I'll Continue This Tomorrow

A soldier at the front struggles to find time to write his beloved.

This love letter is written for Letters of Love 2022 Story Event organized by SisterJezabel.

The letter is from Henry Bankston, age 21, a recently promoted sergeant in the British Army to his fiancée, Mary Flynn O'Grady, age 20, an American nurse stationed in England in 1918 during The Great War. They appear in my story entitled "Calling the Stork."

Due to the nature of the story, there is no explicit sex but I hope you'll agree that it gets appropriately erotic for a couple in love during that timeframe as the story develops. And while we're at it with warnings, it takes place in a wartime setting, where death and destruction reigned and derogatory comments about the enemy soldiers were commonplace. A few such comments appear herein and are indicative of that particular time and the rigors of war, though they are not reflective of modern social norms nor are they directed at anyone from any nation or people of today.

Finally, many thanks to Smuttyandfun for the beta read for content on this story (i.e., I did all of the editing and all mistakes are entirely my own). S&F has a lot of great stories, so I invite and encourage you to check them out.

________________________

[Redacted] France, the Western Front

Tuesday, 12 February 1918

My dearest Mary,

Minutes are like hours and hours are akin to months as I sit here in this forsaken hellhole so very far from the grace of your sweet smile and the thrilling pleasure of your tender touch.

Darkness has once again fallen over the battlefield that spreads out before us in all directions. Where once this was farmland and forest, a home and barn here, a little village there, nothing remains but basically a sea of mud littered with broken-down, bombed-out buildings, damaged and destroyed equipment, veritable mountains of scattered debris, and coils and coils of that damnable barbed wire running in all directions put up as deterrents by both sides. When hit by artillery shells, the portions of

[The text on the paper is interrupted at this point by a couple of dark reddish brown circles on the sheet, followed by a somewhat larger spot of roughly the same color just to the right. They appear to have been wiped up from left to right, leaving streaks across part of the page. The text continues immediately below.]

the stretched wire that aren't blown to bits tend to turn into tangled steel tumbleweeds somewhat akin to those your moving "cowboy" pictures sometimes show on your western prairies.

Now, please, Mary, don't worry. I am, as you and your fellow Yanks always say, okay. You know I love you with all my heart and also that I love your country and your countryman for their wonderful spirit and for coming to our aid in our time of need but the American who invented the abomination that is barbed wire should have been wrapped tightly in it and left in the summer sun in your sweltering southwestern desert for some hours to see the error of his ways. Leave it to the Frenchies though, they claim that it was one of their own who actually invented it first. Perhaps, just to be sure, we should have wrapped them both up in it together for that well-deserved scorching.

In all seriousness, I initially planned to say nothing about this at all until I accidentally bled through my bandage onto the page without realizing it at first while I was writing above. Considering that you are a nurse and quite familiar with such things, you would, no doubt, recognize it for what it is, and now, based on my rant above, you should also have no doubt as to whence it came.

My coat took the worst of it, leaving me with just a tiny scratch where the sleeve abruptly ended and the side of my wrist and palm hadn't the good sense to get out of the way in time. The medic who cleaned it (quite well I might add) and bound it (evidently not quite so well) says that I'll be as good as new in a few days and he sent me back straightaway to the men in my unit. Private Declerk repaired my sleeve and I'm now as comfortably cold as ever in our redoubt, but now with a fresh bandage around my hand and the knowledge in my head to be a bit careful until the scratch is better mended.

The relative quiet of the night—which is never completely quiet considering the snores, some soft and some, well, not—of the men around us, the clanks and movements of those on patrol or guard duty, and the constant effort to resupply us from the rear—is interrupted all too frequently with the crack of a rifle or the noise of a machine gun firing off rounds at an enemy probing our lines.

Of course, the man whose hands are on the gun, of whatever type, always claims to have seen one of the bloody Huns—and perhaps it sometimes is—but in reality, it might also have been one of the rabbits who've burrowed deep enough to still survive and try to continue calling this despicable place home. Or maybe it was just a shadow; even the one making the infernal racket rarely knows which so how should any of the rest of us? At this point though, those of us in the dugouts tend to sleep through such distractions unless it becomes protracted or one of the officers awakens us for action. Since I was promoted to section corporal on my return and more recently to sergeant, I find that I sleep even more lightly than ever before and that I worry more and more about the men of our unit.

It is late, my love, and my body tells me that I need my rest as much as I've told my men that they need theirs. Therefore, I put down my pen with much love in my heart for you, my beloved and betrothed, wishing this was over and that I was in your arms and sharing your loving warmth and making more of our own together rather than being here practically freezing my arse off .

Lights out. I'll continue this tomorrow.

***

Thursday, 14 February 1918

We were quite busy yesterday and I found no time to dip my pen in ink to write as planned, but you were, as ever, on my mind, your name a most pleasant and loving whisper always on the tip of my tongue, giving me hope and courage here where the twain are in such ridiculously short supply.

Evening comes again, but this day, I suddenly recall, is special, Saint Valentine's Day, and I wonder if and hope that you are thinking of me even as I think of you. Believing so makes me feel closer to you, if only for a moment, so I stretch out my hand and imagine you doing the same toward me. Our upturned palms and fingertips meet, separated only by the thinnest gossamer rather than the hundreds of miles that are actually between us, and I feel your love flow to me through that admittedly tenuous connection as mine returns to you a thousandfold.

While not really unusual, the men of our platoon grumble this evening, frustrated that we have not received mail in over a week, particularly since, like I hoped for one from you, many had hoped for letters from wives, fiancées, special ladies, or, in some cases, even moms, on this day of love. Perhaps there will be mail tomorrow; I hope and pray so, not only for myself but for my men and the others of our platoon as well.

That said, Mary, all of them would rather be home with their special someone, but like me, they know we have to be here to stop the enemy, we must, to defeat the Huns quite thoroughly, to send them packing with their tails tucked, and put an end to this terrible conflict before it spreads further, perhaps to my shores as they've tried to do with their aeroplanes and their terror from the sky, or even, someday, on across the waters to yours.

I kick myself nightly, and particularly on this special day of love, that I felt myself compelled to decline the wondrous brush of your lips on mine when, despite spending so much time together and loving you completely, I wanted it so much. However, at the time you offered your first, sweet kiss, I questioned whether my resolve would be enough to overcome the knowledge that I could be medically discharged and be with you then rather than doing my duty to my King, my country, and my fellows here in the trenches to return to the fight. I so look forward to finally getting and giving that first kiss when I return; it helps keep me going when all around me—

Time for lights out. I love you, my dear, and I'll continue this tomorrow.

***

Friday, 15 February 1918

The Jerries' shells came close today, but our artillery responded in kind with great gusto and, we suspect, equally little effect. In the end, nothing of significance was accomplished by either side beyond making a great clatter, throwing up vast clouds of dust, and, perhaps, causing both armies to order more shells from munitions manufacturers. Several hours later, my ears have finally stopped ringing and I've thoroughly cleaned my rifle, my gas mask, and my face. Dust, I'm afraid, covers most if not all of the rest of me.

All is quiet now, except for the hushed chatter and all-too-common sneezes of the men in our redoubt, with most griping about the dust (how can there be so much when there is that great ocean of mud outside?), the terrible cold (my teeth are chattering and I have to hold my right hand with my left to keep the right from shaking as I try to write), the quality (or rather, the lack thereof) of the food, and, yes, yet another missed mail call.

Oh, my love, I miss hearing from you, too, and am looking forward to the time when we can be reunited once more. When silence reigns over the field before us, I sometimes hear the sound of your voice on the wind, whispering to me and giving me hope of better times ahead.

Sadly, those times now are too few and too far between, for our commanders order us out frequently to prod and probe the German defenses even as they are doing the same with ours. We go again at dawn so I must close this and rest.

All my love, my dear. I'll continue this tomorrow.

***

Saturday, 16 February 1918

There is such great waste to it all and days like today make me weak and tears threaten to fill my eyes and flood my cheeks. There is such horror all around us, death and destruction, the effects of which are like tendrils creeping into the depths of my soul, making me fight the fear as much as I fight the bloody Huns, while making me wonder if it will ever end, if I'll ever be able to come home to you. Then, as evening comes and we are back in our bunker, I close my eyes and see your face, your smile that warms me so, and your lovely blue eyes that twinkle and bring me happiness as you look into mine. Thank you for that, for your love, and for your willingness to stand by me through it all.

My love to you always, Mary. I'll pick this up and continue it tomorrow.

***

Sunday, 17 February 1918

Mary, thank you, my love! Thank you! It was bitterly cold and snowing today, but your letters, your photograph, and the little lock of your hair made the day brighter and much worth living. I treasure them all and wish we could be together now rather than having these hundreds of miles and roughly two weeks (by post) between us. Your photographer in Hertford should also be complimented on his photographic prowess, though with such a beautiful subject, his job must have been made much easier.

Due to the foul weather, we stood guard in the trenches today, not venturing out. We held a brief church service this morning with a surprise mail call afterward. It was there that I received two of your letters, those of 2 February and 7 February, though the "special one" you wrote "yesterday" (6 Feb, I would understand) must be taking a roundabout in getting here. Perhaps tomorrow it will arrive, bringing me yet another smile in this dark and dismal world. Or perhaps next week...or month. Whenever, I look forward to its arrival with great anticipation.

For now though, I stare at your photo as I clutch your lock of hair in my hand, with the men of my section now looking at me with even greater respect than before. As their corporal since my return and their sergeant in recent weeks, I must say they have always respected me, but they teased me greatly on seeing your photo, questioning how a homely chap such as myself can catch the eye of such a beauty, much less win her heart.

After their teasing ended and they realized that you really are as pretty as your picture (and not some moving picture starlet whose photograph I've pinched to try to trick them), a degree of jealousy set in as they started to wonder how that same homely bloke could indeed win such a prize as your love. Then it was my turn to tease them in reply, telling them that my luck must indeed be legion to be loved to such degree by my beautiful Mary, and that they should be happy to follow me to the ends of the world, or at least until we kick the bloody Jerries back over the border or even across the Rhine.

They, of course, promised with great eagerness to do just that and one even asked if you might have a sister. I told them yes, but that your little Clara is much too young for him and that by the time she's old enough, she'll be much too discriminating for such an oaf as him and on the wrong side of the Atlantic to boot! That brought much laughter from my men and him as well.

Seriously, my love, your picture brings a smile to my face and warmth to my heart. It's time for lights out so I have to get these blokes to bed. I send my boundless love, and promise that I'll continue this tomorrow.

***

Monday, 18 February 1918

Dear sweet Mary, there are only minutes to lights out tonight, so I write quickly and pray that you can read my scratchings.

I looked at your photograph again tonight and thanked Saint Peter that he turned me away from the pearly gates last year and sent me back when I was dying. I thought many times in the days that followed that close call that the good saint had made a mistake and that I would be back in front of him soon, but then God sent you. I praised Him, too, for sending you, my angel in white, to save me, to make me well despite the pain, and to give me the courage to fight on and make me stronger so I could put off my eventual discourse with good Saint Peter until another day.

Mary, your beauty shines in this forsaken place, giving me hope and courage, and I so look forward to being in your arms again soon where we can share that first kiss and many, many more besides.

Time's up and lights go out. I'll continue this tomorrow.

***

Tuesday, 19 February 1918

Wonderful news!

Your most special letter of 6 February came today along with word confirming the rumor we've been hearing.

I'll deal with the verification first since it affects you, too, particularly since it may come as a shock, but hopefully a pleasant one. Our company will be pulled back in about a month and we'll be granted a two-week leave, our first in about fifteen months. Some of the men will be going to Paris, but a number of us will be requesting to go home. I wish to see my parents and siblings, of course, but most importantly, I wish to see you and, if you are amenable to speeding up the term of our betrothal, to our becoming Sergeant Henry and Mrs. Mary Bankston at that time.

Our love is strong, Mary, both mine for you and yours for me, and I hope you feel as I do, that this is the right thing to do at the right time, and that you will become my wife during the leave rather than much later. However, if our marrying so soon is too much to ask, particularly without your father's approval, I will understand, of course, but will regret it greatly while loving you every bit as much as before.

We will be informed of the exact dates of our leave on Friday of this week so instead of posting this letter tonight as I originally planned, I will hold off until I can include the dates so you might arrange your leave as well. I have also requested a letter from Captain Marshon-Higgs, our company commander, that you might give to your superiors at your hospital to assist in arranging your leave, if you choose to honor my request. I hope to have that letter by Friday, too.

Now, your letter—

Be still my heart!

It races and my breath catches as I reread it once more. It was indeed quite special, it was thrilling, and it excited me to no end, particularly the thought of what you described in such intimate yet delicate terms. Dearest Mary, I look forward to our wedding day, whether next month as I propose, or next year or even next decade if necessary, when we can be united in holy matrimony and follow up and do what you hinted and more. I love you, my sweet, and will dream of being in your arms tonight as I try to avoid thinking of the randy discussions of some of my men on being informed of our leave and of your own sweet ideas regarding our eventual "stork calling."

It's late and lights are going out. I send my love and I'll continue this again tomorrow.

***

Wednesday, 20 February 1918

Dearest Mary, it was so cold last night, but dreams of being with you warmed my heart and more, making me forget the frigid temperature for at least a while. Perhaps it was your most special letter along with the thought of our upcoming marriage—if you agree to marry sooner rather than later as I hope—or perhaps the fault lies with the bawdy tales told by some of the unmarried men in our unit who visited Paris during our last leave instead of going home to see parents and siblings like me.

Whichever the case, I hesitate to write this but since we are engaged and have discussed our future in person—including, to a degree, the corresponding passions that has aroused in both of us (such as was evidenced by your most recent letter)—I convey these most intimate words to you with much love and great secrecy as my mind recalls parts of those heated dreams leading my little soldier to strain at attention and act naughtily and my hand to now write and reveal all.

In my dream, you were as beautiful as in person or as in your photograph, dressed in your white wedding dress with your reddish blonde curls hanging down past your shoulders and your eyes shining bluer than the bluest sapphire. I smiled back in reply to your sweet smile and at your dimples, showing themselves quite clearly in pure happiness as the Father united us with our vows. I don't recall the words, only that you whispered in my ear that you "will love me always," even as I love you, before we finally kissed for the first time.

I was swept away with the kiss, my eyes closing as we pulled each other close, your arms around me and mine about you. When, short of breath, we broke off our kiss and my eyes opened, we were no longer in front of the chapel and my family but in a bridal suite, somewhere, somehow, and you were removing my shirt as I unlaced the back of your dress. I wondered for a moment how we came to be there from the chapel without my recollecting it, but I quickly realized that wasn't important because we were together, you and I, and that our love binds us more completely than any words the Father must have said that I can't remember.

The dream me—as inexperienced as myself, it seems, struggled with the laces on your bodice. As cute as always, you giggled at me before kissing my cheek and turning your back to where I could actually see what I was doing to complete my task. My fingers fumbled but eventually freed you from the bindings and I awaited your turn. Instead, you dropped your dress and I helped you push it down. A step and you were out, wearing only frilly silk knickers, and you leaned back against me.

"Hold me," you whispered, lacing your fingers together, your palms over the back of my hands, as you pulled my arms around the softness of your belly. Your hands directed me, making me feel you, little by little, and I thrilled as each new part was revealed. Your hands pushed low, across that gentle curve where our little Henry or little Mary will someday grow when your stork hears our ardent calling. Further still you took me, down until my fingertips just brushed the softness of your nestled curls, setting up a tremor that shot through my entire body.