[WP] Write a soldier's journal entry on his first day at war. Then write his last journal entry.

Day 31

Dearest Helena Mae, My Len,

My love, today was my first in real combat. I’ll not speak of what I see in any of the letters that might occasion our doorstep. I can think of nothing less comforting in a letter than the truths of war. I will say to you now. This war will be short. A brawl with few casualties. The South is strong. We march more than we fight.

I can’t say I enjoy the test this country of ours is putting us to. My only hope is that I’ve chosen the proper side and that God and mother will be pleased when I meet them again.

Tell Susie the knapsack she spent so much time making is stronger than steel. I think the thing will outlive us all and make for a nice gift to our first born someday.

The ornate silver spoon you hid in my knapsack remains on my person still and earns its keep every day there is food. Because of the scarcity of our resources my stomach turns even at the thought of the flour and oats we are occasioned. I dare not think of your home cooked meals at any length. Thinking in such ways has already begun inspiring many a man to take French leave. I have quieted the men’s ridicules on the matter of my having such a spoon by offering words about you and reading them your eloquent letters. Most reluctantly I have allowed the spoon to become tarnished so to keep the eyes of the bummers wandering. It and the other trinkets you stowed away in my sack were each a quiet joy to discover. These are the small remembrances which serve my love for you best.

Every morning we are given ‘Essence of Coffee’, as it is called. It is a disgraceful thing to give the title of coffee to what starts as a paste. I’ll not even dignify with description what they call tea here. To sit with you on our porch drinking coffee at sunset I fancy to be my first request once home. Even on the hottest of days I can imagine nothing more refreshing.

They tell us that mere weeks is all will further be required of us. The Confederacy is strong. For this last month the candle of civil conflict has burned so very bright in this little corner of the world. There can not be much wick left. One of the younger privates contends that this war will carry on years more. The unfounded prediction has hence brought him more ridicule than my spoon ever did me. Expect me home within the month my love.

Your adoring husband, Private Robert Randall Rogers Jr.

 

Day 365

Dearest Helena Mae, My Len,

For some time we have been at rest in an open field somewhere in Virginia. In that time what once was pasture has henceforth become a township of sorts. Grass grew here once but the boots and bodies of soldier has turned this field to a darkened muddy disk. I have not seen a battlefield in what feels like a fortnight though I know it has not been that long. It is comforting feeling such a distance between myself and the battlefield even if only imagined. Adversely while I know it has been just a year it feels a score of them since last I held you. Nary has a man missed the way I do. I dream every night of crossing the endless plains to our home out there in the middle. The other day an old timer whispered so that only I could hear, ”The soldier never leaves the battlefield lest he changes his name back to Man”. It is beyond me if he was quoting text or not.

The uniform which you tailored for me all those months ago, while advantageous, has provided the occasional hindrance, but I have become accustomed. Moving about neath the heavy wool was at first trying but it has since become a second skin of sorts. That aside it gives testament to your skill as even this great war of ours can do nothing to diminish the strength of its stitching.

Given the somewhat strange intricacies of our intimacy I am inclined, albeit a bit abashed, to also note my current fragrance. Since you always enjoyed the odor which accompanied my homecoming following a long day about the fields you might likewise find some appreciation for the scent that now consumes me. So long have we been on the move and trifling through filth it astounds me that our enemy has not since changed our label to Brownbacks. This uniform like the south itself is a model of endurance. Mine while remaining strong if not a little worse for the wear is one of the brownest. I have put off bathing while at camp. I often trouble over the effectiveness of a clean soldier on the battlefield.

As it is the camp has not the space to house all the men. I have chosen to sleep outside under the stars. To me it is reminiscent of our young love. We were children who never missed an opportunity to look up. Some nights I even manage to block the raucous jawing happening mere feet from my spot and imagine there is only you and I as we once were. On these nights while my body lay asleep in the cracked dirt my mind wanders back to you. I am then usually awakened by the smell of distant canon fire. The sounds of distant warring is often soothing much like a metronome. With the help of only a slight breeze it is the smells of distant fighting which carries in reality. It is a queer truth which can only be experienced I suppose.

Tomorrow the distance between myself and war will be a memory. It’s back to the charge for me. It has been said by some that my separation from the scuffle may have softened my strengths. Worry not my love, I like the south remain a grey rock moveable only by God.

It was the strength of the South that was to give this conflict a timely end. But, now I hasten that is our patient resolve that will identify us the victors.

They have begun collecting the mail so I must end with brevity. I have made some extra notes helping other soldiers with their letters. I have included that and twenty notes more with this letter. Keep a pot of coffee on the stove. Before long I will come to you at our place in the middle and we will be just as we once were. Just a little while longer, my love.

Your adoring husband, Private Robert Randall Rogers Jr.

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