Vox Meditantis

15th March, 1916
Camp Furlong, Columbus, New Mexico

My Dearest Emma,

The desert wind carries with it a loneliness that seems to echo in every corner of this frontier camp, and yet as I take up my pen tonight, beneath the vast canopy of stars that stretches endlessly above the borderlands, I am filled with a curious mixture of pride and sorrow that I struggle to convey in mere words.

This very morning, our expedition under General Pershing began its march across the border into Mexico in pursuit of Villa and his raiders. I confess that each passing day here at Camp Furlong brings both a deeper understanding of my duty and a more profound ache for the gentle hills of Massachusetts where your sweet presence awaits. The attack on Columbus has left its mark upon this place—not merely in the charred buildings that still stand as testament to that terrible morning, but in the very air we breathe, thick with the weight of purpose and the shadow of mortality.

You asked in your last letter, which arrived yesterday like a ray of New England sunshine breaking through the harsh desert glare, whether I am proud to serve my country in this desolate corner of the world. How can I explain to you, my beloved, that pride and grief walk hand in hand through a soldier’s heart? I am proud, Emma—proud to wear this uniform, proud to stand alongside brave men who have answered their nation’s call, proud to serve under officers who understand that justice sometimes requires us to venture into the wilderness to protect those who cannot protect themselves.

Yet this pride comes at a cost that grows heavier with each sunset. Yesterday, we buried Private Ellsworth, barely nineteen, whose mother’s photograph I helped place in his trembling hands as fever took him. The boy spoke of apple orchards and Sunday dinners, of a sweetheart who promised to wait, and I thought of you, Emma, of your gentle hands and the way you laugh when the wind catches your hair as we walk beside the Charles River. How can a man be proud of his service whilst mourning the price it demands not only of himself, but of mothers and sweethearts and all those who love us?

The Mexican sun burns differently than our New England light—harsher, more unforgiving—and I find myself changed by it. The boy who courted you beneath the elms of Cambridge has been tempered by desert storms and the weight of responsibility. I am proud of this transformation, proud of the man I am becoming, even as I mourn the simplicity of what we once were together. Do you remember that afternoon in October when we walked through the changing leaves, and you spoke of the future with such certainty? I held your hand then and believed the world was ours to shape. Now I know that the world shapes us, sometimes gently, sometimes with the force of a desert tempest.

The letters from home speak of preparation, of a nation slowly awakening to the reality that this great war in Europe may yet claim American sons. I read the reports from the Somme, from Verdun, and I am proud that our country maintains its honour whilst mourning the innocence we are losing day by day. If President Wilson calls us to that larger conflict, I shall go with pride, Emma, but I shall carry with me the mournful knowledge that each step away from you is a step into uncertainty.

I dream of you often in this harsh landscape. I dream of your voice calling my name across the common, of your letters arriving with the sweet scent of home still clinging to the paper. These dreams are both my salvation and my torment, for they remind me of what waits beyond this desert campaign, whilst highlighting the gulf that circumstances have carved between us. I am proud to be your intended, Emma, proud that you have chosen to wait for a man who may return to you forever changed by what he has witnessed here.

The bugle calls each morning at five o’clock, and as the sun rises over the endless expanse of sand and sage, I stand with my brothers in arms and feel the weight of duty settle upon my shoulders like a familiar coat. I am proud of this feeling, Emma, proud to serve something greater than myself. Yet when night falls and the camp grows quiet, I lie on my narrow cot and mourn the time we are losing, the conversations we might have shared, the simple joy of walking together in comfortable silence.

Write to me soon, my darling. Tell me of the changing seasons, of the way the light falls across your father’s garden, of the small domestic pleasures that seem so distant from this place of dust and duty. Your letters are my anchor to the world I fight to preserve, and I carry them close to my heart like prayers written in your careful hand.

I remain, with all the love that distance cannot diminish and duty cannot shake,

Your devoted Thomas

P.S. The stars here shine with a brilliance unknown in our gentle Massachusetts skies, and I have learnt to find the North Star each evening at precisely nine o’clock—the hour when I know you take your evening walk. Look up, my darling, and know that we share the same heaven, even when earth keeps us apart.

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.