No Crayons On The Front Line

No Crayons On The Front Line

Dear soldier,

Only two words in, and here I am, confronting a feeling of oddness as it occurs to me I don’t know to whom I should address this letter. I have written few letters in my life – and by letter, I mean actual letters, the kind where one puts ink and thoughts onto paper to share with another person – and every one of those actual letters went to someone I knew beforehand, someone whose face I could picture, someone who I was sure would be able to hear my voice when they read my words, who would know when I was trying to be humorous or understand references to a shared past. And so, I find it difficult to write to you today without knowing your name or age, or even whether you like long missives or will already be bored by the time you reach this point.

All I know about you, really, is that you are serving on the front line of the demon invasion. You protect me, along with everyone inside our city, and for this, for the danger you choose to face night after night, for the wounds you may have suffered, for the grief you may have experienced upon losing comrades, you have my sincere and heartfelt thanks.

It seems far from enough; I can only give you words on a page and not even a handshake to remind you that those you fight for are living beings made of flesh and bone rather than the abstract concept you might have in mind. That is, unless you fight for someone specific, for members of your family or friends, and it’s their image you keep in mind every time you raise your weapon on the battlefield. Either way, please believe that there is at least one person tonight who will send their best wishes toward the battlefield in the hope that you will remain safe.

Warm regards,

Dr. W. S. Sherridan

Dear Dr. Sherridan,

First, let me thank you your letter. While we (soldiers on the front line) do not fight every single night as civilians often believe, it certainly feels like we do. Even when there is no attack underway, we’re always aware that every moment of calm is only a brief respite in the storm. And while we don’t need or expect thanks, it’s great to know we are appreciated for what we do by those we try so hard to keep safe. We, myself as well as all the soldiers in my unit who were lucky enough to be handed a letter, were quite happy to receive them.

Receiving letters was even more special because they came in the day after the end of a long, bloody fight against demons. I’m not sure how much people in the city are told about the siege, I’m not even sure whether this letter will be read and possibly censored before it reaches you, but let’s just say that this was one of the most brutal demon attacks I’ve ever seen. I escaped my turn outside the walls unscathed, but many others were less lucky. It was a sad day in the camp, but the letters and the reminder they gave us that we’re not fighting in vain made it easier to continue. As you pointed out in your letter, we’re fighting for very real people, made of flesh and blood like we are. People who sometimes pick up a pen to write a few words to us.

But I have the same strange feeling you had when you first wrote to me: I don’t know who I am writing to either. Your words and handwriting alone tell me that your letter is different from those my men were sharing with each other, in which misspellings, cute questions and unsteady handwriting give away that the writers are children. I knew you were an adult right away, and your signature only confirmed it. But that same signature told me very little. No first name, two initials, a last name… and those two small letters, a badge of pride to all those who earn them. Here I am, writing a letter to a doctor, wondering why he (she?) participated in a letters program involving elementary school children. That is a puzzle, and while I have a couple of theories, I would be pleased if you would reply and tell me.

Until then, I will continue making up lists of what those initials might mean. My first thought for W was William, for reasons that will become clear when you read my signature. Am I anywhere close?

Regards from the front line,

Lieutenant Angel Williams

Dear Lieutenant Williams,

I was pleasantly surprised to receive your reply. I penned my first letter while my students were writing their own missives; they encouraged me to, if I am completely honest. I have run a ‘letters to soldiers’ program ever since I started teaching at Lincoln Elementary two years ago, but it had never occurred to me before that I, too, might express my gratitude. In retrospect, and given the tone of your reply, it seems like an unforgivable lapse.

We received the box of replies from the fighting camp while we were in class, and it was obvious right away that the students wouldn’t be able to focus on anything else until they’d read their letters. For most of them, it was the first letter they’d ever received. So I interrupted the lesson, gave each child their envelope, and that was when I realized there was one for me too. It had been a while since I’d received a handwritten letter. I’ll admit I found myself quite as excited as my students.

Some volunteers read your fellow soldiers’ replies to the rest of the class, and then, if you’ll forgive the term, they ambushed me, demanding that I read my letter as well. I hope you won’t be cross when I tell you I had to yield and share your words with them. They all send their love to the one they decided to call their ‘guardian Angel.’ You’ve probably been called that often enough to be sick of the pun, but they’re children, and they mean it without a trace of irony.

Yes, I am indeed proud to call myself a doctor, perhaps inordinately so, I now realize. In my defense, it took quite a bit of hard work to earn that right, and it is the only accomplishment to which I have any claim. In the troubled times we live in, studying and working toward a degree can sometimes feel a little foolish, and more than once I questioned my path and wished I could have been more useful to my fellow men by joining in the ranks of fighters, like you did. Unfortunately, health issues would have disqualified me without a doubt had I tried to enlist. It sounds like an excuse, doesn’t it? And a feeble one at that. It is nonetheless the truth. My body is at fault here, not my mind or courage.

As for my name, no, it is not William, though I’d have much preferred it if it was, as I hold no affection for my first name. I usually go by my middle name, Samuel, and if you cared to write to me again, please do feel free to call me so.

Yours in friendship,

Wynn Samuel Sherridan

Dear Lieutenant Williams,

A month has passed since I last wrote to you. As I didn’t receive an answer, I just wanted to send this short note of apology. I feel my last letter might have taken a wrong turn. In my defense, I wrote it while my students were at recess and finished it more quickly than I should have, without rereading it since I wanted it to be sent along with my students’ replies.

In that letter, I dared to talk about courage, and I now realize it was quite a misstep on my part. It’s one thing to claim I would have fought demons if I could have. Actually doing so, I imagine, is different. I’m sure you have better things to do than listen to someone, hiding behind the walls of the city and a line of soldiers, wax lyrical about imagined heroic acts.

Again, you have my apologies, and my continued wishes for your well-being and safety.

Samuel Sherridan

Dear Samuel,

If an apology is needed, then it should come from me.

I was not offended or put off by your letter, not at all. You tell me you would have liked to serve if you’d been able to, and I can only praise you for it, and be glad you understand how important it is for us to be standing here on the front line. Too often people think they’re not suited for the task because they’re not strong, or skilled, or because they don’t feel they’re ‘bloodthirsty’ enough to combat demons. Or they think it’s too dangerous, and they don’t want to risk their lives.

I should know. My own family tried to discourage me from joining the ranks of the Defending Forces. They repeatedly told me I was too young, too soft, too precious to go waste my life on the battlefield. Even now that I’ve fought for five years, advanced in rank and gone through almost a thousand battles with only scratches and bruises, they still try to convince me I should quit and find a ‘normal’ job. Have a ‘normal’ life. Find a spouse, have children. And never worry about worse things than using my ration tickets or allotment of electricity wisely. As if living under siege and never knowing whether demons might push into the city and how I’d protect my family if they did was normal.

As you can imagine, those family discussions turn more often than not into full-blown arguments, and sometimes even shouting matches. Just thinking about it now makes my blood boil again.

That’s the reason I didn’t write to you any sooner. I received your last letter shortly before going on a week-long leave. I meant to write back to you upon my return, but my family complaining about my life choices left a bad taste in my mouth, and little desire to talk to insiders, as we soldiers sometimes call those we protect. And that is something my family just doesn’t want to understand. We protect them, along with everyone else inside the city. If I hadn’t joined the DF, if every