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; writing doesn't do much good

It was a miracle he had found it. He remembered when he did, though he didn't understand why it had been so longer. Why he had kept it for all this time. He remembered the cold, cutting and bone deep, but that was no different from any other day. Any other place. Everything was cold here. But, whether that was the climate or the atmosphere was anybody's guess. He recalled the silence, no man daring to mutter a word as they trudged through the mud. Surrounded by the bodies of men just like them. Left there. Unidentified. Their families would never know.

He considered himself lucky he didn't leave behind people that would miss him.

He remembered how he kept his eyes to the ground, to make it all seem easier. Watched as he placed one foot in front of the other, physically moving forward. As if he could just walk away from all this. As if it wasn't real. A childish notion, he knew, but if there was anywhere he could get away with something like that, it was here.

It was because of this, he noticed it. Buried in the mud, barely legible anymore and certainly not paperwhite, but unmistably a letter. He could see the writing. An address. There was something chilling to see it there. Handwriting. The only evidence that something had ever been alive here.

He didn't know why he reached down for it. He should have left it, he would have told any other man to do the same. They couldn't burden themselves with everything they came across, it would weigh them down until they couldn't move at all. Until everything stood still as the world lost its colour. They'd be sent home. None of them wanted that.

Now, his fingers ran across the raised ink. An address. It was all he had of a dead man. Perhaps there was someone waiting for it. For a letter to say he was doing fine, he'd be home for Christmas. The thought--...the thought that they would never know why that letter was late was enough to make his stomach churn.

He pulled his helmet down further over his eyes, the rain soaking them all mercilessly. He could hear his men grumbling, making light of the situation as the only way they knew how. Survival. It was a funny old thing. The paper was damp, but it would have to do. He only hoped the person receiving it would be able to read it, what with his hand shaking.

Dear Sir/Madam,

My name is Steve Rogers of the United States Army. I know, by now, you would have received a letter that informed you of a soldier missing in action. I hope my sending this doesn't cause you any more pain that what you already have gone through.

You'll find attached a letter addressed to you. I didn't feel comfortable opening it, it wasn't addressed to me. It was found with no sign of the man who wrote it, but I'd like to think he'd want it delivered. I know that I would.

Know that this soldier, just like every other soldier here, fought with honour and dignity. He fought for a hope that we all lay down our lives to defend. And you should be proud of him.

Steve Rogers.

Captain, 106th

#vimaer #[ i tried #im so sorry ]#; writing doesn't do much good