Chapter Text
October 3rd, 1943
[REDACTED BY CENSOR], [REDACTED BY CENSOR]
Punk,
I meant to write sooner, but we’ve been on the move, and days are starting to run together. The Army encourages us to write, but struggles to carve out the time for it.
I’m fine, before you fret. Sleeping when I can, but I find walking a lap of the camp does more for my head than sleep ever does—don’t tell Ma.
We’re leaving at dawn for [REDACTED BY CENSOR]. The brass have bumped me up to Sergeant, but it doesn’t sit right in my head. I always trusted you to be my compass, in times like these. You’ve got more pluck than I could ever have. They haven’t told us much, it just fell down the ranks as usual, another [REDACTED BY CENSOR] to [REDACTED BY CENSOR].
Don’t get in a stew if you don’t hear from me for a while. Paper has a knack for taking the long way—it’s becoming a real pain in the neck.
Not that I want you here. You keep pulling your red wagon, and taking care of Ma, and Becc’s, and the twins whilst I’m gone. No more funny trips to the recruitment offices, you hear? I need you safe, Punk. Or I’ll get Becca to keep watch, and y’know she’s a hawk.
I bet Mrs Campbell’s after another portrait. She’s the one that pays well, right? Insists you have a real knack with pencils and paintbrushes.
Don’t give that up for something as thin as this war.
Thinking of you keeps me steady. Some things stick in my head, even when I don’t mean for them to. But I’d rather say the rest when there aren’t as many oceans between us, and no men peeking over my shoulder, counting my words. You know how it is.
You’re the one that knows me most. You know what I’d say.
All yours, till the end of the line,
Jerk
P.S: Send another sketch—I’ll see it when we fall back.
