The Letter
Originally posted on Nuclear Dawn
"Dear Mum and Dad,
I'm sorry that I haven't written to you sooner but the Imps have been keeping us busy for the past few weeks. Throughout that time you were never far from my thoughts and each day I hope I live to write to you once more. I apologise for the quality of the paper on which I write on, think I took it from an Asian soldier but it's getting harder to tell these days. I've asked one of my squad to translate the words on the other side but she just laughed and walked away. Propaganda then.
It's still raining, all day, every day. The best part is that it's not nearly as acidic as back home, we can almost drink it straight from the guttering! The only down side is that it's starting to creep into my armour, if I only I was home now, you'd know just how to fix it Dad. The new armour I told you about last time hasn't arrived yet, but this stuff keeps me live so can't complain too much. I'm in good health, even if I lost the little finger on my left hand a fortnight ago. Doc's done a good job with the prossie though, you can't tell the difference unless you touch it, feels cold and a little rubbery compared to the other fingers. Jake would probably find it "so cool!".
Give my regards to him and tell him that I may be joining you all again soon,
Alan"
Corporal Alan Foster placed the biro on the table, it's amazing how many pens and biros had actually survived The Third. He removed his armour and placed it beside his hammock so that he could jump into it at a moment's notice. With the flick of a switch the lights dimmed giving way to semi-darkness, the night staved off by the spotlights and floodlights of the camp. In a few days he would be returning to the front and compared to that even this was peaceful enough for the veteran soldier to get some rest.
The letter sat on the table in the twilight. Writing such letters home is a tradition spanning back many decades and soldiers would await envelopes, to the troops their contents were priceless. There were no envelopes now. But that was ok, they weren't needed anymore. As Alan lay cacooned in his hammock he closed his eyes and thought of his parents and of his little brother Jake, all of them victims of the first nuclear barrage on New York city. Writing to them in the world of spirit was a small measure of peace. Something to take his mind off combat, Imps and the weather for as long as the paper could fit his words.
He imagined them sitting next to him reading his words and he whispered softly to them: "I love you". As he drifted into sleep, tears sealed his eyelids until morning.