Love’s Long Return
Please note: the following story includes sensitive content.
Sarah watches the candle flicker on the windowsill, the small flame swaying against the rough stone walls of her cottage. It's April 1919, and the village of Wetherby in Yorkshire, England, is quiet, quieter than it ever was before the war—the Great War as they call it—as if the weight of all the loss could be captured in those two words. Her small village, like so many across England, has been emptied of its men, its laughter, its life, replaced by the constant worries of when and whether loved ones will return.
A lot of that worry did come to an end five months ago when the Armistice was signed, ending the war. But many of the men, including her husband James, still haven't come home. He had written her:
My darling,
The authorities know how difficult it will be to organize demobilization in any sort of orderly way. If they leave it as a free-for-all, it would be chaos—everyone trying to go home at once, with the shortages and rationing still in place. It's already difficult enough. So, they've come up with a system to manage it all. We're being sent home in groups. Group one is for the miners and agricultural workers—men essential to keeping the economy going, if you can believe it. I've been put in group 35-something, towards the end of the line. It means I'll have to wait much longer to return home. Not a chance of leaving soon. I think of you all the time and hold on to the hope that soon, soon enough, we'll be together again.
Yours always,
James
That letter had been added to the stack of others James wrote during the war. Sometimes, she would re-read them. The first letter had been the hardest. He had written:
My darling,
It's Valentine's Day and I'm thinking of you, wishing more than anything that I could be there holding you close on this day of love instead of being trapped in this hellish place.
We arrived at the front line just over a week ago, and the stench here was overwhelming. Many of the men couldn't hold back their sickness. Describing it feels impossible, but maybe knowing the causes will give you a sense. There's raw sewage from the cesspits, the foul odor of men who haven't washed in weeks, bodies decaying in shallow graves or out in no man's land, the acrid smell of exploded bombs, and the lingering, suffocating odor of mustard gas from recent attacks. Add to that the stagnant mud, cigarette smoke, and whatever cooking smells we manage—it's a never-ending assault on the senses.
They say we'll get used to it, but right now, it feels like the smell will haunt us forever.
There are also rats everywhere, swarming through the trenches without a care. There's so much filth for them to feed on that they're thriving, and some are nearly as big as our cat. It's enough to turn your stomach.
Then there is the rain, which seems to never stop. It floods the trenches and turns everything into mud, so much so that some of the men have sores on their feet so painful they can barely walk. And sleep—sleep is a distant memory. The constant roar of shells from both sides keeps us awake, along with the cold, the wet, and the fear. My bunk is dug into the side of the trench, with nothing but mud for a roof and floor. The thought that any stray shell could end it all is ever-present.
Sarah, I'm scared. My life feels like it hangs by a thread every day. Bullets fly randomly overhead, shells explode all around us, and men—good men—are dying constantly. If it's not from gunfire or shelling, it's from fever or disease. Four of the boys from my squad are gone. They were with me in basic training, my closest friends. And John—another close friend—shot himself in the foot just to escape this nightmare. He'll be sent to a field hospital and eventually sent home.
Last night, A and B squads were sent over the top. Most of them were killed or wounded before they even made it ten yards out of the trench. It's barbaric, a horrific waste of life.
I'll close here, hoping and praying that this isn't the last letter I send you. I long to be home with you, more than words can ever express.
I love you with all my heart. Happy Valentine's Day, my dearest.
Yours always,
James
These were the first of many tears, though at some point the tears just stopped as if the well had dried, even as more letters came, each filled with similar horrors. Sometimes, Sarah felt as though she were living on the battlefield with him. Though with time, Sarah noticed James tried to shield her from the worst of it. His words became briefer, less descriptive. She worried about what he wasn't telling her.