Greetings from the middle of nowhere. I hope your war is more exciting than mine. At least in Helsinki you’re seeing action, but here in the countryside it’s day after day looking out for Russian aircraft that don’t appear. Wide open skies, a breeze through the pines and starlings calling to one another is simply irritating. So is this uniform. Can’t they make something less itchy? I think this collar will strangle me.

We’ve been told what an important job we have, how we could save lives, and I know it’s true. But how long can I stand here with these binoculars pinned to my face? After my shift, I have raccoon eyes. At least I’m the first to see any newcomers—soldiers or fellow Lotta Svärds—whenever a truck rolls in. Of course, Kristiina always demands to see them for herself. Often, she already knows who they are and why they’re coming. What a gossip.

The only things to watch out for these days are the men. The most recent batch of soldiers went to the front (God protect them), but the ones still stationed here grate on my nerves. Even when I’m off duty, someone is always asking for a cup of coffee or another sandwich like I’m his wife or something. Why don’t they get it themselves? They drag their dirty boots in and trudge dirt around and who gets to clean it up? You guessed it. I didn’t volunteer to be a Lotta so I could sweep floors and do dishes. I could have stayed home to do that. You’d think they’d at least let us use the sauna first, but no. And they spend their free time smoking and playing cards and they don’t even ask me to play.

And don’t get me started on that young upstart Matti. I mean, come on. Everyday he finds some excuse to interrupt our surveillance with some inane comment. Can’t he see we have a job to do up here? Only yesterday, I spied him sauntering toward us, bow-legged and brash, and had a sudden urge to crouch down, but there’s nowhere to hide on the observation tower. Kristiina swore under her breath and picked up the field phone, pretending she was on an important call to headquarters, but that left me to handle him.

“Pretty girls like you should be on a dance floor,” he’d said. “Let me take you dancing. My tango will sweep you off your feet.” I’d scoffed and told him I wouldn’t dance with him even if Mannerheim himself ordered it. What’s with these soldiers? Away from their wives and girlfriends and they think every woman here ready to do their bidding.

I can’t take another day. Can you put in a good word for me and get me out of this place? If this war doesn’t kill me, the boredom will.