I've Got Your Back

They sent us out to East Africa, which at first seemed like such an adventure. From the English countryside to the planes of Africa; what on earth would mother think of me now? I had not heard that the war affected Africa and hence naively believed that we would be taken out of the action and be placed in some other capacity. The truth however is that I have been sent here, to this godforsaken place, as punishment. The war is waging even more fiercely over here that it is in Europe but in the scorching heat, with disease rife and spreading at an alarming pace. I miss rain, a sentiment I never thought I’d express; I miss grass rather than this endless barren wasteland with the sand that whips fiercely into your eyes; and I miss you. We've been sending letters for around five months now but they always sensor what I want to truly tell you, or perhaps it’s me not being brave enough to chance it. So I have decided to address my thoughts to you instead because I do need you to know.

Maybe you’ll somehow hear them, if I think them often enough. The letters we send are never enough, the only make the ache intensify. You don’t truly care that I ate rat, or really want me to know about a new anti-German limerick you heard. What I really want is you beside me, our lips pressed against one another, my body intertwined so completely with yours I have no idea where I end and you begin. I want to shout at you for not just bloody running away when that man saw us. I want you to hold me in the night, when all around me are the sad cries of lonely, dying men.

And I know this need does not justify what I did. I know that. But God, Matthew, it is such hell here. There is none of the jovial songs, or smiling faces, or card games. There is just endless death whether from visible enemies or the silent killers of disease and exhaustion. None of the men over here will talk to me. They know what I did, what we did, I’m sure of it. Matthew, I was so lonely and I just missed you with this intensity that completely consumed me. I hope that if you ever find out you can forgive me.

He was a local. I don’t even know his name. It meant nothing to me, just momentary relief hidden by a dark shadow and muffled by his coarse hand over my mouth. I am not sure if this makes it better or worse but when he put his hand on me all I thought of was you. Your eyes, your delicate voice whispering unintelligible things into my ear, the way it felt to be with you. When it was over he left without a glance back, without even the faintest kiss, and I descended into this pit of guilt.

This is foolishness: I know that you cannot hear me. And for that, for the very fact that to write all this down in a letter would incriminate me, a large part of me is thankful. I don’t want to lose you Matthew.

So please don’t hate me; I already hate myself more than enough for two.