What ho, old thing!

Sorry, old girl, couldn't resist starting the letter like that. I'll take another crack at it, do this thing proper, eh?

My dearest darling.

(Much better, eh?)

The weather is frightfully beastly out here, and I miss you terribly; though I miss you terribly all the time, not just when the weather is beastly. If I missed you only then, I'd be missing you all the dashed time, what, though I do do that too. Terribly sorry, old girl, I seem to be rambling rather somewhat, don't I? That's the only problem with getting the opportunity to set down in words what I've been meaning to say for a while, you see; the whole damned lot rather tumbles out in one go, when I had rather intended to put this into something a little organised.

I think I read once that some poet or writer or politician, or man cleverer than I said 'war is hell', and it is, my darling. I shan't sugarcoat it for you- I know you appreciate my utmost honesty, and utmost honesty you shall have. There's barely a part of me that isn't absolutely splattered in mud- including one or two spots a gentleman never discusses!- and I rather fear I shall never entirely feel my toes again. Of course, the damnable trenchfoot isn't entirely to blame, but that, my darling, is something I shall have to ease you into, I'm afraid, rather than simply blasting it out in one go.

I suppose that segues rather well into the point of this letter, poppet; I am to return home to good old Blighty! Unfortunately, not for the good reasons we were hoping. Can't say too much in the letter, but we took a few iron rations, and most of the other chaps- Fetheringsol and myself excluded- rather went napoo, old girl, and I myself took a blighty wound, and should be with you shortly. I know, I know, don't get yourself in a flap, old bird, but I rather took a few nasty souvenirs- which unfortunately you'll have to take a dekko at- so don't be too surprised when you see me looking a little different, eh?

As they say, though, forewarned is forearmed, so do be aware, love, that I'm rather sort of missing the majority of my right leg, which is rather careless of me- I can't be certain, but I think the dashed thing's spread over some pretty little French town somewhere- and I'm rather sort of scarred; though mercifully in a dashingly handsome way that shall, I'm sure, only increase the fervour of your passion, and stoke the ire of your love, my sweet. As you can see by the handwriting, some other fellow- Fetheringsol, in fact- is doing this for me as my hand doesn't seem to be working terribly well right now- poor fellow's shell-shocked, but at least he's not a basket case!

Anyway, I should probably stop nattering away like this, and let the poor old chap rest a bit. They say we'll be coming home on the fifteenth, and they'll be letting us convalesce a little in the hospital in the town where we first met; I shan't and can't say more than that, but at least you know where to find me, eh?

I look forward to seeing you once more, my darling- though be sure to stand to my left, eh? Damned right eye's on the fritz, too.

With all my love, and all my heart,

Captain Archibald Bertram Entwhistle-Sullivan, Esq.

So, long story short; I'm looking at this as a long, slow-burn, mostly romantic tale of recovery and loss and life-changing things. It's not to everyone's taste, true, but I'm hoping something'll come of this!

I'll discuss limits and whatnot in PM, but I'm thinking, for the most part, it shouldn't really matter.

As usual, if this is up, I'm ready to do it.