"...not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic... after a day's march, he would dig his foxhole, wash his hands under a canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers, and spend the last hour of light pretending... more than anything, he wanted Martha to love him as he loved her, but the letters were mostly chatty, elusive on the matter" . . . .