June 19th, 1797

"My dear, my beloved:

I arrived at the rebel's camping site four days ago, alongside a handful of men and some recruiters. The situation around here is dire, to say the least. There is a battlefield nearby, and wounded soldiers are brought in constantly, like clockwork. The foul smell of their wounds, mixed with the stench of rotten flesh coming from the dead is terrible, and it only gets worse as  you approach the medical barracks. How the surgeons, barbers and butchers are able to do their work without getting sick to their stomachs is beyond me. The devil's breath lingers in the air.

The bodies of the men they aren't able to save are piled up around the perimeter of the camp, both to terrify the enemy and to block incoming fire. Every time a new round of bullets is shot at us from the distance, we are left covered in blood, mud, dirt, and other equally disgusting substances. I have never seen such carnage before. Never. And soldiers around here say that this is nothing. That there are worse things to come. I'm afraid to find out what, exactly. 

As for training, we've barely had time to learn anything of importance to our development as officers. Us, the newcomers, were thrown into a random division when we arrived, and given orders on the spot. We were taught how to load, use and clean a weapon on the first day, how to use our sables on the next, and yesterday, we learned a little bit about basic military formations, and how to predict our enemy's next movements. Our "lessons" lasted about an hour each. The rest of our days were spent helping our fellow soldiers on the front-line, carrying the injured away from the fight, and stacking more dead bodies to the pile. Needless to say, nearly all of us ended up vomiting after doing the latter.

Our captain, Camille Laupin, is quite a stern man, but not entirely ruthless. When he saw the mental state of some of my younger fellow colleagues, after the removal of the corpses was done, he asked them to go back to their tents and rest for an hour. Then, he removed his own jacket from his broad shoulders, rolled up the sleeves of his shirt, and helped us finish the job in person. He picked up the dead and built an entire section of the wall of carcasses by himself.

He is an interesting man, I'll admit. Always frowning and mumbling in a low, deep voice, as he walks around the campsite looking for things to do. A good person, but a weird one for sure.

He told us we would leave this camp tomorrow and march towards the city of Villene. From there, we'll depart to Roman, and if god grants us his mercy, we'll be able to cross the river, and reach Mosella —which, after a long fight, was reconquered by the royalists—.

Please write to me if Alphonse returns. I have a few friends in town that could take you in, if you need to stay away from him for a while.

And don't worry excessively about me, I beg of you. My father was an officer, and he taught me everything I need to know to survive. My skills aren't yet perfect, but I'll get there. And in the meanwhile, I'll play safe, because I wish to go back home to you alive.

I love you, forever and always.

- Francis"

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Author's Note: Hey there ^^ *drops old drawing and runs away*