight, but I know I must write to you, Es. Es. Es. Es. Es. Es. Essy. Esme. I’ve always loved how Lizzie calls you Essymay. I’ve wanted to call you that myself; it’s been there, on the tip of my tongue. But it’s hers. It’s everything you were before I met you. Is that why I love it?

Forgive me. I’m desperate to lie down, rest my head against your belly. I want to hear your heart beating. I rested my head against the chest of my orderly and heard nothing. Why would I? His legs had been blown off. His legs that had done everything I asked of them were no longer attached to his body.

I lost seven of my men, Es. For some, the weeks before this battle were the best they had ever had. Three might be fathers by the time the flesh has fallen from their bones.

I write this, my darling Es, because you say your imagination conjures images that words can’t come close to, and you would rather know the truth. I find it is a great relief to write without filter, and it is the closest I can get to resting against your breast and weeping. I am so grateful. But you have not imagined the distress you will feel. My account will seep into your dreams, and it will be me lying in the mud, my eyes like glass, bits of me blown away. Every morning you will wake in fear of what might be, and it will shadow you through the day.

I am spent, my darling Es. There is a buzzing in my ears and images in my mind that get clearer and more grotesque whenever I close my eyes. It is the gauntlet I must run if I am ever to sleep. I would be a coward to share this with you.

When the battle is over, I will tear this up and start again with a more tolerable arrangement of words. But right now, having arranged them exactly as I need to, I feel unburdened. When my lids close, I will be spared the worst, and it will be an image of you that ushers me to sleep.

Eternal Love,

Gareth

I folded the letter and put my slip within it. I turned the pages of Brooke’s book until I found “The Dead.” I read the first few lines in silence.

“All this is ended,” I said to the empty house. I could read no further.