Daily Story
307
Dear Mother, Father, and Sisters
It's hard not writing to you, I don't know what you think has happened to me, but I'm sure you know by now that I'm not in Charleston. I am fine, even though you won't find this out. I never expected war to be so terribly awful. Men are dying every day. I'm not supposed to tell you that, no one is. All our letters are terribly censored, and I can understand why. If the horrors that we have to experience every day got out, well, it would be a disaster.
It's not all bad though. Certainly it is difficult to find places to change, but it's something I've learned to work around, and I hardly notice it anymore. I've just become the spacey little trooper that never grew up.
But momma, there's something so magical about the nights we spend in camp. There's no food sometimes, and when there is, it's absolutely abysmal. The boys get sick, and I know my turn in the infirmary is coming up, though I do everything I can to stop it. Momma, at night, when everyone is sleeping, and the strains of Joe's fiddle floating over us while we watch the stars go by. Momma, sometimes the other guys don't get to see the beauty, but I always do, even if it means staying up a little later then I should.
That's why I stay, momma, poppa.
Don't worry about me. I'll come home. And even if I don't, I have the beauty of the world around me, and when I go, I'll be looking up at the stars.