The journey towards the front has been arduous, at best. The other men have been singing Vera Lynn’s “We’ll Meet Again” almost non-stop since our company’s departure. John has joined in once or twice with them; he claimed it was to boost morale, but I doubt it. I’ve caught him looking at his picture of Mary once or twice.
I find myself thinking of you. I find myself thinking of the departure we made to one another. I admit that your embrace was rather sudden, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the sentiment behind it. I’ve never truly been one for the act, if I’m honest, but right now, as I write this letter in this tent with aircraft going over every day, and bombs being dropped and guns going off, I find myself thinking back to your kiss; to your mouth on mine. I find myself… rather glad for the memory, Molly. I thank you for that memory.
My only regret is how I acted. I’m guessing I looked rather shocked? And perhaps bewildered. I’ll admit to that; you’re a bewildering person, Molly, after all. However, bewilderment doesn’t mean hatred. And I could never hate you—you’re one of those people I suppose; entirely impossible to hate or even loathe, just the slightest bit. There are people like that all over the world—I suppose I’ll meet a few of them during my time here—but you perhaps are the most important of all of them. Always have been, really. (Why I should only realise that now is ludicrous and makes me curse any and every deity under my breath.)
There are whispers that our company should be allowed leave around Christmas time. Another thing to do with sentiment I assume; perhaps if I pull some strings with my brother, I could make those whispers into a reality. I’ll certainly try, even though it means actually writing to him. Dear Lord. That will, most certainly, be a painful experience.
The reason for why I wish to come home—even for a short while—must be obvious, especially to you, and especially now. I wish to atone for my behaviour, Molly. I wish to show you the truth: you are, have been and always will be my friend, my Molly and most importantly, my pathologist. Perhaps you will transform into something else, something more, upon my return — but that’s a hope on my part. Awfully sentimental really, but the whole act of letter writing is an act of sentiment in itself, so I suppose I was doomed from the moment I put the pen to paper. Still, I do speak the truth, so I doubt I’ll get into too much trouble for being sentimental or heaven forbid, affectionate. John will tease me of course; as will Geoff Greg. (Sorry for the error there—he spotted me writing and forced me to correct myself. I wonder if he’ll ever work out I do it to tease him. I very much doubt it.)
But it is true, Molly. When I write these words, they are as true in my mind as they are on the paper. That you are, and always will be, my Molly? It is the truth.