All they found were pieces of him in his sleeping bag.

He wouldn’t tell her that the casualty list had grown so long that it was almost difficult to mourn. That the men avoided crying because the tears would turn into ice on their faces. Already, their eyebrows and hair were like rock.

Let her believe the headlines. The ones that omitted how very dire things still were in many corners of this continent.

“We’re moving out!” Those had become Tom’s least favorite words because it meant his enjoyment of the newly arrived bounty was short-lived. He folded his note and stuck it in his rucksack.

More weeks went by, minutes and days and hours blurring into one. One field looking like the next, one bombed town blending into another. Tom was not alone in forgetting the name of their location on any given day—they thought in coordinates and obstacles.

Tom lost Margaret’s photograph somewhere in the mud when a burst of sporadic gunfire had them racing to dig more foxholes. Once all had quieted, he’d used his shovel to scour every bit of the rock-hard ground he’d treaded, desperate to find it even as he knew it would be impossible.

He’d stopped only when a medic had been called to treat him for hypothermia. He found out later that he’d been ranting with delirium—“I have to find her. I have to find her.”

He was back on the field the next day, a body that couldn’t be spared. The only thought he could muster about the loss of the greatly worn photo was the hope that it would disintegrate into the soil and nurture any flowers that might dare to emerge come spring.

She deserved that much.

Dearest Margaret, he jotted onto his pages.

Rumors are flying about more Allied wins, but our Airborne tastes victory and defeat with the to-and-fro of a tug-of-war game. The town of Foy has changed hands a full six times, the locals as weary of the roller coaster as we are.

I’ve been promoted to sergeant, which feels more like a move of desperation than merit. As one is killed, another takes his place, and I guess my number was next. Though my father would be proud, there are even more men for whom I’m responsible. It’s frightening, coming earlier than I would normally merit. I’m not sure I’m ready.

I once thought it would be an honor. Now it frightens me. I have nothing to give them. We are low on ammunition, medical supplies, and food.

He would not tell her these things. In fact, his notes were filled more with things he never wanted her to know. But writing them to the idea of her was the only respite he felt.

He no longer gave thought to the fireplace mantel.

Or his mother.