The Faded Frequency
14 November 1942. I have counted the hours since the last rain, and they amount to forty-three, a dryness that cracks the skin of the earth and the lips of the men equally. The mud has turned to a hard, grey crust underfoot, brittle as old paper, and every step sends a fine dust into the air that settles in the creases of our faces. I wrote to General Halloway this morning, requesting a...
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