Woman Soldier

   Colleen sat in the morning sun of a warm spring day reading a letter from Steven. It was only the sixth letter she had received from him. Six letters in a year. It seemed so little, so small a piece of the man she loved. She knew it was difficult for him to write while he was out in the trenches, fighting the battles. In fact, four of the letters had been written while he was in winter camp. There was also the difficulty of getting the mail delivered from the fields where the men were, to all the homes of the loved ones, desperate for some word.

   It was now eary June and this was the first letter she had received since February. In previous letters while whiling away the cold winter months of winter, he had spoken casually, lightly of their daily lives. He told of the men, especially of Tom and Charles who he and Gerritt had shared a cabin with. He told tales of card games and snowball fights. He explained about the feast they had all shared on Christmas, singing carols and exchanging small gifts of tobacco, toiletries and such. But there had been little written of the war, of the hardships they were facing. She knew he was only trying to spare her, to shield her from the brutalities, but she wanted to know; wanted to know what it was really like to be out there in the trenches, what Steven felt as he faced the enemy.

   This letter she held in her hand was different. He had been in another battle and she could tell it had affected him deeply. He had written:

   War is a horror. I'm not sure what I expected, perhaps two opposing teams meeting on the battlefield to spar with one another; clashing of swords, the fire of cannon, like knights of old. In the back of my mind I knew there would be bullets, killing, but I pushed it to the background, like some distant scene in a painting.

   The reality is so much worse than I could have imagined. Artillery fire blowing off arms, legs, bodies into unrecognizable pieces, blood saturating the ground like spring rains. The dead and dying are all around. It crushes the spirit, causes a deep kind of sadness that never seems to dissipate. There is no glory in killing, only the satisfaction of knowing you saved yourself for the moment. There are times when one asks himself what it's all for, especially the times when I get homesick and lonely for my beautiful wife.

   But I apologize my dear. I did not mean to write of such depressing news. On a positive note, I am well and so is your brother Gerritt. The Lord has spared us to fight another day. We are still in Virginia but will again be on the march soon. Then it will be more digging of trenches and building of breastworks. Again we will face the enemy and hopefully, with every victory we come closer to gaining our freedom, which is the ultimate goal of this tragic conflict. And then, my sweet I will be able to come home to you, to feel your arms about me, to taste the sweetness of your lips.

   I wonder how things are with you. I hope you are well. We hear so little of what is happening in Georgia, only pieces and parts. We hear of many of our Southern patriots starving, losing their homes. I know from your last letter that up until then you and your mother were still faring well. I hope your condition remains the same.

   I worry about you, my dear, with Yankees now infiltrating more and more into our beloved South. I feel so torn, wanting to be here with my fellow comrades, fighting for our freedom and our beliefs and then wanting to be there with you, to protect you from harm.

   I miss you so much my sweet Colleen. Our time together was so short, but it stays in my mind always. It is what keeps me going through the rough patches, that day we spent together. It fills my dreams and keeps my hopes alive for the future___________

   Colleen stopped reading and clasped the papers to her breast, closing her eyes. How she missed him! She never knew a heart could ache so. If only she could feel him through these thin pages of parchment.

   She brought the letter back down to her lap and looked at the words. He had written those words, had touched the pages with his hands. She drew the tips of her fingers over the creamy surface, as if somehow she could feel his touch. The letters began to blur together as tears filled her eyes.

   "Steven," she whispered, "I love you so much. When will you be coming home to me?"