Dear Jack

Dear Jack,

I have wanted to write more often, but it is difficult to find the time. Casualties arrive day and night, and often we work twelve hours or more at a shift, only to fall into our cots exhausted at the end. Still, it is nothing compared to what the lads on the line must endure. Yesterday we had a respite, however. A truce was declared so that burial parties could tend to the lads who had fallen in no-man's land. Such terrible work, but at least they'll have some peace. They found one bloke still alive after several days, though his wounds are in such a frightful state that I don't know if he'll survive after all.

Our aid station was shelled several times over the past few weeks. Each time grows a tiny bit easier, though I daresay it is something I will never get used to. Doctor Young was nearly killed by a shell just outside, and Tanner, one of the medics, was injured. They both have recovered well, thank goodness, but it rattled us all. I was beside myself for several days.

Tanner is a good lad, a great help to us in the station. He comes from a farm as well, and has an interest in veterinary school, so we have a bit in common. I worry for him, though, since he seems very troubled by his experiences on the front. We have seen several cases of shell shock come through our care, and there's little we can do for them but offer kind words.

I hope this letter finds you well, and will try to write again soon.

Your Friend, Kathleen
May 1915

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