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
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