To my dearest, wife and kids,

I pray this letter reaches you safely in Guernsey on this Christmas Day. I picture you at home round our lovely coal fire, the sea wind brushing against the windows, and the familiar sound of church bells carrying across the island. How I wish to just glance at the sight of our little house and the comfort of my family.

The trenches are hard with ice and frost this morning. The mud that once overwhelmed our boots lies frozen, and a pale winter sun stretches thin rays over the broken fields. There is a strange quiet today. The guns have not spoken since dawn, and for a few precious hours. The men have shared small comforts from parcels sent by loving hands. Some hum carols softly, and for a moment I can almost pretend I am home beside you.

Though this war feels endless, I write to you with a heart full of certainty. One day-perhaps sooner than we dare I pray this letter reaches you safely in Guernsey on this Christmas Day. I picture you at home strolling across Vason Bay, the sea wind brushing your hair, and the familiar sound of church bells carrying across the island, spreading excitement that santa has arrived.

The fighting will cease, and the fields of France will grow green again. Fathers will return to their families, and Christmas will be celebrated not in trenches, but around warm hearths. I hold tightly to that vision. When this war comes to an end. I shall feel the warmth of your hearts

Thomas, be a good lad and help your mother with the chores. Anne, I carry your sweet smile in my thoughts each night as I lie starving but determined.

Your ever-loving husband and father.