Dearest Marie,

Today I was struck by a young soldier by the name of Baumer. He was in for a small leg injury; nothing fatal or debilitating. He is already walking about now. I do not know what it was about him, exactly, that drew me to him, but I became fascinated. He is a handsome man, not unlike your eldest, Richard, except for startling blue eyes and a small birthmark on his left cheek. He approached me to-day about the condition of his comrade, Albert, expressing concern for the poor man. The lad (for he is barely 19), is suffering from a leg wound himself, although he is not as fortunate as Baumer. I will not go into details, for I know how the thought of blood frightens you, dear Marie.

He must be in great pain though, as the surgery did not go as well as we had hoped it to.  Additionally, he is suffering from what the men here call “shell shock.” It is akin to a form of dementia, brought on by the gruesome sights and experiences of the war. I have had to stop poor Albert from taking his own life several times; he is that desperate for the sweet release of death. He has begged me for a pistol, that he may place it to his temple and end his suffering forever. This is why sweet Baumer is at unease of late; for he has seen better than any of us the trauma so at home in his young friends eyes of late; the desperation in his voice when he whispers for sleep; the bitterness that has almost completely engulfed his heart and soul. He is a tortured man, and part of me wishes to reached under my mattress and hand him the small handgun that resides there. But I know that I cannot, so I watch each day his suffering and his grief. I look at the pistol every day, battling with my own conscience and what I know to be right. It is a terrible thing to see, and to have to even think about. I am sorry to have provided you with such onerous thoughts.

I have found myself growing accustomed to the life I lead here; after six months I have managed to make a home for myself out of the limited possessions I have with me. The small lap quilt Hannah sewed for me lies at the foot of my small cot, the only memory I have of my only daughter.  I have my books, or what few I was able to take. I brought my favourties: Shakespeare’s Romeo & Juliet, and Much Ado About Nothing. I thought perhaps I would need some cheering after seeing all the dead and wounded. I was correct in thinking that. I have not even laid a finger on Romeo and Juliet, whereas I am on my fifth consecutive reading of Much Ado. I have also the picture of Frederic, God rest his soul. It is framed in that glorious gilded piece you gave to me, and it sits, treasured, on the only table in the room.

You were wise to stay home, Marie, for I do not believe you would like what you would see here. It does indeed take a woman with a strong stomach, firm mind, and a touch of coldness to do this job. The latter is what gets me the most. Here I see men who have no chance of living, men who have families. Wives, daughters, sons… this is not their life. They have a home, perhaps a small cottage on a creek somewhere up north, where a river runs through the yard, and every year around spring… oh, but look at me, dreaming away whilst men around me sicken and die. Where was I? Yes, every day I must decide who will live and who will die. Those who I believe will not make it are taken to a room below ground. There are perhaps one hundred men down there each day, and only two doctors. ‘We need doctors to help those who it would make a difference to,’ is what one said when I asked how it could be. ‘The beds are needed for the living.’ Are not those in the room below still living? I argued yes, until my curious mind had me finding my way downstairs on one of my few (and short!) breaks. Men everywhere, lying still as stone. I took them all for dead, but as I turned to hurry back upstairs, a corpse reached out to grab me strongly by the arm. ‘Let me go…’ he whispered, pulling me close to him. Marie, how terrified I was! His face was sunken and pale like a skeleton, his eyes dark and distant. His body seemed to show that he had no energy, no life left in him. That was betrayed by the vice-like grip on my arm. He said only ‘let me go,’ repeating it over and over to himself, and to me, as a plea. I had no idea how I was to respond (how would you?!), and eventually pulled his fingers from my arm and fled upstairs. I have not gone back down there in three months, and I never intend to again. The men down there are alive, yes, but they are not living. It despairs me to see.

Those who are considered ‘well enough to live’ (which, in itself, is something of an ironic statement) remain upstairs, watched over by a team of nurses (myself included) and a smaller team of doctors. There are perhaps two-hundred men in our main hospital, and perhaps seventy-five doctors to treat them all. As soon as a man passes the threshold into death, or becomes so ill that we cannot help him, he is moved downstairs to make room for the new patient.

Such going ons! I fear I will simply collapse from over-work, but I push myself still, thinking of the men, our men out at the front, dying for our country. Part of me wishes I could do more for our beloved Germany, and part of me selfishly wishes to go home and pretend this is not happening. I lead a very different life here.

But enough of this, tell me about yourself! I have not seen you in over half a year, you must have changed so much. How is Eric? Is his arm healing up properly? I know he considers it a curse to be out of action, but I consider it a blessing in disguise. And little Heidi, how is she? She had her first birthday not a month ago, yes? Send my love to the youngster, and tell her when I come home I shall keep my promise to take her for a day out in the park. Well, my duties call, and it is time for me to check in on Baumer and Albert. I will take another quick glance at my gun, before putting it back under the mattress. I will stand strong, and I will get Albert out of here alive.

In Love Always,