To My Loving Wife

In my dugout…. From Foster

To my loving wife,
I must admit that <censored>. And so you may not receive another letter from me for some time, but I will be thinking of you, as the memory of home is the only thing that sustains me out here.
I am currently in my dugout, after inspecting the front line and giving orders to the men. The part of this job I hate the most, you know I was never really a people person. On the other hand the company is very well equipped, and I would like to think I have helped in part in achieving that. Not at all unlike the factory, this place runs on paper, it seems, but with three companies all competing for scarce resources I keep my efforts focused on matters of logistics and supply, rather than wasted at something I have little talent in, especially as my administrative staff are even worse than the ones in London. My predecessor gained a posthumous commendation for bravery, as I mentioned before, and I fear his shoes are proving difficult for me to fill. The only thing respected here is reckless bravery, it seems.
I must leave now to work on a report, <censored>. Hopefully there will be no more loss reports to fill out, for a few days, at least. Each one takes something out of me.
This is a terrible place, but I am determined to carry through with it, in my own way. Three years of scorn while greater men than I volunteered was three years too many. At least my request to volunteer for OTC was sent three days before the conscription papers arrived.
Your husband,
Ernest.

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