May 31st, 1876 - Johan

My dearest Luna

Life continues to be hard. We are ever worked to the bone, both mentally and physicly, and we continue to exist in the most spartan of surroundings, poor housing and poorer food. But the end is in sight. In naught but five days we finish our training. The path was long and hard. I came in but a boy and now leave a man. In the fires of my difficulties I have been reforged a new person. But the crucible to my forging, the fuel to those flames was you. Were it not for your presence, both in my mind and in your letters, I would have died in a flaming holocaust far worse then you or I could ever imagine. But far better then the completion of my training, far finer then my rebirth into manhood, we are aloud leave to visit our homes before we are shipped off. In little over a week, my love, I will see you. My hand trembles at the very thought and every night our re-uniting is played out in my dreams. I love you my dearest, and I cannot wait till my eyes are graced with your lovely visage.

I would write more but I must be off. The cock is crowing, and we must be off to our daily calisthenics. I have much to tell you, but I will tell it to your breathtaking face in but a weeks time.

Yours

Johan B. Hackworth

May 27th, 1876 - Johan

Dear Luna

Do you remember that summers day, when we were both twelve? You had snuck off from Mrs. Davisham’s watchful eye, and I had gotten the day off from the bellows, and we had set off into the woods together, searching for wild blackberries. It came to mind the other day as I trudged through a forest in training, and came across a blackberry bush. I was with Connor at the time, and upon finding the bush he set upon it with a passion, stuffing the berries into his mouth, just as you and I had done all those years ago! Of course, just as we learned, blackberry juice is want to stain, and heavy on the stomach, so that within several minutes the bush was stripped bare, and he was clutching his belly in pain. I helped him recover, only to have him receive a whipping from the sergeant for getting his blouse covered in blackberry juice, just as you returned home to a furious mother who had to clean your entire dress which was soaked in the sticky nectar! Ah how I remember those days fondly. I also remember blackberries fondly, if I am to tell the truth for our chefs seem convinced that we are actually on a ship at the high seas and must ration our meager supplies, rather then in the middle of the bountiful and plenteous countryside! We are lucky if our morning and evening meals are anything more then biscuits and salted beef, and they seem to dole out the greens with a miserly precision that would lead me to believe a massive famine has struck the country.

While we all bemoan this fact, no one is more vocal about it then Isaac, much to our irritation, for nothing is more horrid then agreeing with someone you hate. The worst though is the negative attention it draws upon us. Why, the other day, we were waiting for our food in line as we usually do and he began to berate one of the men handing out the meal! He claimed that it was fit only for dogs and that he would not eat an other bite, demanding real food. While we did not disagree with him, it is a common logic to never offend one who controls your food, made true by the measly portions that the rest of us received after Isaac’s outburst. That night the men were mutinous and I must admit I did not disagree with them. Many a sinister idea floated around us and it was only the prudent supervision of the sergeant that saved Isaac his hide. This sort of experience is typical of the man. He brings scorn and derision upon us when we would be all but the most admired squad of the regiment, and survives only by cowardly protection from the high ups and the good grace of myself and the rest of the squad. He is a thoroughly despicable and disgusting man, and foreign as I had suspected. His parents were turks, and he was raised with a traveling circus. To top this off he is a criminal as well! When caught stealing he was given the choice of prison or the Legion, so he is not even with us out of patriotic duty, which we could respect. He is a dark and swarthy man, several inches shorter then I but stalky and wide. He seems to maintain a suit of flab around him no matter how hard we work, and cultivates a thick black mustache in a thoroughly un-english fashion.

But enough of this horrid man. Life continues on. We have begun to learn the mechanics behind a howitzer, a topic I excel at do to my time spent in the shop with father. Colin has proven to be a wizard with math and has put us near the top of the other gunning squads for accuracy. I remain grateful for my placement with the big guns rather then continued foot slogging, for they appear to be worked to the bone daily, just as hard as the day we arrived. There has been rumors that when our training ends we will be given leave to return home for several days before we are shipped off. I pray daily that this is true, in the hopes that I might perhaps see you again, the mere idea of which sends shivers down my spine.

Love

Johan B Hackworth

May 21st, 1876 - Johan

My Dearest Luna

Often I wonder if you could possibly think of me as often as I do of you. As one breathes, or maintains their heart a-beating, so too are my thoughts of you. A necessity to keeps me alive. Often my mates will remark that I must have some mystic oriental power of concentration, for when we are faced with herculean challenges I often take on a dreamy, distracted air and breeze through it. The truth is that I think of you. Your lovely visage fills my mind and all troubles fall away like water off a waxed hide. 

Life continues as it has, my love. I have now finished what has been referred to as my ‘basic training’, the essential skills of soldiering which apparently consist of the ability to run for long amounts of time, dig a trench, march in formation, fire, load, and maintain a rifle, and some basic understanding of strategy. Naïvely I suspected that we were done with our training, and would be shipped off to the battlefields of mars. I was wrong though. Now we are having what has been referred to as ‘specialized training’. As far as I have been able to tell the different sorts of specialized training have been the cavalry, where they learn to fight on horseback (these chaps seem to have been destined for this, as all of the men in these squads have previous experiences with equines), artillery, where they learn to deal with cannons and howitzers, ‘Panzer’ (a German word meaning ‘armor’ apparently) who are not aloud to tell us what they are training with, and supplemental training, which appears to be more basic training. The vast majority have been alloted to supplemental training, which leads me to believe they are destined to the trenches like the bulk of Legion recruits. Of the some fifty five squads perhaps seven have been assigned to cavalry, artillery, or the mysterious ‘Panzer’ training, including my own! 

We have been proudly instructed to train with the artillery, what could be considered to be my first lucky break in my admittedly short time with the Legion. While supplemental training is more grueling drudgery and cavalry must spend hours upon hours on horseback, and the lord, in his infinite wisdom, only knows what those Panzermen get up to, we artillery men have so far had it easy. Though we have kept up a punishing routine of exercises to keep us fit, we spend huge portions of the day in the classroom, learning calculus and the physics of shell trajectory. As you know, I am no stranger to hard work, and if I had been when I arrived I certainly would not have been after the previous month, however I have always enjoyed learning and this education has stimulated my mind. We have not yet been set loose on the big guns, but I eagerly await the day when we are. 

Life continues to be hard my dearest, but I persevere. With time I have learned to survive the most arduous of difficulties, from the sadistic pleasures of our sergeant, to the nearly malicious failings of Isaac, both of which plague us daily. I hope you understand how much you help me in surviving it. 

Yours lovingly

Johan B Hackworth

May 9th, 1876 - Johan

Dear Luna

Your position in my mind has elevated its self to mythic heights. You now dwell in the same place as our lord and savior, or the queen. Perhaps even higher. Like them, you give me strength, courage, and patience to face the difficulties of my life. I cannot imagine a world without you any more then I could imagine a planet cursed without the existence of air, or water. Perhaps to exist without you would be even worse, for death is preferable to living in a world that does not hold you magnificent perfection.

I am beginning to settle into existence as a recruit of the Legion. It seems that the majority of those weak chaps who shouldn't have signed up to begin with have been driven off, and so incessant running and exercises have slackened off slightly, though only slightly. We are now beginning to be taught the beginnings of the soldering art, marching, shooting, and strategy. The work is hard, but compared to the hellish experiences of the previous weeks it is practically enjoyable, if only because we are learning and being stimulated, rather then the mind numbing monotony of running. The average man takes for granted the amenity of something to focus his will upon, to work towards, to discover. Were it not for it not for you to keep me sane, the lack of purpose might have driven me over the brink.

I have gotten to know my fellow cabin mate's, or 'squad' quite well. We are, to be specific, second squad of the first company of the third battalion, which is made up of some where between five hundred, and six hundred men. John and Collin have become my closest of friends, and the three of us can rarely be seen apart. They are in the Legion for much the same reason as I, fleeing life as miners in the mines of their homes. John is the older of the two, by ten months, and is slightly bigger then Collin, though Collin is smarter than John. The two are jokers and were it not for their good sense of humor nearly all of us would have fallen deep into the pits of depression that has claimed so many others. Their antics are not without disadvantage though! Quite often we find ourselves suffering punishment (which can range from latrine duty, a miserable but survivable experience, to flogging, the details of which I will spare your delicate sensibilities. Heaven be praised we have not yet suffered the latter). 

On one occasion we were being lectured in class by a certain sergeant on some arcane historical fact (most likely some battle or other). This sergeant is a large man, almost to the point of obesity (though I know from experience that he is almost pure muscle). He also has the most magnificent mustache I've ever seen, including the milliner over in Shropshire! Well, Collin had left to use the privy, and returned with a massive mock mustache attached to his face, made from pussy willows. Now the sergeant is also half deaf, and the door to the lecture hall opened behind his back. So, Collin entered carefully, and, behind the Sergeant, began to pace back and forth, mocking him. The men in the crowd had to stifle our laughter, but almost all began to sit up and watch intently, many nearly bursting with amusement. The sergeant suddenly spins around, smacking Collin on the head in a move of such claravoidance that almost all were convinced Collin had erred in some way, revealing his presence. However, the Sergeant looked up from Collin, splayed out on the floor, and says to the crowd 'When the man are paying attention in class, something can't be right!'.

The rest of my squad-mates are mostly capital fellows. There are two Londerners, Brian and Mark. Both are large, cheery blokes who joined up to escape the factories. Three more are from small villages around the country side, Patrick, Michael and Connor. Patrick and Michael are distant cousins, and their family apparently has a military tradition, though being younger brothers they were sent in at the bottom, unlike Patrick's older brother, who they claim is a captain. None of us believe them on this account, however. Lastly is a Scotsman named Finley and a suspicious, foreign seeming fellow named Isaac. Finley is large and brawny but mostly keeps to himself. We all like him well enough. Isaac though, is a different matter, for he is the slovenly fellow I told you about in my last letter. His laziness has been a bane to us all, and he is a disgusting person to live with, indeed the man seems to call dirt to him! Frequently we find ourselves yelling at him to bathe or we shall die of his oder! 

The time given to us for our personal activities is drawing to a close my dear, and as such, so must my letter. I wait daily for your responses, and treasure them when they arrive. 

Love

Johan B Hackworth

April 20th, 1876 - Johan

Dear Luna

Where but in my last letter I needed my work to distract me from lacking your presence, now it is you who keep me  sane. When adversity faces me, I think back to all of our happy times, the stolen hours in the pastures, the secret meetings by night. Those were the best days of my life I realize now. 

These, however, are not the best days of my life. I will be blunt. Until a mere week ago I was miserable. The running to which I referred to in my last letter was but a taste of what was to come. For the first week our schedule was as follows. We were woken at dawn. With only a short inspection as to the crispness of our outfits (black woolen trousers of poor quality, drab grey tunics of a military cut and strange, folded cloth caps which have been named 'recruit covers'), we are then sent marching for several hours, without breakfast! After that we are fed, a stringent ration of tasteless gruel. We are then given lessons for a small while afterwards, almost as tedious as the marching, for we are being taught basic algebra and our letters, both of which I already know. After that it is more marching, followed by exercises focused on building strength. A week strait of such things is more than enough to drive a man to his very brink, and has done so for many here. I know not the exact numbers, but the totality of our group has dwindled a noticeable amount, though what happens to those who fail, I do not know.

Our living arraignments are unpleasant. I share a tent with nine other men, my 'Squad' as we are called. As if by divine providence, who should two of these nine be but the two Cornishmen that I took the trip over with! Their names are John and Collin and they are brothers. I have become steadfast friends with them, for they are capital fellows. The rest of my squad are more or less fine persons, though there is one, a rotund, runtish fellow of the most despicable qualities. Often, when one mistake is made, our entire squad is punished, and not a day goes by when this man, Isaac his name is, does not cause trouble upon our heads. For t he first, he is a lazy, slovenly man, prone to not waking at the cock's call. Secondly, he has a loud mouth and often talks back to the sergeant.

And the Sergeant! What a man! I can say with the utmost honesty my love, that I hate him more then I have hated anyone in m life, though I know to say so is a sinful act, however I cannot believe in a god that would send a man to hell for hating our Sergeant. He has no name. He is simply the Sergeant. He is a bald man, with a massive handlebar mustache, and I suspect him to be of german descent. His horridness has reached near mythic proportions to my fellows and I, for he seems to possess of a single minded sadism that allows every action of his to harm some one, be it physically or mentally, for simple assault would be to simple for him. I have never seen anyone able to point out one's flaws as well as him, including dear Mr. Blackworth! The details of his villainous nature are so calculated, so defined that it one must almost respect it. Why, just the other day we were marching, as usual, when he stopped us in the shade to rest, for 'doing such a smacking good job!' as he put it. Well, of course, we are overjoyed at the opportunity to do so, and begin to rest. He, the blackguard that he is, lies down! And within several minutes, is snoring! The rest of us, unsure of what to do, mill about and take advantage of the rest. Not ten minutes has passed, when wakes up, harangues us for lazing about, and as punishment, forces us to cary him for the rest of the march, a distance of several miles! So he sat, going from back to back, screaming obscenities and lashing out with a riding crop as we marched, all the while being carried as if he were a babe! It is an experience I would never like to repeat in my life, for when it was my turn he took great joys in directing me hither and thither as if I were a horse, and when he screamed he would do so with such force that he would leave the back of my head dewey with spit! 

Life is hard my beautiful rose, and I suspect it shall only get harder, but this is of no surprise to me. Do not pine over my absence, and do not pity my difficulties, instead, for me, stop for but a moment in your day and think of me, for you may be assured that your lovely visage fills my mind at all times of the day.

Your truest love

Johan B Hackworth

April 7th, 1876 - Johan

My Dearest Luna

Your absence from my life has taken a toll heavier then I could ever express. Nightly do I dream of you, the soft curve of your cheek, the scarlet flush they get when you smile, the sparkling green of your eye. Often I will sit in my bunk and simply think of single aspect of you. The timbre of your laugh. The softness of you hair. To be without you is torture. If I was not kept so busy, I might go insane. 

However, my sanity is kept quite stable in that respect, for I am worked nearly to death here. When I joined the Legion I expected hard work, and having been raised to be a Blacksmith's apprentice I am no stranger to it, but the training exceeds anything I could have expected.

When I left off we were just arriving to the train. Having never left our small village, I know you have never seen one and perhaps it is better that you have not, for your delicate female sensibilities might have been terrified were you to. They are hulking mammoths of steel and iron, all abuzz, everything moving, spouting steam as a dragon might spout fire. The platform was all chaotic for it seems this train was commissioned specifically for recruits of the Legion, and it seemed there was thousands of us. My three traveling companions I quickly lost in the crowd, and very soon I was terrified that I would miss where I was supposed to be and become crowded onto the wrong car, or even the wrong train! Luckily, a massive brute of a man wearing military dress shepherded all the men in my area onto one car, fastidiously went through and checked our papers, ejected those who did not belong and kept those that did, all the while bellowing such obscenities as would most like strike Pastor Victor deaf upon hearing them. 

The train ride was unpleasant, but no more so then the carriage. In my car (for that is what the sections are called my love, car's, each linked together and pulled by an engine) was perhaps fifty men, though if you had asked me before hand I would say the space was meant for twenty. I was lucky enough to get a seat, and spent the majority of the trip asleep, attempting to ignore dreadful scent of fifty young men stuffed into a wooden box in April. 

The journey was begun mid-afternoon, and continued into the night, with bread and water handed out so as to keep the men from rioting. We arrived in the morning to Camp Boyle. The location of Camp Boyle is still somewhat a mystery to me. The general consensus seems to be several miles south of London, but I see no indication of the great city being any where near by, and when I inquire as to why this is thought, none can give a definite explanation. 

Upon arriving, myself and the other forty nine of us (for my estimation was correct, there was exactly fifty of us in the car, not including the burly military man who shepherded us) were herded out of our car, marched with unsettling brutality and speed to a large and open field, and then arrayed, by hight, into five rows of ten. The sight of this group of men, all in civilian dress, being treated as soldiers might be, bewildered and confused, was one I will never forget, though I look at it with hilarity, and melancholic resentment, in turn. 

When the whole train had been arrayed and organized like this (there were six cars, and, assuming that there was fifty men in each car, something I still do not know for sure, so in total, three hundred men) we proceeded to wait. And to wait. The military men, who I discovered to be sergeants, marched up and down the lines, jabbing, slapping, and berating any man who slouched, coughed, moved, looked around, picked his nose, or attempted to talk, which, being all civilians and almost entirely young men, there was quite a bit of. Finally, a large and imposing man on a magnificent horse made his way from a nearby thicket to the front of our arrangement, hurrumphed, and began to yell. 

It is to my greatest regret that I could not comprehend a word of it, for my group was near the back, and the man's voice had a wheezing quality that made it impossible to understand, though quite possible to hear, at a distance. Later I discovered that the speech more or less explained as follows. That we were to be the third battalion of the fourth army, of the first legion, and that we had quite a bit of tradition to live up to, so would we kindly not besmirch the reputation of this fine institution that this old man had apparently been a part of since it's inception back in the thirteen hundreds. I suspect that the man who conveyed this to me might have colored it with his own viewpoint. 

After that we were taken to a large set of tents that I have come to realize is, in its entirety, Camp Boyle. We were made to all strip naked, dump our clothes into large bins, where I suspect they were burned, given physicals (the details of which I will avoid so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities), then forced to run for the rest of the day. On my word, I have never run so long in my life. It seems that the Legion is very keen on running, and I suspect that after this I shall be able to run the length of our great island if it keeps up the way it has. 

I have much more to tell you, my beautiful flower, but I have not the time, for the night grows old, and I suspect we shall be rising early tomorrow for more running. Life is difficult my rose, but I expected it to be so. The greatest challenge though, has been my absence from you. 

Yours, wholly and completely

Johan B Hackworth

April 3rd, 1876 - Johan

Dear Luna

We have been away but several days and I already  miss you. As I write this, the carriage is on its way to train, where I will be carried to the coast, and onwards to adventure. The Lord in all his grace only knows where that shall be. I beg you , in all of your beauty and perfection, to forgive me if my letters come far apart, as one can not be sure of the reliability of post in such far off places as Munanijihabad. 

I must admit that, while excitement and steely resolve fill my heart, I cannot deny that part of me feels trepidation, and already the comfort of home tugs at me. It is unnecessary to say I do not miss father, and the blacksmiths apprenticeship that doubtfully would have me in its grips had I not taken this opportunity, but I long to see your smile, and hear your voice, and I would be lying if I said that mother's Meat Pie's have not lingered in my mind, for the food in these road side taverns that the carriage has stopped at have been abysmal, at best. It can hardly be worse then the carriage however! I know that father was unhappy with my decision to join the Legions, but I am saddened to learn that he is taking it out on my rear, for this carriage is of such an old design, I suspect that it was carrying passengers during the reign of Henry the VIII. The cloth laid down on the benches provide such little comfort that the other, baser passengers (of which there is three) have taken to bunching their coats as cushions, and hold no suspicion, they are needed, for if I had not seen them with my own eyes, I would assume the wheels to be squares!

The driver, too, is a curious figure. Hunched over, I suspect him to be either of great age or a hunchback. To tell which is impossible, however, because at all times he wears a great and soiled cloak of a unidentifiable color that shadows his body, and a bowler hat, pulled so low on his face that it is a wonder he can see at all. I suspect, as well, that he is consumptive, for he has a hacking cough that is of such strength and venom that we hear it through the sounding board and into the carriage its self, even over the clashing racket that all such conveyances make when in motion. 

My four companions are an odd group. Two are Cornishmen, bound, I suspect, for the Legion, like myself. They are of little means, and travel even more frugal then I, eating only bread and water, and sleeping with the horses when possible. This has made them unpleasant traveling mates to be stuck with in the small, wooden box that is our mode of transportation, but in all other senses they are polite enough, though they tend to jabber to each other in what I suspect to be their native dialect, only speaking in English when spoken to, and even that is difficult to understand. 

My third companion is an curiosity, to be sure. His clothes were once fineries, and he has the air of a gentleman, however I suspect that, if he was one, he has fallen upon hard times, for though his coat is fine and well cut, it has seen much wear, and while his gloves appear to be kid-skin, there is not a few holes in them. He speaks not at all, and feigns sleep when I attempt to start conversation with him. Where he is bound, and what his purpose is, I can only guess. 

The carriage is slowing down, and I must cut myself short, for we close on the train station, and I have much to do when we do arrive. 

I await your response with the thirst of a thousand deserts.

Your love

Johan B Hackworth