 
### An End of Poppies

By Simon Poore

Copyright 2013 Simon Poore

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

simonpoore1@gmail.com

simontall.com

DEDICATION

For my dear Father, who did his bit in World War Two...

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks to all those who put up with me while I write, especially Claire and Karen...

### An End of Poppies

By Simon Poore

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War. Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

29th October 1961

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

My Dear Esme,

I hope you don't mind me writing to you like this; I know we don't know each other too well but I did feel we had a certain connection between us when we walked out together on the pier during my last leave. It's a funny thing being a soldier, a lonely thing, and I know it is presumptuous of me but I feel that you feel it too. I suppose most girls do, what with so many of us being out here at the war. It must be sometimes lonely for you too. Always the war comes before all.

It was fortuitous that my Aunt Gracie introduced us. She is such a funny old stick; all curly white hair and smiles. She seems to always be one of those fortunate types that doesn't let any misfortune affect her. I don't know how she does it. She is friends with your mother I know, and that is how your family knows mine, although I am not so sure how this connection came to be.

Do you visit Brighton often? Strange to think it was my first time there. I liked it. It had the air of a holiday about it despite the rain. Not that I have ever had one of those.

It is my birthday today. I am twenty one. I don't suppose you knew that. The men in the unit got me this pen as a present; well the few who are pals that is. Goodness knows where they got it from. They know I like to write. A lovely blue fountain pen like people used to use. Not one of those cheap biros that people had a few years back from China or Japan, until the blockade stopped most imports from the east. Most people here write with cheap stubby pencils; apart from the officers that is. The lead is almost always broken down the whole length of it before it is even issued to you. Impossible to sharpen; let alone write with. So it is a joy to write to you with a real pen. They got me five bottles of blue ink too and this pad of lined paper. Don't you think that was awfully kind? The miserable Sergeant even let me have an extra chocolate bar in my rations this morning.

I have decided that if I am going to write to you then I am going to chance my arm and say the things I feel because, well, let's just say you never know what is around the corner in this day and age. Nobody does. So I will begin by saying this; when I think of you my stomach does a sort of flip inside. I think of your hair and your eyes and especially your smile. And I do think of you such an awful lot Esme. Could you call this love? I don't know. Is it possible to 'love' after just one meeting? Not that I am sure what love is anyway. It's strange how one can have so much experience of some parts of life and yet be so naive and clueless about others. You probably think I am daft and you must think me awfully forward to speak of such things. I hope you do not think me to be foolish.

I am hoping that the unit will get another leave soon. It's unusual I know. Most only get one leave a year and even then it's down to the C.O. and whether or not anyone in your unit has blotted their copy book. Our current C.O. is called Jeffers but he doesn't bother to get to know any of us men individually; he simply listens to whatever the Captains or Sergeants say about us, and like everyone at the top I suppose they have their favourites. Not sure that I am one of those. There is a rumour that we might get a weekend before Christmas. No guarantees of this because we lowly foot soldiers know nothing of the bigwigs running things and their machinations. There are always such rumours. If I do get a leave it would be terribly kind of you to let us meet again. I could come to your house and meet your mother if you like. Take tea with you. That would be nice.

I know your sister would like that, she told me that you liked me when we met. She seemed awfully keen, like young girls are. You don't know this but she took me to one side on the beach that day. You had gone to get the ice creams, remember?

"Fancy having ice cream on a rainy day!" she said to me. At least it wasn't so cold. Not cold like it is here. Here the cold runs through to your very bones. Even here underground where we are stationed. And it's only October. It will only get worse when the ground freezes above us as it inevitably will. Sapper Jones says it's the cold of the earth; the natural temperature of the dirt and rock surrounding us, we are so far underground that the sun's optimistic warmth can't ever reach us. He is always the joker, says we should dig even deeper, and then we could warm ourselves around some molten rocks at the earth's core. The Sergeant said the only thing that would warm us down there would be the fires of hell. Miserable git that he is. Jones just muttered something under his breath about us already being in hell.

At this part of the Wall the tunnels and CENSORED are CENSORED feet deep at least. So far down; we are like moles that have lost their way. Blindness and fear making us dig so deep. Deep in the dampness and dirt. Despite all the concrete above us, freezing water drips everywhere, stalactites of green mould form on every ceiling. My cap is always damp from the incessant dripping. I am trying to keep the drips from smudging my ink as I write to you now. I don't always succeed, so I am sorry if this letter isn't in such a perfect condition when it reaches you. Everything is damp. Always damp. It seems to continually seep through the leather of your boots even if you aren't standing in heavy puddles. I have three pairs of socks on, squeezing my toes like oranges squashed into a Christmas stocking. Still the cold and damp seep in. So I guess the sweet vanilla taste of an ice cream on Brighton beach when it was a relatively warm day, despite the rain, didn't seem like such an odd idea to me.

Anyway, back to Dulcie and what she said. I think she deliberately sent you off to get the ice creams so that she could have time alone with me. I don't mean that to sound like she was scheming or anything; she just seemed genuinely pleased that I had asked you to walk along the pier with me. I wonder if you were disappointed that she insisted on joining us. I will say that I wasn't, I enjoyed her company as well as yours. Although next time I would like time alone with you, if that isn't too forward.

Dulcie seems so young to me. I know fourteen isn't considered so young these days but she is full of the delightful dreams of the young. I feel so much older, although in truth I am not. Is it foolish to have such expectant and hopeful dreams when life is always going to be war? I suppose, like all girls, she doesn't meet many boys or men. So perhaps I am like some exotic creature to her. Am I like that to you Esme? We spent so little precious time together.

Dulcie kept asking questions. Her quick teenage voice firing all sorts of questions. Mainly questions about me. As if she was sizing me up. Was I a suitable romantic suitor for her dearest elder sister? Were my intentions honourable? And just to clear that one up Esme, I must explain myself. I know that women are taught not to always trust the soldiers. That our reputations with the fairer sex aren't always seen as whiter than white. When lives are short men must take what they need it seems. Or so some seem to feel. I have the utmost respect for you and, in short, my intentions towards you are nothing but honourable. I know that a pretty and intelligent girl such as yourself must be approached by the few men you do encounter in your everyday life, and that perhaps you are used to fending off their dishonourable intentions. All I will say is that I honestly hope you do not put me in the same category as such men. I hope I may gain your trust in time and that we can correspond and build such trust.

Dulcie asked about how my family; my mother and my aunt knew your mother and how my mother had known her in the tank factory at Stanmore. Before it was bombed. Did you know that we were born in the same street, you and I? Dulcie didn't know that. Whitefriars drive. Fancy us two living there all that time and not knowing each other. Before the war they used to have some schools where boys and girls went together. Imagine that! We would have met then. Not all single sex schools like now. Everything for the war effort; boys learning about war and tactics and weapons, girls learning about manufacturing and food production and the home front. I am surprised we never met on the street. I used to sneak out to play football with Billy Treacher, even when there was an alert on. Did you know him? He was killed in his first week at the Front. My best friend gone, just like that. He was put on concrete duty. Poor lad; only sixteen. I guess you didn't play in the street much. Not many kids do, what with the bombings and evacuations. There weren't so many kids about anyway. Not in London anyway. My mother disagreed with the evacuations; she said we wouldn't be any safer out of the city. Said the boche would soon be bombing the farms and I suppose she was right. Did you and Dulcie ever get evacuated?

Dulcie asked about my father and whether he had known your mother too, before. Before he died I mean.

I think about him a lot, my father. I wonder if you think about your father too? Dulcie must think of her father and that is why she asked me; I suppose we all think about fathers from time to time. A whole country of missing fathers, it must have been odd, back before 1914 when children all knew their fathers; grew up knowing them I mean. This is what it must be like in those far off countries outside of the war. Families all together. I can't imagine it. I can't imagine my father really, what he must have been like. Nowadays I can't even picture his face anymore.

I was seven when he was killed. My mother showed me the letter; smudged typing on thin Ministry paper. Funny how I can picture that in my head but not his face. He was killed defending the revetments at Arras. It said that he was a hero of the Empire. It had the Minister of War's name at the bottom but it wasn't even signed. No bugger had even bothered to sign it. Apologies for my language, but I always find that thought upsetting.

I didn't get a chance to visit my mother when I was on leave. She has pictures of him. I wish I had pictures of him. It's hard to get to see her anymore. To be completely honest I am not even entirely sure where she is. Not since she was sent to hospital, I guess you knew about that. Or at least that she had to go away.

The last time I saw her she was being shipped up north somewhere. She hugged me on the platform at Kings Cross. She said it was the steam and smoke that was making her cry. I could smell the sweet lavender in her hair. I didn't know what to say. And then the stern faced women in suits bundled her onto the train.

I suppose they wanted her out of the way after she CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED in London. At least that is what they told me she did. I couldn't believe she was CENSORED. She never said anything about it. Not sure I believe it. I hope you and your family don't think too badly of her because of it. Or of me.

Of course they questioned me about it. Took me to a barracks at CENSORED, south of the Front. Sat in a tiny room with an imposing Colonel. Never even told me his name. I guess he must have been S.I.S. or Ministry of Communications or something like that. It was like one of those spy films. You know, an old black and white one where they shine a light into the face of some dastardly Hun fifth columnist to make him spill his secrets. I thought I should feel scared but I didn't. I just tried to stifle my cough as he blew heavy swirling pipe smoke into the light. All I could see of his face was his big immaculately trimmed moustache above the curl of his pipe.

Anywhere away from the Front isn't nearly as scary, so I felt good somehow sat in that interrogation room, even when he was asking me all these questions about my mother. I couldn't tell him anything anyway. I didn't know anything about it. Mother kept that whole business quiet for sure. I suppose she was protecting me. Although it is obvious that it has made me a marked person. It's an unspoken truth that everyone knows I suppose. Nobody really talks about it, although Sapper Jones said I wouldn't be getting a promotion or any kind of move too far away from the Front anytime soon. I asked him why but he just tipped his head, tapped his nose and raised his eyebrows, and then he winked as if we both shared some terrible secret or something.

I had better sign off now. Soon we will have to go on duty. Perhaps I will tell more of my life here in my next letter, censors permitting. I do hope you don't mind me writing to you my dear Esme. I hope too that you will write back soon. Of course I will understand if you feel that I am being too forward or too familiar with you, especially as we have spent so little time together. Please be kind enough to let me know if this is the case.

Rest assured my thoughts are with you, wherever you are back in dear old England and whatever you are doing. Please consider writing soon.

Yours sincerely,

J. Fitzpatrick.

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Saturday 2nd December 1961

Dear Jimmy (or do your prefer James?),

Thank you so much for your letter. It was so very kind of you to write. Dulcie was so excited when she saw your name on the back of the envelope that I had to almost restrain her from opening it herself! She has taken to pestering the post girl every morning to see if there are more letters from you. She giggles so when she reads your words and she has read them often. Over and over she reads them to us at the breakfast table. I hope you do not mind that I let her read it; she was so very insistent.

I am not sure mother approves fully but she did say that I could write you back. She says it is our duty to support the troops in whatever way we can.

Dulcie, though, talks of romancing and 'boyfriends' and I will be honest and say that such talk makes me blush. I sometimes wonder where she gets her ideas from, she can be such a silly headed girl. I guess it's my fault; the influence of a beloved older sister. She has copied my love of reading and perhaps takes those old fanciful pre-war romances too literally. Do not get me wrong, I think it's charming for a girl of her age to be full of dreams, and flattering that she dreams of my happiness as well as her own. But she will need to grow up soon. As we all have to. I know I am only seventeen myself, but I have to be mature and a working woman in order to do my duty to King and country.

I will be frank with you Jimmy, lots of girls my age hope to marry the first young boy they can; many at sixteen, before the boys go off to war. As you know it is encouraged by the War Office; that we should marry and have babies I mean. Of course this is something I think of, but, to be honest with you, I am not entirely sure I am ready for such things. Not just yet.

I know that is what Dulcie dreams of, for myself and for her, in her own romantic childish way. I'm not saying that it is foolish to have dreams; we all have them after all. But we cannot live on dreams in these times of war. Perhaps if the war ends one day. But this too is a dream I know. The papers talk about this push or that push ending the war; talk of new impossible weapons to end the threat of the Hun, and I suppose we can live in hope, but the reality is that we must dedicate our lives to war if we are to survive. Just like our parents and their parents before them.

Your wonderful letter didn't arrive until the fifteenth; the post girl says that letters to and from the Front can be a bit hit and miss, what with them having to pass through the ministries for censorship. So I apologise for the delay in my reply.

The other reason for this delay is that I have made you a present. I did not know it was your birthday, so I wish you many belated happy returns. I have written it in my diary so that I am sure not to forget next year. I have spent the last few days knitting you some socks to send as a belated present. I un-picked the wool from one of Dulcie's old hand-me-downs that no longer fits her. I hope you like the green colour. I also hope they fit, I know that men have bigger feet so I made them extra-large. I hope they keep your feet warm and dry.

I must say that I am terribly flattered by your talk of feelings for me. I am a simple girl and somewhat unused to such felicitations. Please understand that I am not entirely naive but I am not so sure about how to respond.

I too enjoyed our walk on the pier at Brighton, although I do think it was terribly naughty of Dulcie to corner you like that when I was getting the ice creams. I do trust that you are a decent sort. In fact, from your letter and our conversations I think you are a kind man and I have never come across such a romantic soul, if you don't mind me saying. As you say, us girls back home have limited experience with the opposite sex and so we have to be careful, so to speak, and I understand what you say about men. I do have some experience in these matters despite my age.

Let me tell you that it isn't just the soldiers that we should be wary of. Mr Jenkins at the factory, for example, has quite the reputation. He didn't enlist due to weak lungs, or so they say, and sometimes he seems to positively affect a limp, though I am not sure why. He was trained in munitions design and manufacture and is twenty five but in my view he has the mannerisms of someone much older. He is like a scheming villain in a Dickens novel. The girls on the shop floor say he has 'wandering hands' and that on no account should one allow oneself to be alone with him; say in the storerooms or accounts office. I don't like the way he looks at me. It is not at all like the way you looked at me. Your eyes were altogether shy, always looking down or away. I didn't get to see what colour they are. Please do tell?

I asked my mother about her knowing your family and about us both being born here on Whitefriars Drive. She seemed very reticent, as if she didn't want to talk much about it. All she would say about your mother was that she didn't think her to be the most patriotic of women. I hope I don't offend you by saying this, as I am sure your mother has many good qualities.

Mother did say she liked your father when he was alive, though of course she didn't know him that well, what with him being away at the Front so much. And she says she has a 'lot of time' for your Aunt Gracie, whatever that means.

Apparently your father was good friends with my father. They were both, like you, in the Middlesex Regiment, although my father died just before Dulcie was born. Like your father he was killed near Arras. Not at the same time mind. I would have just turned three when he died so I do not remember him. Mother has pictures of him on the mantle. He looks such a fine handsome sort in his dress uniform, the good soldier. And like you I do sometimes wonder what it would have been like to have known him.

Mother says I have inherited many of his traits. It is strange to think that I am like someone that I feel like I have never met; that I carry within me so much of him. It is an odd feeling when I think about it. A sad feeling of something missing, although for mother I am a reminder of what she loved about him. As is Dulcie. Mother is so lucky to have had two children.

Apparently I speak exactly like my father did when I am passionate about something, and, don't laugh, I stick my tongue out when I am concentrating, just like he did. Mother says that I even like the same music that he did. When she plays Beethoven's seventh symphony on the gramophone I can't help but well up at the beauty and sadness of it. The second movement especially. I wonder if you have heard it or know it? Mother says it was my father's favourite. She plays it very softly in the back room. She says its 'unpatriotic' to like a German composer and I know she is right. Even the London Women's Symphony Orchestra only play people like Elgar or Britten or some of the new American composers. Although I must say I am not so keen on much of the new American music; all drums and fast beats and singers crooning. The factory girls fairly swoon over those singers they see at the cinema, but I cannot for the life of me see what they like about it. It seems tuneless and without beauty.

I am hoping to go and see one of the symphony orchestra's concerts soon, perhaps when they tour. Did you know they are going to tour? Obviously there are not many concert halls left because of the bombing. Not in the south anyway. So they have purchased a large circus tent and are going to tour the country to boost morale. Did you know that? Perhaps they may come to France to entertain the troops. Do you like music Jimmy? I do hope so. I love it. Do you think me awfully unpatriotic because I like Beethoven?

You asked about the evacuations. When Dulcie and I were small, after father died, mother took us to a farm in Shropshire. I think she was frightened of losing us too, though she has never said this to me. She worked on the land for our keep and rented the house back in Harrow for a while. War ministry types lived there for a few years.

I loved the summers in Shropshire. Dulcie and I ran in the fields like wild things, went to the village girls' school and played amongst the farm animals. I remember it made Dulcie so happy when the farmer entrusted us with suckling a new born lamb. It was so soft and warm and so very sweet. Although we both hated the farmer when she decided to sell that lamb for the table. Her name was Mrs Frost, so secretly from then on Dulcie and I called her 'Frosty Cow'. In actual fact she was mostly kind to us and I suppose it was a good lesson for us children to learn; that all living things must pass on. Even the sweetest of lambs.

Most of the time it was heaven at the farm and almost like the war was a whole world away. Idyllic some might say. It especially seemed to make the summers seem longer. When I think on it now it seems dreamy, almost unreal. I think a romantic like yourself would have loved it.

Of course it all changed in '51 when the Germans began the indiscriminate incendiary bombing of farms. I can remember the orange of the sky at night from the 'Brandbombe' and the acrid petrol smell of the dark smoke that filled the air the mornings after. Acre upon acre of precious wheat destroyed in one go. They only bombed when they knew the weather was tinder dry and that the fields would go up and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Such callousness. It seems inhuman to me that they would deliberately wish to deprive ordinary folk of the basic necessities of life.

The papers say that we are winning the aerial war now and that the blockade of Hamburg is hampering their fuel supplies from Russia, so perhaps our English farms are safer for now. Thank God for the American imports that break the Atlantic blockade and for the Irish and their 'one big farm' mentality. At least Ireland is mostly out of range for their big bombers. That's what the papers say anyway.

So anyway, after the bombing Mrs Frost felt that she couldn't give mother as much work and said that she couldn't guarantee our safety. What a thing it is to live in fear. Everywhere. Mother applied to the ministry to return to factory work near Harrow and she went back to the crawler tank factory in Stanmore.

We have been back here in Whitefriars Drive ever since. Mother says you are welcome to come and visit for tea whenever you get your next leave. That is if you can travel up to London. I know that you were staying with your Aunt Gracie near Brighton; perhaps you will stay there again when you come? I am not sure that I would be able to travel there again if you were. Not with the trains being so erratic and mostly reserved for war work.

You asked me about your poor departed friend Billy Treacher. I am so sorry you lost a dear pal. That must be heart wrenching. I didn't know him, but then perhaps you played in the streets with him during the time we were evacuated? Mother never let Dulcie and I play in the street, she always said that she preferred to know what we were up to. I suppose that's why we loved the farm so much, where we were allowed to roam free. Now that we are older of course we are more responsible. Mother says she only knew the Treachers to say hello in passing.

The Daily Mail had a special pull out section last week, as part of their ongoing series on the history of the Glorious War. I have been collecting them. This week they published an up to date map of the Front. It shows the line of our Great Wall, from the Channel all the way to Switzerland. I can see where you are; a 'U' shaped section of the Front that surrounds the salient of Ypres. There are photographs of the Wall. I imagine the mass of shiny grey concrete, with its many gun emplacements, turrets and firing holes high above where you sit below underground. It looks like a magnificent long winding castle. What must it be like to see such an impressive construction in real life? Not since the Great Wall of China has such a thing been made on earth. Such an achievement! It shows the ingenuity and genius of the English, that is what the paper says. It must give you such a proud feeling to know that the might of the Empire could build such a thing to defend us from the Hun. The paper says it is impregnable and of a much more solid construction than the German wall. Theirs, they say, is a cowardly copy of our Great Wall and much more easily breached by our shells and rockets. I think our Wall is magnificent, don't you?

I will say that I liked your letter very much and would be pleased if you write again. Please don't feel shy about writing to me. I understand that we don't know each other very well but perhaps in time as we write to one another we will. Mother says I should make a parcel for you next time; she is always one for being patriotic and supporting our brave soldiers. So I promise I will do that, although I am worrying about what things I might be able to send you. As you know things are short in England and my wages don't stretch that far. Perhaps you could tell me what you might like when you next write. I know you like chocolate from your letter so I will try to save some for you from our rations. Perhaps I could knit you a scarf or a jumper?

Anyway I think I had better sign off now as I have a late shift today. I do so hate doing a shift on a Saturday and I had better go as it takes me half an hour to walk to the factory. I do hope this letter finds you well and safe.

Best wishes

Esme

X

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

15th December 1961

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

Thank you so much for your letter! It made my heart sing this morning when the runner brought the post and there was a packet from you. You have no idea how happy this makes me. The socks are wonderful, that was so kind. My other pairs are so full of holes and darning that there isn't much sock left! I will keep these ones you have made until I my others completely fall apart. They fit perfectly. I will have to keep them safe, hidden inside my jacket. Some of the boys here like to pilfer things when you are asleep.

You asked if I like to be called 'Jimmy'? Well most of my pals call me that, or sometimes Jim. It's what my mother used to call me when I was small; you know how mothers have pet names for their beloved children. 'Little Jim' she used to call me. Funny to think of it now, her tucking me up under the heavy eiderdown in a warm soft bed. "Night, night my little Jim," she would say. That seems an age away. To feel so safe and warm and loved. It almost seems like it wasn't me who felt like that, it was so long ago. I miss it in a way I cannot put into words; her lavender smell and kind words. I think that it is an unspoken truth that all soldiers miss their mothers the most, above and beyond anything. 'Mother' is so often the last word to spill from a dying man's lips. I have heard it myself more than once, in a trench or from a stretcher. 'Mother' they whisper. 'Mother'. She is the reason I am the man I am, I do hope she is safe and well.

Of course she didn't always call me 'Jim' or 'Jimmy'. She would always call me 'James' when she was telling me off or chastising me because I had pushed the boundaries. I suppose all mothers do that; they have certain words and a certain tone of voice kept in reserve for when boys are mischievous in the way that boys are. It is a scolding kindness born of protective love; to chastise ones child in such a personal way that at once teaches the child of their folly but also subconsciously reassures them that the special bond between mother and child remains in place. Another thing that I miss. And I suppose fathers must have that bond too, out there in the world in places where there are fathers. Although it is best for me to not dwell on such things; things that I will miss out on in my brief future. Fatherhood is perhaps one of those things.

Once mother caught me on the railway embankment, near Wealdstone; you know near where there was that train crash in '52. We had sneaked out after the curfew and lights out. Billy Treacher had stolen a gas lamp from outside the warden's hut and we were shining it down the tracks looking to see if we could see any wreckage of the carriages. Looking for souvenirs I suppose. The morbid fascination of boys. Mother went ballistic and gave us both a thick ear for that one! I still to this day have no idea how she knew where we were.

"James Fitzpatrick!" she shouted over the fence, her voice with its most serious disappointed tone, "how dare you be out after lights out!" I almost jumped out of my skin. Billy just bowed his head and was silent; it was a fair cop after all.

The next day she marched Billy and I down to the warden's hut, Billy's mum came too. Made us give back the lamp and apologise to the warden and promise we would never do it again. I will always remember that. One of those conflicting memories of childhood that mixes shame with affection. The warden was a fat old man with a big nose propped up by a looping moustache. He had only his left arm; the empty black uniform sleeve pinned haphazardly to his chest with a large safety pin. The kind of shiny silver pin that women use to pin their skirts. Funny how I can still to this day remember such detail. His left leg was gone too, below the knee. A stubby old fashioned wooden foot and shin kept him on two legs. You could see the shiny aged wood between his ankle and boot because his trousers were too short. Only one sock on his good foot. He was a lop-sided man in every way. He literally wore the evidence of his sacrifice on his sleeve.

Billy was trying hard not to giggle because the man had a drip from his nose which kept landing on his moustache. I found his giggling to be infectious and thought it funny that he would use a woman's skirt pin so obviously to pin his sleeve. He was trying to give us a lecture about how we had to keep lights out so the bombers had no targets and we were trying not to laugh. His voice was grave and serious. My body shook and my eyes watered as I tried to suppress the laughter. Billy couldn't and squealed and that was the last straw and we both laughed out loud. That got us both another thick ear once we left. Mother said she couldn't believe how we could be so disrespectful. Of course we both apologised profusely to our mothers, in the grovelling pathetic way that only boys can seem to muster. Wiping grubby tears and snot on our sleeves. I miss Billy now as I think about him. I guess I miss such innocence.

You also asked about my eyes in your letter. They are blue. Well a kind of blue-green I suppose, depending on the light. When I think about it now, I can't say that I have really looked at them that often. A mirror is a rare thing out here at the front.

You say that I am a romantic, but I feel that asking about my eyes is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I love the green of yours and be safe in the knowledge that I did see them. Oh how I saw them. I couldn't take my eyes off of you before we spoke. Well, when you weren't looking anyway. The way your red hair curls and frames your face. So delightful. Entrancing one might say. Thoughts of you fill my mind with the colour that is so clearly absent in my world. Your eyes seemed to sparkle and are full of knowing. Of course I couldn't look into them directly as we walked and talked together. I wish I could look into them now.

I have some bad news. I am afraid any chance of leave has been cancelled. At least until well into the New Year they say. There are rumours that the regiment might be on the move soon. My unit has been stationed here for the last six months or so. I had hoped that when I returned from Brighton they would move us from the tunnels, but alas no.

It is our job to CENSORED CENSORED and then there will be CENSORED. It is hard work and dangerous, especially when we don't have enough wood and steel supports for the tunnels, as we often don't. We aren't always safe from the bombardment and rockets, even at this depth below ground. A particularly heavy set of shell bursts hit the north east section of the salient last Tuesday and the shock wave caused a cave in. Eighteen sappers had bought it by the time we managed to dig them out. There is always fear, but I try to comfort myself that at least I am not on concrete duty or scouting in no-man's land.

If we do get moved it will be nice to get to see the sky again. I haven't been topside for at least six weeks. Not since the last leave. All the men down here have the tendency to look like ghosts, almost as if we are unreal spirits or some such. All grey skin and skeletal thin bodies. I suppose I must look like one too. Like I said mirrors are rare. I cannot for the life of me remember when I last saw my own face.

It wasn't entirely unexpected that we are not to get leave anytime soon but I was so hoping that I might be able to see you, somehow or other. It gives me great comfort that you have agreed to write to me. To know that someone, somewhere outside of this unreal war may actually care about me.

I like that you talk about music and beauty in your letter. Everything here is monochrome; grey and khaki and dirt. I too love to read, you mentioned Dickens; he was one of my favourites when I was a boy, and I loved the adventures of Jules Verne. I have no books here. Perhaps you could be kind enough to think about sending me a book in a parcel. A scarf or a pullover would be more than marvellous too, although please don't go to too much trouble on my account. Any communication from you is a joy.

Though I will be bold and say that it would be wonderful to have a book to read in my stolen moments in between duties. That is only if it is not too much trouble, or if you have a book lying about that you no longer want.

I sometimes fantasised about being a writer myself when I was younger. I was always one for making up stories. Billy used to like it when I would dream up some impossible adventures of pirates or pilots for us to play.

When I got the call-up, I applied for war journalism. I foolishly thought that would be my niche in this war. But they turned me down flat; said I didn't go to the right school for that. The letter they sent had a sneering tone to it. Almost as if the typed words could convey how those types at the ministry were looking down their noses at me. It said something about how I wouldn't have learnt the correct things. I have no Latin you see. Those kinds of jobs are reserved for the privileged few, not a middle class son of an ordinary soldier. Perhaps they get a lot of applications from men who think it would be an easy ride to write about things at the front. I was young and naive, although now it seems so obvious to me. Stupid really. I should have realised that such things are not for the likes of me.

So I just ended up in the Middlesex Regiment, like my father and like everyone else I knew. A typical 'Pals' regiment. My whole class from Harrow Weald Boys School went off together. I think of them now, boys with proud ruddy red faces marching clumsily out of step; all shiny buttons, fresh oversized khaki and boots too big clumping down the street. Mothers waving tear stained hankies, just like their mothers before them. My mother at the back of the crowd. When I stole a glance at her, below the sloping brim of my cap, it was as if she could barely bring herself to look at me. It wasn't a look of disappointment exactly, more one of sad resignation. Deeply sad.

They sent us to Northumberland for the basic training, all together living in bivouacs under grey rainy skies for four months. It seemed like such an adventure; like we were treading in the proud footsteps of destiny like our fathers before us. I shared my tent with Billy and another boy; Archie Groves. I didn't really know him at school, he was one of those boys that were always on the periphery, on the edge of things; not 'one of the gang'. Poor Archie Groves. Poor, fat, inadequate Archie Groves.

In retrospect we were so very cruel to him, Billy and I. Easy to see through the clear spectacles of retrospect, I suppose my youth obscured our cruelty at the time. Billy teased him constantly about his glasses and his podgy frame. He looked like his body was full of air; childish puppy fat straining the buttons on his tunic. I will always picture him wiping the mud from those bent wire framed specs, tears on his round red blotchy cheeks. Pathetic really. Pathetically sad considering what happened to him. He seemed younger and less well equipped somehow, though I now realise this is unfair to him. We were all only sixteen, some only fifteen, and I don't suppose any of us were really equipped for the reality of this war. Is anyone I wonder?

Marching over muddy moors with full kit, Archie was always the last in line; the slowest snail in a pack of hungry young hares. Everyone blamed him when our unit always came last and we didn't get our weekend passes. The cocky drill Sergeant used to clip his ear and call him 'fatso' so Billy took to calling him that too. Constantly. And, to be honest, so did I. That and other insults and jibes; cruel unpleasant bullying. I wonder why I did that now. Cruelty lies in cowardice it seems to me.

There is a lot of talk of cowardice in this war. The constant rant from N.C.O.s about the consequences of cowardice. Cowardice can be a powerful tool; used in such a way as they do to make people conform, and we all desire to conform Esme. To fit in and be part of something, part of 'the gang'. We are social animals I suppose. We require approval and companionship. So we succumb to cowardice and false bravery to feel belonging. It is not brave to stand up and bully someone; that is a false version of strength. That is why Billy and I bullied poor Archie Groves. It gave us a false feeling of strength, as if we were the clever ones, the strong ones who would survive. The real bravery would have been to challenge the injustice and cruelty of it. To stand up and defend poor boys like Archie. None of us admitted it back then but we all knew, as we still know now, that our lives are destined to be short. Like our fathers before us. There was an unmentioned tense feeling hanging over us like a gathering storm cloud that darkened our youthful exuberance. There is always a tension hanging over us. And that tension produces unspoken fear. Hidden black fear; back then it turned us into shameful bullies.

I hope you don't mind me writing about such things Esme, but I feel that if we are to be close, and I sincerely hope that we are, then I shouldn't hold back. You should know who I am and know what my life has been and is. I hope you aren't too shocked or think too badly of me. I have done terrible shocking things and seen terrible shocking things. In war this is inevitable.

So this is why I tell you about Archie Groves. Poor fat Archie Groves. I watched him die. My first shocking brush with the sweeping scythe of death that scours this unholy patch of land we fight over.

The regiment was posted to Bapaume. Our first posting. I don't remember much about the channel crossing, just the cloying oil smell of the ship's engines as I was throwing up below decks. I never thought I would be one to be seasick. But then my nausea was soon replaced by a feeling of anticipation as soon as my boots hit the wood and concrete of the floating French dock. There was such excitement on the train. Eager young eyes scanning the terrain of a foreign field for the first time. Strange to think that I enjoyed those moments so. It is a queer truth Esme but there are those that enjoy war and the powerful feelings it can bestow upon an individual, but I now know from experience that I am not one of them.

Those French fields passed our carriage windows and we devoured them with our expectant eyes. They slowly turn from poppy reds, straw yellows and verdant greens to slick mud browns and dirty wet greys the nearer to the Front you get. The honest bright hue of rural farmland that has been tilled for centuries is replaced by the dull monochromatic industry of war. As if the celestial artist who painted it gradually lost his way; lost any sense of colour, as the oils on his pallet became mixed by all the years of churning shell fire. If you mix all the rainbow colours of creation all that you are left with is brown. Dirty mud brown. It makes me wonder if mud brown is all there is beneath everything. Beneath all existence.

I remember the excited cries and nervous thrill at seeing the Great Wall for the first time as it loomed over the sky-line of this flatly undulating land. I also remember the looks of tired disdain from those experienced troops in our carriage. You could see them positively sniffing and rolling their eyes at our childish whoops.

You ask about the Wall in your letter, and I wonder about the picture you have seen of it in the paper. The Wall is certainly an imposing structure it's true, but unlike other structures it is almost a fluid thing. It never looks the same each time you see it. That first time I saw it I was struck by how ragged it looked. It has a forlorn air, an inevitability; a foreboding darkness to it that implies its true deathly purpose. There is no mistaking it is a construction of war.

It has a differing nature depending on where you are and where you view it from. Some sections, especially those crossing what used to be farmland, seem smoother and more uniform. Others, where it passes through long gone towns and villages, it is higher and appears more stout and irregular. In these places the lower reaches of the Wall contains endless lumps of stone and bricks of all shapes and sizes, plundered from the surrounding buildings. Many stick out like scabrous monuments to the past.

In one place, not far from Bapaume, there is a whole church tower, complete with bells, standing proud against the concrete. It is as if it has been stuck with glue to our side of the Wall. Goodness knows how they constructed that. It has the bizarre appearance of a church sunk into the ground, just one side of the tower pressing out of the Wall. They even still use the bells to this day, as a warning of an attack.

This magpie plundering of French and Belgian architecture is how it began in the first place after all. Desperate soldiers on both sides shoring up their precarious trenches with plundered bits of wall and chimneys, columns and stone from nearby broken churches, townhouses or farmhouses. What a desperate time that must have been, the twenties and thirties; both sides perilously trying to construct their Wall ever higher whilst continually under heavy bombardment. An arms race of concrete and scaffold.

The top-most reaches are largely always rubble. Apart from a few sections where the poor condemned men of the concrete teams perpetually struggle to maintain its strength against the bombardment. Hastily constructed new turrets and pill-boxes appear along its heights as if by magic all the time. Sometimes, when there is a long tired lull in the fighting, these new constructions last for months, at other times they can be obliterated within a day. Like some child playing with wooden bricks it is continually being built and re-built where sections of its summit are knocked down by the indelicate podgy fingers of shells and rockets.

Haphazard cranes, pulleys, ropes and chains pull the cranky wooden lifts that stripe each section of the wall. They carry the concrete, steel and wood required for such a gargantuan task, as well as the men and ordnance; countless shells and bullets, grenades and rockets to continue the good fight. Soldiers live on, around and within its massive frame for months on end. Living in bunkers deep within the wall, fed on bully beef, stale bread and soup in poorly lit messes. The dust of concrete lacing every mouthful. Cement particles adding to the prematurely grey hair of the frightened.

When one views it from a distance the Wall has the appearance of an ancient ruin crawling with impossible spider-webs. These vertical and horizontal webs carry everything to various entryways and gangways. Webs of trenches, tracks, railways and walkways thread outwards from its base. And the concrete; always more concrete is needed to plug the gaps. Trains, trucks, tracked carriers and crawler tanks constantly pull up to the base; agitated beetles delivering their dung balls to the pile.

From our side the higher surfaces of the Wall are mostly flat grey concrete, with the occasional massive buttress looming down dotted with overhanging ledges or entryways. But when you finally see it from no-man's land it is impossibly pock-marked, like a vertical cratered moonscape. Its size plays tricks with your vision and can almost give one a feeling of vertigo from the ground. It is as if gravity is wrong and that one ought to be able to walk up its surface and navigate between those craters and shell holes. Such an unreal sight it is hard to describe. The endless massive acne scars of years of shell fire and rocket bursts. Again its appearance is ever changing and fluid; forever unfinished, as if the wall itself were alive; a kind of hideous diseased beast snaking over the land. This side, the one that faces the enemy and no-man's land, and the very top sections are the most dangerous places for concrete duty.

At Baupaume the Wall is lower than some of the other stretches. At least it was when we first arrived. It was definitely lower than it is here at Ypres, although at Bapaume it still seemed enormous to my inexperienced eyes. I don't suppose anyone ever really bothers to measure its height, which is always changing anyway. They say that it is mostly between CENSORED CENSORED and the CENSORED batteries reach to the CENSORED.

On our first day the Captain took us on an initial tour during the early evening before we bunked down. We marched through tunnels and along gangways, up what seemed like endless narrow stairways to the summit. Within the Wall men are constantly going to and fro and despite the ancient hand painted signs and stencils that say 'Keep Left', one always finds oneself bumping into some chap or other, especially on the stairways. Archie Groves couldn't help but bump his clumsy fat body into everyone he passed; he took their swearing annoyance with mumbled quiet apologies. When he turned back to me I could see the fear in his puffy red-faced embarrassment. At least that's how I remember it now.

Many parts of the Wall and its internal structure are not places for the weak hearted or claustrophobic, though up there is not as cramped and oppressive as the tunnels we now occupy, so far down below. The countless walls within the Wall have a certain overbearing sterile brutality. Its maze-like quality could fairly turn you into a madman if you let it. For some it becomes a prison of war.

At a viewing platform near the top a lucky few of us got to train binoculars across the ripped earthy scar that is no-man's land between the walls.

Like the Walls themselves, the width of this unholy place between them varies and at some places it is almost as if you can almost see the Hun faces with your naked eyes, in others the distance seems vast although it is probably only between CENSORED and CENSORED CENSORED.

In the years since that first day I have looked out over this lunar landscape from similar vantage points many, many times in several places. I have seen the ground assaults and infantry attacks and watched the crawler tanks engage in battle; puffs of bright white shell bursts exploding above them. Battle looks so different from above than from below when one is engaged in it. Less personal; like watching rival ant colonies scrap it out in a bell-jar.

Billy Treacher stood next to me that first day. Pals together. The air was clear, no smoke, and the blue of the sky seemed like a picture on a cinema screen as seen through the rectangular concrete slit of the viewing platform. The grey stain of their Wall seemed incongruous at the base of our view. As if the film was stuck in the gate of the projector and a big grey smudge was burning across the bottom of the picture. The German construction is higher than ours, despite what the Daily Mail says, and has a frightening quality to it. An ominous presence continually there in your consciousness even when you can't see it.

Of course the Hun got to the high ground first in 1914, so in most places their wall is uphill from us. But I also think theirs is a higher wall, even if you take this into account. Maybe it's just a trick of perspective from below.

Sometimes they paint big skulls on its surface in black paint and derogatory slogans, written in poor English, about us 'bastard Tommies'. Excuse my language. Of course the foolish Huns who hang on ropes to paint such signs often pay for their bravado with their lives; easy targets for our snipers. And the signs they paint are usually obliterated pretty quickly by our shell batteries. That is if they can find their range properly. We are banned from painting such crude propaganda on our Wall; the officers say it is because we are more 'civilised' than the animalistic Hun. Although perhaps they think it is a waste of manpower for soldiers to be killed in such silly endeavours.

Billy seemed to be so thrilled as he stared out at their Wall through binoculars, I could see the excitement in his eyes as he smiled and passed them to me for a look. It was as if he couldn't wait to get to the fighting. To the killing. I know I wasn't surprised by this at the time. I just smiled back. He was my friend after all. My best pal. I suppose I too felt the adventure of it, like him. But again I could see the dismissive disdain in the eyes of those long suffering soldiers who were manning that slit in the Wall. A look of experience that could see through our naive foolishness as easily as the sharpest cut-throat razor slicing whiskers.

One of our snipers just sat there with his back to the concrete smoking a roll-up and sniffing. Cradling his polished Lee-Enfield in the crook of one arm like a baby. I could see that he didn't even want to look at us, as if experience had taught him not to get involved if he didn't have to. His only emotional attachment the high calibre rifle that usually kept him hidden away in the Wall. Away from the trenches and the tunnels.

Experience is the key to survival here and so many who are barely more than children arrive here and fail to listen to the advice of experience.

Finally they took us to the very summit. I remember being excited to be so very high up. A warm summer day; though windy for July. Mind you it is always windy at the summit of the Wall. There was little gunfire that day, a few sporadic pops in the distance, and we walked along a path cut like a winding trench, that rose and fell through the wide expanse of rubble that is the roof of the Wall. Our newly appointed Sergeant-Major; Rawlins was his name, was bellowing about how whatever we did, or wherever we went, that 'cover' was all. Cover is the thin line between life and eternity. Rawlins was the voice of experience that we should have been listening to. Only Billy wasn't listening, he never listened, and, that first day, neither was Archie Groves.

Now I can't help but think about cover, even when I am here so deep underground. It is ingrained in me. Even on leave back in blighty I find myself looking for cover. All the time. You unconsciously keep your head down and look to all angles wherever you are. On our side of the Wall the khaki lines of soldiers walk with a stoop, rows of helmeted heads bent downwards like flopping mushrooms, as if trying to duck below any stray piece of speeding shrapnel. You can always tell the newly enlisted by the angle of their gait. Heads up, gaze mystified by the enormity of the Wall, helmets wonky. And when you look into their eyes, they lack a certain weary wariness, as if they are always unaware of the likely direction of fire.

We tried to keep our heads low that first day, as we walked through the broken concrete blocks. Reinforcing steel poked skywards all round; rusting and bent in odd angles. Soldiers in the line ahead of me clunking the tin of their helmets against these odd wires. I had to bend low being so tall. Archie ahead of me, Billy behind. We reached a section that had been recently hit, with no path cleared through the rubble. The Captain went first; fearlessly stepping into the open space. He stood straight and tall above us on an artificial boulder of smashed concrete, as if he were impregnable; proud against the sky.

"I am a target," he said, his voice clear and steady in the wind, "make no mistake men, the Germans can clearly see me as I stand here. As easily as I can see you now. Do not stay still for long and make damn sure they can't see you!" I still shudder at his bravado. Captain Johns. I have no idea what became of him. Or Sergeant-Major Rawlins for that matter.

The Captain jumped down and positively skipped onwards past the gap and back to cover of the jumbled concrete trench of a path beyond. Next was Rawlins; he hunkered down low, quickly scampering and traversing the space. The dancing lightness of his heavy-booted feet came from the experience of combat. The next few recruits betrayed their rawness with clumping foot falls on the uneven rocky ground, holding their helmets against the strong summer wind, rifles dangling clumsily against their back packs. Rawlins bawled at each boy to get a move on.

Next came Archie Groves. He bent awkwardly to his knees and shuffled his fat frame out into the gap, puffing with fear. I could see the greasy sweat dribbling down his thick neck beneath his helmet. Rawlins shouted at him to get a shift on, to stand and run, and he tried to move quicker, standing with his knees bent. He wobbled like one of those self-righting toys. Turning his head quickly his helmet caught on one of the broken steel wires sticking up. Somehow the wire had slipped beneath his leather chin-strap, trapping him; he pulled his head like a horse pulling at the reins. The leather bit into his neck and was choking him. In panic he fiddled desperately with the clasp and pulled it free.

The instant his helmet swung free his head was gone. Blown away. I apologise for being so blunt dear Esme, but what I mean is that a sniper's bullet took him. His helmet left dangling by its strap like a metal leaf on a rusting steel branch; wobbling in the wind. The only sound was it clanking against the concrete and wire. I had thought you would hear the crack of gunfire, but I never heard that shot. They say you never hear the shot that takes you, and I was near enough behind poor Archie that his thick blood splashed my trousers and boots. His round body flopped into the concrete dust like a sack of potatoes.

The truth is that the sniper fired from the top, or near the top, of their wall, it's almost impossible to see the summit from the trenches below in no-man's land. A lucky shot in such high wind from that distance. A heavy high calibre weapon with a telescopic sight on a tripod most likely. A bullet big enough to take someone's head. Gone. It sounds so awful when I re-read what I have written.

I must at this point apologise again my dearest Esme if my graphic description shocks or upsets you. I do not fully mean this to be the case. I do not mean to be so blunt but I know of no other way to tell it. I suppose I simply wish you to know the reality of this war, and my experience here. I wish you to know me for who I am. For you, my dear, are my new lifeline. Foolish to think perhaps. I dream of you and that maybe one day we could be together and you could soothe my wounds. The words of your letter were like soft fingers on my creased brow. I need to share, to write these things, to empty them from my soul. Like I said earlier, I need to feel that I belong and I have an increasing feeling that I don't belong here. So please, please forgive my frankness.

To finish the story I will say that once poor Groves was gone I shook like I have never shook before. My body shaking uncontrollably with the shock of it. Standing there, next in line, I couldn't help but soil myself. So unpleasant I know. I fear that you will not wish to write to a lowly soldier who confides such unpleasantness to you. Rawlins was screaming repeatedly at me to move and it must have been a full five minutes before I mustered any courage.

Billy pushed roughly past me and ran to the other side and then I knew I had no choice but to move. I am not proud to say that my heavy boot stepped sloppily on poor Archie's body as I scampered as quickly as I could across the gap. I bumped into Billy waiting there. He looked me straight in the eye and said "Coward!" He could see me still shaking and he turned away. To this day I don't know why he said it. In retrospect he was just a foolish boy I suppose. He was my best friend and patriotic to the core. I guess he thought that we were going to be brave heroic soldiers fighting the good fight together. Brothers in arms as it were.

Well, it didn't turn out that way. In his eyes I was a foolish child who pathetically shat himself at the first encounter with death. 'Coward' was the last word he ever spoke to me. He didn't bunk with us that night, choosing a bunk in the next row. I only saw him once more, in the porridge line at breakfast. He ignored me. A couple of days later he was reprimanded for discharging his weapon without orders. Apparently he climbed alone to the summit of the Wall at daybreak and fired a few rounds at the Germans. Not that he could have possibly hit anything with a basic Enfield from that distance. I don't know why he did it, maybe he felt guilty and wanted revenge for Archie Groves, or maybe he just wanted to get to the fighting quicker than the officers would allow. For that he got a severe dressing down from the divisional Colonel for wasting ammunition and put on a charge. His punishment was a week on concrete duty on the no-man's land side of the wall. That's where he died. Hanging in a suspended wooden basket shovelling wet gluey concrete into holes in the wall. That was five years ago.

It is probably best you don't let Dulcie or your mother read this letter. Perhaps you could just read some parts of it that don't involve the reality of death? I know Dulcie will be disappointed not to read it herself. Tell her that my thoughts are with her too and that I will see her if and when my next leave finally comes through. That is if you wish it my dear Esme. Perhaps she would like to play a game of cards or two if I get to visit you? I have learnt some most amusing games from some of the boys here.

I sincerely hope you do not mind my request not to let them read all of this letter, it is just that I do not wish to upset or shock them or for them to get the wrong impression of me. It is not that I am unpatriotic; I wish to beat the Germans as much as anybody. It is they who are responsible for this awful situation. It is they who murdered our fathers and their fathers before them. It is they who crushed the Belgians in 1914. Such a poor defenceless nation, over-run by a ruthless enemy for forty seven years. Imagine it. I understand that some might find the thoughts and truthfulness I express in these letters as defeatist. But it is not that. I simply want to make sense of it the only way I know how. With this simple fountain pen and some cheap paper. I hope the censors do not remove too much.

Finally, I must return to the subject of music. Of course I love music and I love that you love it too. I had silly ideas of playing the flute when I was seven or so. They had a flute at school, one of the few instruments the boys could share and attempt to learn; apart from drums and bugles and military instruments. I soon found though that there is not a musically talented bone in my body. I am all fingers and thumbs when it comes to playing music. Instead my creativity came naturally in writing. In those days I wrote stories. Blue exercise books filled with naive boys stories of adventure; African explorers, brave pilots and suchlike. I don't write stories anymore.

I know that Beethoven piece you speak of. It is beautiful but I can't quite bring it to mind just now. There is no music here but the instructing tones of the bugle and rare beat of a marching drum. The bugle must be the most melancholic of instruments. At least it is here anyway.

In my mind it is not unpatriotic to like Beethoven. I think all music of beauty, indeed all things of beauty, should belong to the whole world. And be cherished. God knows there is far too little beauty and light to spread around these days. That said, I do understand your mother's caution when it comes to these things. It is not something I would mention in company, you never know who might be listening.

I myself have never been to a concert of any kind. I imagine that it must be a wondrous experience and I hope you enjoy it when you see the Women's Symphony. I have seen posters for the occasional entertainments they send here to France for the troops, but these take place far away back beyond the lines. I have no idea who actually is allowed to attend them. Certainly not the likes of us.

Please, dearest Esme, write to me again soon! Of course I will understand if you don't wish to. I understand that these missives take a while to reach their destination, so I will wish you and yours a happy and safe Christmas and New Year.

All my thoughts are with you...

Yours Sincerely

Jimmy Fitzpatrick

X

P.S. I do hope I haven't put you off and you are kind enough to write to me again. It would be more than marvellous for you to send me some kind of parcel like you have suggested. But please do not feel you need to go to lots of trouble. I know it is presumptuous of me to ask for a book and realise how tight things are back at home.

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Thursday 28th December 1961

Dear Jimmy,

Thank you for your last letter and a belated Merry Christmas to you. Firstly let me say that I did find some of your last letter quite shocking and at first I didn't know what to think, or whether I should reply. The way you describe things feels so vivid and not entirely what I imagine things to be like in France and Belgium. To be honest I am not sure what I thought. Or what to think. It is clear to me now that the papers and newsreels must protect our innocent eyes from such things.

I know you must think me a naive silly little girl; I know I am only seventeen. But, please be assured that I am not so young as to be completely unaware of the horrors of this war. Like you I have grown up with the bombings and rocket strikes. And like you and so many others I have had to grow up quickly. Perhaps too quickly. I know that there is death and that lots of it is truly horrible. I have seen it myself, death I mean, and some awfully shocking things, although I do not feel that I am quite ready just yet to tell you about that, perhaps I will be brave and tell you when we get to meet, or in a later letter. Rest assured that I kept your letter private and only read certain sections in front of my mother and Dulcie, despite her constant pestering. I have locked your letters in a box I keep especially for private things.

On reflection I have decided that I would like to continue our correspondence. It is the patriotic thing to do, and it is my hope to bring you some cheer.

In a strange kind of way your letter made me feel closer to you. It is as if by confiding in me your deepest and most honest thoughts and experiences you are truly revealing yourself to me. That is a precious and rare thing it seems to me. Especially when lives are so wrapped up in the war effort. Sometimes life seems so precarious, perhaps people don't have the time in war to reveal themselves. Or perhaps it is precisely because of war that our true nature is revealed? As a people we are showing who we truly are, in the face of terrible odds. It feels a privilege that you feel that you can confide in me so, and you do write so very well, even if it is about such beastly things. I think you are a fine writer. You should write stories again. I would love to read them.

You will see that I have kept my promise and sent you a parcel. I am sorry that it couldn't arrive before Christmas. I managed to save two bars of Cadburys although Dulcie wanted to eat them on Christmas day and I felt it would be mean not to let her have some. So I am sorry I can only send you one bar. I have knitted you a sleeveless jumper from scraps of wool we had left over. I know it is a higgledy-piggledy pattern and the stripes and colours don't exactly match or join up but I am hoping you can wear it under your uniform to keep you warm during the harshest months of the winter to come. I am afraid there wasn't enough wool left over to knit you a scarf.

I have also enclosed a book for you. It is one of my favourites by Dickens; 'Oliver Twist'. I expect you have read it before, as you did say that Dickens was a favourite, but I hope it will give you comfort as you read it. I did think to send you a book by Edgar Allan Poe (I have two copies of 'The Pit and the Pendulum') and although I love the mystery that surrounds his works I felt that the macabre nature of his stories perhaps wasn't fitting, given your circumstances. 'Oliver Twist' however is a story of hope; I do so like how the character of Oliver isn't corrupted by the bad things that he encounters. I feel that hope is often in short supply and we need to be reminded of its existence. I am sorry that it is just a paperback and it is so well-thumbed. I must have read it five times. Although it is my only copy I gladly pass it on to you in the hope that it gives you as much pleasure as it has given me.

I do hope you had a good Christmas. Ours was especially nice this year. My mother's sister, Aunt Matilda, managed to come and visit us. Do you know of her? She is a close acquaintance of your Aunt Gracie I think. She travelled all the way up from Dover and, would you believe it? She brought us a Christmas tree. A real one! Imagine! I couldn't believe she had carried it on the train all by herself, what with her suitcase and everything. What must the people on the carriage have thought? Having to sit next to a tree! She said she has been growing it in her garden for the last three years especially for us. Don't you think that was awfully kind? As you know most people never have real Christmas trees, not unless you are rich of course. We have certainly never had one. Dulcie said it made her feel like royalty, and compared our tree to the picture of the King and Queen with their tree published in the paper. Our tree looked rather wonderful in the front bay window. Aunt Mathilda even managed to get some lights to decorate it with. She says she got them from an American friend in the city. They positively sparkle like stars! Of course we only put the lights on when we had made sure the blackout curtains were fastened tight. It looked so splendid; I wish you could have seen it. We fashioned a cardboard star for the top and Dulcie and I made gingerbread men to hang from it. I saved one for you and put it in your parcel; they were bit crumbly so I hope it makes its way to you across the channel in one piece. Sometimes we need such small joys as a Christmas tree to brighten our lives.

In the morning we opened our presents. Dulcie had painted me a picture at school and even put it in a frame. It is supposed to be a scene of you and I walking along the pier at Brighton that day. She is quite the artist my dear sister, and although I like the picture and have hung it on our bedroom wall, I am not sure she has captured our likeness. I visualise you as being taller than she has depicted and your face is most unlike the way I remember it. Your jaw seemed stronger to me and you carried yourself with a certain confidence that belies your shyness. Of course I think I look like a fright, with my bright messy hair, but I daren't tell Dulcie this. We have to forgive her because she was painting us from memory.

It makes me wish I had a photograph of you. So I thought about that and have included a photo of Dulcie and I for you to have in the parcel. It is one that mother took of us last summer in the park. The fountains were on for people to water their allotments and lots of children were running up and down the strips of ragged grass between each vegetable patch.

I think Dulcie looks sweet with the red ribbon in her hair but I must apologise about my appearance in it. I am holding a bag of carrots that we had traded some of our produce from the garden for, and I think I look rather grumpy. At least Dulcie is smiling. I think that I look positively rotten with my hair up like that; it was so bright and hot that day, all the children were splashing in the fountain and had made my dress wet, and I could feel the sun burning freckles into my arms. Hence I am squinting so. However it will have to do, it is the only vaguely decent picture of me I could find. I wonder if you have a place that you could pin it to the wall or something where you are? Or perhaps you may like to keep it in your wallet?

For Christmas mother bought me a new fountain pen, ink and a pad of writing paper. Just like you got for your birthday. So I now too can write with a decent pen, just like you. Don't you think that was awfully thoughtful of her? She doesn't say it but I think she is proud of me for writing to you Jimmy.

I bought Dulcie a pair of red leather gloves. Half a week's wages that cost, but you should have seen her face. She took to wearing them all day long, even at the Christmas dinner table, as if she were some high born lady or some such. Royalty; a princess with a real Christmas tree and red leather gloves! It would have made you smile and I thought of you as we sat down to eat. This year we even managed a roast chicken. Mother bought it from Mrs Chiswick three doors down. She breeds them in her back garden in a run next to her air-raid shelter. Sometimes we get speckled eggs from her too. Her chickens are scrawny things but it was delicious with our homegrown swede and roast potatoes. And gravy. For pudding mother had baked mince pies and made custard. No Christmas pudding with flaming brandy for us, although she did make sure there was a sixpence inside the mince pie that Dulcie got. That made her feel even more like a princess!

After lunch we sat down together by the fire to listen to King Edward's address on the radio. Aunt Matilda commented that he sounded old and tired. He spoke of our continuing fortitude and bravery against our foes and how we are protecting the freedom of the Empire. Perhaps you have heard his speech?

We stood with mother when they played the national anthem, although Aunt Mathilda remained stubbornly seated in her armchair. That certainly brought a stern look from mother. Nothing was said but it is obvious that Mathilda doesn't entirely approve of the King.

Personally I think it must be hard for him having been on the throne for so long and never ruling over peace time. He is only sixty-seven, but that is old for a man. Sometimes I wonder about the very few older men you see about the place; how it must be to be one of the few men who didn't happen go to France and fight, for whatever reason. They must harbour a certain guilt some of them. Though some clearly do not, like Jenkins at the factory; it seems to me that he has a certain selfishness and shallowness about him that prevents any empathy for those who sacrifice for us all.

Of course the politicians all seem to be old men and those few in protected industries and businesses. Aunt Matilda says that it isn't right that the rich men get to stay behind while the ordinary young 'Tommies' do all the fighting for them. She can be quite the radical, Mathilda; all fire and brimstone about how women should get the vote and be the ones running things. She says it is only fair as we are the ones doing all the work on the home front. Woman can vote in other countries like America she says. Mother scolds her and tells her not to be so unpatriotic, especially in front of us girls.

Privately mother thinks that Matilda is just crotchety about certain things because she is one of those women that the newspapers have taken to describing as 'heroic spinsters'. She is in her thirties now and hardly likely to find a man that would be suitable. She is one of those making the sacrifice of being without a husband for the good of the country; that is how the Daily Mail describes it anyway. I cannot help but feel sorry for her myself; I do love her so, she is so funny and terribly kind and generous to us. It must have been hard for her. On the one hand the government encourages marriage; you must have seen the posters; 'Family First!' and 'The Empire needs Families', on the other they seem to be congratulating those women who, through no fault of their own, are left alone and childless because there aren't nearly enough men to go around. There is such pressure on young girls to find a suitable man. I hope you do not take this the wrong way Jimmy, I am not suggesting anything too romantic between us, well not yet anyway, but I do not wish to be a 'heroic spinster'.

I am not sure what I think about Aunt Matilda's radical ideas about women; unlike mother I do not find her crotchety at all. Usually though I tend to side with mother, as I would never want to be thought of as unpatriotic, however I do sometimes wonder why insensitive dull men like Mr Jenkins at the factory get to order me around.

I only had the Christmas day off and had to work a day shift on Christmas Eve and a night shift on Boxing Day; horrible Jenkins was in charge both times. My friend Sally says he is always talking about me when she does a shift and I am not there. Making allusions about me, as if he and I have some connection. It is not that he is an unattractive man and plenty of the girls would willingly marry him I am sure. He has the pick of them after all. Sally says it wouldn't surprise her if he has liaisons with lots of them. There is always whispering gossip about it. However I really don't like the way he looks at me; he has a smile as if he knows something that I do not.

Like I said some of the men who are left behind have a certain guilt to them. A look that says that they are hiding a feeling buried in their very depths. A feeling that says that they should have been at the Front like all of the others. Like you. Funny how sometimes you can see people's deepest feelings etched in their expression. It is as if they are wondering if everyone else thinks they are a pacifist or conchie or that they are simply indolent. Or worse that they are faking some kind of disablement in order to avoid the draft. And to be honest there are those that think this about some men. You should hear some of the girls on the production line making derogatory remarks about this or that man; more often than not it is a man who has turned them down. They can be so spiteful in the face of rejection. When men are in short supply and the women are desperate it is the men who get to choose. Though I shouldn't be one to judge I have seen the shortest, fattest ugly men with the most beautiful of women. I am sure you must have noticed this phenomena too. We don't mean to be rude but whenever Dulcie and I have seen an odd couple like this, especially one where a pretty slim woman towers over her short husband, we cannot help but giggle to ourselves at the absurdity of it. We laugh because it is the very opposite of that silly song that children sing at weddings. You know, the one that goes 'Here comes the Bride, all fat and wide, here comes the Groom, skinny as a broom...' to the tune of the wedding march.

But I suppose at the end of the day if they are happy then who are we to judge? To be fair most of the young girls I know would not countenance such a thing; they dream of meeting a fine young soldier. Not some older, unfit man. If there is a suspicion hanging over a man that isn't fighting then that suspicion hangs over any woman they are attached with too. Like an unseen black cloud. Did they marry simply for money or convenience? So there is still something terribly romantic and honourable about the desire to marry a brave soldier in their fine uniform, or so it seems.

I will tell you Jimmy, that I have kept the fact that I have met you and that we correspond a secret at work for fear of the wagging tongues; the only one I have trusted with this knowledge is my dear friend Sally. We grew and went to school together so I know that I can trust her.

Now that I think about it, perhaps I have not been entirely fair to Jenkins. He does, albeit very rarely, have that look of guilt about him; guilt at being a single man not at the front. I have noticed the way he looks, especially when women in the factory talk of brothers or sons or even husbands at the Front. But in these moments he can also have a certain smugness about him, as if to hide his guilt and prove himself the king of his tiny castle. He is only the shop floor manager, but, perhaps because he is often the only man there, I feel that he has ideas above his station. I am sure I am not the only one who feels this way about him. He boasted to Sally that he will soon be promoted to the design office, which is important war work. I am not entirely sure that this is true or that his motives are honourable, especially when he boasts like this, as he often does so obviously in an attempt to impress a pretty girl. But I suppose like everyone else he would long for a partner to share his life with and who am I to deny him?

As a treat before Christmas mother took Dulcie and I to the cinema. I do so love it. We saw a new 'Disney' film from America; 'One Hundred and One Dalmatians'. It was quite different from the book, which I have read. I wonder if you are familiar with it? When Dodie Smith wrote it in 1956 it was set in Suffolk and despite being a delightful story for children it did include some of the deprivations England faces in wartime. Somehow the Americans have contrived to set it in New York with American characters. I suppose they don't want their children to be faced with war and the kinds of things we face. The American films are so full of colour these days. As if they live in a happy peaceful world. I know it was just a silly animated film but it made me feel that life in America must be so full of light and joy.

Despite my reservations about it, it was delightful fun and Dulcie loved it. She has been pestering mother ever since to have a dog for a pet. Of course mother says this is an extravagance too far in times of war and that if we did get a puppy we would simply fatten it up ready for the table. Besides puppies are very expensive.

I used to try to go to the cinema at least every other week with some of the girls from the factory, until the Odeon was bombed out a few months ago with no sign of it being rebuilt as yet. So for this mother took us on the tube up to the west end. Such a treat.

The air raids are much rarer in these last few months; the rumour is that the Germans don't have the fuel to mount any sustained bombing, but then again these rumours are always going around. We all know that there are months and months with no bombing and then suddenly there they are again, the sirens and the heavy drone of their engines in the night sky. So one can never be too careful or let your guard slip and forget to acquaint yourself with the location of the nearest shelter or underground station. It is second nature for all of us, like you describing ducking for 'cover' in your letter.

A couple of years ago, it must have been 1958 or '59 I think, we seemed to go the whole year without any bombings or rocket attacks. I don't suppose you remember, what with being at the front. At times one could almost imagine what life might be like without the war. Foolish I know.

Mother says this always happens; it has been happening her whole life. It is like the great war machines of both nations go into hibernation for a while. Sleeping giants resting and consolidating before the next big push. Then they wake again, after many months of inactivity; they stretch their enormous limbs, yawn and return to the heavy task of combat once more. It is only natural I suppose. There needs to be time to breathe; to grow food, make weapons, rebuild and construct new bomb resistant buildings. Although all construction is temporary. Even those buildings the war ministry says are 'bomb-proof' seem to need rebuilding.

Every year the streets change, new patches of wasteland appear once the rubble is removed and, for a few months at least, little boys have a new bit of ground they can use as a battlefield. Grubby snot-faced boys acting out their futures on their own piece of no-man's land in suburbia; toy pistols and sticks as rifles. When I see boys like that on my walk to work I imagine what it was like for you and Billy Treacher not so long ago. I am sure, from what you say in your letters, that you must often think of the freedom of those past times.

After a few months the wasteland gives way to new off-white pre-fab houses that appear quickly as if by magic. Their appearance is soon followed by mothers and children moving in, fresh from the ever present tent filled evacuation centres dotted around all green spaces and suburbs on the edge of the city. But I guess you are all too familiar with all of this Jimmy, having grown up just down the street. Were you ever bombed out? We have been so lucky to have managed to stay in the same house for so long. Mother says it is because we have a guardian angel watching over us. Do you believe in angels Jimmy? Aunt Mathilda certainly behaves like some kind of angel.

At the end of the day it is a truth, I suppose, that our lives are built on shifting sands. Nothing lasts forever. Nothing. Not the houses or the factories or, indeed, the people. This is why I have decided to continue to write to you Jimmy. It gives me comfort to think that I may be of use. That I may, even in the smallest ways, be of comfort to you. Like you said in your letter, we all wish to belong and I am no different. Our correspondence will not last forever, for whatever reason, but while it does I can at least feel I am doing my bit. For you. Does that sound awfully silly to you Jimmy? I hope not.

So, I will make a promise to you Jimmy Fitzpatrick. That I will reply to your letters for as long as you write, despite how shocking or sad your letters may be. This I promise.

So, Jimmy, I wish you the best of New Years and hope that your unit gets leave soon to come home to blighty. I am hoping that this letter finds you in safety and good health and I very much look forward to your next letter.

Best wishes

Esme

X

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

12th January 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

To receive your parcel was a wonderful Christmas present. You wouldn't believe how much I love that you have sent me 'Oliver Twist'! Would you believe that it is one of Dickens that I have never actually read? How marvellous that you would choose that one. What a coincidence! Thank you so much; so very kind. It is far from silly that you would wish to 'do your bit' and so very flattering that you would do it for me. Do your bit by sending me parcels I mean.

Perhaps you, my dearest Esme, are my guardian angel? I am not one for believing in God and such things necessarily. I am not sure that you could call me an atheist exactly; I sometimes feel that there is perhaps something beyond this life. I have seen it in the faces of the dead here, a certain peace that lies beyond this war. A dead face can be angelic. I don't mean to be macabre, but I have seen a fair few of the dead and there is something other worldly about the absence of pain in their countenance. I would not describe it as comforting but it has the impression of a release. They are released. So in all honesty, like many I suppose, I do not know what to think about such things. But if there are such things as 'guardian angels' I like to think that they are people; people like you, and your family. People like your Aunt Mathilda and my mother. My dear mother.

She used to send me things, things in heartfelt parcels, just like you. But now the truth is I haven't heard from her at all in these last six months or so. Or perhaps longer, I forget; not since she was sent to the north. You asked if we were bombed out. We weren't bombed out but we lost the house in Whitefriars Drive anyway. It was 'commandeered' by the war office; for the war effort they said. They did that once mother was sent away. I have no idea why and I have no idea who lived there. I felt cheated. That house belonged to my family, but I had no choice or say in it. This is why I stay with Aunt Gracie near Brighton when I am back in England. The last I heard, and I am not sure if this is true, was that the house next door to our old house was bombed, number 120 I think. Perhaps you know if this is true?

Information is scarce here at the front, so my picture of what is going on and what has happened to my mother always feels like I am guessing in the dark; grasping at straws with a blindfold on in the deepest of fog. I keep writing to the ministry asking them to let me know the whereabouts of the hospital she was sent to but to no avail. It no longer comes as a surprise that they do not reply. All I know is that she boarded a train for Newcastle. It could be that if I get a leave I may have to see if I can travel up there to see if I can find her. That is if I get a leave, which, as usual, doesn't seem very likely at this point. That could mean that I may not be able to visit you, especially if the leave is only for a week. Although I would be sorely disappointed to miss seeing you if I were in England. It would be my first desire upon setting foot on English soil; for my eyes to rest again at last upon your pretty face. I suppose we will have to cross that bridge when we come to it.

Anyway, as you have probably gathered, to receive a parcel from you was most joyous. I have pinned the delightful picture of you and Dulcie on my small patch of the wooden wall next to my hammock. We don't have beds or bunks down here; there isn't the space, or the wood to spare for it. They can cram twenty or so sappers hanging from the ceiling in a wood and mud room no bigger than an ordinary garden shed. Perhaps it is slightly taller. Jones calls it our 'stink pit' on account of the latrines which are simply holes in the bare earth in the wide corridor outside. I have lost count now of the weeks we have spent underground. Increasingly our appearance gets worse; we look like grimy thin moles of men, pallid dirty skin and dull lank hair. At least that's what the others look like so I suppose I must look the same. I feel very thin. Jones says that the M.O. thinks the men underground suffer from a lack of vitamin D. Apparently it softens the bones. When we march through the tunnels I find myself looking at the legs of the man in front and wondering if they have rickets in their bandy legs. I wonder if I have it.

I haven't had a haircut or a shave for at least four weeks. The regiment barber doesn't make down this far that often. And we are so dirty, always dirty. If we were a surface unit we would all be on a charge for being so slovenly. I am sorry that I have no picture for you but I am sure that you would think my current appearance frightful.

I have placed your picture next to the only one I have of my mother, the only other picture I have. I try to keep them dry and clean as best I can, but mouldy water drips down the planks while we sleep. I must say that you and Dulcie are such a fine sight in your summer clothes. I disagree with your summation; I don't think I have ever seen anyone as beautiful as you, your hair and eyes positively shine. Please understand, I do not mean to be flattering Esme. I simply, humbly, wish to describe the effect you have had on me. And you do have such an effect Esme. I hope my faltering description of my feelings does not embarrass you; but it is true to say that I am sure that if I had ever encountered a beauty so startling that it moves me in the way that your beauty does I would surely have remembered it. The memory of it would stick inside me like a constant shining beacon in my thoughts. This is how you stick in me. Deep inside me. I know it sounds awfully gushing and sentimental to talk in such a way but it really does gratify me greatly to look at your picture every night and every morning.

Not that there is much difference between the day and night down here amongst all the grey and khaki and mud. You are the thing that brings colour to my day. It is almost as if before I had your picture there was nothing to look at down here, so I sort of stopped looking. Stopped seeing what was around me.

Some of the boys have collected all sorts of pictures to look at, French girls they have met in the make-shift dance-halls and Yank movie starlets and such like. Jones had a picture of the Kaiser that we used to throw darts at, but that didn't last long. His faced destroyed in an avalanche of pin-holes.

Private Hendricks is in the hammock above mine; he has to climb the slats in the wall to reach it. He, like you, has a map of the Front. He has pinned his map onto the couple of feet of planking wall above me, next to his hammock. If I lean from my hammock now I can see it. He has drawn a small pencil star at every point on the Wall, and every town and village in France and Belgium that he has visited. There are a lot of stars. He is one of the few who isn't an officer who has been here a long time. He is 48; an incongruous old man amongst us callow boys. Although some might say we all look old down here. He says that perhaps if he can survive another ten or fifteen stars on his map he will make it to fifty-five and then he hopes he will get a discharge; a retirement. Time off for good behaviour.

Apparently it said on the sign-up papers that fifty-five is the retirement age. Or so Hendricks says anyway. I, like most young boys, didn't read those papers. I simply signed on the dotted line; signed up for the big adventure.

Privately, I am ashamed to say, that I don't hold out much hope for Hendricks getting a retirement. I once met a soldier who was sixty-two. I couldn't believe it when some of the others pointed him out. Sixty-two and still shovelling gravel on the top of the wall. I tried to talk to him, ask him what it was like being here so long, but he just grunted and carried on shovelling. I can't imagine it. All those years; they said he was in the army before the war even started. He looked so very old, I don't think I have ever seen a man with such rivulets of wrinkles covering every inch of his tired skin. I remember my Granny when I was small and she always seemed impossibly old in her rickety bath chair, but even she had a sprightly smile, not at all like this ravaged old soldier.

Hendricks, like me and all the rest of us, came to the war when he was sixteen. He has been here thirty-two years. So many years, a whole life lived on and around the Wall; seems like an eternity to me. So obviously I didn't tell Hendricks about the old man on the wall; who would want to burst a man's bubble of hope?

In the mess I asked Hendricks if he had ever thought to try for a Corporal's stripe; maybe try and work his way up the ranks. He just said that it 'wasn't for the likes of us' and continued spooning his soup. He is an intelligent, thoughtful man and I wonder what he would have been in a different life. Maybe one in Victorian times; that golden pre-war age. Maybe he would have driven a steam engine or worked in an office. Yes, I can see him there in my mind's eye, in an accountant's office, totting up the figures in some great leather-bound ledger. A humble, but awfully nice Dickensian character.

In my most foolish romantic mind's eye I can see myself too in that bygone age. Me as the writer; sat by a fire in some quaint lodgings, thick black waistcoat and heavy sleeved, high necked white shirt, my quill pen in hand. Scratchy ink blotting the paper with my latest imaginings. Sometimes I have to stop myself dreaming such dreams. It is foolish and makes my heart ache for things that can never be. Perhaps that is why I sometimes shut down and no longer see the reality that surrounds me. Do you think me terribly foolish and self-indulgent to dream such things Esme?

I did try for the Corporal's stripe myself. It was when I had been here less than a year, and many of my school chums had bought it already. I naively thought that the higher up the ranks you go the further back from the wall you might get to live, and I saw it as a way out. The unit Captain, Albright is his name, lives down here with us and you need to rise to Major or Colonel before you get to live a few miles back from the wall. Being a Corporal wouldn't have been much different from being Private; apart from a few more shillings to send back to your family. They say the Generals live in faraway chateaus dining on goose and fine wines. I took the examination for Corporal but all I got was a rejection slip. I thought I had done quite well but they never told me my score. I suppose Hendricks was right.

I am wearing the jumper you knitted me as I lie here now. It certainly keeps me warm during the day, squashed underneath between my tunic and my rough shirt. That was so kind, thank you. They are lax about our uniform and appearance underground so it is fine for me to wear it. When the regiment moves back up to the light of the real world the officers top-side won't be so lenient and I will have to keep the jumper for special occasions and rare time off.

I ate the chocolate you sent me as a special treat on New Year's Day. Sort of a way of marking the day, to have a treat. One day runs into another down here. They gave us the day off from digging on Christmas day; there was some talk of going up top, but instead we ate fat-laden corned beef and mashed potatoes in the underground mess. The cooks had even laced the beef with brandy for Christmas. They said it would be like having Christmas pudding but I thought it tasted distinctly odd. Some of the men, including the old hand Hendricks, have taken to collecting weevils and crushing them up into their food. I watch as their wiggly bodies burst clear liquid into the mashed potato under the tines of his stained kit-fork. Some say it tastes better than real butter, but I can't help but think they are kidding themselves. Hendricks says he has been eating them for years. Says they are full of protein and vitamins. I still can't bring myself to eat them; the thought turns my stomach.

As a treat for Christmas everyone had a mug of watery beer; courtesy of the Divisional Commander apparently. I have never seen him; I don't even know his name or rank. In the past we have been given rum, but no such luck this year. The beer was cloudy, flat and weak but a welcome break from the endless mugs of tasteless dust-filled tea we get.

There wasn't much to do on Christmas morning, so most of the boys just took the opportunity to lie in their hammocks and sleep or read letters. Of course I read and re-read your letters. In the afternoon the Sergeant-Major decided that us lying about was too much of a good thing, so put us on clean-up duty, so we didn't really get the whole day off. Clean-up duty is mostly a pointless exercise. It involves cleaning boots and uniforms and polishing buttons with spit. Cleaning uniforms that have months and months of well and truly ground-in dirt on them. Cleaning them with a worn out brush when you know that every square inch will be covered in wet clinging clay and mud again the very next day.

It also involves trying to clean the 'stink pit' of our room. I was given the raggedy useless broom and told to sweep the floor. This is an impossible task as the floor is simply bare earth, so one can't possible sweep it effectively. All that happens is you sweep and spread the dirt back and forth for a while. Still at least I wasn't digging and I didn't get put on latrines like Jones. You should have heard him swearing Esme; he has a mouth full of expletives that you wouldn't believe. It made us all laugh so. So all in all our Christmas day wasn't so bad I suppose.

New Year's Eve passed for us just like any other day. 1962 came as easily as the ticking of a clock; with more of the simple routine of digging and digging and more digging.

Every morning the bugle in the access tunnel wakes us with its tinny harsh tone bouncing around the concrete and earth walls of the tunnels. I swear that Private Combes who blows it is tone deaf. Credit to him though, God knows how he manages to wake up every morning in order to blow the bloody thing and wake us. It always startles me so and I awake with a jerking head and a foul-tasting dry mouth.

Five minutes to dress. Five minutes to wash our faces and visit the latrine and then the porridge line. There are no showers down here. The stale water we use comes in old wooden barrels from top-side. I always try to clean my teeth with my old worn-out toothbrush as we march in straggly single file down the steep tunnels and staircases, to finally climb down the ladders to where we dig. Then it's about five hours of solid, grinding digging until luncheon. We each carry our own shovel strapped against our back-pack; Enfield's slung over the top clunking occasionally on the back of our tin hats. We carry our Enfield rifles down here in case of a tunnel CENSORED and then there may be CENSORED and CENSORED. I have yet to see this happen thankfully but I suppose the Germans must carry weapons in their tunnels.

The shovel I have inherited is worn away on one side of its blade where my right handed swing has pushed it over and over into God's earth. The soldiers who dug with it before me must have been right handed too. Odd to think of those poor souls toiling in exactly the same fashion as me. Its wooden handle shines like an oiled parquet floor where my hands grip it.

It also seems odd that I almost enjoy the mindless rhythm of the digging; I go blank sometimes and lose the ache in my shoulders and the small of my back. The meditative rhythm of toil. I wonder if those soldiers who used the shovel before me felt like that too. It connects us, all of us through the years shovelling dirt into carts and wooden wheelbarrows. Dirt to be transported on makeshift wooden rails to other parts of the wall where it is used to fill sandbags or to mix with lime for cement and mortar.

Sand is becoming harder and harder to come by. I have seen the massive quarries on the beaches between Calais and Boulogne. They are becoming exhausted, or at least that is the rumour.

Every so often the engineer comes and checks that CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED. I don't even know the CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED; the supports and ever wider gaps in the tunnel. Little breaks now and then for silence as the Corporal does some listening. His ear pressed hard against the dirt wall. Always his left one, so always that side of his face is muddy with ground-in filth and the other side relatively clean. Sapper Jones took to calling him 'Corporal Two-Face' on account of this. Well that and the fact that he pretends to be on the side of us Privates but then goes squealing to the Sergeant-Major anytime something is amiss. Now everyone calls him 'Two-Face' behind his back. Some days Two-Face listens for CENSORED and other days it's CENSORED CENSORED. This can be most disconcerting and CENSORED CENSORED; I, of course, try not to think about it.

For lunch we are given hunks of stale bread in wax paper which we dip in our tin mugs of steaming tea. If we are lucky there is a lump of hard cheese stuck against the paper or a pickle to liven things up. Fifteen minute break, sometimes half an hour. You can't sit around too long; it is too cold and wet this time of year. It's best to stay standing for as long as you can in a vague attempt to try and keep yourself warm and your uniform dry. The men rock to and fro as they stamp their feet and chew heavily on their bread. Greasy puddles form on the uneven dirt floor of the tunnel, and here, like everywhere down below, there are always the incessant dripping from the ceiling.

After lunch it's simply back to the digging again, with the occasional break for listening. Sometimes we fall back down the tunnels when there is going to be a blast of CENSORED. When the shouts come the men huddle down; screw their faces and jam their cold hands over their ears, fearful of the impending explosion. It comes with an inevitable enormous crack and rumble which shakes your very soul; a sound so forceful that you can feel it shake your rib cage and your very innards. I feel sure that most of us are deafer than we used to be. Then the shock wave of air and smoke and dust; forced like a speeding rat in a maze down through the tunnels because it has nowhere else to go. We try not to breath so deeply until it subsides and then Two-Face shouts for us to get back to the digging.

Mostly though there isn't much sound apart from the clunk of spades and snap of picks, and of course the grunts and groans of the men working. Such sound becomes so familiar that one no longer hears it specifically. Sometimes someone will shout out a joke or insult when Two Face or the Sergeant Major are out of earshot. Or they might recall a quick obscenity about one of the French girls of ill-repute they met the last time top-side. Apart from that there isn't much talking; simply quiet resignation.

Occasionally when the shelling is bad the tunnels shake and dust and dirt fall. A rumbling akin to what I imagine an earthquake might sound like. Again it shakes you through to your ribcage. To your core. You know to hunker down in those moments; trying to bend forward and make an arch with your body in the hope the hope that if there is a cave-in you might trap an airspace between your body and the ground. Falling mud and drips seep coldly down your neck below your leaning helmet. Then the shaking passes and we simply continue digging. Nobody says anything.

Before Christmas our digging broke through into another tunnel and there was a bit of a panic. There have been tunnels here from the very first years of the war. It is no secret. Mostly though those old tunnels are well above us and are long caved in. It is rare to find an old tunnel this far down, in the rock and dirt. Often we encounter rock or shingle layers that are too difficult to dig with bare shovels so we have to use explosives. It was after one such blast that one of the boys was shovelling the broken rock when the tunnel side collapsed and revealed a tunnel beyond.

We doused the lights and grabbed our rifles. The Sergeant-Major can seem as if he has no sense of humour or compassion, but I will give him this - what he lacks in humanity he makes up for in bravery. He took his oil-lamp and his drawn pistol and without a word he clambered as quietly as he could into the gap. We stood waiting, anticipating a fire-fight with some tunnelling Germans, but nothing happened. The Sergeant-Major called that it was safe and a few of us climbed in after him.

Beyond the hole was just a measly short section of Jerry tunnel. Barely enough room for three men to stoop. Both ends had been caved in, not enough roof supports by the looks of it. There was a solitary dead Hun soldier sat there with his back to the tunnel wall, helmeted head bent forward as if he were sleeping. Poor man must have been there a very long time.

The Sergeant-Major just said 'leave him' and so we did. No one even picked over his skeleton for souvenirs or his boots or ammo. Once back in our own tunnel the Sergeant-Major took a pick axe, said 'God rest his soul', and hacked at our side of the German tunnel wall. Crashing the pick axe in a frenzy. We simply stood there and watched him. After a while he had smashed through a couple of the wooden roof supports and he jumped back as the tunnel beyond slowly collapsed, finally burying that poor German soldier.

Afterwards nobody spoke of it. We just continued working to shore up the tunnel on our side. I suppose even the hardened Sergeant-Major has feelings underneath, and was simply thinking what we were all thinking. A small twist of fate, a roof support or two out of place, and that could have been anyone us buried like that. Forever trapped to die alone in a dark tunnel a few CENSORED feet below ground. No hope of rescue and just waiting to die. A fear we must all hold.

We never talk of it because I think we are so resigned to it, to being here underground I mean. And we are resigned to it because we know that being a sapper unit underground is safer than being a gunner on the wall or on some patrol in the open air, or even, God forbid, concrete duty.

It's a matter of odds really. I am not a gambler or a mathematician, I don't like to think about the odds like some of the other men. There are always morbid whispered sweepstakes and supposition about who might catch the big one next. Please understand that I avoid such macabre talk, but you hear their hushed words at the breakfast table and see the money or cigarettes change hands.

When someone does die, and they haven't made a deal with someone else, there can be the most awful fights over their possessions. Which makes it seem all the more odd that we just left that German with all his possessions in the tunnel. I have seen many a bloodied nose over the matter of a pair of boots or a leather belt that isn't cracked and useless. Awful that men fight over it. The animal comes out of all of us in the end. The N.C.O.s don't seem to mind or intervene when this happens. They just collect the dog-tags and last letters the man might have written and then leave those selfish dogs to scrap it out over the possessions of the dead, before the runners come and ferry their poor body back to the light. I should not judge them. I too have possessions pilfered from the dead.

Every man has a last letter somewhere about their person. Including me, and just so you know, my dearest Esme, I have made an agreement with Jones and Hendricks that if something should befall me then they can have my few meagre possessions. And that they should post my last letter. To make this clear, those who have made such agreements keep it written down on a scrap of paper inside their tunic. Next to their last letter. I have done this too. I apologise if this seems morbid, but one must think about the practicalities of it.

Anyway, back to my description of my day rather than such morbid thoughts; after about eight or nine hours of the digging we drag our weary bodies back up the tunnels and ladders to the mess. There we ladle watery soup between our cold cracked lips; more stale bread before retiring to the 'stink pit' once again. Then, if we are lucky, we might have an hour before the oil lamps are extinguished. This is when I lie in my swaying hammock, pull up the blanket, and read your letters and look at your picture. Some evenings I might sit on an ammo crate and join in a game of cards on the dirt floor or just listen to others read their letters out loud for everyone. In this hour the men seem at their most solemn. A seriousness born of camaraderie descends and any ribbing or joshing dies away. The bitter animal parts of those who are angry in their soul is dampened for the night. We play cards or talk in hushed tones as if we are a family with children asleep in the next room. It remains unspoken but I like to think that we know, in these moments that we are simply human beings together, and we, each in our own way, cherish the company of others. A simple feeling of not being alone. Then, all too soon, it is reveille, Two-Face shouts 'lights out' down the corridors and Combes strangles his bugle once more as we extinguish the lamps. Then we lay silently in the dripping dark waiting for fitful sleep.

Some of the boys suffer from regular nightmares and their cries and sobs wake us sporadically. I count myself lucky that somehow my sleep is devoid of such terrors, apart from when their cries enter my dreams in strange ways. That moment before you wake, when reality mixes with the dream world like cream swirling in a coffee cup. Their cries bring tomcats to my dream; tomcats fighting in the alleys behind Whitefriars drive. I wonder if they still do that dear Esme? I don't suppose there are many cats around nowadays.

Mostly, in those rare times when I can remember my dreams, I dream of you. Us on the pier at Brighton. Strangely, in the dream I am no longer in uniform and we hold hands as if it is the most natural thing in the world. The sea sparkles and the pier is newly painted white; the sky bluer than possible and everyone who passes has a jolly face as if they have no cares in the world. You must think me such a romantic fool, but I simply tell you my dream as I remember it. I know we converse together in the dream but I have no idea what we say.

Other dreams are much more unsettling. I won't describe them to you but thankfully they seem rare, or, at the very least, I struggle to recall them. Perhaps my subconscious blocks them out, as if trying to protect me.

So I have described my days to you dear Esme. At the moment they are all much the same. Round and round they go, and I survive and persist. Be assured that I am safe, well as fairly safe as I could be; suspended in my pallid underground routine.

I know this will not be for too much longer; they never seem to keep a regiment in the same place for more than six months or so and we have been down here longer than that. It is definitely more than eight weeks or so since we last saw the light of day. I have no idea what the weather must be like at the summit of the Wall but I imagine it must be pretty horrendous given that it's so cold CENSORED feet below.

You wouldn't think that cold could seep so far into the ground. I imagine the permafrost of those unexplored arctic places at the South Pole. Miles of compacted ice and snow lying on top of buried mountains; a whole lost continent forever frozen and undiscovered so they say. This is how it feels down here sometimes, as if we are part of some long lost civilisation cut off from the world. I wonder if the Generals and officers in their fluffy eiderdown beds fifty miles away have forgotten about us. When it is quiet, when there are no shells and rockets above, I imagine the war has finished and yet we continue to dig; the forgotten soldiers left to desiccate slowly underground while the rest of humanity goes about the business of rebuilding hopes and lives and dreams.

The mind is a funny thing, sometimes I am startled to find that it is empty. I am a cog in this vast machine of war; unthinking, fulfilling my tiny function in the routine of this industry of death.

Other times my mind cannot help but fill itself with dreams and flights of fancy, as if my imagination must help me try to escape from this place. But now, my dear Esme, since we met, my thoughts and imagination have a new direction and that direction is you.

I so love the book you sent me, I keep it in my back-pack. It is with me always at the moment as I take each opportunity, even if it's only a minute or two, to devour its delicious printed words. I am only, so far, a couple of chapters in. Another beautiful thing to occupy my mind. Perhaps once I have finished it, I will read it out loud to the others.

Oh to have been someone such as Dickens in that bygone age. Yes there was poverty and destitution and I know the Victorian age was not as rosy as we tend to make out, but some back then, like Dickens, must have had fulfilling beautiful lives. If such a thing as Well's Time Machine could exist I would surely go back to that age. Do you like H.G. Wells Esme? Perhaps I would take you with me; you could be an upstanding Victorian Lady at my side, dressed in fine dresses and crinolines and I would be the famous writer giving readings in the Albert Hall. There I go again, my imagination running wild. Do you think me fanciful Esme? Are my ideas strange and silly to you?

It is nearly time to douse the oil lamps for another night. I will despatch this letter to you in the morning when the runner comes. As ever I hope it finds you safe and well and happy in the knowledge that you are the constant light and colour in my thoughts. Thank you for your promise to continue to write. I too make such a promise; that I will continue to write to you for as long as I am able. Is it to forward of me to feel that we are forging a bond between us Esme?

Yours Sincerely

Jimmy Fitzpatrick

X

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Tuesday 30th January 1962

Dear Jimmy,

Thank you for your last letter. I am so glad you liked my parcel and it is wonderful that you can enjoy 'Oliver Twist' for the first time. I am surprised that you have not read it! This time I have enclosed a couple of recent copies of the Daily Mail, so that you can see what the news is saying back home, as well as a new toothbrush, as you said your old one was so worn out. I do hope you like them, and I apologise that I don't have more to send you.

You ask if we are making a bond between us; a connection. Well I would say yes, I too feel that I am beginning to know you more with each letter I read of yours. It is a truly nice feeling that trust is building and that you can share your thoughts in such depth with me.

Dulcie is still teasing me about 'love'; she calls you my 'Soldier sweetheart'. I try to ignore her as best I can but she can be such a tease; I think because she knows that she can make me blush so just at the mention of your name. Sometimes I do so hate my pale complexion, being a redhead makes it all too easy to reveal one's feelings easily; just via the giveaway redness of my cheeks, which I have no control of. Is it too early for me to reveal to you that I do have feelings for you Jimmy? Feelings and thoughts that mean I can even make myself blush when I think of them? Please understand that I am not normally such a forward girl, but, it seems to me that the nature of the written word invites us to reveal ourselves. Writing can give an authenticity to one's nature. Yes words can easily deceive and be misunderstood but I feel that our communications we are going beyond that. I feel that you are above such deception with me and are showing who you really are. Much more so than perhaps you would in a face to face conversation; at this stage in our relationship anyway. Writing a letter breaks down the barriers of reticence and shyness, and perhaps even social convention. I knew, from the moment I met you, that you are a shy soul Jimmy. A shy soul with such depths, as shy people often are. The medium of writing allows you to reveal your depths. You would not speak as finely as you write I am sure, at least not until we knew each much more closely in person. I do hope you understand and do not take that wrongly Jimmy. It is as if a letter is a conversation that you have with yourself about things that you then reveal to another. Do you follow what I mean Jimmy? I do hope so.

I sincerely do not think it foolish or self-indulgent of you to dream of being a writer and I dearly loved your description of the two of us in Victorian times. I too love to dream, as does Dulcie I know, and we revel in stories and fictions. However one must be careful to not let the dreams run away with us. This is what I tell Dulcie anyway. One must be prepared for all of the harsh realities of life don't you think?

Guess what? It's now the end of January and Aunt Mathilda, dear Aunt Mathilda, is still here! Time flies so! I cannot believe it is a month since New Year's. Of course we spent it at home, playing games and listening to the wireless. Dulcie so loved staying up until midnight and at that point we went out onto the street. We heard voices and shouts of 'Happy New Year!' so went to look. Lots of people had gathered from the houses round about and we stood in a circle in the middle of the road, joined hands and sang 'Auld Lang Syne'. I don't remember that ever happening before; so many people breaking the curfew just to be together. It was delightful. Women and children all hugging each other and passing good wishes. Soon the warden came shuffling along, telling us to go back inside. She was quite good natured about it and even shared a brandy with a few of the women. Aunt Mathilda said it showed the true spirit of the Englishwoman.

I am so glad that she is still with us. The railway line to Dover got bombed again just after New Year and so she couldn't travel back. They say it will be fixed within a week or two, but one can never trust such estimates. Mathilda has decided to stay a few weeks more at the very least. She says she likes it in London and is taking the time to visit friends and family while she stays here. I think she is lucky to be a woman of independent means. Her father left her a considerable sum when he was taken, and, I would imagine, she has invested it wisely in war bonds and suchlike. She also owns a B & B near Folkestone which is always busy and filled with military types who are perpetually coming and going to and fro from the front. It is so successful that she can employ a couple of trustworthy local women to run it for her while she is away.

Like you have done I think I will tell you about my day; I think you write in such an inspired way, that I do feel that I cannot possibly live up to your letters. However I will try my best to describe it for you, so that you can understand what life is presently like for us women at home.

At the moment Aunt Mathilda somehow wakes first and makes breakfast for us. I don't know how she has the energy to wake so early; her days always seem so busy and productive, despite her not having any work to speak of at the moment. Her energy amazes me and she always seems to conjure something delightful and unexpected to cheer us up. For example this morning I tip-toed down the stairs to discover the aroma of fresh coffee. Real fresh coffee, not that chicory stuff that most shops pretend is coffee. Mathilda says she managed to scrounge a tin of it from an American woman she knows at the embassy. She is always going up to the City to meet with friends of hers; some women in high circles it seems. Toast, home-made jam and real coffee for breakfast. Heaven.

In these winter months I wake in the dark and return home from the factory in the dark and like you I don't see much daylight, apart from through the high wire-reinforced windows of the factory. That is when they deign to open the black-out blinds for a few hours during the day. Sometimes Sally and I stand outside in the yard for our cigarette break, if it isn't too cold and we actually have managed to get some cigarettes. I wonder if you soldiers get cigarettes? Would you like me to send you some next time? Mathilda got a few American packs recently; 'Lucky Strikes'. You know, the ones with the soft cartons. I feel rather decadent when I smoke one, as if I am a film star. Mother complains that I am too young to smoke, but all the girls in the factory smoke and when I asked her how old she was when she started she reluctantly admitted that she was fifteen, so she can't really complain at me.

Mathilda has an old fashioned cigarette holder. She sits by the fire in a wobbly cloud of blue smoke, the holder between her outstretched fingers as if she were at a ball or something. I imagine her in long black gloves, with a taffeta ball-gown, tiara and pearls. Mother tells her to put it out as the smoke drifts through to the kitchen where she hangs the clothes to dry by the wood burner. Says the smoke makes the clothes smell, but they always smell of wood smoke to me anyway.

Wood is one of the commodities that seems to be very scarce at the moment, there certainly isn't coal to spare for the likes of us. I know we grow vast forests of pine in Scotland but most of that goes for construction, both at home and at the Front. I dare say some of the wood you see in your tunnels may well come from there, or maybe somewhere in the depths of France. But here we have a to scratch and save and be resourceful to find things to burn. I often scour the bomb sites on my walk back from the factory, looking for old bits of skirting board or beams that may have been missed. This is a hard task in the winter dark, scrambling over the rubble, and I daren't use a torch for fear of the wrath of the wardens. So I only venture there when there are other braver women who may be shining an oil lamp or torch over the wreckage. If I am lucky they kindly scan the ground with their light for me, or point out bits of wood they cannot carry. I helped a woman fill an old pram with the remains of some kitchen cupboards the other night and she let me have some of the wood she had found. Cowardly of me to not take a torch of my own I know, but if the warden comes at least I won't get the blame. You can get fined or worse for breaking the blackout or curfew, and we couldn't possibly afford that.

We also collect any old newspapers or magazines we can find and Dulcie knocks on doors collecting them with her trolley; it has become quite the little business. We used to get a paper every day, but then mother decided we couldn't afford it. Luckily now Mrs Cumberland next door gives us her copies for us to read and recycle. I cut out anything I want to keep for my scrapbook from the Daily Mail and the rest goes to be recycled.

We put all the papers and magazines to soak in buckets of water outside the back door or in the coal shed. That is unless it is really freezing, then we have to bring them in by the stove or put them under the stairs. Mother hates us dripping on the carpet so, even if it is looking a bit threadbare.

Once they have soaked for a day or two Dulcie and I have fun crushing the wet paper into odd shaped bricks which we then leave to dry on top of the kitchen cupboards. We make lots and lots of paper bricks, and then sell those we don't use; twenty for a shilling. The smaller and tighter you can crush the paper the longer they burn for. Dulcie sometimes makes them into funny shapes; sometimes she makes them like little men, saying that they are the Kaiser and that burning him is too good a fate!

This morning as I walked to work in the dark you would not have believed the weather. It was a veritable blizzard; snow in heavy flat flakes sweeping sideways across the roads. I had to walk at an angle and could barely see where I was going, as the flakes continually plastered my face and caught in my eyelashes.

I could see the weather was bad out of the window while I was eating breakfast, so I left the house early because I knew it would take me longer than normal. It's bad form to clock in late at the factory because they dock your pay. Jenkins is always there keeping his beady eye on who is on time or not. He notes down the names of the girls who are late on his clipboard and mutters things about how they are letting everyone down with their "unpatriotic tardy ideas" and "don't you know your duty to King and country?" Sally says he obviously doesn't know his duty otherwise he would have been at the front. She thinks he is a shirker.

Then it's work for the next few hours. It is regulations that we all have to tie our hair up so that it does not get caught in the machines; I tie mine with a colourful paisley headscarf. We look like row upon row of char-ladies; colourful heads bobbing as we work. I mostly I work at the end of the production line where the CENSORED and the CENSORED are put onto pallets. I have a chamois leather with which I polish the CENSORED; they have to be perfectly clean and shiny so that they don't CENSORED when they are CENSORED from a CENSORED. Janine Evans is the quality control checker and you be careful that every one that you polish is gleaming otherwise Janine will report you. Especially if she finds that your quota of finished CENSORED is not filled because you have been shoddy. If you get reported it is another thing they will dock your pay for, so it is wise to always be on the best side of picky Janine Evans.

At ten past eleven we get a tea and cigarette break. The breaks are spread out amongst the girls so that they don't have to switch off the machines. Production never stops here. Twenty four hours a day they whirr and clank and the stamping machines snap their jaws down with a thumping clang. The metal pressed into all kinds of shapes as if it were plasticine. The noise can be terrific and most of us stuff cotton wool in our ears. I wonder if it has made me slightly deaf. Another similarity between us Jimmy; perhaps we are both slightly deafened by the incessant noise of this war. The only break from this cacophony is when there is a power cut.

Last summer a stray bomb took out the underground power cables and the factory was shut for four days. You would think that the girls would be happy for a few days off but if the factory stops then we don't get paid. So there were a lot of complaints.

A fairly sizeable gaggle of woman had a meeting at the factory gates. Sort of like a protest. They had banners and placards and they all tied their coloured headscarfs around their upper arms, like armbands. When I told Aunt Mathilda about it she said the armband is a sign of the women's movement. 'Feminists' she calls them; 'Radicals' arguing for women to have the vote and more say in government and the war. Mother says that this is 'dangerous talk' and such women should keep their unpatriotic opinions to themselves, and that girls like Dulcie and I should pay no heed to them.

At the demonstration there was lots of talk of women's rights and some shouting and chanting. Shouting about how women should form a 'union'; which as you know is illegal, and about 'fair pay' - how women should be paid the same as men. Sally and I watched from across the road. Some of the passing women shouted at them, calling them 'pacifists' and suchlike; insults and obscenities I couldn't possibly repeat. But somehow I don't really think they are so unpatriotic; after all you wouldn't work in a munitions factory if you were really against the war would you? I think they were just fed up with losing their wages. Those women who shouted at them probably don't realise how hard it is when you aren't getting paid. Maybe those women who are so quick to judge are ones of independent means; those who don't have to work, perhaps because they have inherited money or property from their fathers or grandfathers or dead husbands.

It wasn't long before the wardens and the police turned up and moved them along. There were some scuffles and it got quite violent. The policewomen had their truncheons drawn and CENSORED so there was CENSORED and it was beastly how they CENSORED CENSORED. I think both Sally and I found it rather shocking. One of the women was on the floor, and I could see the blood staining her headscarf, and they CENSORED CENSORED. I think a few women got arrested though Sally and I thought it best to leave pretty quickly so that we weren't seen as being part of it. On the way home we saw an ambulance coming. I don't really know what the upshot of it all was. All I know is that some of those women didn't turn up for work once the factory was up and running again the next week. Perhaps they were sacked; I don't know.

Anyway, to continue with a description of my day. At lunchtimes we eat our sandwiches in the canteen. All they serve there is tea and a few buns. We get half an hour's break and then it's back to work. Again the breaks are staggered so the production line can keep going. This is the time when the women chat and gossip and the talk is invariably about shortages or the progress of the war. The younger girls I sit with like to talk about some boy or other, perhaps a soldier they know or have met, or they swoon over some American film star or singer. I often wonder if some of them make up stories about boys they have met so as not to feel like they are being left out. But the fact is that they cannot all have met a boy. There are simply not enough boys to go around. Be reassured Jimmy, that I do not mention you in such conversations. I am not one to boast and some would be jealous of our correspondence. This is not to say that I am really that unusual to be writing to a soldier at the front; I know lots of other girls who have soldier pen-pals. Lots hook up with pen-pals through the W.R.V.S., but it is rare to have actually met the soldier they write to, like I have met you. I do not mention you simply because I would so hate the gossip and whispering that may ensue.

After lunch we return to our work. Each shift is nine hours long so I don't get that much time to myself. Apart from the odd week off here and there where they are re-tooling the machines for new kinds ordnance. The CENSORED and the CENSORED always seem to get larger and more ominous looking. On those weeks we are lucky enough to be on half pay. I don't know if I told you but it was during one of these weeks when we got to visit Brighton and I met you. So we can thank the Ministry of Production for that fortuitous meeting. The pressing machines also always seem to get bigger and more impressive, not to say louder, when they re-tool the factory, production never stands still; Jenkins says the bigger the better, all the better to defeat the Hun. They are even going to extend the factory in the summer, though there is talk of even longer shifts when they do. Perhaps that may mean that they pay us more. Who knows?

As I have said, at this time of year I walk home in the dark and today there was still snow on the ground when I visited the covered market. Have you been there? It was only built the year before last. You have to enter through the makeshift black-out blinds and then into a twilight world where busy women jostle between the candle-lit stalls. A smell of cigarettes and soup hangs in the air. Most of the stalls are pretty threadbare, but I usually manage to pick up some basic stuff like vegetables or flour. There are second hand clothes stalls and reclaimed furniture and always a big queue at the meat counter. It could be a place where women argue over filling their ration cards with what little is there, though it often amazes me how kind and thoughtful everyone mostly is. There is a certain resigned practicality and camaraderie to it all. This is not to say that I haven't seen arguments; it just strikes me that they are rare and most women just seem to be doing their utmost to make the best of what they have.

When the butcher has briskets and goat and poor cuts of dog there is just about enough to fill everyone's ration card. But more often than not she has to call out that there are only twenty portions of horse or some such left that day, and only the first twenty women will be lucky. She stands in her bloodied butcher's apron wiping her hands with a look of sadness; like she is letting everybody down. I think the women mostly feel sorry for her and, despite the rare protestations of a few moaners, most take it in good spirit that there will be no meat for them today.

Today at the market I was lucky and managed to get some ribs with my ration. Mother put them into the big pot to boil with carrots and potatoes. We grew our own potatoes and quite a bit of veg in the garden last summer. Although these stocks won't last forever; we store them beneath dry sacking under our beds and the bunks in the air-raid shelter.

You remember the gardens Jimmy. You must have had a garden very similar to ours at your house. I walked past your house last week. It is true that number 120 was bombed and, I am afraid to say, that both houses were done for. That end of the street is being cleared for rebuilding, an old steam bulldozer pushing the rubble to one side. Already on the far side of the street from where you lived they have begun to construct some prefabs. Mother says we are lucky that our end of the street is still intact after all these years. We are lucky to have a house near the city, built back in the thirties back when there were enough bricks to go around. I think mother would hate to live in one of those thin-walled prefabs. She says they must be pokey and cold.

We are lucky that the gardens at our end of the street are so big. Our garden is presently a big rectangle of undulating white snow. There used to be trees at the end but they were felled a long time ago; now there are simply four big round rotting stumps. Dulcie used to use them as tables for imaginary fairies to have tea parties when she was a little girl. Now she says they look like huge white toadstools, for the elves to sit on in the snow with Jack Frost. I love her imagination. She went out after school and built a large snowman on the vegetable patch in front of the Anderson shelter, complete with pebble eyes and a carrot nose.

Apparently mother said she was too old for such stuff and nonsense, but Aunt Mathilda went out into the cold and joined in with her games anyway. Or so Dulcie tells me. She begged me to look at the snowman as soon as I got in from the factory, so I stepped straight through the house and out of the back door. This was much to mother's annoyance, as I clumped my snowy boots across the hall rug. I ignored her and once outside I tried to step only on the patches of soft untouched snow at the edges of the rhubarb patch. I love the quiet clean feeling that a fresh covering of snow brings. The world sounds and feels different; not muffled exactly, more like a kind of peace to me. It feels like the whole world has been freshly remade anew. It is a hopeful feeling, especially when you know that the ground below will be refreshed in a couple of months ready for the colour of spring and replanting. It is as if the white of snow cleans the canvas ready for the fresh bright colours of the next season.

I stood there alone for a few minutes under the stars and wondered about where exactly you were at that moment Jimmy. Were you still underground? Or were you, by the merest off-chance, observing the very same stars as I? I stood and watched the twinkling great saucepan that is the constellation of 'The Plough' and thought of you. I wished you could have been standing there with me Jimmy, on our vegetable patch. You would have liked it I am sure. And, from what I could see in the moonlight, you would have thought that Dulcie's snowman was rather splendid too. Thinking of you as I stood there made me smile.

Having a larger garden means that we don't have to go far to grow our own produce. Sally has to travel to Watford to tend the tiny patch of allotment that has been assigned to her family. It's harder for those who live in the low rise flats with no garden, or in the prefabs where they cram two or three houses onto a site that used to have one house and a sizeable garden.

We grow all kinds of things, and like lots of people our spring and summer evenings are often spent with planting and tending the crops. You must have done the same with your mother.

Mother added some of our precious supply of potato and onions to the rib broth. I watched the slender strips of meat satisfyingly fall off the bone as I surreptitiously stirred the boiling pot; Dulcie too hovered in the kitchen, much to mother's annoyance, sniffing at the pot in delight. When she finally brought it to the table we all sat in silence dunking slices of bread into our bowls. The bread came out with a delicious meaty coating. Although I will be honest Jimmy, none of us could identify exactly what kind of meat it was, but it was certainly not pork like you may have expected.

Then, this evening we sat around the fire with the wireless on. I do so love the radio; I wonder if you ever get to hear any of the broadcasts at the Front? If there is a power cut we can connect it to a battery and we sit in candle light listening to the home service. Dulcie loves it most when they play the popular singers and sometimes the odd recording of an American singer. Like mother I prefer a good classical concert. Mathilda likes the music but she seems much more attentive when the news is on or listening to the latest pronouncements from the Ministry of Communications. Of course Dulcie is bored by such things so we play cards or do a jigsaw together.

Right now I have left Dulcie with a puzzle and am sat at the dining table in the back room writing this letter to you; I can hear them talking above the wireless in the front room by the fire. I had to tell Dulcie yet again that on no account was she allowed to read what I write in my letters to you!

Soon it will be time for bed and Dulcie and I will retire to our room; we share a room currently, while Aunt Mathilda is staying. She sleeps in the box room at the front of the house. This was Dulcie's room previously but she doesn't seem to mind sharing with me in the least. We keep each other company and keep each other warm.

Downstairs mother and Mathilda will potter about, after we have gone to bed, and it comforts us to hear them talking in hushed tones through the open bedroom door. Dulcie likes me to read aloud to her, usually one of the novels that we have read together before. I always have to read the same sections over again, partly because she loves them so and partly because she is usually asleep long before I finish reading. We lie together in the big iron bed and I pull up the large tattered eiderdown over her and straighten the several grey blankets piled on top. You know, the scratchy Government issue blankets that everyone has; dark grey with light grey and red stripes at each end. I imagine you in your hammock deep underground cuddled in such a blanket.

Mostly I sleep well and all is quiet in the world, although Dulcie sleeps the soundest of all of us.

When there is the occasional air raid we are all well versed in what to do. After all, like you and everyone else, we all grew up with it. The local hand cranked siren wakes me, and I have to shake Dulcie awake. Then we all wearily trudge down the garden path in the dark. Luckily we haven't had to do that in the snow yet this year. Our way is lit by the comforting shafts of the search lights that strafe the sky. Over the years mother has made sure that our Anderson shelter is very comfortable. She always has the stove ready to light and we even have a second battery wireless. At night they play soothing music in between the safety announcements and we are all soon asleep again in our bunks under our grey blankets, with the quiet calming music singing in our ears. Well that is unless the bombing is close by. There haven't been many raids for some time now, which is good. Perhaps it is a good sign and, like the news says, their fuel supplies are hampered by the blockade and our brave flyers have crippled the Luftwaffe, damaging their bombing capability. We will see.

I don't get to go out so often in the evenings, before the curfew, apart from the occasional trip to the cinema, which like I said is more difficult since the Odeon was bombed. It doesn't look they will be rebuilding it anytime soon. Mathilda, though, has purchased tickets for me to see the Women's Symphony Orchestra when they set up their big top in Victoria Park in February. She is so marvellously kind. I don't know how they will find room in the park to construct the tent to be honest. Last time I was there it was full of allotments, like every other park. But I suppose people aren't exactly growing much in February. I don't know how Mathilda did it, getting the tickets I mean. They are so very hard to come by. The orchestra is doing fewer dates than they originally announced. Anyway, Mathilda seems to have all kinds of connections up in the city. When I asked her how on earth she had managed to get the tickets, she just smiled, winked and said that sometimes knowing the right people pays off. Apparently the orchestra is to play some Ralph Vaughan-Williams and Benjamin Britten. Do you know of them and their works and perhaps like them Jimmy? I cannot wait, it will be marvellous. My first ever real concert, and with a full orchestra! It would be lovely if we could go to a concert together one day. Is it terribly unrealistic of me to imagine such a thing Jimmy?

I suppose I had better finish this letter now. It is getting late and mother is calling; saying that it is time for Dulcie to go to bed. I know I have to get up in the morning but I feel reluctant to finish writing; it's as if I were actually talking to you. I wish the letters didn't take so long to reach each other. A week after I post this I know I will be anxiously waiting for your next letter to arrive. I do hope you are safe and well and thinking of beautiful things in your deep dark place. Remember my promise to you that I shall reply to your every letter.

Best wishes as always,

Esme

X

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

13th February 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

Thank you for your last letter. I liked it very much, especially when you describe thinking of me. It is heartwarming to know that you think of me in such a way. I think of you every day.

I have some good news; well not so much necessarily good news as a merely a change in our circumstances and they say a change is a good as a rest. Though this is not so restful I must admit. The unit, in fact the whole regiment, has been moved. Another unit will now have the job of digging those wretched tunnels. My unit is still to be designated as 'sappers' but I am now, at long last above ground again. Just another part of the infantry. For now at least. It was such a revelation to see the sky and the sun again.

It happened about two weeks ago, strangely about the time you were writing to me, so perhaps I did happen to be looking at the stars, on my first evening out of the tunnels. Perhaps I looked at them and thought of you just when you were in your garden. In truth I cannot say if I actually did that and I am not one who is normally given to believe in such fated things. However at the same time I am much attracted to the romantic notion of a kind of connection between us. A connection that can transcend things; a connection grown through our words that can float off into the clean cold air and cross the waves of the channel and the white snow filled land of England. So I like to think that I was thinking of you and looking at the same stars from this foreign field, at the very same time you were. It is entirely possible that I was, as I think of you so very often. Perhaps I even glanced unconsciously at 'the plough', who knows?

I can easily convince myself that I can feel the closeness of your presence across such distance when I read your words and press my pen to this paper.

It came as a surprise when we were told to pack our things, even though we had all known it had been coming for months. The Sergeant-Major simply bellowed the orders without much ceremony or explanation. Simply told us to pack our kit because we were leaving. Ridiculously he put us on clean-up duty. Said that we had to leave our stink pit in tip-top condition for the next lot. We tried our best but that place has always, and will always, simply be a filthy hole deep beneath the ground in the mud.

Suffice to say no one was sad to know that they would see the back of those depressing wet tunnels. Although I am sure there was, and still is, trepidation about what awaits us next; there always is with redeployment.

The very next morning we slowly climbed the stairs and ladders up through the innards of the Wall. Our packs and webbing full and heavy, tin hats strapped tightly to our chins as we marched out into a dazzlingly crisp blue day. Every soldier squinting like a Chinaman at the brightness of the sun. The pallid grey-white skin of our gaunt faces fairly shone in that moment; despite the grime on every cheek, a hazy mist of warm breath from each mouth. The topside troops stared; we all seemed to have toothy yellow grins as we marched past.

Then we stood to attention; the whole regiment together on the large makeshift square of frozen dirt they call a parade ground. The battered regimental flags of a bygone age whipping in the breeze and the shadow of the Wall looming large behind us.

The Divisional Commander stood on a small soap-box and announced that we were to be billeted further back from the Front, and that the Middlesex was and is a tremendously proud regiment to belong to, and that we had all done our duty well and should continue to do so. Then we split back into units for inspection. There was some reallocation of men and then the Sergeant-Major bawled us out for looking so scruffy and dirty. Called us a 'miserable shower' and then every man was issued with a new safety razor and a bar of carbolic soap.

So for the first time in many months I am thoroughly washed and clean shaven. It's probably the first time since I saw you my dear Esme I have been so clean. I don't suppose you would find me very impressive if you had seen me underground; all dirt and whiskers. The lice are still a problem, but, without meaning to offend, one does seem to get used to the sores and the itching. One sees men habitually scratching their armpits all about the place. It is such a common sight that it goes completely unnoticed, as if it is part of the natural behaviour of man. When you do stop and notice it, in the mornings for example, the men stretch and itch and pick lice from one another's bodies, just like a troop of monkeys in a zoo. As Darwin said we are but simple apes after all. This is all despite being issued with acrid de-lousing powder. That stuff never seems to work. Well not for long.

Anyway we have marched at least ten miles back from the Wall, supposedly far enough back to be out of range of most of their shells, through it doesn't seem anywhere near far enough to me. Hendricks says the Germans have guns mounted on railway carriages that can fire shells thirty or forty miles. Then there is always the threat of fighters that strafe the lines, not to mention the bombers and rockets.

It is an odd thing to march through the crazy lines of trenches, dugouts, anti-aircraft batteries, artillery and muster stations, especially after being underground for so long. Everything is changed and feels different from the way you remember it; as if you have stepped out from the depths of the sheltering Wall and into a different and new war. And in many ways this is true.

When you see the vast machine of war on the ground it can seem like chaos encapsulated. Thousands of men going to and fro; khaki dots of humanity threading in and out of tunnels and trenches and walkways. Trucks, staff cars, Land Rovers and crawler tanks weave in and out of the lines of humanity. Temporary railway lines and tramlines of all gauges criss-cross these lines at various points, their carriages ferrying men and materials, ordnance and livestock to all parts of the wall. One sees horses, donkeys and even cattle sticking their malnourished snouts out of slatted carts. Even these hellish malnourished beasts are put to work carrying food, sacks and ammunition until their frail bony frames can no longer bear the loads anymore. What is left of them ends up in the sloppy stews and broths we are fed of an evening.

It has the appearance and feel of walking through an impossibly large ant colony. Each man, animal and machine has a purpose despite the appearance of chaos. Everyone knows where they are going and if they don't, like we didn't as we marched through the lines, they simply follow the man or beast or vehicle in front. Somewhere ahead is someone who is simply following orders. Ants move by instinct, guided by feelers and pheromones. The soldier does the same, guided by orders; shouted instructions that punctuate the air in staccato fashion, mixing their sound with the grind of engines and the distant gunfire.

The cold air hung heavy as we marched. Heavy with the blue choke of diesel fumes and fires mixed with morning fog; making the atmosphere have a ponderous soup-like feel to it. There wasn't much snow here it seems. Not as much as in England anyway. Above us the sun, the beautiful life giving sun; shafts penetrating through the smog, occasional glints from a scuffed tin hat or passing glass windscreen.

And wire, everywhere the wire. Its razor tipped curls and spikes wobbling in high spirals to our left and right as we trudge along the battered wooden boards that traverse the mud below us. Wire teams constantly maintaining it everywhere, just in case, by some unseen calamity, the Germans should breach our Wall. Or, which is more likely, they send suicidal parachuting storm troopers to our side as they occasionally have been known to do.

I saw a group of these storm troopers once, about four years ago, not far back from the Wall at Vimy Ridge. You can never tell they are coming until a few distant shouts echo out from the Wall that they have been spotted. The gliders they jump from are impossibly silent and their black silk parachutes are virtually invisible against the dim fading dusk of the sky.

We hunkered down in wet slimy foxholes firing a few useless Enfield rounds randomly up at them. At that point I hadn't actually fired my rifle that often, not in anger anyway, and as I pulled the trigger a couple of times I could feel the heavy thump of recoil bruising hard against my shoulder.

It wasn't long before the 'Very' pistols cracked from holes and trenches all around. A myriad of ghostly bright flares rocketed from these ungainly pistols, spiralling high and illuminating the grey backdrop of sky. At last the doomed parachutists were revealed; a flock of black bat-like silhouettes drifting slowly against the harsh potassium glow of the rising flares. There must have been about a hundred or more of them. A pause to take aim and then all at once machine guns and Enfield's volley together in a cacophony of fire. Fire from the ground and fire from the Wall. Tracer bullets from machine gun nests on the ground and on the Wall weaving bright Morse code paths in every direction you look, like some crazy luminous dot to dot picture in the sky. A picture that burns intermittent trails against your retinas; trails that stubbornly remain when you blink and annoyingly impede your aim.

I fired again at those floating soldiers, all the while stupidly cursing myself for my blurry eyesight and the fact that my aim is so poor. It should have been like shooting fish in a barrel but all I could hit was the void of black sky. It was not that I wanted to kill any of them, I simply had the shameful flippant thought of annoyance at missing. Of course, plenty of others didn't miss. I don't suppose even one of those poor Bosch made it to the ground alive.

One of the black parachutes crumpled and snagged on the high jagged rolls of wire flanking our foxhole. The poor man's body slumped and dragged its weight slowly down the razors and spikes like a rag doll.

A crowd soon gathered and we shone torches at his body; limbs hanging unnaturally. The torchlight gleamed and flicked from his silver buttons; his storm trooper uniform was unusually clean and steely jet black. He was sporting a mask and goggles; skull and crossbones neatly stencilled on the side of his coal-scuttle steel helmet. I could see his britches sodden with blood, making them seem even blacker in the half light, where it was seeping down into his shiny black calf boots.

Soon there was a dispute between a couple of men over those boots. A dispute that looked like it might end with fists until finally a Corporal intervened. He settled the dispute with the simple toss of a coin. Ridiculous really because the Hun was a small man and the boots didn't even fit the big feet of the man who won them. I think he traded them for a few tins of corned beef or maybe some cigarettes or dried biscuits; I don't recall. Coins don't always mean much as currency here at the front, but a fine pair of Hun riding boots can supplement your diet for a week or satisfy your nicotine cravings.

It doesn't take long for their dead to be stripped of all they possess. Grisly practice I know. Ghouls that we are; vultures picking over the meat and bones for trinkets that we claim as the spoils of war. Again it seems flippant. Flippant to think of mere possessions in the face of death. Such an easy flippant disrespect. But, it seems, so much of this war is flippant. We are so flippant in the face of God's creation, as if we are intent on destruction of His world. I too am flippant in my own small ways, as if it is unavoidable to not be caught up in the inhumanity of the crowd; swept along with it.

From that dead man I got a pocket watch. I still have it now, it is finely worked; silver casing with careful roman numerals on its face. It keeps remarkably good time if you wind it correctly. I don't know why I took it really. Do you think that was really so badly flippant of me, my dear Esme? Is it such a sin to steal from a dead man?

I saw it glinting after everyone else had gone; just left lying in the mud below his stripped and bloody naked body. I guess I thought about him being a person too, before he fell from the sky to such an awful fate. The watch has an engraving in Germanic lettering inside its cover. I have no idea what it says, but I like to think that he was given it by a loved one. Perhaps these are words of love.

I still have the image of his peaceful face in my mind. Once they had peeled back his inhuman mask it was a face of peace, carefully trimmed whiskers, blue eyes wide beneath a shock of blond hair and what could be described as almost a smile upon his thin lips. One small drop of poppy-red blood clotted on his cheek like a frozen tear. No more suffering for him; like the tear he is congealed in that moment in my memory, peacefulness frozen in time.

Some of the Tommies talk of how you get used to death when you see it so readily, so often. But I honestly think I will never get used to it. Never. Perhaps it will always haunt me, for however long I have left.

Anyway enough of such macabre talk, I should at least explain to you where I am. After a day's march weaving through the rearguard lines we eventually came to our billets. Well, I say 'billets', really it is just a large slender patch of scrubby field in amongst the wide expanse of tents and makeshift structures; the massing of an army. When we got there at dusk we came upon several irregular mounds of canvas and poles and we struggled to raise our bivouac tents before the darkness descended.

This massive campsite is some good distance of miles back from the Wall, though its concrete winding structure clearly looms and visibly dominates the skyline both east and west. As ever the Wall hangs over us. Recent events have shown that we are nowhere near far enough back to be safe.

Behind us, almost as far as the eye can see, there are endless rows of khaki and camouflage bivouacs, mess tents and sheds; a tent city that stretches far out into the French countryside. To our left a platoon of incongruous Frenchmen; it's unusual to see their baggy blue uniforms at this part of the Front. They are mostly congenial fellows, with jaunty moustaches and pouches of black tobacco, with which they trade for our meagre supplies of chocolate.

There are flags and pennants that the men have made; rippling in the wind above the tents in all directions. The Union Jack and regiment colours mixed with banners denouncing the Kaiser and the Hun. The large open-sided mess tents are filled with steaming pots and cooks galore; making the best they can from the unsavoury ingredients that the supply trucks and carts provide.

On the edge of the camp, about a mile away to the south there is an encampment of Frenchies; civvies, obviously mostly women, with lots of little stalls selling the strangest assortment of items. Sometimes they may sell the occasional rabbit, hare or dog for soldiers to spit roast over their open fires. More often they sell trinkets and souvenirs of France and the war. Such an odd thing, it seems to me, to want a souvenir of the war. They make clocks and ornaments and jewellery from any used brass shell casings they can find in the mud; casings that have not been claimed for smelting and re-use. It is a dangerous game to dig for used shell casings as these are imperfect objects and many are unexploded. Hendricks tells of a time a smoking shell landed right next to him but did not go off, and it is not unheard for someone to die treading on a shell that may have been there for many years. The French make finely engraved objects with the metal; I even saw a full size grandfather clock once, made entirely from shell casings. Many a soldier is persuaded to part with what little English cash they possess for such objects. I suppose they must send them back to loved ones at home.

However the majority of the troops tend to save their cash for the evening times, when the N.C.O.s are generous and give them leave for the night. It is in the evenings that this makeshift market comes to life. From dusk onwards the stalls sell sweets along with bottles and jugs of what purport to be wine and whisky, though are more likely to be harsh potato spirit dyed with carmine. Rows of soldiers sit on bales of straw and drink themselves into oblivion. Fiddles and concertinas play and the men drink and dance and sometimes fight. Every evening there are enough of them with off duty time to fill the place with shouting and revelry. We can hear their shouts from our tent.

Many cavort drunkenly with the French tarts, imported especially from the poorest sections of Paris. These women with exotically rouged faces have their own line of little ridged tents at the back of the market where they ply their trade, if you know what I mean. They dress in ancient whalebone corsets and dirty lace flounces and have the tired air of dancers beyond their best. When you see their fake smiles as they wink at you in the last daylight of early evening they have the melancholy of youth disappeared; despite the fact that many of them are probably only as young as me. It as if they had been sacked long ago from the Moulin Rouge, back when it still existed. Sacked for no longer being young enough, or agile enough, or for that matter pretty enough. I wonder if they feel as condemned by this war as we do. We all live lives not of our own choosing and we live them as best we can. I suppose that is all those women are doing, so we should not judge them.

It puzzles me how the traders and tarts there survive; our wages are poor so their prices have to be low. Some say the French economy is finally at breaking point, so perhaps they are desperate. But then again they have been saying that about France for years.

Sapper Jones likes to go there of an evening so he can spend his meagre wages on a bottle or two of heavy spirits. During the day he is always partaking of a sly swig from his hip flask. I wouldn't describe him as a drunk, but he does seem mostly either jolly or sedately melancholic. Or at the very least it gives him a faraway look. When he is in jolly spirits his lilting Welsh accent is filled with humorous expletives, but when his is morose he simply mumbles and it is best to leave him be for a while. Thankfully joking seems to be his modus operandi most of the time. I asked him once in the tunnels why he was in the Middlesex Regiment and not in the Welsh Guards or something like that. He just laughed and said that when he was fifteen he had thought it best that he come and show us daft English buggers how to fight properly. Then he went back to swigging his hip flask and digging the dirt. In reality I think his family live in Willesden or maybe Wembley. Somewhere with a 'W' anyway.

For some I suppose alcohol is like a sedative; dulling the mind to exactly where we are. And why. I think Jones is one of these, though he would never admit it to your face. We all have to escape somehow. For me, I escape into your letters and writing back to you. This precious pen is my link to you; my escape.

Although alcohol is not the only distracting chemical. Hendricks says that the parachute commando units are issued with pills to keep them alert. 'Uppers' he calls them; says they give you a 'buzz'. Not sure that I like the idea of that. It's hard enough to keep your wits about you and keep a straight head, especially in combat, without some chemical or other interfering. It also seems that some take to smoking more than cigarettes. So says Hendricks anyway. He has seen black troops (perhaps from South Africa or the Indies) smoke cannabis though I have never seen this myself, but Hendricks says it has a sweet smell. I asked him if he ever tried it. Apparently he did once but it made him throw up and feel sick as a dog. I cannot see the attraction myself; what is the point if it simply makes you sick? Having said this it wouldn't surprise me if such drugs were rife, even though they are illegal and highly frowned upon. They are just another way of escaping I suppose, just like Jones and his drinking.

Be rest assured Esme that I am not a drinker, not in that sense anyway. I only ever drink when the regiment passes out the traditional rum, ale or grog ration and then it is a kind of duty. That is not to say I do not like to drink, it is just that for me it seems that drinking should be a pleasurable experience. One taken in moderation and in good company, not one taken to escape in indulgence and pity. And not one taken alone.

That is not to say that I judge those who choose to attempt escape in this way. We all have to cope in our own ways as it is impossible to avoid be reminded daily of the reality of our situation.

For example over to the east of our camp are the makeshift field hospital tents and the vast grave pits. These pits must rank as one of the most difficult things I have ever had to witness and as I think of it now I can barely muster any adequate words to describe the horror of it. Suffice to say that the dead outnumber the living here. By a large margin. The countless dead of all these years. Each mass grave is marked by a single large wooden cross. In summer one can see the location of these pits from a distance as the flies swarm in epic numbers; fuzzy black clouds of them. It has the look of a biblical plague.

Nearby there is always a hut or tent where the records are kept. Pale-faced clerks sit at desks behind mosquito nets, compiling the ledgers and lists of all the fallen and taking deliveries of the latest pile of dog tags. Accountants quantifying the dead as if they were at the gates of hell or purgatory. Surely the grimmest of impossible tasks. We will never know the true tally.

Outside in the dirt stand forlorn men whose job it is to endlessly shovel lime onto the heaps of scattered bodies lying in the open pits. The bodies all naked, long since stripped of any clothing. All items of uniform that remain serviceable are re-used; recycled. Jackets, boots, trousers, helmets and caps, even socks or underwear. Most soldiers, including me, wander the battlefields in dead men's clothes. It is best not to think about the former occupants of your battledress. I think my jacket is new at least. Well it was when I came here.

These endless bodies seem unreal and thin; their broken pallid bony shapes perform impractical gymnastic shapes on top of one another. Shapes unfeasible in life. Here the dead faces grimace like gargoyles in pain. Not at all like the peace I have witnessed in the countenance of the newly deceased. I cannot bring myself to imagine that this multitude of husks used to be living men. Perhaps their souls are departed from the physical shells, hopefully long distant from the resting place of their bodies.

Once the bodies are covered in lime the steam tractors slowly push the dirt over the pit, men shovelling at the sides, before they move on to dig new ones.

The desperate men at the pits stand stooped as they dig; their faces covered with dirty scarves. Covered from the flies and the stink and shame of it. There must be places and people like this all along the Front. On their side and ours.

This whole conglomeration of a camp site reminds me of some medieval painting by Heironymus Bosch. I imagine the tents at Agincourt and the carts and wagons full to bursting with hangers-on. Flags flying as they waited for battle, all huddled round fires like we are. All there for King and Country like we are. Ours is an inflated version of the wars of the past and without the hindsight of history it seems less noble somehow. It is industry now. Industry has removed any humanity from war, if there ever was such a thing.

Our tiny part of this shifting conurbation surrounds an ancient farmhouse; it's smoke-stained thatch worn through. No more than four ragged walls really. The N.C.O.s have claimed this as their own, just like many of their ilk before them. As, perhaps, did brightly garbed officers in Napoleonic times. There is a lineage in war. A lineage defined by rank.

I share my tent with Jones and Hendricks and a new lad called Thompson. Another fresh faced boy seconded to us a couple of days ago, after his unit was wiped out in a truly horrendous attack last Wednesday. He is such a sad thin-faced boy.

As I have implied our distance from the Wall is no guarantee of safety. Wednesday proved this. It was broad daylight and I was setting up the pot over our meagre fire when I heard the first explosion. A massive thundering noise that shook the earth beneath my boots. I stood and saw the rolling fire and black mushroom of smoke billowing high about half a mile away. There was no warning; no clanging bells or shouts, no whooshing of the shells through the air that normally precedes an artillery bombardment.

Then I saw the three aeroplanes, unlike any plane I had seen before. They didn't have props, they seem to be a new design that has CENSORED and they can CENSORED CENSORED, so incredibly CENSORED that your eye can't even follow them. They screamed like banshees as they passed overhead. So fast, like you wouldn't believe. Machine guns blazing. That fairly sent panic through the camp, everyone ducking and running and then more explosions, even more massive than the first one. I lay in the dirt by our tent.

I am not sure what weapon caused those explosions; it certainly wasn't shellfire, well not any shellfire I have ever experienced. Hendricks says it must be some new type of rocket that Jerry has developed, but rockets don't have that kind of range, or at least I sincerely hope they don't. Perhaps this new type of plane can CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED and if that is true it is a truly frightening prospect. The truth is we don't know, and neither do the officers. Well not those around here anyway.

I was ordered to help out with stretcher duty after the attack and the craters produced were astonishing. Truly vast. Much bigger than any ammonite explosion crater. Almost unbelievable. They say we lost as many as CENSORED men. It made me wonder if we would all be better off back in those lice-infested tunnels.

This poor boy Thompson lost all his newly drafted pals in the blink of an eye. In the time it takes him to blink he must have seen all his friends obliterated or dismembered. They had only been here two days.

He has the weighty look of shock about him still, and he simply sits cuddling himself and rocking on his cot. Barely a word has passed from his thin lips. There is a certain inevitable guilt when one loses one's pals. I had it when I lost Billy and Archie and I have had it since when I have lost those around me. I still have it. A guilt that asks 'why them and not me?' It is hard to shake.

I have tried to talk to Thompson and reassure him but he simply nods and looks at the bare earth floor. Hendricks, Jones and I have made a pact that we will look out for him as best we can.

At least being billeted back here there isn't much for us to do, except for polishing and cleaning our kit ready for snap inspections and the occasional drill. I am resigned that if another attack like that one comes, as it surely will, then there is nothing we can do about it, so it's best put out of mind. Many a man here can go virtually insane from thinking about such calamity. So the empty look that poor Thompson has in his eyes is worrying. I wonder if I had such a look back when I was sixteen, and I saw Archie Groves get his head blown off. That day when Billy called me a 'coward'.

I try to distract myself with the little things. Little comforts. Thank you so much for the toothbrush you sent me. That is undoubtedly a God-send; it makes me feel positively human to have clean teeth every morning. I have finished the book you sent me and started reading it again. In the evenings I read sections of it out loud to the others as we lay in our rickety cots beneath our little patch of canvas. I shine a small torch at the yellowed pages and read until they have all fallen asleep.

It reminds me of you, to read aloud like that, and I imagine that you must be reading to Dulcie back in England at the very same time I am reading in our bivouac. I too lie under a grey scratchy standard issue blanket. Just like Dulcie and yourself, though an eiderdown like you have would be miraculous. It is so often horrendously cold at nights. The thought of you reading whilst I am reading makes me feel connected to you and gives me comfort.

I wish I could give comfort to Thompson, he hardly seems to sleep at all and when he does he wakes from the most violent nightmares. His rheumy eyes have the faraway red look of sleep deprivation. This isn't unusual in the camp. Often we are woken by the screams and sobbing from nearby tents. We all have our demons to face in the darkest parts of the night.

We have also shared the newspapers you sent us and all read them cover to cover more than once. That is except for Sapper Jones. He was reluctant when I offered a paper for him to read and later, when we were alone sat around in the icy mud next to our makeshift fire, he confided in me that he couldn't read. It was the most serious face I have ever seen on him and he got me to promise that I wouldn't tell any of the others. Of course I made this promise but told him that there was no shame in it. Lots of the Tommies seem to have missed out on the essentials of education. I suppose that some of the things they teach in school seem especially irrelevant when you know you are destined to fight. From the moment you can begin to think for yourself every male child is taught that their duty and destiny will be in the war. Is it any wonder then that Jones didn't concentrate at school? He told me that he spent most of his time 'bunking' anyway. He says he and his friends used to spend their days fishing or plane spotting at his local aerodrome or simply having larks or japes while they played on bomb sites. You can't blame them really. When fighting and dying is the sole purpose of each and every ordinary man then what use is reading? I think underneath it all they unconsciously wanted to suck life dry while they could; have as much fun as possible before it was all taken away from them. Billy and I were not much different. I offered to teach Jones to read, but he said he didn't see the point. And too be fair to him I too wondered about the point. Except it seems to me that by reading we learn, and perhaps learning is a way to change this war? I do not know.

We found those newspapers very entertaining but I had better not write what I really think of them, for the censors might not like what I have to say. Let us just say that they are an amusing and enlightening fiction. Hendricks says you would never see a Daily Mail reporter here, this close to the Wall.

I do not wish to be too bold Esme but I do dream and think of you often. In fact I dream of what it must be like to kiss you. Do you know that I have never kissed a girl? It occurred to me the other day; twenty one years old and not so much as kissed a pretty girl on the cheek. Of course many of the other soldiers make use of those French girls they draft into the camp, if you understand what I mean. But I cannot bring myself to countenance such an idea. It seems so unsavoury and devoid of love and beauty. Do you think me foolish? I do hope you don't mind that I think of such things and that I think it would be impossibly beautiful to kiss you. I hope I don't make you blush too much. Thinking of it gives me an aching feeling in my stomach, a mix of hope and fear. Fear that kissing you will never come to pass. Hope that it will.

I do not think it unrealistic of you to dream of us attending a concert together. I think that would be marvellous. A lovely hope. We don't get much entertainment here at the Front, apart from that provided by the French that I have described. We certainly don't get the wireless. You asked about me smoking - well I didn't used to. Not before I came here, but after that first few weeks and after losing Billy, it was a habit that I fell into. I guess to fit in.

So, I suppose all that I can say for now is that my days continue. It is routine and more routine here just like it always is in the army although, apart from the odd attacks, it is less taxing physically than the tunnels. We all know however that this is simply a stop gap. This whole vast campsite a holding pen; cattle waiting for the slaughter perhaps, before we get orders to move elsewhere. I don't suppose it will be long before we are sent back to the Wall in some capacity or other. For some great push or battle I suspect. I imagine that by the time I write to you again we will know the next fate to befall us. I continue to hope for a leave so that I may visit you somehow. Still no word about my mother, she also fills my thoughts daily, I do so hope she is well. As I hope that you and yours are well and safe. Please write soon. The sooner the better.

Yours with hope,

Jimmy Fitzpatrick

X

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Thursday 22nd February 1962

Dear Jimmy,

Your last letter seemed to come quicker than usual, perhaps because you are no longer billeted right at the Front. It was such a joy when I found it on the mat this morning, so I just have to write straight back to you the very same day. So, firstly I must apologise that I cannot send you a parcel this time, but please know that I am collecting things that I think you might like for next time. Is there anything that you want?

So much has happened since your last letter. Some good, some bad, although I will save the bad for later, as the good news is so much more heartening.

I wonder if you have heard the news Jimmy? Yesterday it was announced and I am sure you will have heard about it by the time this letter reaches you. The wireless is saying that the Russians have sent a man into space. Outer space! Imagine it! A human being inside a large rocket that circled the whole Earth. A rocket that is not a glorified bomb. I can scarcely believe it. A man in heaven looking down upon us all. It makes me feel so small Jimmy. We must all feel like that now, all of us on this tiny planet. I suppose you must feel small sometimes too, in amongst all those thousands of men, all working towards victory; like so many ants as you describe.

There is a lot of talk about what it all means in the newspapers and on the wireless. And how the people are gossiping about it on the streets!

'Scaremongering' is what Aunt Mathilda calls it. She has decided to stay with us for the foreseeable future. The railway line to Dover still isn't mended and she says she likes being up in the city. It is where everything is happening she says. Don't you think it's delightful she is staying Jimmy? I am sure you would love to meet her. I think mother is pleased she is staying because she helps us out so. She has money and she has connections in the city. In the evenings she is always appearing with some kind of treat or other. Last week she got a leg of lamb from goodness knows where. A whole leg of lamb!

Dulcie and I love having her around simply because she is such irreverent fun, with her blond bob hair and constant smile. She has an opinion about everything, and often a contrary one. Secretly I love her mischievous nature. I think that is the part that mother doesn't like so much.

Anyway, the papers are making a big fuss (or 'scaremongering' like Aunt Mathilda says) about what it all means; this man going into space. Yuri Gagarin is his name. I do so like that name 'Yuri'; it sounds heroic somehow. Dulcie drew a fine picture of what she imagines he looks like. She copied some of the diagrams from the paper that show what they think his space capsule looked like. Her picture showed his face smiling through a little porthole window, the stars and moon shining behind the little tin can he floats in. I can't imagine what it must be to have no weight. The Daily Mail says that 'weightlessness' or a lack of gravity must feel a bit like what it feels to float under water, like a scuba-diver but with no current or waves to rock you about. I have never been swimming and don't know how to, but I imagine that it must be such a wonderful feeling. It must feel like heaven.

The papers say how this Soviet advance in technology might lead to a new pact between the Soviets and the Germans. I suppose they are worried that the Germans might acquire the technology of such a large rocket and maybe turn it into a weapon somehow. They also say how the Americans find it very worrying too. I suppose there are fears that the war might spread to these two mighty nations, although Mathilda says that she can't see that President Kennedy would want to commit America to anything more than the aid it already gives us. After all, he was elected on a promise of keeping America out of the war, just as all the presidents since 1914.

As for the Soviets? Well, who can tell what they think, with their secret communistic ways? Mathilda, I think, is quite sympathetic to the communist cause but again it isn't something she would probably discuss in public. Mind you she says she doesn't trust that Nikita Khruschev as far as she could throw him!

I can't help but think it's rather marvellous though, the idea of a man in space, whatever they say about it. It is as if we are one simple group of humans all together on our lonely little planet. Maybe one day people will all live together in harmony, especially if we can see how very small we are in the face of God's creation? It must have been wonderful to look down from afar at the clouds and mountains and deserts and oceans. Do you think that's awfully unpatriotic of me to think like this? Of course I realise that we need to defeat the Germans first; someday, somehow.

In your letter you talk of us being flippant in the face of God's creation in this war. I can certainly understand what you mean. But we must remember the evils that the Germans have committed mustn't we? Having said this I do feel that it isn't such a bad sin for you to take that pocket watch from that poor dead German soldier. Besides someone else would have found it anyway wouldn't they? And I suppose that realising that it might be a sin and that your motives are not one of a thief makes it alright. Don't you think that confessing it to me in your letter is a bit like Catholic confession? Perhaps you think that a silly thought, but I think that God can see that you are a good person Jimmy.

You ask if I think you are foolish Jimmy. I don't suppose you are any more foolish than I myself am, although I hope you do not think me so. I do not think it is foolish to long for companionship and love. I will be bold and tell you that I too have thought of kissing you and I think it awfully flattering that you wish to kiss me. I am not such a childish girl that I do not know about sex and relations between men and women. I am a young girl I know but it would be amiss of me not to explain that I do have experience in these matters. I do hope you aren't shocked and don't think me too forward to talk of such things.

Aunt Mathilda talks of how she had a lover when she was twenty-five. An older man from the Ministry of Food. She met him when he came to oversee the Kentish farms and he stayed for a while at her bed and breakfast place. Mother says that she shouldn't talk of such things in front of Dulcie and I; that she will put ideas into our heads. But Mathilda is a strong character and simply tells her to hush and that putting ideas into our heads is exactly the point.

It is interesting that they are sisters, mother is usually so strong-willed and single minded herself, I suppose all women who are bringing up children by themselves have to be. I know mother disagrees with Mathilda often but she always eventually acquiesces to her, perhaps because Mathilda is her older sibling, or perhaps simply because underneath mother agrees with her but cannot bring herself to admit it. I am all too well aware that I share the same traits as both of them; I am from the same stock after all. I wonder which of them I will most be like. Although most of all I wonder what I have inherited from my father. How many of his traits have yet to show themselves? I wish I had known him.

Mathilda says that her time with her lover was the best time of her life. It is most scandalous really; he was a married man with children. He didn't go to fight because he suffered from rickets as a child which softened his bones. He was too prone to fractures, so they discharged him with two broken legs, pretty soon after his basic training. Mathilda thinks he was one of the very lucky few not to go. You can imagine how mother scolded her for such unpatriotic talk. Apparently he was a most handsome fellow but Mathilda says his bowed legs and pigeon chest were most comical. We all cannot help but laugh when she describes him. Cruel I know.

She calls her affair with him her 'summer of love' and says that love making is the most natural and beautiful thing in the world. It is, she says, what men and women were designed for, so there should be no shame in admitting it. Her ideas are all full of women's emancipation; she argues that women should be equal in all spheres of life and that should include sex and sexuality. I must be clear though Jimmy, that these conversations only take place amongst us, in the privacy of our own home, Mathilda is much more guarded in company. Of course mother always tries to interject, when Mathilda is preaching women's equality. Mother holds to her beliefs that sex should be within holy matrimony, and that it is the natural place of women to be wives and mothers. She says it is God's will although to be honest I am not sure that she really believes this. Not really. I think she says such things for the sake of Dulcie and I. Anyway she doesn't get very far when airing such views; as this seems to goad Mathilda into saying even more radical things! Mathilda chided mother about her views on women and marriage by saying that she shouldn't talk like the Pope since we aren't Catholics!

I suppose I am telling you all of this Jimmy, and being so unbecomingly frank, because it is, of course, something that I think about too, even though I know I must be blushing most awfully as I write this. To think that you will be reading my thoughts about sex. I am not sure what to think about Mathilda's dalliance. It was wrong, of course, for a husband to deceive his wife and I wouldn't countenance that kind of behaviour. But I can recognise that, for Mathilda, it meant that she has known what it is to be a woman, something that is denied so many women in our nation. So I do not think it is wrong that Mathilda experienced love, even if it was only for the briefest of summers. The affair ended when her lover was promoted and sent to Manchester to help oversee food production in the northern counties. Apparently his wife never knew about the affair, so I suppose at the end of the day no harm was done, apart from an unspoken deception.

I must tell you about the experiences I had at the concert we attended Jimmy, you know, the one I said Aunt Matilda had purchased tickets for in Victoria park. It was just Mathilda and I, mother said it was too late on a school night for Dulcie to go up to the city. Dulcie was most upset not to go I have to say. But considering the frightful things that happened it was best in hindsight that she didn't go.

Mathilda said it would be a fine girl's night out for the two of us and, at least for the first part of the evening, it was. I wore my best dress, a lovely floral one, with a big pattern of roses. It has quite a decadent wide flowing full skirt and tight bodice; makes me want to twirl and swish around when I wear it. Mathilda lent me some long claret gloves and mother lent me her precious pearls; necklace and earrings. I was going to put my hair up, but couldn't get the bun just so, so instead I pushed it back with a black alice-band. I felt like a princess. It was as if one could forget the war and all its privations; as if I were going to a ball or some such highly sought after social event.

They erected an enormous circus tent on Victoria Park and we took the tube. The tent must be seventy five or eighty years old or even more, goodness knows where they got it from. It was blue with the words 'Sangers Circus, brought to you by Lord George SANGER' emblazoned on it in faded gold letters. I suppose he must have been some famous circus promoter back before the war. I was quite taken aback by the size; it must have covered fifty allotments!

Mathilda says there must have been three or four thousand women there. You really should have seen it Jimmy. Such a spectacle. We had seats right up in the gods near the back and the Women's Symphony Orchestra was assembled in a space in the centre; the circular space where the acts and animals would have performed back in the days when we still had circuses.

It was all so exciting Jimmy, but when the conductor tapped her baton and the music started! Well! I really can't describe how that felt; the soaring strings and brass of Vaughan Williams filled the air to bursting inside the whole enormous dome of canvas. Its beauty honestly brought tears to my eyes and seemed to fill my very soul. There really is nothing like it. I apologise if my description seems childish and melodramatic but I know of no other way to tell it. I was lost. Lost in those melodies and chords. So lovely. It made me think of love and beauty, and my dear Jimmy, it made me think of you and the only downside was that you couldn't have been there with me.

I loved it so, but like so many things in these times it was spoiled, and only the first part of the evening was perfection. It must have been about an hour or so into the concert when the sirens cut through the music. I was so annoyed; we haven't had any air-raids for such a long time. Why did they choose that moment to bomb us? Just when I was enjoying it so. It felt as if they were being so spiteful; those hateful Germans.

At first it was quite orderly, the orchestra stopped playing and announcements were made for people to head safely and calmly to the tube station. People gathered their things and carefully began walking down the steps to leave the big top. Being at the back we had to wait for those below us to vacate their seats. Then, unfortunately the power went, or at least I think that's what happened. Mathilda said it could have been the wardens turning out the lights to stop the tent being a target and seen from the skies above. Either way what happened next was so disastrous Jimmy.

The women began pushing past each other on the dim stairs and gangways to get out. Mathilda could sense the impending danger and she took my arm and told me that we were staying put for a while as that was the safest thing to do. So we simply sat back down in our seats. By now everyone else in our row had gone and, below us in the gloom, you could hear the shouts and jostling of panic and then some screams. It was frightful. And then, to cap it all, the bombs began to hit. Not that close but their explosions large enough to shake the ropes and supports of the tent and, for a while as we sat there in the gloom, the explosions seemed to be getting closer as they mixed their cacophony with the screams of the women trying to escape the tent.

I am sad to say it Jimmy but lots of those women didn't make it out of that tent alive. The papers didn't report that. They just said that the concert was cut short by the air raid. I suppose they thought that such news would be bad for moral. I am not so sure. I think they should have printed the truth about it. The truth that I witnessed Jimmy, with my own eyes. People should know what this war does.

Aunt Mathilda and I sat there, high up in that circus big top, alone in the dark holding each other's hands, for about three quarters of an hour. The screams and shouts began to fade to be replaced by women moaning and crying in the dark and calls for help. The all-clear came and Mathilda and I gingerly made our way down the wooden steps. By now there were a few women with lanterns scouring the seats.

There was a woman lying bent forwards over one of the chairs about half way down. Between us we gently lifted her and sat her down as best we could. She had a broken leg and was gently sobbing at the pain. Her name was Doreen and she said she was fine and that we should help others who must be worse off than her. I remember her fingers shaking as Aunt Mathilda hugged her and told her she would be alright. So brave.

Further down the steps we came upon more bodies. I stood there helpless, not knowing what to do as Mathilda bravely checked them over. Three women, lying there on the steps in the dark. Dead. The life simply crushed and trampled out of them by stampeding women. As if they had been squeezed like a sponge until their souls trickled out.

In hindsight I thought I should have been shocked, but strangely, despite a feeling of helplessness, I was calm. Like most of us in this war I have seen death before.

A fourth woman was moaning for help. Her voice sticks in my head. "Help me...help me...help me..." Mathilda and I tried to lay her straight on the wooden steps as best we could. She was bleeding and in pain. Someone's heel had pierced her stomach and a pool of blood was dripping down the steps. Mathilda ripped open the woman's blouse and without thinking I took off my long crimson gloves, scrunched them up and pressed them with my hand over the pin-prick hole where the blood was spilling from. I remember thinking that it was such a small hole for so much blood. It must have been a stiletto heel that punched through her belly as someone stepped on her fallen body. I also remember thinking that at least my gloves were red and the blood wouldn't show on them so badly. Of course I lost those gloves.

Mathilda left me with her and went to help some of the other women. Soon the ambulances arrived and wardens and policewomen with lights and torches. I seemed to sit there for a long time pressing hard on that woman's stomach and whispering to her that she would be alright and that help was coming. She fell silent but I could feel the rise of her breathing against my hand.

A couple of the violinists from the orchestra were still there and from a distant corner of the tent they struck up a melancholy refrain. I couldn't see them but later as we were leaving I saw they were playing next to a row of bodies, each neatly covered with a blanket. I don't know what that tune is called but it sings to me in the night when I wake and think of those poor women.

I do not blame those who ran, or those who panicked, and I thank Aunt Mathilda for her quick thinking. Without her I would have been one of those women in that deathly crush. It was fear that killed those women. We counted over twenty dead as we left, but there must have been more. Not to mention the injured, like Doreen and that woman who was bleeding so. She was still alive when a nurse gently removed my bloody hands from her stomach. I don't know if she made it. I wiped my hands on my dress and once we were eventually on the tube back to Harrow, I realised that I had left the gloves that Mathilda had lent me, and stupidly left my best coat behind, under my seat. It was then that I cried and Mathilda hugged me all the way home.

She tells me that I am a brave soul and that it was selfless of me to help that poor bleeding woman. I think she is braver than I; possibly the bravest woman I have ever met.

I have thought about it quite a lot since. In my mind the part of the evening where the orchestra played so beautifully is like an entirely different evening, separate from the horrible events that took place during the air raid. It is as if my mind wants to cling to the beauty of the music and not have it tainted by death. Do you think it strange that I think of it like this?

It is another reminder that, even here, our lives could be so short. And after such an experience how could I be anything but frank with you. So Jimmy I will tell you that it would not be so terrible for us to kiss and that I would definitely consider such a thing when we next meet. It is the stuff of life, so perhaps we should seize the day. The more we correspond with each other the more feelings that I have for you James Fitzpatrick. I like your honesty and openness very much.

There is not much else for me to say right now, as I have to set about the ironing before it is time for us to sit by the wireless. I will write again soon as I hope you do. Know that we are all well and that I am thinking of you, as I often do.

Love

Esme

X

P.S. I thought you should know that I had a conversation with Aunt Mathilda about your mother the other day. Of course she knows her. She says she will make some enquiries about your mother's whereabouts with some of her connections in Whitehall when she next goes up to the city. Goodness knows how she knows such people. She says she will be discreet and that it should be a secret between us. I do hope you don't mind me doing this; I just sense that you miss her so.

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

3rd March 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

Another lovely letter from you, thank you so much. This one especially made my heart sing. I cannot help but feel romantic about it, not only because of your talk of kissing and of relations between men and women and 'seizing the day' but also because, my dear, you sign off your letter with 'love'. You do not know how this makes me feel. I cherish every word you write although sometimes the longing I have to see you is so great. I have a longing to actually be in your presence that is like a physical hurt in me. A delicious torment that forms on my insides. I look at your picture daily and cannot help but think of it.

I am so sorry that you had to suffer the sorrow of what happened at the concert. All those poor innocent women. I sometimes think it is an accident of birth that we have to live through such times where we are faced with such anguish. This is not to say that I wish I had not been born, I simply wonder what it must have been like to have been born in a better time. Perhaps there will be better times in the future. I do not think it is too much to hope for.

Having said this if I were to be born in a different time by some strange twist of fate or happenstance then I would surely have never met you. And that, for me, makes it worth living in this time. I hope that you are strong dear Esme, and do not let your experiences depress your spirit.

I too feel amazement at the thought of that Russian man in space. There was no official announcement of it here, but momentous news often travels quickly by word of mouth and the day after it happened it seemed to be the talk of the whole camp. News here is often a stilted thing and mostly we do not hear of things from outside our bubble of war until weeks later. This was different, and around every campfire men huddled and you could hear the chatter and muttering about rockets and space and the Soviets. He must be a very brave soul, this 'Yuri' you speak of. I cannot think of a lonelier place than the jet black vacuum of space. Jet, it seems to me, is the colour of death. Without wishing to be morbid, my fearful mind conjures it in the dark of night, jet black; the only colour one can see when one finally closes one's eyes for the very last time. An eternal solitary lonesome blackness. Even in the hellish dirt that is no-man's land there are other souls to cling to and, if you are lucky, a touch of blue in the sky above.

I suppose though that the spaceman Yuri was looking at the stars, twinkling all around him in hope, and the blue and green of the planet below. What must that look like? I can't imagine it. Perhaps he wasn't aware of the engulfing blackness surrounding him as he soared. Perhaps in death we won't be aware either, and if we are then I hope we are only aware of peacefulness. A peacefulness that the silence of endless space must bring.

Be assured my dear Esme that I am safe and we are still ensconced in our camp awaiting the next set of orders. It is unusual to be billeted with no orders for so long. Mostly though this is a reasonable state of affairs, although there have been one or two fresh attacks from these new sorts of rockets. At least that's what I think they may be. Missiles of some kind. The whispered rumours link them to the soviets. The officers don't mention any of this, perhaps because they themselves don't know what these new weapons are either. They seem just as resigned as us to the inevitability of it and simply pick various units at random for the grizzly cleanup after an attack. These attacks leave craters of unprecedented size and destruction. Almost beyond comprehension. And there have been some screaming appearances of those frighteningly CENSORED new sorts of CENSORED. They fairly hurtle through the sky like hawks with their swept back wings and CENSORED.

There isn't much defence from these attacks, only the anti-aircraft batteries and our meagre hand held weapons. We have all dug new foxholes as best we can next each bivvy; there are no shelters or tunnels this far back from the Front. We barely have time to throw ourselves into these makeshift holes whenever there is a shout or you hear the quick screaming of the CENSORED coming. Sometimes you don't even hear that. There isn't even enough time to sound any alarm, either on the bugle or via the clang of bells, sirens or dinner triangles. Mostly the explosions have occurred way over on our right flank where there are the CENSORED dumps and CENSORED. This could very problematic, or so the rumours say; seriously hampering the CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED. One learns though, to try not to pay too much attention to the endless rumour mill which is mostly churned by fear.

Yesterday a large squadron of German bombers flew over our patch of bivouacs. In broad daylight. They don't normally do that, any raids that are headed for England seem to either skirt around the more populated areas of the Front or they tend to fly at night. So it seemed either daring or foolhardy of the Germans. Are they really growing in confidence? Who can tell?

The batteries erupted from all sides of the camp and you could see the bright sparkling tracers against the grey cloud zooming from the direction of the Wall. Some foolhardy young men stood on the rutted mud track in their undershirts, braces hanging, and let off optimistic Enfield rounds into the sky as if they were farmhands on a duck shoot. Pretty soon they were bawled out by various N.C.O.s for wasting precious ammunition.

I can't remember seeing such a large flotilla of enemy planes and could not but help be worried about you as I hunkered down in our foxhole with Jones, Hendricks and Thompson. Would they bomb us? Or was there destination London or Paris? It was hard to tell.

Sitting next to Thompson in our foxhole I could see his frail body shaking beneath his oversized uniform. His wide bloodshot eyes staring up at the multitudinous dark shapes of the Fokkers, their engines ominously rumbling like bees slowed down. Thompson seemed to shake in time with the low piston pulse of these deathly flying machines.

I put my arm around his shoulder and pulled his chin strap tight, gently trying to bend his head down so that he was looking at the ground. Every experienced soldier knows to keep your face down. Even if those bombers weren't letting loose their heavy cargo on us the constantly firing high caliber anti-aircraft bullets have to land somewhere if they don't hit their target. I have seen men hit and killed or wounded by these falling from the sky. The large portable twin-gun batteries mounted on the summit of the wall swivel on greased platforms and continued to pump their tracer-fire at the aircraft over the heads of their own troops. The larger Ack-Ack guns fire shells with fuses and they burst in white cloud puffs in and around the swarm of planes. Occasionally the fuses fail and these shells can fall on us too. The problem is that these bullets and shells have a tendency to fall from the sky about ten or twenty miles out from where they were fired. So they have a tendency to fall on us. The last thing you want is to be caught without your tin hat firmly strapped onto your skull when it is literally raining bullets or shells.

My head bowed low and I looked into Thompson's face. His eyes seemed dead, although a solitary tear was dragging a lonely path down his childish pale chin. He barely has enough whiskers to shave yet, and looks both impossibly young and impossibly old and tired at the same time. I tried to whisper to him; reassure him that we would be alright but he could barely acknowledge my presence. I am not sure he could even hear me.

He still has hardly spoken since his comrades were cut down. It is weeks now. I did speak to the Sergeant-Major about him. I tried to suggest we should send him to the M. O. but the Sergeant-Major was having none of it. I am sorry to say that I think I did more harm than good, and I am afraid that he now thinks that Thompson, and by association all four of us in our bivuoac, are shirkers. Of course this is by no means the case, but I wish I had kept my mouth shut. It feels like all the N.C.O.s have their beady eyes on us now. Oh well, I suppose it will pass if we keep our heads down. I hope so anyway.

When the last straggling bombers were flying overhead and their growl was at last seeming distant I chanced a peek at the sky. There was one lone bomber left, one of its engines sputtering and coughing like an old man choking on his pipe. It had been hit. Black oily smoke balls puttered from the back of its wing and a cheer slowly rippled round the camp as man after man realised it was going down.

It looked to be moving ever so slowly; creeping a smoke trail across the blue. So slow it seemed impossible to me that it could ever stay in the air at that pace; as if it were crawling gradually to its knees, gasping its last breaths with panting blackened smoke, as it headed into a sedate sloping spiral. A dying moth grasping at the air.

The cheers quickly turned to shouts of panic and men running, holding their tin hats and looking desperately skywards to try and work out the trajectory of its decent. It hit the ground about half a mile away, skimming the tops of tents first with lop-sided-wings, before one wing was ripped off by a sturdy flag pole in a burst of dripping flames.

We stood high on the lip of our fox-hole; fascinated eyes thankful it was moving away from us. As soon as I saw the wobbling hazy shapes of burning men running from their flaming tents I grabbed Thompson's shoulders and moved him back into the foxhole, turning his eyes away from the sight. Their screams pierced even from this distance. I stood again and watched, unable to tear my own eyes away. One burning man was waving his arms in the air as he ran; as if he were trying to bat the flames away and somehow outrun them. The flames gave his body the unreal appearance of a flailing mannequin with streaks of orange tissue paper flying out from behind him. Impossible tissue paper that he could not remove. Wild flying tissue paper that was consuming him. It was horrific.

Later Jones, Hendricks and I took a stroll over to the smouldering carcass of the Fokker. We stood on a slight ridge near enough to see, but far enough to not get in the way of the fire teams that were still damping down the smoking wreck. The glass nose of the bomber, below the cockpit, was still intact, its twin machine guns poking up to the sky. You could see the bloodied face of the dead gunner pressed against the glass, his gloved hand still reaching out in death as if to try and escape through the spider-web cracks in the glass.

There was a German word painted in high black gothic script on the side of the fuselage. "Hexerei" it said. I called out to one of the Tommies nearby, and asked if he knew what it meant; "witchcraft," he shouted back with a cockney burr, "it's bloody witchcraft!"

To think that the Hun would paint the word 'witchcraft' on the side of one of their bombers. The whole thing, this whole bloody war and the machines we use to wage it is like witchcraft. Or perhaps sorcery. I wondered if that's what those pilots and flight crew meant when they painted that on their beloved flying machine.

The real sorcery is that fact that we put up with it. Put up with this war and the death and pain and miserable short lives. Put up with defenceless women being trampled to death at a concert for no reason. Put up with children like Archie Groves, Billy and all of poor Thompson's mates being senselessly killed. And they were no more than children.

In that moment, as I stood there looking at the letters on the side of that useless burned out aeroplane, it became clear to me as if for the first time. Clear as day; like my eyes were open for the first time; as if I have spent all of my short life bent double; stooped over like I was still in those damn tunnels, eyes fixed on the ground and never able to see the clear blue sky. They fit us soldiers with blinkers like horses.

Yes I know that war is misery and war is horrific, we all do. But it was as if it was the very first time that the thought that we don't actually have to do this came to mind. We have been bewitched somehow into to thinking that there is no choice. Witchcraft has cast a spell on us. I have been bewitched, so have you my dear Esme and so has every other man, women and child from these two opposing nations for many long years. Such evil sorcery. "Hexerei".

I must say that such thoughts have put my mind in a bit of a turmoil. It seems so obvious and clear but at the same time so confusing Esme. I am not the bravest of men, far from it, but I can truly say that I am not scared of the fight. Although I increasingly fear death; the older I get the closer it seems. Please forgive me if this is sounds so horribly morbid.

Do not misunderstand me; I have a hatred of the Germans, as we all do. I wish for revenge for the loss of my father. It is like they always taught us in school; the purpose of a boy is to grow to be a soldier, to avenge the deaths of our fathers.

One of my earliest memories was my teacher; when I must have been about five and just learning to read. She was a sternly robust spinster of a woman, like they so often seem to be. I loved books but was struggling to read the 'Janet and John' books; you know, those school books that have the different coloured covers depending on what stage of reading you are at. My teacher, Miss Ormondroyd, she was explaining the book to me in her faint northern accent, her stubby fingers tracing beneath each word; "Janet helps her mother," she would read as I stared at the picture of the girl helping her mother wash up at the sink, "John likes to march," and there he was, in the book in his cleanly-pressed school army uniform; I so wanted to be like him. "Janet likes to cook," she continued, "John likes to shoot,"; John in the picture with his practice air rifle. "Janet hates Germans,", "John hates Germans," is how those books would always finish. You must remember them Esme. Miss Ormondroyd would always finish the reading lesson by asking us why we all hate the Germans and we would chant back parrot fashion; "because the Germans started the war!"

And the truth is that fact doesn't go away, for any of us. They started all this back in 1914, they are responsible and this is why we must defeat them.

At the same time I find it increasingly difficult to hate them. Despite all the talk between the Tommies about how they are 'disgusting hateful sausage eaters' or worse, I can't but help see the face of yet another dead young man when I see a dead German. A face much like my own. That gunner in the bomber, his face twisted hard against the glass. That parachutist stripped naked, his face peaceful. These are simply fragile sacks of impermanent flesh, bags of bones; just like Hendricks and Jones and Thompson and me. Just like Archie Groves and Billy. And any of us. Those German boys had minds and souls full of thoughts, and longings and dreams of love and better lives. Just like we do. Can they all possibly hate us so? All of them? Are they all taught to hate us just like we are taught to hate them? I cannot begin to believe that they are so very much different to us.

A couple of years ago they sent a spotter plane, high above the Wall, and it dropped thousands of leaflets down on us. Paper rain swirling like spinning seeds; drifting slowly through the smoke filled air. Messages to us about how we should surrender. Carefully printed English telling us about how we were being lied to by the Empire, about how we were being 'used as slaves' to fight this war, and that if we rose up against our officers and surrendered they would treat us well and we would finally be safe. 'The German soldier is your brother in arms' it said.

I was put on a duty to sweep them up, collect them and burn them on top of the Wall. Of course I didn't believe a word of their lies, especially the stuff about how the German army was superior and would soon crush the B.E.F. into the dirt if we didn't surrender. I know that was a lie because that was over two years ago and there is no sign of us being crushed as yet. So like everyone else I dismissed their pronouncements as lies. But the idea that their soldiers are our 'brothers in arms' has somehow stuck in the back of my mind.

Such things remain unspoken between us soldiers; it is unwise to utter them out loud even in jest. You never know who might be listening and misunderstand. I have heard whispers over the last five years of those who talk out of turn in unpatriotic ways. Such a thing may well get you sent to the most dangerous places; concrete duty or worse. It is quite clear the punishments for such things.

I know that perhaps I take a risk to write about them in my letters to you, dear Esme. I am perfectly well aware that you won't be the only one to read my words, but sometimes I need to express what I feel to someone or perhaps I will burst with the sheer confusion of my emotions. The constant fear of our position heightens and sharpens one's feelings sometimes, as if they are magnified beneath a spyglass. In times like this it is best to force yourself back into the dull routine of the soldier's life to try and forget. But this is not always so easy or possible.

Please, my dear Esme, please understand I am not unpatriotic in the slightest. I just want you to know me as much as I long to know you.

There is still no talk of leave although it seems to me that we are long overdue one. Also there is no talk yet of us leaving the camp for a new posting. This seems odd as I don't think I have spent this much time in camp since I first crossed the channel. Every day there is a trickle of new faces here, French and British alike and small units from the colonies; a few small bands of fresh faced pals brigades, new to all this like Thompson was, and they join the throngs of weary faces back from the front. It's almost as if we are gathering everyone in one place. Though this cannot be true. The whole wall has to be manned; all along those miles and miles. Of course some parts of the front are very sparsely populated and rarely encounter fighting, especially, I am told, those low final sections of the Wall that reach to Switzerland. I wonder what a soldier has to do to get posted to one of those quiet places?

Both armies watch each other's movements from the sky with spotter planes; little single-prop planes that buzz like curious wasps very high in the sky on clear days, trying to keep out of range of the ack-ack batteries. And so both sides match each other and they mass what numbers they have to face each other, mostly in these middle sections of the Wall, at places like Ypres and Verdun. And every six months or so one side may think it has a numerical advantage and tries for a push of some kind. Perhaps that is what will face us all too soon.

I do hope they announce a leave for our regiment soon. Just a week or two of blighty would be marvellous. Just to see your face in reality.

Thank you, my dearest for thinking of me, and please thank your Aunt Mathilda for trying to find my mother. I do not suppose she will have much luck, I have written five letters now, explaining the situation to the ministry and trying to establish her whereabouts. All to no avail. Those bureaucrats in Whitehall don't even bother to furnish me with a reply. It so good that Aunt Mathilda is staying on with you. I hope to meet her one day soon, she sounds like a card.

I do not mind what you send to me in a parcel, anything is marvellous and, please, do not feel obliged to send one. Cigarettes and chocolate are always welcomed here.

As ever you are in my thoughts my love and I look forward to your next letter.

Yours with hope and love,

Jimmy Fitzpatrick

X

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Thursday 18th March 1962

Dear Jimmy,

Thank you for your letter; I do hope my letters cheer you up. This last letter of yours seemed like you really are down in the dumps. I know the horrific things you must face every day must be terribly hard. I can only begin to imagine what it must be like for you. I felt terribly sad after what happened at the concert in Victoria Park, but I know that for life to mean anything I must remain optimistic. I take heart from my family. So please take heart Jimmy that someone back home is thinking of you and please keep hope because some men do make it back from the war. I know it is only the lucky few but I like to hope that you will be one of them.

I have some good news and some bad. First the good. Aunt Mathilda had a luncheon meeting with a woman she knows in Whitehall who has kindly managed to find out about your mother. From what I can gather I think that Mathilda had to pay her to get the address. I suppose some might call it bribery. She wouldn't tell me how much, and brushed it off when I asked her. She is such a generous soul. I do not think she had to pay because it is secret information or anything like that, but rather that the record keeping is not always as good as it should be so the information was hard to find.

Anyway, it seems your mother is ensconced safely in a hospital outside of Newcastle. Sadly it is a type of asylum. She is at the Sanatorium at the village of Barrasford if you want to write to her; it is on the moors I think. I am sorry that we do not have the exact address. If, when you next get leave, you wish to go and visit her then I will gladly come with you. I have been saving my days off from the factory so that I can meet with you when you finally do get leave. Mathilda even said that she could borrow a car for us to take; wouldn't that be marvellous? Of course mother insists that Mathilda should accompany us on such an excursion, sort of like a chaperone. Though Mathilda says that I am grown up and sensible enough to take care of myself. And, of course, Dulcie has been pestering me to go as well, though I tell her it would hardly be a holiday. Mind you, I don't drive so we may well need Mathilda to drive for us, unless you drive? Going by train might be expensive. So, what do you think of that my dear Jimmy?

Anyway, now for the bad news. Aunt Mathilda was attacked last week when she was up in London. Punched in the face and kicked. It is an awful business; she is on the mend but she suffered a broken nose and collar-bone. Such an awful shiny black eye. She refuses to talk about it much, but I listened to her discussion with mother after they thought I had gone to bed, Dulcie was asleep and I sat on the stairs clutching the banisters. From what I can gather Mathilda was at an illegal meeting of women. Apparently they are radical types who want votes for women and an end to the war. Imagine it! I knew that Mathilda had some strong views but I didn't think that she could possibly be actually mixed up with such an unpatriotic bunch. The meeting was broken up by a group of policewomen with truncheons. Sounds like all hell broke loose. Mathilda spoke about 'infiltrators' and she swore a lot. Mother is especially unhappy about it. I think that she wanted Mathilda to leave and go back to Dover, but stopped short of that, perhaps because she knows we are coming to rely on Mathilda and her generosity. Especially now the shops and the market seem emptier than ever and our winter supplies are so reduced.

Of course Mathilda is indomitable about her injuries and refuses to let it dampen her spirits. Her nose will mend without much problem; well the doctor says so anyway. Unusually the Doctor came to our house. Normally one has to trek to the surgery or one of the tented hospitals. She was a jolly woman, the Doctor, not one that I have encountered before. I think she is one of Mathilda's many acquaintances. She put Mathilda's arm in a sling and told her to rest. She even left a supply of aspirin powders. That must have cost a bomb.

It strikes me as funny sometimes how the world is not always as it seems. Just like you I wonder about the times that we live in. What has happened with Mathilda, and the letters you write to me are beginning to make me question my sensibilities. I suppose as children we are protected somewhat from the difficult things. Well to a certain extent anyway. You describe the awful scenes of death that you encounter whilst you carry out your duty to King and country. You soldiers are so brave it seems to me. I will admit that I have seen death too, not only at the concert but also when I was younger, as I may have intimated in a previous letter. It is something I have tried to forget; pretend it never happened to me. But your letters have made me realise that we all must face these things and that in some small way it must help us to share them. As if unloading the hurt lessens it somewhat.

So I hope you do not mind Jimmy but I want to describe to you what happened to me when I was younger. I do this because I feel that through our written words we are becoming ever closer and because I feel that we should have no secrets between us. I do hope you understand.

You told me in a previous letter that you have never kissed a girl Jimmy. Well I must be honest and tell you that I have kissed a boy. Kissed a boy and more. So when, in previous letters, I spoke of knowing about relations between women and men, I spoke from experience. Experience that I have been reticent to share with you. I do hope you are not disappointed and will hear out my story. Of course I will understand if you no longer wish to correspond with me.

It was when I was fifteen; two years ago but it feels like a lifetime. In retrospect I was so young and naive, and foolish. Yes, definitely foolish. It frightens me when I see such similar foolishness in Dulcie's eyes now. I met a soldier just back from his basic training. His name was Phillip; Phillip Trent. His mother lived in Watford and I met him on the horse-drawn bus one Saturday afternoon. He was only sixteen but to my eyes he seemed such a sophisticated chap with his uniform cap at a jaunty angle as he smiled at me. I must have gone all gooey inside just looking at him. Foolish girl that I was. I suppose would have done anything for him, even before he spoke to me.

So he wooed me and romanced me and told me that I was his 'dream girl' and that once he had gone to do his bit fighting the Hun for a while he would come back for me and we would both run off to Ireland. Make a new life, maybe as farmers or something. Fanciful I know. And from there, he said, we would go and make a new life in America and everything would be perfect, just like in those glossy yank movies with Doris Day or something. Stupidly I believed every word. I was taken; hook, line and sinker. He bedazzled me with his eyes; such deep blue eyes.

Needless to say I would meet him whenever I could. In secret of course. I bunked off school and would kiss him on a bench in the allotments. We held hands and whispered and laughed. I suppose I thought I loved him. But the truth is I only knew him for two weeks. And yes, I will be honest dear Jimmy; we made love, although I will spare you the hurtful details of this.

One night I snuck out of the house, when mother and Dulcie were fast asleep. Trotting down the road in my shiniest new stockings and highest heels to meet my love. Breaking the curfew, but I didn't care. He was staying in digs in Wealdstone, so it wasn't so far. It was when I was skipping up his street that the sirens began and the searchlights started to scan the cloudy ink sky. I remember banging on his door to let me in, but nothing happened, no one came, and that is when I began to feel uneasy and a fear began to churn and turn inside me. Mother would know I wasn't at home and would be panicked.

I tried to get through the gate at the side of the house as the first bombs began to drop, thuds and explosions that shook the very air got closer as I struggled with the locked gate. I thought that Phillip must be in the shelter in the garden.

In panic I climbed haphazardly over the gate as best I could in my heels. Stupidly I can remember being so disappointed that I had laddered my best stockings on the rough wood.

I ran onto the lawn at the back of the house and that is when the incendiaries hit the street. Blinding flashes and flames everywhere. And the noise Jimmy, such a noise it fairly deafened me. I couldn't hear properly for days afterwards.

One bomb hit the house next door, and, as the houses were semi-detached, it fairly smashed the roof of both houses in. The heat and the shock wave knocked me right off my feet and onto the grass, as flames burst through the windows of both houses, glass and wood flying everywhere. I still have a scars on my legs from the glass Jimmy, and one slight scar on my just below my ear. Constant reminders marked into my skin like tattoos.

Phillip was the only one to make it out of either house. Your description of those poor soldiers dying in flames after the German bomber had crashed brought it all back home to me Jimmy. Poor Patrick's whole body was aflame. I knew his grimacing face instantly. The image of him falling to the grass in front of me; the smell of his skin and hair aflame and his one plaintive scream are stuck with me forever. I threw my coat on him and tried to extinguish the flames. But it was too late, he was dead.

I don't know why they didn't leave the house and get into the shelter. Four men and their landlady died. Four young soldiers gone, before they even made it across the channel. The wardens reckoned they must have been drinking, saying their farewells, and didn't hear the sirens. I found out later that they were due to be shipped out to the Front the very next day, so perhaps it is true that they were intoxicated.

Phillip never told me. Never told me he was going; he must have known. He used me and then I watched him die.

I have never known how I am supposed to feel about it. Do we ever know how to feel about death? Mostly since I have tried to block it out. Later, when I started work at the factory and I began to make friends with some of the girls there I spoke about it. Some of them, Sally included, spoke about how I had done a good thing; a patriotic thing. How I had given one of our brave soldiers the chance to experience comfort and love before he had made the ultimate sacrifice. Sally even said it was a shame that I had not fallen pregnant, as having a child was the best thing a woman can do for the war effort.

After that I didn't speak about it again with them. Or with anyone until now as I write about it to you. That is because it is not something I am proud of. I suppose I feel shame. Shame that he deceived me, and, if truth be told I think he used my naivety. I also feel shame that I couldn't save him. If I had only been there sooner I may have been able to raise them from their slumber, before the sirens called. It is an awful thing to feel such shame.

When your words reminded me Jimmy, I couldn't help but think of it. Of Phillip dying in front of my very eyes and, of course, of my shame. Not that I especially needed reminding. But I wanted you to know what has happened to me. I do not think I will ever forget it or get over it. I hope that you can find it in yourself to understand Jimmy. Please try to not think badly of me because I have done such shameful things.

Afterwards mother was distraught, but of course she looked after me. I didn't speak much for weeks. Of course I eventually told her about Phillip and what had happened between us. I suppose that is why she is so protective of Dulcie and I now. You can't blame her really. And, I suppose, it is why I am so protective of Dulcie too.

I do hope you write again. Please understand that I open myself up to you because I have a trust in you and much high regard. Like you have said, I wish you to know me as much as I wish to know you. I am a different person to that silly naive girl of two years ago that made such selfish decisions. I will continue to think of you Jimmy.

With this letter I have packed a fresh bar of chocolate and wrapped up some tea leaves for you. It is China tea that Mathilda miraculously got from somewhere. I hope you like it, as the descriptions of the tea you have make it sound beastly.

Much love

Esme

X

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

27th March 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

Please do not fret my love. Be assured that I have nothing but admiration for your honesty. Again I devour your words and kindness. I understand what happened between you and that poor young soldier Phillip. This endless war is littered with such stories of heartbreak and tragedy. So, also be assured that it does not put me off in the slightest and strangely it simply increases my feelings for you; that you are prepared to share your innermost thoughts and experiences is a rare thing.

If you don't mind I will share my humble opinions. What happened was not your fault. Firstly, perhaps you do not know his true feelings and intentions towards you? You cannot assume that he was simply 'using' you. In any case it is true that your affection and love for him allowed him to experience some true joy in his short life. Secondly you could not have saved him. The scythe of death seems arbitrary and it is beyond our control. Here there is an attitude that simply says when it is your time, then it is your time. I am not sure that I believe that there is any such thing as fate or any kind of guiding hand making decisions over such things. There is no such thing as a 'bullet with your name on it'. It is simply chance it seems to me. A roll of the dice. Chance that the bomb fell where and when it did and chance that you happened to be there to witness such a horrific thing.

So I will continue to correspond as long as I am able, rest assured my beautiful Esme. I have made that promise. Remember Phillip for what he was; a boy who longed to be a man.

Today I sit by our fire with a clear sun above us. Jones is sat joking with Hendricks and all four of us, Thompson included, are drinking the fine tea you have sent us and munching on squares of the delicious chocolate. It is such a fine day that one might think we are just a group of chums on a camping holiday. There has been much rain of late, which is always the enemy of an army in such muddy terrain, but today the sun shines bright.

There have been no attacks since I last wrote to you and little has happened. All seems quiet along the Front. Not even the distant crackle of rifle fire for the last few days. One of the many long lulls that happens every so often. Time to breath. It is better that we are still here in camp during this and not on some digging or concrete duty at the Wall. When there is a lull in the fighting the concrete teams grow in numbers and have to work triple shifts trying to strengthen the wall while there is time before the next round of bombardments. No one ever knows exactly how long such a break in the fighting will continue. It could be days, weeks or months. I have, in the past, watched the Germans doing exactly the same on their wall, patching the holes and building new defence nests. They scurried like mice atop their wall as I watched them through the greasy lenses of a pair of binoculars or squinted one-eyed through some ancient telescope.

There are some signs however that soon we may well at last be on the move. The pace of things seems to be increasing even though we have been here much longer than we would have anticipated. Trucks arrive daily with soldiers from other parts of the front, all kinds of supplies, ordnance and fresh ammunition. We have each been issued with boxes of Enfield rounds and three Mills bombs each, and the drills and cleaning of kits continue. Routine as ever. You would imagine that without it the army would collapse into chaos. As usual I had hoped that there might be some announcement of a leave, but this re-equipping of the regiment seems to suggest otherwise.

I also saw a regiment of women arrive last week. I knew there were rumours of it and of course the R.W.V. have been providing support regiments of women for years. But it is the first time I have seen a regiment of women that is destined for combat. You should have heard the cacophony of wolf whistles and cat-calls from around the camp as they marched through with sloped arms. I will give them credit; they held their heads with dignity, pony-tails swinging beneath their helmets. Jones commented that he was disappointed that they don't wear skirts. The talk is that they will fight, but only in sparsely populated parts of the front. The officers apparently think they will be a distraction, so the less men around them the better.

Last week an odd thing happened. I saw that officer who questioned me before about my mother. You remember, the Colonel who sat me in a room and almost interrogated me. He looks incongruous here; almost as if his uniform is too clean. I find it unnerving that he has come sniffing around again. I had thought that that business was over; that they had forgotten about me.

This Colonel simply turned up one morning and stood by our fire; one foot up on a chair, nonchalantly smoking his ever-present pipe and fingering his moustache. He might have been a Victorian gent out on some kind of hunting party. He is tall and imposing; holds his thin aristocratic frame with a confidence born of breeding.

I had heard voices so I walked out of the tent and there he was. Just standing there without a care in the world. Hendricks was sat by the fire looking at the down at the dirt. The Colonel spoke; "Hello Fitzpatrick," he said. Simple as that, as if we were friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. I was a bit flabbergasted. Out of force of habit I stood to attention and saluted.

"At ease," he said.

I felt uncomfortable as I was only dressed in my britches and undershirt.

"No need for formalities Fitzpatrick," he said, "You remember me don't you? Colonel Conway...we met last year,"

I stood to a formal at ease position, legs apart, hands behind my back, looking straight ahead.

"Of course sir," I said.

"Just a social call," he said, "I was just chatting to Hendricks here, wonderful that a chap of his age can still give such service to the cause don't you think?"

I didn't reply; I was still a bit taken aback and didn't know what on earth I should say. He continued; "so, how the devil are you Fitzpatrick? How is life treating you?"

He spoke with practised ease; as if we had known each other for years. I just said "Fine sir, just fine," and continued to look straight ahead. He stood up straight and banged the embers and ash from his pipe against the side of the metal fold up chair. Little sparks drifting to the floor. He checked the bowl of the pipe with his yellowed thumb, looked up at the sky for a thoughtful moment and then turned away.

"See you chaps," he said and then he was gone. Just like that.

Hendricks and I both slumped a bit in relief. It is clear to me that he has his eyes on me still, and I am convinced it is to do with my mother and what they say she did. I asked Hendricks about him, apparently he has encountered Conway before too. He says that the diamond pips on his uniform collar denote that he is S.I.S. - military intelligence. It is no secret that such men exist. We need to make sure that enemy spies and infiltrators are caught before they can commit sabotage. It is why we must submit these letters to censorship and we must be careful what we say.

Hendricks spoke in whispers about it afterwards. I cannot write about what he said, but suffice to say that we had both better watch our tongues, especially while Conway is hanging around the regiment. Hendricks also warned me that perhaps I should be more careful about what I write to you; he has experience of men getting into hot water for the letters they write. I certainly do not want another grilling from Conway so I had better keep my head down for a while.

Another worry for us is Thompson. He isn't eating terribly much and his pallor becomes paler by the day. He never seems to sleep and has taken to sitting on the yellow grass floor of the tent rocking for hours each night. When this happens either Hendricks or I attempt to get him back into bed but he just gets out again. Jones doesn't have much time for him and is less sympathetic, saying that he should just pull himself together because war is just 'bloody shit' for all of us. Please excuse the language. To be honest he swears much more than that.

Thompson just about manages to go through the motions every time we have a drill, but I can see his hands shaking as he holds his rifle and fixes his bayonet. The Sergeant-Major shouts at him more often than not and I know he is trying hard to keep it together, but I fear he will fall apart soon. I requested again that he get seen by the M.O. but the Captain just said that the M.O. is a busy man and has far more important things to attend to than some 'silly cissy boy'. It's ridiculous really; the Captain is probably the same age as me and not much more than a boy himself.

I have all but given up trying to talk to Thompson about it. He refuses to communicate and is simply monosyllabic in any conversation. That is if he talks at all. Often all he will say is "Yes" or "No". He did talk for a while with me a couple of weeks ago. He told me about how he misses his mother; just some small stuff about how he wished he could be at home. At night you hear him whispering "mummy" over and over in that fitful place between sleep and wakefulness. I asked if I could perhaps write to his mother for him but he simply grunted at the suggestion. I don't even know where he is from. Perhaps I should try and find out her address, but then I would have to write a letter that was a lie. To comfort her where there is no comfort. Can you imagine her distress if I confided the truth? What on earth would she feel knowing the dreadful state her little boy is in? I am not sure I would have the courage to write such a letter.

I have tried to explain to him what will happen if he doesn't manage to keep it together but I don't think he understands and if he does he doesn't care. He is simply a shell of a human being; an empty boy who never made it to becoming a man. He came here a child and now all is left is the husk of that child. But, unfortunately, that husk is not empty. The cavity within him where his humanity used to lie is filled to the brim with fear. The outside looks perfectly human, but inside he is being eaten alive. As if the horrendous parasite of worry is chewing away at him, turning all of his inner flesh to mush; transforming his backbone to mere jelly. I wonder if there can ever possibly be a cure to such a debilitating disease. And the truly frightening part is that we all suffer from this disease to one extent or another. I am at a loss to know how we can possibly help him; the only true comfort would be in his mother's arms. But not much chance of a discharge without some truly disabling physical injury. Injury of the mind doesn't count.

I was sorry to her about your Aunt Mathilda. Please do send her my best wishes and tell her that I hope she gets well soon. I suppose she too has to be careful who she fraternises with and what she says. As I think I have said before, I do so hope to meet her when I next get leave. She sounds like lots of fun.

Thank her also for finding out about my mother. That was awfully kind. I hope she is being treated well in such a place. I don't mind saying that it makes me apprehensive to know she is in a sanatorium. I am not sure what to think.

I am definitely going to write a letter to her, as soon as I get time, and I hope that she replies. And thank you for your kind offer of accompanying me to visit her when I get leave. That would be marvellous, so long as it wasn't too much trouble. I do hope I am not imposing too much.

I shall sign off now my dearest Esme, I can hear the Sergeant-Major bellowing in the distance and it is probably time for another drill.

Please wrote soon,

All my love,

Jimmy

X

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Tuesday 10th April 1962

Dear Jimmy,

Thank you so much for the many kind words in your last letter. You are so very compassionate and understanding. It makes me feel that much better that you will still write to me despite my youthful indiscretions. I know there are many who would judge me harshly for what I did with Philip, and I was anxious that you may have been put off writing to me. I am so very glad that you are not put off. I cannot tell you how glad. I am also glad that you remain safe and well.

I have passed on your best wishes to Aunt Mathilda and be assured that she is very much on the mend. You would think that such an encounter with the police would dampen her enthusiasm for all things radical, but I have to tell you Jimmy that this is far from the case. She is, by any measure, more radical and strident than ever. Much to mother's continued annoyance. She has refused to let that incident slow her down and continually goes up to the city to meet with her radical feminist pals.

I am not sure I should write about it but she says that in America there have been large demonstrations by women, both in Washington and New York. Demonstrations that apparently call for an end to the war and rights for European women of all nations. Mathilda claims that these demonstrations were so large that they brought the traffic to a standstill in both cities. I am personally not sure about the veracity of her stories. After all there have been no reports of such things, either in the press, the newsreels or on the wireless. She says that soon British women will take to the streets too.
Of course mother tells her to 'hush up' because you never know who might be listening. Mother also says that those American women obviously know nothing of the war, because if they did they wouldn't be spouting about rights for 'European' women. She says that Germans don't deserve any rights, whether they are women or not.

When mother was out planting and tending the vegetable patch in the garden at the weekend, Mathilda took me to one side and asked me if I would be prepared to join such a demonstration. I really didn't know what to think or say, so I just told her I would think about it. I know mother would be upset if I went, but increasingly I dream about the idea of the war actually ending. I know that is a foolish idea and probably impossible. But imagine it Jimmy! If there were no war we could be together and safe. Is that such a bad thing to dream of?

I for one do not think it such a bad thing and I do not think it to be unpatriotic either. If only the Government could finally persuade the yanks to join the war then we could defeat the Germans pretty quickly. Surely then we could think about other issues like women's rights?

Did you know that Dulcie is soon to be fifteen? On the 12th of next month in fact. She is growing into quite the young woman and often talks about how she would like to have her own shop, perhaps as a seamstress and of how she would sell her paintings as a sideline. Quite the grown up in some ways, but she still has that childish excitement about things like birthdays and Christmas. Despite that fact that her birthday is nearly a month away I caught her looking in the cupboards for hidden presents! Don't you think that is terribly charming and nice?

Mathilda says she has seen a shop in the west end that has imported American dresses. They are awfully daring and very short; like you see in the movies. I wonder if you know the kind I mean, they are often black and white or have colourful asymmetric patterns, not at all like the demure floral dresses that most English women wear. Anyway, Mathilda says that if we club together we could buy one for Dulcie. Mother isn't so sure, what with the hemline being so short and all, but she knows how thrilled Dulcie will be. So we have agreed that we will get her one and are saving towards it. I am secretly knitting her a short red cardigan and beret to go with it and mother even says she will try to find shoes to match. And to top it all we have decided that we will throw a small surprise party at our house for all her school chums. Mathilda says that she can borrow a gramophone so that we could play American records for all the girls to dance to. In a way I can't wait myself because I know that Dulcie will be so thrilled. Although I secretly wish you could somehow be there too. Wouldn't that be marvellous; if you could somehow get a leave in time?

By chance something quite sad happened at the factory the other day and I fear that I have lost the friendship of my dear Sally. I find it most upsetting. It was lunchtime and because Sally was sent to the CENSORED machine at the other end of the production line I hadn't seen her all day. I went out into the yard to have my usual cigarette and gossip with her but she wasn't there. I asked one of the other girls if they had seen her and they said she had gone around the back of the storage sheds. I couldn't think why this might be so I went to see what she was doing. The storage sheds is where they keep all of the CENSORED and the CENSORED so they are usually padlocked shut. There was a door at the back that was open, which was strange, so I went to take a look.

Peeking around the door I saw Sally and another girl, Jessica Enwright, and Jimmy, without a word of a lie, they were kissing. Kissing each other and touching passionately. Jessica even had the top of her dress wide open. Unbuttoned! I don't mind telling you that I was shocked and didn't know what to do, so I simply stood there foolishly staring with my mouth and eyes wide. I suppose it shows, that despite all the things that have happened to me, I am still a naive and childish girl.

I guess they sensed I was there and stopped kissing. Sally stared directly at me for a moment and then swore at me. I won't repeat her words but it is suffice to say that I beat a hasty retreat.

Later, at the end of the shift, I tried to talk to Sally, as we were all walking out of the gates. I had every intention of apologising to her for intruding, but she cut me short and told me not to speak to her again. Ever. I was so upset. I had considered her to be my best friend; my confidant.

I suppose I had never thought about it before. That there must be many, many women, who, without the love of men, must turn to other women for comfort and love. And, yes I will say it, for sex. How naive I must seem to you Jimmy.

I hope that I can talk to Sally soon, to explain that I don't blame her for her actions, and that there is no shame, despite what social convention might say. I don't really know this girl Jessica, although she is a fairly new and only sixteen. She won't look at me when I see her on the production line. Not that I should judge her for her age, not when I did what I did with Phillip. We live in such a judgemental world Jimmy.

Mother predictably was judgemental when I told her about it, so much so that I perhaps wish that I had not told her. She called Sally a 'dyke' and said it was disgusting. She said I would be better off not have anything to do with the pair of them. She even implied that I should tell someone at the factory about it, maybe Jenkins or someone; get them sacked! I didn't know what to say, but Mathilda just said that there was nothing wrong with people loving each other. I certainly won't speak of it again to mother.

So I am afraid that my life at work has become that little bit lonelier. That fool Jenkins seems to have noticed that I am a bit down and he keeps sidling up to me with compliments. He makes comments about my hair and how he thinks I am a 'beautiful young thing'. He even touched my bottom! I just wish he would go away. He seems such a shallow type of man and I am sure he is only after one thing. Without wishing to be crude I think he thinks it is his duty to get as many girls in the factory pregnant as possible. The rumours are that he has fathered three children by different women over the last few years. Of course I know it is our duty to have as many children as possible, for the war effort. But he takes no responsibility for those children he sires, or at least that's what the gossip says. If it is true then I think it is completely irresponsible of him. Surely he should marry one of those girls and help to pay for the child? I dare say such situations are repeated up and down the country; women bringing up boys and girls alone in such a way. Always in poverty because there is no man to pay. At least if you marry a soldier you have a good proportion of their pay to help you with your children, and, once they are gone you get some pension from it. I know this isn't much; mother always complains about how little father's pension is. Although she says it is a good thing that she never found anyone else to marry after he was gone. Not only would that have been selfish of her, when there aren't enough men to go around, but she would have lost father's pension then.

I will be honest and say I do think about having children Jimmy. I do think they are such a delight. Their innocence takes us away from this ghastly war. I wonder if you think about it too? I know that it would be difficult and that my life will be one of hard work and struggling to bring them up, but I also feel that it is my purpose somehow. Just like you boys were taught to be soldiers, us girls have been taught to be mothers. After all it is the most natural thing in the world; one might say it is our God-given purpose. I think that perhaps they are the one thing in this beastly age of war that gives us real purpose, joy and satisfaction. I hope that you have similar feelings towards children Jimmy.

I do hope that I am not being too hasty and forward with you. But I know, from your letters that you have feelings for me, as I do for you. Nothing is certain in this world and it may never work out between us, but I feel that we must be realistic and consider our position. It may be that we do not have that much time together. Whenever you do get leave it may be short, and in wartime we are both at risk, as everybody is.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that when we meet and hopefully get on then we should consider our futures and what that might hold. Simply because Jimmy, our futures will be defined mostly by a life apart and because, without wishing to be blunt, our futures may be short. Are you prepared for such eventualities Jimmy?

I am sorry that I have nothing to send to you with this letter, things are short (as they always are!) especially as we are saving for Dulcie's birthday. That reminds me Jimmy, I know that your birthday is in October, but mine is in June; the first to be precise. It would be marvellous if you could somehow wangle a leave then wouldn't it?

I sincerely hope this letter find you well Jimmy. I look forward to your next missive.

Much love

Esme

X

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

21st April 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

Thank you so, so much. It is still so lovely to receive your letters. I am coming to rely on them so. I have a veritable small library of your words to peruse. I keep them bundled up with an elastic band in my pack, next to the Dickens you sent me.

Well it had to happen sometime and now I must report that the regiment is finally, sadly, back at the Front. We have been sent right into the thick of it, at the very pinnacle; in the hump of the bulge that is the salient that surrounds Ypres. I wonder if you can pinpoint that on the map you have of the Front; you know that one you said you got from the Daily Mail.

Ypres itself has to be one of the saddest places on earth. I have seen pictures of what it looked like before the war; way back before 1914. They once published some in the 'Tommy Gazette'. Have you heard of it Esme? It is a thin kind of newspaper that they sometimes distribute amongst the soldiers to boost morale. Anyway, once it had black and white photographs of the ancient town of Ypres, to show how the dastardly Hun had destroyed it. It looked such a fine place, with magnificent tall medieval houses and shops. In the centre stood the famous 'Cloth Hall' where for centuries people traded their wares. Of course there is no hint of that splendour left now and hasn't been for pretty much all of the last forty seven years.

It still amazes me sometimes that we fight over the same ground as the last two generations. The same dirt. This was one of the first places where men dug trenches and the stalemate and constant bombardment began. The Germans here always fight the fiercest they can, or so it is said, because they have always harboured the ambition to turn the salient into a bubble. Make a breakthrough and surround us here on all four sides and not just three.

We marched through what is left of the town, which certainly isn't much. The walkways just pass through ground-down rubble, craters and mud. Every single building that was here fifty years ago has been obliterated; pushed slowly down into the earth by the endless bombardment, or the stone and brick plundered and embedded in the Wall. The only way that one might realise that this used to be a bustling, thriving town is from the air. I have seen it from the top of the Wall and and there is a vague impression of the different sections of the town. The planking walkways and wider gravel roads built for the crawler tanks are pretty much where some of the original roads and streets would have been and there is the impression of slightly different coloured browns and blacks and oranges in the rubble and dirt. With a map or a picture of the town as it was you could probably work out the landmarks from these impressions. It is stunning to think that people could ever have lived peaceful and productive lives in such a place. It is truly what one might call a ghost town; a town so dead that its flesh and bones are rotted and desiccated; flattened and destroyed beyond redemption.

So we now live in pretty much the same trenches that our forebears did. They are just below the Wall on our side, so back in 1914 they would have been the support trenches a few lines back at the very first battle of Ypres. You must have been taught about it in history lessons Esme, where the heroic B.E.F. resisted the German push and the lines of this War were established. Those original trench lines are now marked by the thirty five mile stretch of the Great Wall.

At Ypres the Wall is one of the very highest sections along the whole Front. Only in rare places does the Wall shift from this original pattern of following the trench lines, perhaps at the very ends, where it is built down the beach and into the north sea or where it oddly stops so abruptly at the Swiss border. I have never seen these places so I cannot be certain. I have just heard talk of them, though why neither side has dared to break Switzerland's neutrality and simply send their army over the border and around the Wall I do not know. Perhaps it is a problem of geography; maybe it is mountainous in the south of Alsace and into Switzerland. But again I do not know. Jones says it stands to reason it is mountainous as Switzerland is "all cuckoo clocks and mountains," but then again he hasn't been there either.

The trenches that we now live in are pretty safe in the shadow of the Wall, particularly as the current lull in the fighting continues. The proximity to the Wall means that shell fire cannot reach us at this point due to the angles involved. But we are vulnerable to bombers. So we have dugouts and shelters and an underground barracks of sorts. Of course there are tunnels here too; some of them link to the CENSORED and the CENSORED at the south end of the CENSORED. It is through these that we will go when we are called to CENSORED. But for the moment all things are calm.

Despite the weather men still often prefer to be above ground when they can. So all sorts of makeshift shelters dot the edge of the trench line and the boardwalks. Men huddle under them playing cards while it rains. They sit in bunches with full kit and helmets pulled tight, and a heavy feeling hangs in the still damp air. As it inevitably always does. It is a feeling of slow anticipation; of waiting. At least for those of us who have been through this before. The few new pals brigades are louder, more boisterous. More impatient.

In some of those boys I see the eyes of Billy Treacher; the naive look of expectant heroism. It reminds me of when I first came here. They have soaked up the fine words of duty and King and Country; those fine words that describe the beauty of war, words that entice with their talk of the transition to strength and manhood. Those boys have a bit too much of a spring in their step; an eagerness in their joking and tomfoolery. These earnest boys are the ones who look the youngest to me now. Me; the old experienced hand at the ripe old age of twenty one. To me some look no older than thirteen or fourteen, and perhaps they are. I am well aware, as I suspect you are Esme, that it is an unspoken truth in England that many an underage boy has run away from home and school, lied about their age and joined up. And despite all the protestations of the distraught mothers over the years, the female recruiting officers and the stale old men that make up the stagnant government would rather turn a blind eye than do something about it. So, inevitably they send us children; children masquerading as men. When I compare us with them we look so much older. Even Thompson, poor shivering Thompson, positively looks like an old man compared to them.

The look in their eyes makes me fretful Esme and I wonder about having children myself, as you describe. Of course, deep down, I would love to be a father, just like you would love to be a mother. But could I bear to have a son, knowing that his fate would be to become another boy destined for the war machine? Like all these fresh faced joking children they send? I am not so sure about it.

But not all of those boys have such a countenance. Others have a look in their eyes that reminds me of poor Archie Groves. Fear ages a person quickly and some of the boys have the beginnings of the haunted look of it as they huddle from the rain. Thompson has this look. Permanently. They too look young but not as impossibly young as those who have swallowed the idea that this war will be some kind of adventure, however short they must know it to be.

Anyone who has been here a while and seen what this place is mostly pays no heed to these boys. Some tease them and bully them. Or they simply swear at them to go away. This is not callousness but self-preservation it seems to me. Those who have experienced the combat for what it is would prefer experience at their side in the trenches. That and the fact that men often vainly attempt to avoid any close friendships for the most part. And if you make a friendship with any one of these young boys; take them under your wing as it were; it can be so very hard to watch them die through their inexperience or foolishness.

I know that such talk makes us seem an inhuman bunch but it is not all like this. Despite how hard they try, even the most hardened soldier seems to form bonds, to have 'pals'. Like Jones, Hendricks and me. We have been forced together over many, many months and now we come to rely on each other. If only for human company. Companionship of sorts. This is why we have taken Thompson under our wing.

Disconcertingly I keep seeing that smarmy Colonel Conway. He always seems to pop up at unfortunate moments. Like last Tuesday he just suddenly appeared behind me outside the latrine. Thompson was in there throwing up his lunch, as he often does. He is so very thin. I see his collar bones and ribs when he takes off his battle-dress tunic. Sharp bones poking through his undershirt.

I was stood there with my canteen, ready to give Thompson some water when he came out and Conway sort of sidled up next to me and just stood there.

"Not too well is he?" he asked, obviously listening to Thompson's half-hearted retching.

"No sir," I said, stiffening my back, but resisting the urge to stand to attention.

"Hmm," said Conway, "not a shirker is he?"

I was somewhat taken aback so just said "No sir," again. He didn't say anything else and just wandered off. I have the constant feeling that he is sizing us up. Sizing me up in particular. I don't mind telling you that he scares me.

Anyway, enough of that. Please will you wish Dulcie a happy birthday from me? Apologise to her that I cannot even furnish her with so much as a card, but suffice to say I will do my utmost to get her a present when my next leave finally comes. Still no word about that though. I am sorry that you fell out with your friend Sally. I, for one, see no shame in her actions, despite what others may think. Love is simply love after all, and, in these times when there isn't enough to go around, there is no shame in seeking it where you can find it. I am sure she will eventually come round and realise your compassion.

I had better sign off now my dear Esme, the sun is going down here and I have sentry duty tonight and need to prepare myself. As ever I spend my days thinking of you.

All my love,

Jimmy

X

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

28th May 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

It is well over a month since your last letter and, I hope you do not mind me writing again, but not having heard from you has made me rather worried. I have such an anxiety that perhaps you have decided to cease our communications, or that perhaps you have met someone else. Or worse still something dreadful may have happened. So please, my very dearest Esme, please write to me soon and put me out of my misery. Please allay my fears. I am hoping that nothing has befallen you and that I will hear from you soon.

By the time this letter reaches you, you will have had your birthday. So I will send my best wishes and hope that you have many happy returns. I hope it was a lovely day for you and yours, and I am so sorry that I cannot send you anything. Not even a card. Sorry. I will make it up to you, I promise. I hope too that Dulcie had a lovely birthday.

I will tell you of my life here over the last month, so that you will know that I am safe. I will admit though that these last few weeks have been a touch more precarious than previously, when we were in camp. The lull that there was in the fighting has been broken, albeit only with sporadic skirmishes rather than any large scale shelling or aerial bombardment.

Several times over the last couple of weeks units from my regiment have been sent to the far side of the Wall into the dread alien landscape that is 'no-man's land'.

On days when we have to face this ordeal we are waken by rattling bugles at four in the morning and assemble in full kit; in silent lines we stand, faces down, in the trenches that run perpendicular to the Wall. We stand in the dark with steaming nervous breath curling from each mouth. It is May and the summer is just over the horizon, but still it seems cold here in the slow quiet dark before dawn. Summer; the season of fear. Oppressive summer; the time each soldier dreads, for it usually means more fighting.

I stand in the line waiting, just like every other man. Hendricks and Thompson in front of me, Jones behind. I always look at Thompson's shoulders for any hint of shake from his matchstick body. His uniform sags over his bony frame and his Enfield seems over-sized flopping atop his backpack. It can be that we stand like this, just waiting, for over an hour or more, as the creeping glow of dawn inches up the sky from the east. At other instances they send us quickly while it is still inky dark.

Then the inevitable 'quick march' is bellowed and the men shuffle forward in the narrow trenches. At this part of the salient the trenches dip low into the ground as they approach the flat concrete of the Wall. And then they descend into tunnels that CENSORED and CENSORED as they go underground. We enter the twilight world of the 'warren'; the maze of access tunnels and service tunnels that spill through the solid mass of the Wall. Sometimes our passage through the Wall is quick and fairly straight forward; we simply traverse it underground from one side to the other. At other times we may head east or west in order to exit at different points, depending on what the objective is.

Again we stand silent, in front of imposing underground metal gates. Waiting. These gates often have the appearance of something from a medieval castle, rusting rivets dot their skin and, depending on where they are placed, some of these doors can be up to CENSORED CENSORED thick. Then the instruction to 'mask up' and we pull the claustrophobic rubber of our gas masks over our faces. Like most, my mask is ancient, its rubber corroding precariously in places. I make sure to rub greasy vaseline, if I have any, into my cheeks and neck to try and maintain the seal, which I would not exactly describe as air-tight. It is a mask that has been used by many soldiers before me and it smells of rubber and mould; a scent that sticks in your nostrils long after you have removed it. It gives one a feeling of claustrophobic isolation that is hard to describe. I know that Thompson hates it so, and in those panic moments of great fear I have to almost fight with him to make sure he attaches his mask well, with all the straps pulled tight. We wear gloves, if you are lucky leather ones, and pull our scarves and balaclavas tight. It is best not to have your skin exposed if you can help it.

We form up into ranks; rows of khaki bound figures: puttee strapped legs above our boots giving us the appearance of mummies with blacked-out faces, eyes like frogs, magnified through the over-sized goggles of our masks. Apart from our differing heights an onlooker might think we were all made from the same cloth. Like automatons, clockwork toy soldiers exiting from some great sinister toy factory.

A great clanging signals the opening of the gates and then we trot through into sloping tunnels beyond and out into the broken trenches. This is sometimes the most dangerous moment. Obviously the exits and gates are below ground but the Germans are well aware of the exit points, despite the continuous attempts to move or hide them. Like us they scan from various slits and vantage points on their Wall. Hundreds of eyes continuously stuck against the rims of binoculars and telescopes, scanning for movement. If they spot you in the first fifty yards or so, then the snipers shots split the air. They don't often waste machine gun rounds at this distance but it is not unheard of. The base of the Wall, where the trenches connect, are often easy targets of shelling so the first bit of trench is always the most exposed; blown to buggery.

No-man's land is an unearthly place and often one's first experience of it is eerie silence. The sniper shots stop quickly as one moves into the trench proper. Hopefully they cannot see you there. The trenches on this exposed side of the Wall are a haphazard fluid affair. They are sometimes no more than broken holes in the ground and we are frequently sent to re-dig them or shore them up, or dig fresh ones. It is best in the deepest trenches; one is always attempting to estimate the angles and wondering if you are really hidden from the heights of their Wall.

It is a place of mist. A mist you cannot trust, for it could simply be the falling dew of dawn or it could as easily be the cloying choking death of mustard-C. One cannot always tell, even by its colour, so as we tramp through the dirt each man unconsciously checks the rubber edges and seals of his mask. They say it has a yellowish tinge and smells of horseradish. Not that one should ever be tempted to smell it, it is always best to be on the cautious side. The gas, once deployed via shells or launch-grenades, has a habit of hanging in pockets for days between the Walls. It hides in shell holes and ditches and mixes with the stagnant water; its poison ever present and ready to blister your skin in painful yellow bulges or worse. It can agonisingly melt your lungs. They say this is like a most painful form of drowning, though most don't live to tell the tale. The gas is the most undiscriminating of weapons and is just as likely to cut down the ranks of either army, despite whoever launched it in the first place. Some say it is the reason we first began to build the Walls in the first place, back in the nineteen-twenties and thirties. The gas is heavier than air and the two giant Walls trap it between their heights. When the weather is windy it can be blown to the summits but mostly no-man's land can act like a wind tunnel; the gales force the gas back and forth along the front, before it finally dissipates.

So no soldier ever dare venture here without a mask. Inhuman masked figures populate this, the most lifeless of places; a place filled with wreckage and bones. The wreckage of millions of the lost lie here, and it is not unusual for your gloved hand to touch a broken skull or femur when you grasp for a hand hold. Countless unburied souls, never recovered; listed as 'missing in action' by the accountants of this war.

No-man's land is also the dumping ground of a billion shells, bullets, rockets and grenades. Unseen and unexploded ordnance fills the earth as far as the eye can see. Any brass shell casing that happens to stick up from the mud is best avoided. How many lives and limbs lost to a simple footfall in the wrong place? Another reason experience teaches one to keep one's head down, if you can, eyes on the ground.

It seems to me that it is a place that abhors life. No birds sing and no plants grow in the gas poisoned earth. Except, well, it seems almost unbelievable, but I saw a poppy when I was last there. A solitary red flower poking its strange bright colour out into the air from atop the languid mud of the trench. It wobbled in the breeze, clinging on as if to announce to the world that life persists. I stood staring at it for a while, through the oily haze of the goggles of my mask, amazed that beauty and life can somehow persist in such a place as this. I wonder if that poppy knew. Knew it was life persisting. Against all the odds. A symbol of hope? I hope that I can persist.

So I sit here in my bunker waiting for the next set of orders, the next set of tasks for us tiny cogs in this slow machine of war. And I think of the small things, the smallest chinks of sunlight and beauty left in the world. Like that solitary poppy in no-man's land you are that chink of sunlight in my world; you are my poppy of hope. I look at the glow of life in your cheeks and eyes in your photograph and hope that you are safe and well. Please write soon my Esme, please ease my mind and let me know you are safe and well. Thinking so much of you.

All my love,

Jimmy

X

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

8th June 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

Still no word from you my love. I just wanted to write again, in case my last letter didn't get to you for whatever reason. Or perhaps yours aren't reaching me? Please know that I am hoping with all my heart that nothing terrible has befallen you and that you are safe, well and still thinking of me. Know that I am still well and, as ever, things progress slowly here at the Front. I suppose I am hoping that your letters are simply lost in the system; lost somewhere between England and France.

Please, please write soon, if only to tell me that you are safe and well my love.

All my love,

Jimmy

X

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Sunday 10th June 1962

Dear Jimmy,

Please forgive me. I am so sorry that I haven't written but the most awful thing has befallen us and I am in despair. I did not know that I could write and tell you and even now as I write these words I don't know if I have the courage to talk of it.

This afternoon we had a funeral my dear Jimmy. A funeral for my poor sister. Yes it is true. Dulcie is gone. I can hardly see the paper as I write; the tears fall from my clouded eyes. Odd that it is only now that I cry about it, as I write to you. Now I cannot control the tears, I suppose I have held them in for so long.

I can scarcely believe it to be true. She is actually gone and only now as I put the words to paper can I realise it to be true. Really true. We have all been in such a mournful state of shock; it is as if our lives have been thrown into a dazed dream; a nightmare so hurtful that one shuts down. It cannot be possibly true that such a beautiful life can be cut short so horribly. Mother can still barely speak. It is only dear Aunt Mathilda that holds us together.

A month ago it happened. On the 11th of May. That date will forever be indelibly etched as a dark stain on my heart. The day before her birthday. A Friday. We were to have a party for her the very next day. On the Saturday. It was all arranged, a cake, the gramophone. Her parcel still lies unwrapped beneath the bed.

I don't see that I shall ever be able to celebrate a birthday again for as long as I live. Suffice to say that my own birthday passed like any other grief stricken day, not to be marked.

She was coming home from school with some of her pals. They decided to go to the high street; I suppose they wanted to look at magazines or buy sweets or something. I imagine them sitting together and giggling in the carriage of the horse-drawn bus. I heard the sirens above the din of the production line and we all walked quickly to the factory shelters, like we always do when there is a raid during a shift. It seems strange to me now, how all of this had become routine. All of our lives hiding from the bombs. You can become blasé about the reality of what it means. That is, until the reality hits you and your family like a massive hammer blow to your very insides.

They say that Dulcie and the girls headed to shelter in the basement of Henley's department store. No one knows if they made it. At first they said it was a particularly big bomb or a cluster of incendiaries. But there was only one explosion. One massive explosion; its size almost unheard of. Henley's gone. Most of the high street gone. There was much confusion about it.

One of the wardens has since told Mathilda that there were no enemy planes to be seen that day. And that the blast happened almost immediately after the sirens began; too quick for it to be bombers. Now the papers are saying it was some kind of new German rocket. Apparently a rocket that they can fire all the way from Belgium to land on London. They can rain death down upon us Jimmy. No warnings, all the way from where you are. There have been two more strikes since and even more innocent people are cut down instantly like they cut down poor Dulcie.

Why our high street? Why her? Why did she have to be there when it struck? Why didn't she simply just go home that day? I wish I had collected her from school, like I did on days when I had an early shift. Oh God.

So today Jimmy, we finally had the funeral. There is no body, so there was no casket. There is nothing left of her. The funeral was for all of those poor girls. All only fourteen years old and every trace of them is destroyed. The vicar said some fine words I am sure, but I couldn't take in a single word she said. I don't suppose mother did either; she just sat in the pew wringing a damp lace handkerchief between her black gloved fingers. I just stared at her distraught fingers pinching themselves and rubbing over and over. None of it is real.

How could those filthy Hun be so cruel? So arbitrary in their ways of slaughter? How can God allow this to happen? I wish someone could tell me Jimmy. Mathilda is right. This war is wrong and truly evil.

I don't think I ever really believed that before. Such a stupid naive child I was to believe that there was something noble, or even honourable about this war. But the fact is Jimmy, that they have been lying to us our whole lives; there is nothing noble or honourable about war. It has no purpose it is merely a senseless pattern of life that we have been duped into following. It makes us all into the lowest form of life possible. It makes us all lower than human; inhuman cruelty is all we can muster. Us killing them and them killing us. To what end?

I no longer care if I sound unpatriotic or disloyal. Why would, or should I show allegiance to a King and country or Government that perpetuates such barbarity?

I do hope you understand what I am trying to say Jimmy. I am so sorry to be so bleak and break such bad news to you. I can no longer see beauty in this world of hate.

Esme

M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

076938964

Ypres Zone

Middlesex Regiment

Sappers Unit 2064

23rd June 1962

Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

Dearest Esme,

My poor love. Please accept my deepest condolences for your loss. Dulcie was such a dear girl and so full of life. I too shed tears, as I read your words. Please be assured to know that I share your pain. I know I cannot possibly even attempt to make things better for you. I know this to be impossible in such times. But I hope it is of the smallest comfort to you to know that my thoughts are with you. I know the feelings of hurt that lie in the pit of your stomach when you suffer loss. I have experienced it myself here and still feel it keenly within me. All the time. I feel it for Dulcie and for you. Please send my best wishes and condolences to your mother and Aunt Mathilda. We must have hope, through all of this. I wish I could hold you.

Everything seems so dark right now. I feel the fear and precariousness of our fragile lives. As you do my love. It is such a dark time for us all. I am afraid to tell you but we too have had our losses. That poor boy Thompson is dead, along with many others. Two days ago we were sent out for an attack; out into the mud as the early summer dawn was creeping through the dank mist. The Captain instructed us to attack a German trench line in front of their wall. Our spotter planes had reported much digging and movement there.

The whole battalion was sent through tunnels in the Wall, there must have been over a thousand of us. It is unusual to send so many in one attack, unless it is a big push. Neither side can suffer large losses if it can help it, so normally the regiment is split into smaller units and these are the ones to fight. So to send such a large contingent must have meant that the objective was seen as vital. Not that any of us knew what the objective actually was. As ever we merely follow orders.

An hour or so of creeping through tunnels and inching our way along the trenches and we came to the part of no-man's land where one of our deep trenches faced one of theirs. Ancient rotting sandbags lumped haphazardly high upon its ragged lip. Troops in front of us with ladders, slapping them against the deep set side of the trench and jumping on the bottom rungs to make them stick in the earth. 'No ladder must slip' was the stern order from the Corporals, for every man has to climb his ladder as quickly as possible to allow the men behind to ascend just as quick. Each man crouches low in the mud next to the ladders, for fear of snipers on their Wall.

This was only the second time, in the five years I have been in such a position, that I have been involved in such an attack, and it is entirely a fearsome endeavour. One that I can only hope that I will never have to experience it again.

Our trench line at this point was only about forty or fifty yards from theirs, but that is fifty yards of open ground. Fifty yards of uneven dirt with virtually no cover; apart from the odd shell hole. Fifty yards where every man is in clear view from the heights of their Wall.

At six-thirty the barrage started. Artillery mounted on our Wall and bigger guns further back trained their shells on the enemy trench line. Years of war have increased the accuracy of such weapons so luckily most shells land on or near their target. Jones and I took turns watching via a long makeshift periscope; barely more than two shards of mirror mounted on a pole. Explosion after explosion sent the earth raining into the air like fountains. Thompson sat low his hands jammed over his ears to block the thunderous sound. Such a bombardment is supposed to destroy their trenches and make them easy to take. But we all know from whispered experience that they, like us, dig deep, and retreat into tunnels and dugouts when a barrage starts. So we knew they would be there to greet us when we went over the top. As they always are.

The time ticked inevitably round and at seven-fifteen silence descended. I looked at my wristwatch; right on time. This war is run on clockwork. Everyone synchronising watches in both armies. We know their timings and they know ours. Any hint of surprise has long been ground into the unquestioning dirt. How can you surprise an enemy that can see your every move from the heights of a monumental wall?

For a minute or two there was no sound but the muffled breathing of nervous soldiers in masks and the muffled shouted orders to check weapons and clips. One has to cock one's head to the side to interpret what the Sergeants and Corporals shout beneath their masks.

Then a slight rumbling from the east; our left flank. I looked again with the periscope and could see the ungainly elongated shapes of the crawler tanks in the distance. Only three of them to support a thousand men. The tanks have an inelegant air about them. They creep like snails over the uneven ground, long wheelbases struggling slowly up and down craters. Tracks grinding and slipping in the mud. Their armour-plating is so thick it weighs them down. I cannot help but think that they are an ineffective weapon in this war, so often stuck in the mud or turrets blown sky high by a shell; like a broken jack in the box revealing itself for the very last time. I used to think it might be good to be an infantryman who can shelter behind a tank during an advance, but now I know to steer clear of them for they are nothing but a creeping target for shells or rocket-propelled grenades. It must be hellish to be stuck inside such a claustrophobic metal box, knowing you are in their sights.

Perhaps if there were more of them; hundreds, they might be able to make a breakthrough, but they are so easily destroyed that production back home cannot keep up. Steel in short supply. This goes for the Germans as well as us.

At seven thirty, right on the dot, a green flare was fired, streaking in an arc above the trench line, each set of eyes watching it's curving smoke trail with fear. The Sergeants sounded their football rattles, twisting their arms furiously, the clacking sound cutting and twisting down the trenches. The signals to go. They used to blow whistles back in the day, but you can't do that with a mask on.

With no words or ceremony we scrambled up the ladders. Thompson in front of me, Jones in front of him and Hendricks behind. Thompson struggled on the ladder, as I knew he would, his rifle and kit getting caught and I shoved him up as best I could as the cacophony of combat once again filled the air. Heavy machine guns rattled hard, their sound echoing the Sergeant's rattles but with a louder more definite edge that clips its way sharply into your ears. Maxims shook and spat their bullets at us, both from various slits in their Wall and from the trench ahead. Ominous tracer bullets zipped like manic fireflies in the mist above our heads, zooming past close from all directions. I could hear the thump and spat of bullets driving into the mud and sandbags around me as I scrambled over the lip.

Once out of the trench we ran as best we could, Enfields held at our waists, bayonets waving as we hobble in our big boots through the uneven mud. It is hard to run with so much kit and gas masks on. The mask is such that when you look forward, as you must when attempting to run, you cannot see your feet, so invariably men constantly trip and fall. Men falling and stumbling all around. Like top heavy skittles tumbling. You cannot tell if they have merely tripped over or if they have been hit. You simply try your best to keep running. I kept running.

When I could finally see their trench about ten yards away, I bent on one knee and fired a shot at the first Hun helmet I saw pop over the lip. The training and drills kicked in and I just did it by instinct. I saw the bullet pierce the metal with a sputter of blood and the grey coated soldier fell.

It is a hideous thing Esme. I have taken a life. For the first time in this war I know for sure that I have caused the death of another man. At the time I could not take it in, too much was happening around me, it was almost surreal. But since, when I think of it as I cannot help but do, I cannot bring myself to feel pride for my country or any satisfaction, I simply feel guilt and a certain numbness. I killed a man. It is a shameful, sinful thing. Plain and simple.

As soon as I had done this horrendous thing a volley of gas grenades fired from one of their rear trenches began to pop all around us. Puffs of white mist bursting everywhere. Automatically I tried to run forward; to reach their trench as this was our objective. I am not a particularly brave man; it is simply that experience told me to run. Any man who runs back, in a cowardly fashion, can be shot for desertion or dereliction of duty. Of course this rarely happens that they would waste a life like that, although I have been told it happens. It is more likely that you would be put on the most dangerous of concrete duty, with not much hope of return, if you are deemed to show cowardice.

I stood to run forward and Thompson appeared, stumbling next to me. He sank to his knees in the mud, dropping his rifle. The soldier immediately next to him was hit, blood spurting high from a wound in his neck. It rained down on us, covering Thompson's gas mask. I grabbed Thompson by his equipment straps and tried to haul him to his feet. But his body went limp as his gloved hand was rubbing the blood from goggles of his mask. He was moaning and couldn't see. The blood just smeared around the glass. I desperately tried to pull him up again but stumbled myself and fell on my back, flailing like an upturned tortoise.

Then he did it. He lay there on his side and ripped off his mask. I was stricken; nothing I could do to stop him. His mad staring eyes looking skyward as his panting breath took in the gas. Very quickly his body began to shake, and froth appeared from his mouth as the toxic poison melted and burned his lungs inside of him.

It was too late, he was as good as dead, so I took one last look at his spasming body; the pain and panic in his wide eyes. His fearful eyes are burned into my memory, as if the gas had burned me too.

I struggled up and ran on. I ran past the last of the three crawler tanks. This metal snail had so very nearly made it but now it was burning; its tracks shed and turret popped. Flames and bodies spilling out of its belly like a miniature volcano vomiting fiery death.

At the lip of the German trench those that had made it this far stood in a haphazard line and fired down upon the scurrying masked Germans below. A few dropped grenades. I just stood there panting. I could see the grey coats regrouping in the rear trench fifty yards further on. I could hear their desperate shouting; harsh unintelligible German words of panic and orders. I was rooted to the spot.

Someone thumped my arm, miraculously it was Hendricks. He was gesturing skywards; pointing at the red flare that was the signal to retreat. I don't really remember running back across those fifty yards of hell, through the din of gunfire and the screams of the unmasked dying. Somehow I made it back to our trench, as did Hendricks and Jones. Hundreds of others didn't. I don't know the true casualty figures, they are always tight-lipped about that, but it must have been less than half of us that marched back through the Wall. No idea if we achieved the objective, whatever that might have been. What was the point?

Once back to our side of the Wall, the three of us just sat in silence. I looked at their dirty tired faces. There isn't much to say after an experience like that. I didn't even need to tell them about Thompson. They knew he was gone. I didn't tell them how he died, there was no point.

Now as I think about it I wonder if Thompson had meant to do it. Meant to kill himself I mean. I didn't even get a chance to search his body for his letter.

Perhaps next time there is a lull and the night teams crawl out into the mud to retrieve bodies and collect any precious kit left behind, they will find him and send his letter home to his family. I know that they try to collect any rifles and ammunition first, but they also collect the masks, boots and uniforms if they can. Such equipment is passed onto new soldiers like hand-me-downs. The Germans do it too and ridiculously both sides often cease firing for a while such grizzly collections are made. Hendricks says he once had to do such a duty at Verdun, and jokes about how he shared a cigarette right in the middle of no-man's land with a young German doing the same as him.

I suppose whether Thompson meant to do it or not matters little. I like to think that that poor pathetic skinny boy is at peace now. No more night terrors or all-consuming fear for him. I am not sure what I think about God or heaven or hell or any such matters. If there is a hell then it is surely here in this space between the Walls.

Like us all I do not know what happens after death. But even if it is simply an eternal unknowing sleep then there is a peace and comfort in that don't you think? An end to suffering for Thompson.

I do sympathise with you so Esme. I know what you mean about this beastly war. It is easy to be unpatriotic in times of despair. But remember it is the Germans who started all of this.

I wish I could be there with you Esme. To hold you in my arms for the first time and sooth your tears. Rest assured that a leave will eventually come for me. Then I will come straight to you. I promise.

Still no word about my poor mother. I wrote a letter to the hospital where she is but there has been no reply as yet.

Please write to me soon Esme. Remember Dulcie for the beautiful, clever girl that she was and be assured that she will live on in your heart. I believe that she too is at peace.

All my love and thoughts,

Jimmy

X

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Wednesday 11th July 1962

Dear Jimmy,

Thank you for your letter and kind wishes. My world seems so different now without dear Dulcie here to brighten it. Like you say in your letter everything is so very dark. I don't even notice the sun and blue of summer.

Mother doesn't speak much and I hear her crying in the night. There is something so very heart wrenching about hearing her sobs, it pulls at my very soul and forces unwanted tears from my eyes too. I don't know what to do for her; it all makes me feel so inadequate.

I am sorry for your losses too Jimmy. I feel for that poor boy Thompson and wonder about his family. They too must feel the agonising ache that is mourning now, just as I feel it in my family. Please know that despite my despair, and the darkness that surrounds us, I still have feelings for you. Those feelings are part of me now, part of my soul, and I could not release them even if I tried. But this makes it seem so much more difficult. I am not sure I could bear more loss. I do not know what I would do if something were to happen to you Jimmy. So now my fear of your letters no longer coming is greater. I wish I could actually see you and spend time with you.

My days seem to tick by in a slow daze dear Jimmy; it is as if nothing is real anymore except the pain of our existence. The hall clock ticks so slowly, the only sound in our silent house.

Every Sunday since, we visit the graveyard. There is no grave for Dulcie or any graves for her friends. Merely a hastily carved wooden plaque with a silver metal cross screwed into its surface. It has all their names upon it; I have traced my fingers over all their names, listed as an alphabet of loss, Dulcie the last at the bottom. The plaque seems ordinary, in amongst all the other plaques and crosses for the lost on the wall of remembrance. As if it is nothing special.

We place flowers and dab tears from our eyes with our hankies. I don't know if this makes us feel better or not. I find it remarkable that, as a nation, we have faced so much death for the last two or three generations and yet we are still so ill equipped to deal with it. We have a casually strange relationship with it. We know it is an ever present threat and it affects all of us. Every single one of us without fail. We see it around us in everybody's eyes and yet it remains something we fear to speak of. We do not know how we are supposed to feel or behave. I do not know how to feel or behave

Aunt Mathilda does her best to jolly us along, to keep living, what else is there to do after all? But even she sometimes has that distant look in her eyes. The look of loss.

She takes me to one side and speaks in hushed tones now and again. Usually when mother goes to bed early, as she often does these days. Mathilda and I wait as she climbs the stairs, her shoulders hunched, retiring well before the summer sun has set. I don't think that she sleeps much. Heavy dark circles surround her eyes and she looks so much older than before.

Mathilda tells me of the women's movement. Of the ideas they have about this vicious war. I am not sure I should talk of it in a letter to you, but I will be frank. I have come to the conclusion that this war is wrong and it should stop. I do not care if this is unpatriotic or the censors see that I have such feelings. This war is CENSORED CENSORED and the Government should CENSORED go to CENSORED. Mathilda is right about these things. There is a lot going on here that I did not know about. There are plans afoot that I cannot speak of and I have surprised myself to realise that there is hope Jimmy. Despite all the horror that befalls us, have trust Jimmy, that there is actually hope. I can scarcely bring myself to believe it.

It is true that other people around the world live lives that are happy and fulfilled, despite what the papers might say. You only have to see an American film to see that they live in peace, that they have colourful lives of plenty. Families together; fathers and mothers who see their sons and daughters grow and thrive. Is it really so unpatriotic to believe that we should have the same improvements to our situation? I sincerely do not think so.

It is so sad that it took Dulcie's death for me to realise the real truth about our situation Jimmy. Mathilda says that your mother knew this and thought the war to be wrong and that is why they took her away. I do not believe there is anything wrong with her; they simply wanted to silence her. I did not realise that Mathilda was such close friends with your mother. She did not speak of it because my mother disapproved. It isn't that mother actually disagrees with anti-war sentiment, but she simply wanted to protect Dulcie and I. Keep us safe. But I am no longer a child, I can make my own mind up about things.

So we have made a pact, Mathilda and I. We are to travel north and seek your mother as soon as we can get the time and as soon as Mathilda can borrow a car. I hope you do not mind us visiting her Jimmy. But Mathilda says that we should know the truth of what she did and what she knows. And, who knows Jimmy; perhaps we could free her from that place and bring her home with us. Wouldn't that be a marvellous thing Jimmy? God knows there doesn't seem to be much that is marvellous at the moment. So we have to cling to anything we can find.

I still go to work every day. I have no choice. There was no option when Dulcie died. Some of the girls rallied around and tried to be most comforting, even Sally came and said sorry and gave me a hug. Not that we are exactly friends again. But I just had to carry on working. Jenkins said he felt for my loss but the war effort must continue and that my 'important work' will go to making sure that we get revenge on the Hun. And he said that if I needed 'comforting' all I needed to do was ask. He patted my bottom and winked at me as he said it. He truly is a disgusting man and I really didn't know what to say to him. I wanted to swear at him and slap his smug face but didn't. We need my pay packet.families'

One would think that having lost my sister that vengeance would be my strongest desire. But, I have to say, that this is far from the case. Now all I can think of as all the munitions roll off the end of the great production line is the consequences. Every shell that I help to make will strip more mothers of their sons. I don't care if they are German mothers. I don't wish anything I do to be the cause of the kind of pain I feel in anyone else. This does not make me a bad person. A pacifist perhaps, but not a bad person. I love my country but I no longer love what it is doing. What it is doing on my behalf. So it is reasonable to say that I now hate my job but continue with its draining drudgery because mother and I need the money. Of course I keep my opinions to myself in public.

I hope that you do not think badly of me Jimmy because of the opinions that I express. I truly hope you understand.

Please write soon and tell me what you think.

Love

Esme

X

M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

Miss E. Wilbraham

41 Whitefriars Drive

Harrow Weald

Greater London

(Defence Zone F)

HA3 5HW

Tuesday 7th August 1962

Dearest Jimmy,

I do so hope you are safe and well. It must be nearly a month since I last wrote to you and I have not had a letter from you since June. I now know how you must have felt when I didn't write to you. Please let it be that nothing terrible has befallen you? I honestly do not think I could bare it. Like you did before when I didn't write I simply beseech you to let me know that you are alive?

I think of you so much. Please, please write soon Jimmy.

Much Love,

Esme

Xx

Madame F. Moreau

46 Rue de Rosamel

ÉTAPLES

62630 FRANCE

15th August 1962

Dearest E----,

Please rest your weary heart. I am alive, although whether we could describe me as well is another matter. I am safe, for now, though wounded.

First I must explain about this letter. You will see that this is not a censored letter. It comes to you via a clandestine underground network that I have discovered. It is of utmost importance that you keep this letter secret. Several, probably hundreds, of people risk themselves to provide this network. H---- told me about it; he confided in me recently. He says that the women of France are working with the women of England to protest against the war. Part of that protest is to communicate openly. To be able to tell the real truth without fear of censorship. It is a huge risk for both of us to communicate in this way, but I for one think it is worth it. I will understand if you do not wish to correspond with me in this way. Of course I hope that you do.

If you do decide the risk is worth taking then please write to me care of the address I have provided above. However, as you will have gathered this is no ordinary postal service. The woman who passed this letter to you will have given you some contact details. Needless to say the names they give are fake and hopefully difficult to trace. If you pass a letter you have for me to your contact then she will make sure that it goes through this wondrous secret network and make its way across the channel to me.

If you do decide that you will kindly continue to write to me please, please be careful. Please do NOT mention any names in your letters, so that if they are intercepted we cannot be identified. Just use initials to speak of people, as I have done, and I will know who they are. It is probably best not to mention too many place names either. Nothing that means they could easily trace us.

I have become very aware of the fact that what I was writing before was drawing attention to myself. I think, in retrospect, I was being foolish and risking us both. I know this now and I am sorry.

Back at the end of June, that bastard Colonel C---- took me in for questioning about it. He sat behind his desk in one of the dugouts while I stood to attention for an hour; the cold sweat of summer nerves on my brow and spine. He had typed copies of our letters scattered over the rough planking of his desk. I couldn't believe it. To think that they would go to the trouble of employing someone to type out our every word in some underground office in Whitehall. Just to weed out the pacifists and the unpatriotic? I suppose that is how they have controlled us for so many years. With fear and deception and by removing those who ask difficult questions. Just to maintain their lies.

I wonder about those typists and censors. They too must be ordinary women. They too must have husbands and sons who have died. Can they really, truly believe in what they are doing? I can only suppose that they are well paid to keep to the official secrets act. That or they live in real fear like the rest of us. A whole nation of fear.

Colonel C---- asked me questions about you, your family and my mother. It was dreadful. Such probing questions about whether we were pacifists and how he didn't like the unpatriotic tone of our letters. He even quoted our letters; things about how you had described yourself as a 'pacifist' and how I had implied that I was the 'brother in arms' to the Hun soldiers. He said I might as well be 'Fritz' in disguise. Kept calling me 'Fritz' with that sneering sarcasm of breeding; 'Private Fritz F----', 'Fritz the Hun sympathiser', things like that. So humiliating, as, I suppose, it was designed to be. He said we were both traitors to the Empire. There were lots of threats to me, and my love, he threatened your family. Implied that they might be watching you and yours. So you need to be so very careful. He even said that men had been shot for less in the past but, as ever, the fact that manpower is short in this war has saved me. For now at least.

I tried not to say much as he questioned me, and in truth, I don't exactly have much to say. He asked me about the 'unpatriotic scum women' who made plots. The implication was that my mother was one of them, though he stopped short of saying that outright. I told him that I knew nothing about it, which is true, but that made him even more perturbed so he brought in one of his lackeys, a man in clean plain uniform with no insignia or rank.

This man was a brute. Shaved head and a thick neck. He stood in front of me with a thin piercing look about an inch from my face, his brow bunched with hate. The tiny black dots in his eyes made me squint with fear. I could feel his wet breath on my chin and I suppose I must have been shaking. His stubbly beard seemed to visibly bristle in front of my eyes.

C---- asked me again what I knew about these women and I said again that I knew nothing. It was then that the brute punched me. His frown didn't move as he did it; fixed expression of routine hate. The punch so hard in my stomach that I doubled and couldn't breath. The next thing I knew I was on the floor and he was kicking me with his heavy black boots, in the same hollow space of my stomach. I can still see the shine on those boots in my mind, as if this soldier was from a different world, a world with no mud and grime. Tears sprang involuntarily and my mind span with the choking pain of it. C---- must have asked me more questions, but I really can't remember. I know there was more kicking and punching and I think I threw up my porridge.

In the end I suppose C---- eventually decided I didn't know anything after all, or perhaps I wasn't worth it. Or maybe he had better things to do. So they dragged me out of there and left me comatose. Later I awoke, dizzy with pain, lying on a shallow bunk in a locked room of Colonel C----'s dugout, the blanket encrusted with some other poor bugger's blood.

When I think about that beating now I realise how careful and controlled it was. The lackey with the shaved head knew exactly how to extract pain but not damage my body so much that it was no longer useful or productive. No blows to the face or limbs, nothing broken. My body is a commodity for them to use at their whim, and if my mind seems to not comply then they know exactly how to manipulate it. Or at least try to. Although, at the end of the day, they don't have to try that hard because they know that I have no choice but to do what they order. The only choice we have is to live or die. Thompson chose the latter.

After a while the M.P.s came and took me away. They confiscated most of my personal possessions, which is why this letter is written in pencil. Strange how sad I felt to lose my precious fountain pen and my last couple of bottles of ink. I imagine that snake Colonel C---- has it right now; tucked in his battle-dress tunic pocket. The thought taunts me. I also find it strange that although I feel such venom for him I know, deep down, that I would not actually wish him any harm. I simply do not understand how men like him can exist. How can he exist when he knows his actions have meant that so many innocent men have gone to miserable pointless deaths? He must know the truth of this. Inside. He is only in such a position of power because of an accident of birth. I sometimes wonder what I would have been like if my family had been one of those privileged few in the upper classes. Would I have been such a callous uncaring officer? I don't honestly know the answer.

Perhaps Colonel C---- assuages any guilt he might feel by claiming to himself that he is merely following orders. If he does then this is a terribly poor excuse; I have done terrible things myself, simply because I was ordered to. Perhaps I will again. And I will have to live with that somehow and I suppose he will also have to live with himself and his sins, especially when his time comes. Will he repent on his deathbed? I know I ask for forgiveness for my sins, despite not being a man of religion.

I have tried to use the excuse of 'simply following orders' to assuage my own guilt for the murderous things I have done. But it is an excuse that doesn't work, not really, if one thinks about it properly. In no way does it make one feel better. I suppose this is why so many men turn to drink or other things to block it out. To try not to think about it properly. I wonder if Colonel C---- sleeps at night without the comfort of spirits.

So unfortunately because of him I no longer have my pen, the Dickens book or your precious picture. I did however manage to keep your letters hidden away; some between my socks, deep in my boots and the rest stitched into the lining of my jacket. I couldn't bear to be parted from your words. Those M.P.s didn't search me that well. I could tell they didn't care; it was just another dirty job that had to do.

Losing my possessions however was not the worst part. Nor was the beating I took. The real punishment was that they sent us for concrete duty on the Wall. Not just me but Sapper J---- and H---- too, although I don't know why they had to punish them as well. I suppose they felt that my closest pals were tainted by my 'unpatriotic fervour' - this is what Colonel C---- called it. I felt such guilt. H---- simply said that he had been expecting that they would do something like that to him, rather than retiring him. J---- though was less forgiving and refused to talk to me.

We were sent back into the depths of the Wall, along with several other men from the regiment. All of us branded as cowards or shirkers or those attempting to desert. The unpatriotic Hun sympathisers.

As we marched, herded by Military Police with bayonets fixed, through the trenches and over the gang-planks of Ypres, it was obvious for all to see who we were. We weren't prisoners exactly, still serving soldiers at the beck and call of our masters, but everyone recognises the pathetic march of the newest recruits to concrete duty. I have watched it myself so many times before. Soon the humiliating jeers of the common soldiers rang out all around us. Their jeers and taunts are not so much to punish us; they seem more like a jarring song that cries 'there but for the grace of God go I!'

I tried to keep my head held high but couldn't help but have a snivelling tear. It all felt so inevitable and pointless.

The concrete teams work on the Wall for twenty-four hours a day. We carried the heavy bags of lime cement, sand and dirty gravel up the many flights of stairs. My back still groans from the pain of it. Or, if we were lucky, we hauled the materials up our side of the Wall via pulleys and ropes and makeshift lifts.

We stood on the exposed top on the Wall, amongst the rubble and dust, mixing the cement and shovelling it into rusty wheel barrows. All the time at the top of the Wall you feel exposed to snipers and shell fire. Bullets whizz past, attracted to our distant movements like moths to a flame. At night we had to work by the light of oil lamps and the trick is not to stand too close to the light as they can probably see you from their Wall. It is especially foolhardy to stand between the light and the distant German snipers eye. There is nothing they like better than a sharp silhouette to take a potshot at.

Soon it is your turn to take to a basket. The basket is a planking construction attached to ropes and pulleys, which in turn are attached to wooden scaffolds. You fill a box in the basket with as much wet cement as you can and then they lower you quickly over the side. It is the most exposed feeling in the whole wide world; the wind whistles at these heights and if your helmet isn't strapped tight it can be whipped from your head. The basket rocks and you can see how high you are through gaps in the blood-soaked planking. One sits as low as possible, gripping your shovel hard; white-knuckled fear.

There is some vague protection in the form of a high nailed and riveted wood and metal barrier on the exposed side of the basket, but this cannot shield you from everything. It has gaps and isn't always high enough to prevent your head being exposed. And besides, this barrier is not thick enough to stop all of the high calibre bullets, and nowhere near thick enough to have any hope of stopping a shell. The weight of the basket is at its limit when it is filled with cement and three men; making the basket safer would only make it too heavy to be effective.

It is a measure of the hideousness of this war that having a basket that works is more important than men's lives. That they would see life as so cheap and expendable. The life expectancy in the concrete teams is only a few weeks at most. Especially during the summer months when the lulls in fighting seem shorter and the skirmishes and bombardments are more intense. So they send the 'shirkers' and deserters or the defiant unpatriotic conchies, the walking wounded or those simply driven insane by the horror of this War. They send us as sitting ducks in flimsy wooden baskets.

It is not a place for the faint of heart or someone who suffers vertigo. I have seen a soldier driven mad by it and throw himself over the side of the basket. His body fell, a raggedy scarecrow in the wind, spinning and bouncing off the wall to a certain death from this height. The relief of death itself is better to some; it seems, than the constant debilitating fear of death. Like it was for Thompson. Can it really be better to choose a death of your own time and making than wait for the roulette spin of a bullet or shell?

If you are lucky then your journey down the wall is quiet, but more often than not an enemy sniper will announce that they have spotted you in their telescopic sight. Their bullets will thump into the face of the Wall next to you as soon as the go over the side; pebbles of concrete and clouds of dust burst out and shower you. Our faces and uniforms soon became grey and white with dust, which, you could argue, is a better form of camouflage against the concrete of the Wall than khaki. But, make no mistake; the rickety basket is obvious to them.

Eventually the basket shudders and sways to a halt next to the gaping hole they want you to patch. The wounds in the Wall are many; they have the appearance of grey flesh that has been burst open from the inside. Often reinforcing wires stick out; bent and rusted in odd angles. The wires can impede the basket and you find yourself having to lean out over the abyss and push the wobbling contraption into a position where you can shovel the cement into the hole. It is best not to look down.

Sometimes your basket doesn't even arrive at the right place. You may find yourself a few yards to the right or left of the hole and you have to frantically signal or shout to the rope team above to move the basket. Of course they are under cover as soon as they stop lowering the basket and only rarely pop their heads out to see.

Once the basket is in position the three man team begins to work as quickly as they can. One man fills a shovel and passes it to the second. He then shoves the cement over the side and into the hole as best he can, then puts down the shovel and takes the next filled one. The third man is the 'troweller'; although he does not have a 'trowel' in the traditional sense. He has a pole with a flat piece of triangular metal attached to the end. With this strange tool he has to attempt to pat the cement and smooth it, as if he is a grocer trying to pat an oversized lump of runny butter. He tries to stop as much of it sliding down and out of the hole before it has set. Obviously a lot of the cement is dropped and dribbles down the Wall in great clumps and gobbets. Everywhere along the lower reaches of the wall there are strange striations and patterns of man-made stalagmites of varying heights, where years and years of cement has fallen and gathered to dry. This gives it the appearance of some great sandcastle built by impish giants. Sometimes these concrete piles can even block the gates below and impede an attack, and steam powered jack hammers have to be employed to demolish a path back out to no-man's land. You should hear the men rejoice when this happens because it usually postpones an attack.

All the while one is in the basket sniper's high calibre bullets ricochet constantly around you and sometimes even shells. You pray that their aim and range isn't good. That they will perhaps have some kind of mercy and won't bother to try and aim properly. I tried to imagine myself in their position, lying in the concrete dust staring through the sight of a long rifle on a tripod. I would aim just above or below the basket. There must be Germans who feel as I do.

It is an irony that for every hole you fill it feels like at least another two or three new ones appear from shell hits nearby. I sometimes wonder how it is possible that these two behemoth walls have lasted so many years. Or how they were able to build them in the first place. How many souls must have perished during that tumultuous time, countless bodies must be entwined in the very depths of stone, steel and concrete; entombed forever.

When a shell hits close by it can seem like the whole Wall is shaking, although in truth it is usually the airburst of the shell that rocks the basket. All you can do is cling tightly as it shakes, like frightened beetles clinging to wind driven leaves, while the dust and rock and shrapnel rain down around you.

We had to shovel and trowel until the hole was filled, or at least as filled as we could make it. Or we kept going until the basket was empty of cement. You hoped that the hole would be filled in one trip but this was never the case. Shell holes can be pretty big. So they hauled you up to refill the basket with cement and down you went again until the hole is filled. Sometimes it could take a whole day to fill one hole. At least they only seemed to send us down to fill one hole a day; so you prayed for a smallish hole.

The rest of the time you were shovelling and mixing the cement or pushing awkward wheelbarrows or hauling the ropes of some other poor buggers in the basket. I have pulled up baskets filled with the blood washed corpses of three who did not survive, or those with screaming wounded. Or those whimpering for their mothers. And even, on occasion, baskets are blown to smithereens by a shell hit. Once a shell hit the ropes above one of the baskets and the three unfortunates dangled desperately for a while before the whole thing gave way and they fell to their deaths. When such things happened we were put to work building new baskets from whatever wood or metal we could cobble together. You tried your best to build them as securely and sturdily as you can; someone's life, possibly your own, could depend on it. But all the engineer-officers who are in charge of such construction care about is how much cement a basket can carry without toppling over. The only consolation is that at least most of this kind of construction work takes place at the level below, out of the firing line.

We slept on rough concrete, sometimes exposed at the top of the Wall, sometimes on the level below. They don't even think we are worth having a billet. I suppose they just think that concrete teams are doomed anyway. And that supposition is mostly correct. Our sleep was so often punctured by rumblings and shakings, screaming, shouts and gunfire.

One night we were woken by a most massive explosion coming from the west of the salient. We all stood and watched the fires through a slit on our side of the Wall. Just around the bell curve of the Wall we could see huge plumes of flame reaching as if to the very heights of heaven above. Great gouts of it rolling, licking and bucking like golden mercurial liquid issuing from the mouth of an immense dragon. The biggest flames I have ever witnessed; like the very flames of hell itself. It felt as if the dragon's breath was consuming the Wall with each exhaling movement. You could feel the deathly heat of it on your cheeks.

When dawn came you could see that one of these new terror-rockets had pierced our Wall. Make no mistake, these are weapons of terror. They can strike from anywhere and at any time with no warning. As you, my dear, know so very well and to your darkest cost. They can strike London and they can strike here. The fear they impart is palpable amongst the men. The tension ramped up; clinging to every man like the thickest mud. As if our boots are stuck in the quagmire of fear.

Even from this far distance you could see the great gouging crack in the structure of the Wall, an enormous jagged 'V' shaped split; smoke still billowing skywards. Unbelievable that they could pierce our Wall after all these years. Hundreds of men climbed like dotted ants high up into the fissure, sifting through the rubble. Not to look for bodies, but simply and desperately attempting to shore up the gap with their bare hands for fear that the German hordes would spill through and overrun our side of the Wall.

Thankfully we were reprieved; no Germans came. I don't know why, everyone expected them. I suspect that this is because they are desperately short of men. Just like we are, just like always. Or perhaps they didn't expect that rocket to hit the Wall. Perhaps they hope to crush us with their new rockets instead of with hordes of soldiers. And the sad part is that they probably will. We have no defence for it, and no real way of fighting back against it. I wonder what kind of panic there must be in those chateaus full of those rich, privileged Generals. And in the bunkers of power in Whitehall and Paris.

But, despite all this, my dear E----, I am saved, for now, along with my comrade H----. We are far from the Wall and the fear. It is a wound that has saved me. It was last week, just after that rocket attack, when H---- and I were lowered in the basket. I didn't even know the name of the third man. Sapper J---- made sure that he distanced himself from us once we were on the Wall, so we didn't see him much. I think that he blamed me for being put on concrete duty. I know he did. The last I saw of him he was raving and half-blind drunk on some smuggled liquor or other. I do not know if he survives. I hope he does for I cannot help but feel responsible for his fate. Poor man.

I was surprised that they didn't send all the concrete teams to help fix the split in the Wall caused by the rocket. It seemed absurd to me that they would continue to order us over the side to fix a measly shell hole when the Wall itself was virtually breeched less than a mile away. But order us they did. Often there is no logic in such a vast undertaking that is war. Often many lives are lost for some whim or absurdity. For myself, perversely, I must be grateful that they insisted on ordering us to continue on concrete duty.

It was night, which is the worst time to be lowered down the Wall. You have to have an oil lamp in the basket in order to see the hole that you need to patch. You might as well wear the brightest miner's lamp on your head and announce with a megaphone for the Germans to shoot away. Any slightest pin prick of light is an easy target. It draws the sniper's eye like the scent of the fox to the hound. So we were hoping and praying that the snipers and batteries would be asleep that night. Our prayers were not heard.

I remember peeping quickly around the edge of the basket as we shook our way down, trying in vain to see if the port holes from which their cannons fire were open. A ridiculously vain hope on a cloudy dark night. There was talk of gas, so of course we had our masks on. H---- crouched in the bottom of the basket, attempting to shield the oil lamp with a bit of dirty sacking.

The first shot hit before we were anywhere near the our destination. The soldier with us slumped forward violently, hitting his head hard on the scaffold railing. He was already dead. H---- pressed his hand in vain on the large wound in his back. A hole the size of a saucepan in his jacket; blood seeping like oil from a sump. Then more bullets, one splintering the wood of the basket, another hitting metal. We tried to crouch low as we could but as I was moving I was hit. My back shifting against the wooden side of the basket and a large bullet went through my shoulder. I found later that many wood shards also travelled through me with that bullet, lining the hole it made in me.

I don't remember any pain, or to be honest, much about anything after that. H---- says that he put out the lamp and then placed the poor dead soldier's body between us and the direction of fire. He says that lots more shots hit the basket and a shell hit to our left. The dead man had five bullets pierce his body apparently. H---- was hit too, but not by a bullet; a shard of metal shrapnel punctured his eye and is lodged in his head. He survives I am glad to say.

I awoke three days later in the field hospital here. Apparently the bullet went right through, splintering my shoulder blade into several pieces and making a big hole in me. The doctors say I should recover but probably won't have good use of my left arm or hand again. They have screwed a metal plate over my shoulder blade beneath the skin. I still have many wood splinters in my body; the basket will seemingly be inside me forever.

H---- is in the next ward; his face bandaged over. They don't know if he has brain damage and I am not sure they care. He seems in fairly good spirits and converses well considering. I think, like me, he is glad to still be alive. His right eye is gone, but they say he should be able to see fairly well with his left. Good enough to fight anyway. That's what they say. It seems that the whole purpose of this hospital is to patch up men just enough to send them back to the Front. That, I have concluded, is a barbaric idea.

This whole bloody war is barbaric. Now that I can write freely I make no bones about it. I know in my previous letters I attempted to temper my views with claiming to be patriotic, but if patriotic means that I condone this stupid senseless waste of life that has been going on for so long, then I am simply not a patriot. In any shape or form.

This war has been senseless ever since the very first shots were fired in 1914. Who honestly cares about some aristocratic duke who was assassinated in far off Sarajevo of all places? All those years ago. The reasons why it broke out in the first place are now lost in the mists of time, at least for ordinary soldiers like us. Those reasons have been replaced by perpetual hate. Hatred of them because they kill us, and they in turn hate us because we kill them. And the fact is that it is the ordinary people who suffer. Not the King, or the Dukes or landed gentry or the rich. Just the ordinary folk like you and I. Why we should suffer for them I will never understand.

It strikes me that there actually isn't much difference between the classes anyway. Not when you come down to the brass tacks of it. I have seen a General blown in half by a cannon shell. It is very unusual to actually see them, let alone actually see them near the fighting, but this man was a particularly foolish toff. He even used to ride around the camps and trenches on a white charger with a sword on his sash as if we were in the Napoleonic wars or something. I suppose it was something to do with his heritage or some such hubris. As if he thought he was carrying on the good name of his family, school and regiment, by trying to show what a brave officer he was. But the fact is that no one cares about his lineage when he is split apart by the smoking shrapnel of a shell. His blood is red not blue, like everyone else. His guts spill just as easily. He was just a fragile human being like we all are.

The only difference between them and us, those upper classes in charge of us, is simply the fact that they are in charge. And that begs the question why? Why should these men of high born families rule over us and send us to our deaths? The only answer to this that I can find right now, as I lie in my hospital cot in the dark of night, writing this secret letter under the blankets with a torch, is that they have the confidence and mistaken belief that they should rule over us. They believe they are born to it. Such a ridiculous notion. The King is no better and no more equipped to lead than any other man. He is there simply by chance of birth.

It is all about the maintenance of their power and privilege. So they ply us with lies and propaganda from the moment we are born. And the real tragedy is that we mostly swallow their pills. We believe them, and if we don't we pretend we believe them through fear. We are like children in the playground joining in with the school bully for fear of not fitting in. We allow them to commit these crimes.

And I know that I could hang for saying such treasonable things, but this war is a crime and those in charge are criminals. Indeed it is the greatest crime ever perpetrated by man.

It is true that there is an underground movement to stop this war, led by women risking their lives for peace, both in England and here in France. As you know, plans are afoot my dear E----.

It would be truly wonderful if you and M---- could go and visit my mother, but please, please be careful. Be careful what you say and who you say it to. It might seem paranoid but I fear that the likes of us are being watched. It is not an idle fear.

I do not know what the future will bring, but I still have hope. Hope that I gain from you. Please write to me soon if you can. I will understand if you feel it is too much of a risk, but please remember despite all that has happened I still cling onto hope. A hope of a better life with you.

All my love,

J----

Xxx

Miss B. Smith

P.O. Box 47853

Hammersmith

LONDON

(Defence Zone D)

W60AF

Monday 3rd September 1962

Dear J,

It was so heartening to receive your letter that I cannot tell you. Please be reassured that I am not frightened to write to you in this secretive way. It is wonderful to know that you are alive and safe. I was beginning to harbour the suspicion that I may have to come to terms with your loss as well. I am not sure I could bear such a loss. Not again.

I was overjoyed when I was passed your letter and had the network explained to me. For obvious reasons I won't go into detail of how the system works or who passed me your letter but it is suffice to say that she had to almost restrain me from jumping for joy in a public place when she whispered your name.

The first thing that I did was to engineer some time alone with Aunt M. I took her to a quiet tea shop and showed her your letter. I was slightly taken aback when she did not seem in the slightest bit surprised, but insisted that we didn't speak of it there, in public. That afternoon she took me to the park where the allotments are. She had a key for a certain shed and we sat inside and discussed all sorts of things that I had no inkling of. M has been closely involved with the women's resistance for some time. It is why she knows your mother so well. She told me about their plans and how they are responsible for many acts which can only be described as sabotage. Of course it was me who was the shocked one, just when I thought that nothing could shock me anymore and that I was no longer such a naive little girl. Oh how the wool can be so easily pulled over the eyes of the young. We are sheep blindly following; blinded by the wool in our eyes; the wool of secrecy and censorship. But this knowledge has sheared me; cleared my vision. Now, finally, my eyes are truly open J.

Your letter and the things that M has told me have made me realise how foolish I had been, especially in my last letter to you, where I was virtually openly denouncing the war; for all the censors to see. I might as well have stood on Hyde Park Corner and called for the head of the King! I am so sorry, my dearest J, if I have put you at so much risk. I feel that it is my fault that you had to suffer so, with that cruel Colonel and the brute he ordered to beat you, and for having to shovel that hideous concrete. So much danger you have had to face, perhaps on my account! You could have been killed. I hope you can forgive me. I did not know what I was doing. Truly. I do so hope you are not in too much pain and remain safe from now on. Please try your best to stay safe.

M has told me such astonishing things, though of course we do not discuss them with mother, and I have not told her about your secret letter. M says it would be too much for her, especially to know that we put ourselves at such risk. Not after poor D. But I have to tell you that what happened to D has made me more determined to do what little I can to stop this war.

So now part of my life must remain secret, clandestine, even to mother. For I know it would break her heart to know that I was at risk. The other morning she asked about you and your letters over the breakfast table. Unusual nowadays for her to take an interest, ask questions or even talk much. It felt bad having to lie, when I knew that she was simply grasping for some kind of normality; some sense that she can care for me and my well-being now that D is gone. A sense that she has purpose.

I have, for now, simply told her that I haven't received a letter from you for a while. I did not know what else to tell her, though eventually I will have to tell her something because I don't want her to think that you are missing or dead. That too would be a little more heartache for her and she is so very delicate right now. She has had the stuffing knocked out of her; it is like grief has eaten away her very backbone and she shuffles and slumps about the house like a doll with ragged seams.

I have learnt so much from M. Did you know that there is a massive support network of women against the war in lots of other countries? Of course you know about the underground in France and here, but they are supported by women in America and even places as far away as the Empire of Japan! Imagine, Japanese ladies taking to the streets to protest about our war! I now realise the full extent of the lies we are fed J. I always knew that information was important and that the government monitored it in order to safeguard us against the Germans. But now I fully realise that it is all simply a pack of lies. Even the films we get to see are only the ones they consider it safe for us to see. M says that in America there are Hollywood films depicting the war and showing its true horror; films that are critical of both sides. She has contacts at the American embassy and they tell her about it. In secret of course.

M says that soon something big will happen. Something that will challenge all those 'toffs' that you talk about who are in charge. Something so big it could end the war, and topple the King and government. I cannot say anything more about it for obvious reasons, except to say that the thought excites me J.

It excites me that despite all that we have suffered there could, like you say, actually be hope for us. We simply must be strong and survive until the time comes.

M and I are planning our trip to see your mother. She is important, and from what M says, is far more involved that you might know. That is all I dare say about it for now. But I will be able to tell you what happened in my next letter.

There have been several more devastating rocket attacks in the city recently. Like the one that killed D. They spread wildfire panic because the sirens can hardly start before they hit. They are so fast the spotters hardly see them. You hear the screaming whine of their engines but before you can even take the sound in it is too late and they have hit. There is a pause and then the whine is replaced by the most massive of explosions. There are now several huge craters around the city. It is scary because, like you, we have no defence against it.

London is but a shadow of its former glory. I never really thought about it before but this must have been a magnificent city back before 1914. So many of the landmarks that people took for granted back then are long gone. There is no Big Ben or St Paul's cathedral, no Buckingham palace, no beauty left. I have seen pictures of these magnificent buildings in the history books, you must have seen them too when you were at school. But yet again those history books lied to us. They used the destruction of so much beauty as a justification of our burgeoning childhood hate of the Germans.

But the truth is that we are all to blame. How much beauty have we destroyed in Cologne, Hannover, Dresden or Hamburg? How much of Paris is gone? Forever.

Silly how I took it for granted that our home should be a place of concrete greyness. The supposed important buildings, such as the Ministry of War, are now great blocks of grey concrete, metres thick. We have all seen them. And even these structures are merely covers, big domes that cap the underground rabbit warrens where the foul bureaucrats plot this war. I can't believe I took this to be normal. Why should they be protected underground while we take our chances out in the open?

From what you say in your letters it is a similar situation at the Front. The ordinary soldier exposed while the high class officers dodge the danger in their bunkers or isolated chateaus far away from the front.

But now, these rocket attacks expose us all. There is a rumour that one hit the Ministry of Communications the other day. It smashed through the imposing block of speckled concrete that is supposed to be a 'bomb-proof' office building. They say many were killed. It wasn't reported in the papers but M says that the whole area of Whitehall has been blocked off for days. So perhaps now that the Germans have this 'super weapon' no-one is safe. No-one.

M says that these attacks are beginning to weaken the Government. That the rising panic on the streets will be hard to control. Previously there was a certain routine to the bombings and people for years have known what to do. Where they stood. And for years they could almost fool themselves that the lottery of death wouldn't reach them. Especially during the long periods with no bombing, when the war was a distant fantasy across the channel where we sent our boys, our sons, to be our brave tin soldiers.

I too believe that there is hope. We have all suffered for so long, as a society and as a nation. I do not think that it is too much too hope that we could have a life together. A real normal life like so many others do around the world. You could have your dream of being a writer J, there is hope that all this will end on the horizon. Just be brave and look out to see it.

Much Love to you dear J,

Esme

Xx

Madame F. Moreau

46 Rue de Rosamel

ÉTAPLES

62630 FRANCE

21st September 1962

Dearest E----,

I am still convalescing in the hospital and I must say that being here is almost like being on holiday, especially compared to the conditions we have endured for the last year or two. I should also say that you shouldn't blame yourself. My letters to you were just as foolish and it is in no way your fault what Colonel C---- inflicted upon me. I brought it upon myself. I forget that I too am still young and sometimes naive.

It was so wonderful to receive your letter. An orderly I have never seen before slipped it to me in the hospital mess tent. I find it amazing that so many are working together to defy the behemoth of this war. Secretly working together. I will probably never see that orderly again but I will make sure that I do not forget the kindness in her young face. We did not speak, but just shared a knowing glance of recognition and compassion as she passed me the envelope. It is such a thing of hope to know that strangers understand and care so much that they would risk themselves just so that ordinary folk like you and I may correspond.

I lie in my cramped hospital cot as I write this, relishing the feel of the freshly laundered sheets that finally came today. I haven't had clean sheets for weeks, not a very hygienic or sanitary thing I know. But here in the hospital things are difficult as they are everywhere else. The food is standard fare for soldiers and you can go for days without any meat and days without seeing hide nor hair of a doctor. Medical officers are in short supply which, I suppose, is good for H---- and I. The less we see of them the less likely we are to be sent back to the front.

This hospital is mainly run by the French, with mostly French patients, which is better than being at one of the tented hospitals back nearer the Wall. No idea why they sent us back here. A stroke of luck I think.

We just see nurses and orderlies, mostly they are French and, apart from the odd individual, have little understanding of English. I haven't seen any W.R.V.S. from England. The French nurses seem to spend more time with the French wounded than us. I suppose that's natural. H---- says it is best to act as if we are more incapable than we really are when the M.O.s do come and I tend to think he is right.

Sometimes the French nurses are kind and let some of us walking wounded out for some fresh air. The British M.O.s don't like it but the nurses don't seem to care as they are not part of the British army. The chain of command here seems a bit confused, what with mostly French in charge. When British officers do appear I have heard stilted arguments born from language problems. The British tend to simply shout slower and louder in an attempt to make the French understand. This invariably fails, causing resentment, so the French simply do what they want anyway. Hence the nurses ignore orders and take us out when the British officers are not around.

We walk slowly together in a little huddling troop; shuffling along with our khaki greatcoats and blue greatcoats draped over our threadbare hospital gowns and slippers. British and French comrades in arms, sharing cigarettes as we walk. Our nurse escorts pushing bath-chairs through the dingy narrow French streets to the nearby beach. The local women smile as we pass, as they hang out faded washing or scrub their weary doorsteps, but they hardly ever speak. Not even a jaunty 'Bonjour' in that high lilting voice the French have. Their smiles have that resigned mournful look that you see everywhere. I imagine we remind them of their own sons or husbands or sweethearts; those lost or those in the French forces at the front.

H---- holds onto my free elbow as we walk; he still doesn't see so well with his good eye and my bad arm is still in a sling. I do not feel so bad now, less pain, but my fingers still resolutely refuse to move. I have no feeling in them; it is almost as if my left arm is not my own. The doctors think that I should eventually regain some feeling and use of it, but at the moment I don't mind. I am alive and my crippled arm and shoulder is the reason I am still here and not sent back to the front. At the last medical inspection it was deemed that H---- and I are yet to be considered 'viable soldiers' so have luckily been given more time as reprieve. Convalescence. The doctors are waiting for H---- to be able to see well enough and for me to be able to usefully grip my rifle.

It is obscene really that we are judged by the doctors in this way. It is as if we are deemed to not be useful human beings unless we can fire a weapon. One doctor, a Major, even suggested that I simply strap my Enfield through my sling. 'It is your right hand pulls the trigger after all,' he said in his posh accent. Their accents even seem to sneer, as if they use their voices to look down upon us. They don't seem to see us as real people at all.

I am hoping that it is not beyond hope that H---- and I both get a medical discharge. Or at the very least get a convalescence leave. It would be so wonderful to be sent back to England so that you and I could be together, even if it were just for a short time.

H---- and I strolled along that deserted French beach. A few of the other patients wandered about on the sand too and a few sat in their whicker bath chairs near a cafe, with their amputated stumps like odd lumps under grey blankets. I watched them drinking what the French call tea, or strong black coffee, as they stared silently at the waves. The nurses not bothering to even fuss over them; they simply sat on the sea wall smoking dark tobacco. I suppose they are long in the tooth these French nurses, and know that we are just another bunch in a lifetime of broken men to pass through here. So fussing or attachments seem pointless to them.

As I surveyed the scene and breathed in the fresh salt air it struck me that we could have been holiday-makers or some such. I have never had a holiday. Not a real one. The nearest I have had is the trip I made to Brighton, where I met you.

Odd to think of the forgotten luxury of a holiday. Although I don't suppose that anyone has taken a holiday in these parts of France for fifty years or more. It makes me wonder now as I think on it. I wonder about what you could describe as a 'real life'; a 'normal' life. The life we lead cannot be 'normal' by any stretch of the imagination; although so very much is done in our name to convince us that it is perfectly normal. I suppose that most people in America or Russia get to have holidays. Even Africa or India. Carefree days with their families on beaches such as that one I walked with H----.

I mentioned it to H---- as we strolled and he told me of his boyhood. Of the one holiday he had ever had. His father was on leave and took them to Blackpool. There was a tower there in those days and they played on the beach and at a funfair. Back when it was beyond the reach of German bombers. He even giggled at the thought of it. We stood together on that deserted beach, his hand on my arm, with the sun on our faces and breathed the salty ozone of the sea. All was quiet for the moment, all but the few scraggy seagulls, the breeze and lap of the waves.

But then it came, the war, back into our senses. The feint distant rumbles of explosions somewhere far off. I could see the chugging steam of the warships and freighters in the distance and wondered if men like H---- and I could ever truly escape it. It will always be with us. Inside and out. We are forever scarred by it, like so many before us. I looked back at those poor souls drinking tea. They are those who survive only to roam their homelands in squeaky wheelchairs, so often to be ignored or patronised. Deemed as almost useless, they are constant embarrassing reminders of the horror of this war. Discarded ghosts on wheels.

We have spent lives directed by others since we were born. It makes me wonder if there ever was such a thing as freewill. Is freewill a mythical thing when all lives are consumed by war? You called us 'tin soldiers' and that is exactly what we are; childish pawns for those fools to direct. Children. Foolish children. They push and pull us around on their maps, whole regiments like chess men, with no real goal or end in sight. A game. They play this game merely to avoid the unthinkable, to avoid giving in, for losing this war would be beyond their comprehension. Which, of course, means they are children too. These men who run this travesty of life are simply fighting it to prove their manliness. To show the world that they are not losers. Win at all costs rather than be seen to be a sore loser. Such a childish notion. They bully us smaller children into doing their bidding just to show their prowess.

They fear defeat and its consequences, when the truth is that we were all defeated long ago. Both sides. And the loser is humanity.

I truly hope that the women of this world can show their true mettle; show their true fight. Perhaps they are the real grown-ups. Perhaps they can end this war and perhaps, just perhaps, it will be their turn to be in charge. Surely the mothers of the world would not make such foolish decisions? Why would they ever want to send their sons and daughters, the fruit of their wombs, to die in the senseless grinding abattoir that this war has become? I do not feel they ever would.

H---- and I sat on the stony wet sand eating our stale sandwiches and joking about making a run for it. About how we were prisoners on death row, even though there were no guards around us on that beach. About how we could steal and boat and row it to Spain or Africa. It was the first time I have laughed for such a long time. Guffawing out loud at the thought of a one armed man and his half-blind comrade pathetically trying to row a boat on the open ocean. I do not suppose we would have got very far.

I don't think I have laughed, or perhaps even smiled that much, since I met you my dear E----. I smiled then, if only to myself, at how enchanting you are.

Please let me know what happens when you visit my mother? I do think of her so very often. Her and my long gone father.

So I continue to wait, like much of my time here. Waiting for a better time in my moments of reprieve. I wait to see your eyes again. You are my hope. I wait for your letters. Stay safe and strong my E----.

All my love,

J----

Xxx

Miss B. Smith

P.O. Box 47853

Hammersmith

LONDON

(Defence Zone D)

W60AF

Friday 5th October 1962

Dear J,

Thank you for your letter. It is so heartening to know that you are still safe and not sent back to the ghastly Front. I do hope your wounds are healing well and that you are not in much pain.

I must tell you straight away the news of our journey to see your mother. It was Sunday last that Aunt M and I drove the long journey north. She borrowed a little green Austin from one of her women friends and the old thing fairly rattled as we travelled the winding country roads. Some might describe it as an 'old banger'; it was ancient like most cars that are privately owned. It must be thirty years old. M drives it as if she were in a race or rally, often not even bothering to slow down, even for the corners. She said she would love to drive one of those new American cars, an Oldsmobile or a 'Chevvy'. I secretly wonder though if she has ever actually been taught to drive; it wouldn't surprise me if she didn't actually have a licence. I don't mind telling you that I spent much of the journey with my fingers gripping the stuffing coming out of the sides of the worn leather seat.

M has so much life in her despite the tragedies that have befallen us. It was almost fun despite my fear. Like an adventure. I haven't had many adventures. Apart from when we were evacuated and the odd trip to places like Brighton, it made me realise I have never really been anywhere J. Just like you I have never had a holiday. Most of my short life spent in and around dirty grey London. Just driving North sparked a feeling I did not know that I had. A sort of 'wanderlust' I suppose you could call it. There is so much of the world that I only know from books. And that little modest trip made me want to see it. To see it all with you.

M says she has plans to go to America. Wouldn't that be amazing? I would so love to see New York with its glittering skyscrapers and colour. It must be so very glamorous. M wants to meet up with the organised women there; the ones protesting openly against the war. She doesn't exactly know how she will do it, but, she says, people do escape with help, just like Phillip fantasised about when he wooed me. Apparently they go from Liverpool or Glasgow and then perhaps through Ireland. Did you know that there are Catholic Irish Nationalists campaigning against the war and that they commit terrorists acts against the Empire? M says they help smuggle people to America. Smuggled on the freighters making their return journey across the Atlantic. She is so full of hope. I take so much strength from her it is hard to describe.

It is now nearly five months since our dear D was taken from us and I know that I must continue to be strong. Especially for mother and also for you my dear J. I do not honestly think that I could have had the strength to carry on without Aunt M.

Anyway, back to our trip. It took us all of six and a half hours to reach the vicinity of Newcastle and arrive at our destination. Despite my description of Aunt M's hair-raising driving, the car itself as you can imagine, wasn't especially fast. We had made sure that we left very early because we knew we would have to make the round trip in one day, as I had to work the very next day.

Once there it took us a while to find the village and the hospital where your mother is, but when we did it soon stripped away the small sense of adventure that I had flippantly gained during the drive. The hospital was such a very grim place; all dark corridors and dampness everywhere. It is most unkempt, as if no one ever cared or looked after the place. Not exactly what I would describe as clean. You would not like it J. And strangely it seemed to be very understaffed. There were lots of women patients there, but very few nurses. The patients roam the corridors in dirty hospital gowns; the lucky few had dressing gowns and slippers, but many seemed to be cold and disorientated. I ran my fingers along several of the dusty radiators and it was obvious that the heating was clearly not working. I am sad to report this to you J, but I must be honest and tell you that it is one of the most dreadful places I have ever seen.

No one challenged us as we walked in; there was no one at the reception desk. We asked the first nurse we encountered about your mother, but she simply dismissed us with a scowl and a flick of her wrist. She was too busy anyway, restraining a patient in distress. The woman was dribbling and moaning and flailing about; dried sick on her hospital night gown and a smell I cannot even begin to describe. It is disgusting that they should be left to rot in their distress. I wanted to have words with the nurse, I was so angry; wanting to question her about how the woman could be treated so inhumanely, but M dragged me away saying that there was nothing we could do. In the past, before D went, I would have been less forthright in rocking the boat in such a situation, but now all I can feel is the injustice of it all welling up inside my chest.

So many of the women here are in such a dreadful state. Like the men you describe at the Front who are driven mad by the horror and fear, on the home-front we have a horde of women driven mad by grief and loss. There must be places like that hospital hidden away all over the country. That's what M said anyway.

It is hideous that it is something that remains unsaid. These women are another forgotten tragedy of this war. So many forgotten tragedies.

I apologise J, for ranting so. You must want to know about your mother. Eventually we found her, another nurse showed us to the ward where she is. The nurse was curt and rude, saying that strictly speaking only relatives were allowed to visit. M was simply calm and insistent and we were eventually allowed in.

Your mother was lying on a bed at the far end. Luckily this ward seemed quieter and calmer than some of the others. It was mainly older women lying still; sniffing and mumbling, as if they were simply waiting to die. So sad.

It is hard for me to describe J, but I must. Your mother was strapped to the bed with buckled leather restraints. The stern nurse stood watching as we sat and held her hands. She looked so thin and M said afterwards that she looked so much older than before. Her face has a gaunt look, as if worry itself had been drawing lines across her delicate cheeks. I could see how she must have been so beautiful when she was younger. M says she was the most vibrant person she ever met. It pains me to tell you that this is no longer the case.

For a while we simply watched her sleeping, and then, when the nurse moved off to deal with another patient, M leant in, stroked your mother's hair and whispered for her to wake up.

I had feared that she would not be fully lucid but she recognised M straight away and smiled such a smile when she opened her eyes. As if her younger self was bursting through in her smile. Her eyes are bright; full of knowing J, despite her otherwise disheartening appearance. I could see your eyes in hers.

We whispered quickly in hushed tones as the nurse was fussing at the other end of the ward. M introduced me and I explained to her about you and your letters. She was most gratified to know that you are still alive and safe for the moment. I showed her a couple of your letters. Held them for her to read. Her eyes misted over and I am not sure she could take in your words but there was recognition. As if each word of your neat inked handwriting were a connection between you. I could see the love that she has for you in her eyes.

M asked her about why she was there and what had happened. The shocking fact is that there is nothing wrong with your mother, she has no mental disorder and should most certainly not be restrained in an asylum. She is there, dear J, because she was deemed to have resisted the government, protested openly against the war. Apparently she threw eggs at the Prime Minister. A silly and unbelievably small thing. I couldn't believe it. That they would send her away for such a petty thing.

Once she had been arrested, I am sorry to say, she was beaten. Terribly I think, perhaps to try and gain information, although I don't know the details. To think, both you and your mother beaten like that, for no justifiable reason. They accused her of plotting against the government, of being a 'ringleader' of the WRA - the Women's Resistance Army. They called her a terrorist. She was instrumental, they said, in some plot to assassinate top government ministers.

But the fact is they had no real evidence of any of that. They tried to beat a confession out of her, tortured her I think. But she was strong, so unbelievably brave and strong, that she wouldn't admit to anything or put any of her friends in danger. It brings a tear to my eye that she suffered so but still had such strength of character.

I do hope you don't finding this too distressing to read about my dear J. It upsets me when I think about her getting beaten so, and you getting beaten so, and I wonder what I would do in such a situation. Would I be strong enough to resist?

So in the end, as there was no evidence against your mother, apart from a solitary egg, all they could do was to shut her up and make sure she couldn't be a nuisance anymore. So they had her certified as insane; some cooperative doctor paid off to sign the forms. And they sent her to that travesty of a hospital, with instructions to be restrained at all times, so that she cannot escape. She is imprisoned without any fair trial. It is inhumane and barbaric. Just for having views contrary to the powers that be. Just for throwing an egg. It is almost unbelievable.

Your mother told us of what her accusers had done and what they said about her, but she refused to tell us anything of whether any of their accusations were true. She told us that it was probably best that we didn't know.

M and I, though, do believe it to be true. I think she is a leader of the resistance to this war. I believe your mother to be a truly heroic woman. Perhaps she is the bravest person I have ever met.

I asked her why she had thrown the egg; such an obvious act of defiance, one that was bound to get her arrested. It seemed almost silly to me. She just laughed and said that she simply had not been able to resist it. She had been standing with a group of women outside Downing Street. When the black car came with the Prime Minister supposedly ensconced inside, they began shouting anti-war slogans and pulled out painted banners denouncing the government. As the car passed and the policewomen began to move in to break up the crowd she pushed to the front and threw one egg. It didn't even hit the window she said. She doesn't even know if Macmillan was even in the car, she certainly didn't see him, not with its blackened out windows. But that act made her a target and she was the one arrested from the crowd. The police, she says, walk a tightrope. They cannot arrest all of the protesters for fear of stirring up support with more women. They have instructions to maintain a facade of free speech. So they arrest infrequently. More often they simply force women to disappear, like they have done with your mother. Large numbers of arrests would attract attention to the cause which the government wants to deny even exists.

Soon though our conversation with your mother was hindered by the ominous hovering of the nurse. She announced that she had telephoned the doctor to come and speak to us. M whispered in your mother's ear, asking if she wanted us to take her away from that place. She simply smiled and each of her restrained hands gripped our fingers. "No," she said aloud so that the nurse and the approaching doctor could hear, "I am perfectly fine here. Please send my deepest love to J and look after him for me. It was so very kind to visit,"

The doctor brushed us aside, asking us to leave and saying that as we did not have permission to be on hospital grounds she had a good mind to call the police. We said goodbye to your mother and each of us in turn kissed her cheek. As we walked down the ward, I turned back to look one last time. The doctor had rolled up your mother's sleeve and was injecting her, with what I do not know. I had a tear in my eye.

I know that describing her situation must be distressing for you but I hope it is of some comfort for you to know that she is alive J. And despite what they have done her mind is as sharp as ever. I am so sorry that I have to tell you of the nature of the place where she is imprisoned. And it is a form of imprisonment, make no mistake. It saddens me so that we do not know what will become of her.

We can only hope that the war can actually end and then we can free her. Or that we can escape somehow and take her with us. Perhaps, like M wants to, we could all travel through Ireland; catch one of the secret refugee boats that take people to America. Perhaps we can actually run away J, all together, you and I, your mother and mine and Aunt M; pack our things and cross the Atlantic? Wouldn't that be marvellous? To have new peaceful lives.

For now I am back at home and continue my routine of work and looking after mother. Aunt M has vowed to stay with us and is in the process of selling her assets in Kent so that we will not be so badly off.

She has taken me to meetings of women. Secret meetings that mother does not know about. It would be too much for her. I cannot reveal here the kind of actions that we discuss. But M and I have made a promise to each other. That we will do whatever we can to help the cause and stop this foul war. To continue in your mother's proud footsteps. At the same time we are realistic and know that we have to look after our own and those dear to us. And please know J, that this promise and our plans include you.

Stay safe J and we will meet again, I promise.

Much Love,

Esme

Xx

Madame F. Moreau

46 Rue de Rosamel

ÉTAPLES

62630 FRANCE

16th October 1962

Dearest E----,

Thank you for your letter, it was so kind of you and M---- to visit my mother. To be honest I have very mixed emotions about it. On the one hand I am pleased that she is alive, has all her faculties and, in strange way she is safe, away from the bombings and rockets. On the other hand there is a certain despair in my heart that she is a prisoner in such a foul place. I had tears when I read your words. I am glad that she knows that I am alive. Sadly though, I cannot help but dream of her strapped to that awful bed. We must find a way to get her out E----. We must find a way out of this awful situation, all of us. America. America is our hope now.

It is quite strange here in the hospital right now. Another continuing odd lull in things. After your letter was delivered by a nurse whom I had never seen before and I devoured every word I realised how quiet it is here. We haven't seen any doctors of officers, or indeed any soldiers, apart from the wounded, for days. It seems they have all been called away. It is as if we are just ordinary patients in an ordinary French hospital.

H---- and I sat in the courtyard yesterday beneath the oak tree. 'Chene pédonculé' our nurse calls the tree. I call her 'our nurse' for she is the only one who seems to fuss over H---- and I. Her name is Aurelie. I think that is such a pretty name, although I have to be honest and say that she is far from a pretty girl. She is young but has the most rotund figure and her uniform stretches over her frame like small sheet stretched over a barrel. H---- finds her most comical, he says her round face is like a piglet's face. So he has taken to calling her 'piglet', I tell him not to be cruel but she smiles at his jests and I do not think she knows what he means. Her English is stilted and faltering.

A lot of the nurses are reticent about making much personal connections with their charges, especially the older ones. They have seen soldiers like us many times before and we have become routine to them. A routine of self-preservation I suppose, for they fear that an affection for some poor Frenchie or Tommy will only lead to heartache.

Aurelie is different to this, perhaps because of her youth, or perhaps because she realises that these poor crippled men in her care will be the only men she will ever get to care for. To have affection for. She even arranged for H---- to be moved into my ward, next to me. So kind.

The French patients don't seem to care for her, I am not sure why. Mostly they are affable chaps, despite the fact that back at the front there is sometimes rivalry. J---- used to always call them 'Frogs' or 'Poilu', he said that meant they were 'hairy bastards'. I suppose he thought that was funny.

Anyway, Aurelie seems to spend more time with us than them. I told her the tree was an 'English Oak' but she insisted that the oak was a native of France so therefore it was a French Oak. 'Chene pédonculé' as she calls it. Funny how ordinary it seemed, the two of us to be joking with her, in the chilly October sunshine. It seems so long since I felt ordinary. Not since my last leave when I met you. Although that feeling made me feel extraordinary. It seems so long ago. It is a feeling I hanker for E----. I suppose I simply hanker for you.

Aurelie kindly brought us a chess set from home and I have been teaching H---- the moves and strategies of the pieces. We sit on the edge of our cots with a small trolley between us and H---- wrinkles his brow in concentration. I do not think that this is because he is calculating the moves in his mind. It is perhaps because he has to concentrate to distinguish between the pieces. I think that perhaps the eyesight in his good eye is worse than he lets on. His pride causes him to knock things over and spill things and at meal times he always has constant dribbles of gravy or soup in his beard. Aurelie fusses and wipes his chin but he gruffly pushes her away.

H---- said that the war is like a game of chess, to which I replied that that was an obvious statement since it is clearly a game of combat. But, he explained, that wasn't what he meant. He said that there is some unseen hand, reaching down to move the pieces. Shift the armies across the French and Belgian fields, and with each move the stalemate gets deeper. I don't feel that I can believe in fate, but I can understand his description. The powerlessness of fate and its unseen hand. Perhaps there are real Greek gods, up there on some celestial Olympus, playing a game of chess with all of us down here, just for their own amusement. And perhaps we individually acquiesce to their whims, despite our capacity for freewill, because we fear that if those gods on high are no longer amused then they will tire of their game and they will play it out quickly to its conclusion. The inevitable check mate. And which side might they choose for that final throw of the dice? Black or white?

Let us just pray that it doesn't come to that. Just not yet anyway. But at the moment, as there is a quiet about the place, it feels like the calm before the storm. There is a foreboding in the air. It has become so relaxed here in the last couple of days that I even dare to sit on my bed and openly write you this letter in full view, in daylight. It seems they cannot even afford to spare the necessary M.P.s or M.O.s to watch over us. This means that they must, once again, be massing at the Front. A massing perhaps even bigger than before. Something big is going to happen.

I suppose that H---- and I must count our lucky stars that for now we are forgotten, along with the other amputees, broken cripples, madmen and those slowly dying of gangrenous infections. There is a Frenchman in the cot opposite me who no longer has his face. His cheek caved in by some calamitous explosion or other. His skull exposed on one side in skeletal fashion. Half of his palate is missing, so he just lies there moaning and constantly dribbling. He has to eat as best he can through a paper straw. What future for him poor soul?

We are useless forgotten remnants of what used to be human beings. No longer of use to the machine of war. At least that is what H---- and I hope. What a terrible thing to hope. That we are so pathetically broken that we are redundant.

I am healing slowly but there is such an itch, deep in my shoulder wound. Constantly gnawing at me; a reminder of where I am and why. But I daren't scratch it ever because I constantly worry about infection. It is rife here and if it gets into my wound I could be done for. I asked Aurelie why they don't wash the men, or disinfect the ward, but she just shrugged her shoulders and rubbed her thumb over her fingers. The international gesture for money; a rubbing of dirty fingers and thumbs. Dirty money. The governments of Britain and France deem it a waste of their dirty money to buy soap and disinfectants for this hospital. There are barely enough anaesthetics, painkillers and bandages to go round as it is.

I look at the oak leaves swishing around in the breeze through the dirty window; brown and crumpling. They form the whirlwind pattern that use to fascinate me as a child. Swirling and rising in the centre of the wind born shape, before hesitating and falling again. The smallest ordinary signal of winter's approach.

I remember standing waiting for the horse-drawn bus as a child. Standing in the gathering folds of mother's skirt, the warmth of her legs on my shoulder. Perhaps I was four or five, I can't be sure. You know, outside Woolworth's on the high street. It must have been a cold day, my gabardine mac belt tied tight and hand knitted balaclava pulled down and tucked into the collar of my thick grey school shirt. The sounds of the street muffled by the itchy wool.

In a corner by the green grocers some dishevelled brown paper bags had fallen, the kind the grocer filled with mud encrusted potatoes or swedes. They swirled and floated as if by magic, trapped in the fluid wind born pattern of winter. It seemed miraculous to my childish eyes, as if the bags had fairies trapped inside them trying to fly upwards and escape only to be dragged down by gravity and the effort of the task.

Normally these simple paper bags were denied any freedom. They were sown together on a piece of string next to the fake grass slope of the vegetable display. Clear as day I can see in my mind's eye the green grocer rip a single bag from the string and expertly shovel carrots into it with the shiny silver scoop and dump the packet on the scales. The way she would ostentatiously roll the filled bag over and over between her hands to give it twisted paper ears and seal it up fascinated me too. Such a quick expert movement, over in a flash as she swapped the bag for a sixpence and rifled for change from her beaten leather shoulder bag. Wrinkled white knuckles in fingerless mittens.

The floating paper bags must have been ripped from the string by the wind. I think perhaps, as I child, I thought they were making a bid for freedom, only to be trapped in the deadly miniature whirlwind.

I don't really know why I remember that now, except I suppose that your meeting with my mother has stirred these feelings within me. If I was ever happiest, apart from the distant fleeting moments I spent with you last year, it was back then; a small child bathed in the radiance of my mother's unconditional love, shielded from the darkest parts of our existence. Just like her flowing woollen skirt shielded me from the wind. They say ignorance is bliss and the carefree magical innocence of a child can be so very blissful. For them life should be all wonder and play and no work or fear. I hope I can survive to experience that again with a child of my own. A child with you. A child my mother can be a grandparent to. A child with hope of a future beyond the swirling whirlwind that we cannot control. A child with the glowing free wings of a fairy set free from the trap of a dirty brown paper bag writhing helplessly in the wind.

Although now, I think again of how the hope of fatherhood brings fear. Fear of the future. I suppose I simply dream of a family beyond this war.

Sadly, H---- told me this morning that his mother has passed away. I don't know the circumstances, he wouldn't say. He found out just before we were wounded and sent here. I asked him why he didn't tell me before and he just shrugged his tired shoulders and stared out of the window. After a while he blinked his good eye and simply said "Now I am alone..." His last link to some kind of stilted normality is gone. His last link to any chain of human feeling, love and closeness.

"I am a tired old broken man," he said, "out of step with this time, I don't fit..." His voice was flat like an endless beach. A rough pebble that lies alone in amongst the millions of wind-blown grains of sand swirling around him.

I didn't know what to say so I simply hugged him. I am sure he would have sobbed if his eyes stilled worked properly. Instead he simply sighed a slow deep sigh; his face against my shoulder. I could feel the damp human warmth of his breath through my hospital gown. Self-consciously I looked around the ward but no one was paying attention. We were alone in moment. He is right that we are alone inside our flesh shells. But he forgets that we are all alone together. Touch and understanding can show us this. I will look after him as best I can.

I don't know how to explain it to him. I do not think I have the words; but I like to believe that we are not alone. Despite how many loved ones they strip away from us; we are all beings of the same flesh after all. Even those whose hearts seem eternally hardened; frozen by the harsh winter of the times that we live in. Those who take us from our mothers to send us to our deaths. Even those must have a kernel deep inside them that still desires the love and comfort of their mother; of someone close to touch them and understand. Just like H---- needs someone close to understand. I cannot believe that anyone truly forgets that desire, however hard their heart has been frozen. Beyond the permafrost it is there deep within us all, within every man, woman and child upon the face of the earth.

After that Aurelie brought us French coffee. I have gained quite a taste for it despite its bitterness. They drink it black here in tiny white cups with no handles. I have to be careful I don't have more than two cups. I like the cutting taste; it goes well with black tobacco. She says it is imported from North Africa.

I drifted sipping it. Imagining myself as a writer ensconced in some Moroccan cafe wafting myself with a panama hat; you sat by my side drinking lemonade in some floaty chiffon dress. Your eyes sparkle beneath a wide straw hat as you lazily watch the colourful world go by.

The coffee is quite strong; the caffeine can be quite a sleep destroyer, and sleep here seems strangely harder to come by. I suppose it comes with finally being relaxed. For the first time in months we are without immediate fear. The fear is still there; fear of being sent back, but it has subsided. Any air raids are aimed at the shifting temporary docks, which is away from here. At the front the constant fear is exhausting, mentally and physically.

It fascinates me; the connection between the mental and the physical. How our state of mind can so affect our state of body. So unless you are completely consumed by it, like Thompson was, the fear tires you so much that you can sleep wherever you are. You see men snoring like infants in foxholes and trenches, their cheeks resting in the mud as if it were the finest down pillow. Now though, when I have a relatively comfortably hospital cot with a real pillow, I find it harder to sleep. And my new found affection for coffee doesn't help.

H---- hates the coffee, but still sips away when Aurelie offers it. I have a sneaking suspicion he rather likes her. It goes without saying that the tea here is abominable, almost as bad as at the front. I am afraid the tea you sent is long gone.

I am beginning to daydream of a future for us E----. A future where we can travel and live in peace. I suppose the idea that we might escape to America has fuelled my thoughts. If it is true that others have done this then it must be possible for us. I would like us to go somewhere warm, near the sea. Perhaps California. All of us in some cabin of a house.

I like to think we are family now, thrown together by circumstance. Would you call it fate? An extended family; myself, mother and you, Aunt M---- and your mother. Once we are settled beyond this war I dream of writing and travel. Perhaps the Caribbean. Or perhaps I am dreaming just a bit too far? Stretching my hopes beyond that which a humble young man such as myself should hope for. Just to live in peace, with you and raise an ordinary family would be enough. With just enough money to get by. That surely isn't too much to ask for?

It seems a long way off from this cold damp hospital with its cockroaches and slugs. Funny how this seems like a palace compared to all of the other places we have been billeted. Always cutting the cloth to suit; I unthinkingly bend my expectations to circumstance.

There are rabbits in the courtyard, I think they must have a rabbit hole nearby. I am surprised no one sets traps for rabbit stew. I watch them scurry among the oak leaves out of the window and think about Alice, disappearing down her hole. Although things here in the hospital are infinitely better than at the front I still feel a sense of foreboding. A cloying immanence on the horizon. As if something is coming, something big and bad that may suck H---- and I back down the hole. As if we were back in those stinking tunnels again. I really don't know how else to describe it to you E----. I suppose my tiredness is playing tricks with my mind.

Perhaps I really should try to sleep. If something is coming I need to steel myself for it, be ready and be strong, for you and for H----. So I will sign off for now and hopefully I can pass this letter to the network later this afternoon and it will wend its merry way to you soon.

As always my thoughts and love are saved for you my dearest E-----. Write soon.

All my love,

J----

Miss B. Smith

P.O. Box 47853

Hammersmith

LONDON

(Defence Zone D)

W60AF

Saturday 20th October 1962

Dear J,

It seems remarkable that your letter came so soon. Only two days! The secret network is so much quicker than the normal post. I suppose that's obvious really, what with there being no need for the censor's beady eyes.

Your letter seemed a bit down and I do hope that you can take heart and remain hopeful. I suppose I detect a slight melancholy in your thoughtfulness. It is a problem with the written word that one cannot see the expression or hear the inflection one would in conversation. So easy to be misunderstood but at the same time easy to think about and find the right words. I know that I am not so eloquent in conversation as I perhaps can be with these letters, where I can pause and think of the right words to write. Although I could never hope to be as eloquent with my writing as you are.

Anyway, I am writing back straight away. I got your letter this morning and it is now Saturday lunchtime and I want to make sure that I can send this back to you today. I so want you to hear about what has happened to me.

Right now, as I write, mother is sat in the kitchen with Aunt M peeling potatoes; they are going to fry them as chips. M managed to get some fillets of haddock, such a treat. I even heard mother giggling a few moments ago. Sometimes she is almost back to her normal self. She shows little glimpses of it. Though I don't think she will ever be the same again, not since D. I don't suppose any of us will.

Anyway I must tell you what happened on Thursday. Aunt M and I went up to London to a demonstration. Such a momentous day. Imagine it J, little me joining in with a an anti-war demonstration. A few months ago I didn't even imagine such things existed. Now I feel part of it, having been to meetings where some of this was organised.

The day was so uplifting, and it felt so liberating to be with so many brave women who openly feel the same way that we do. It was almost unbelievable. There must have been three or four or even five thousand there. It makes you feel as if the momentum is building. And I, for one, truly believe it is. If more and more women find out about us and join us, which they inevitably will, then they won't be able to resist our numbers.

Through the meetings we had secretly organised and distribute anonymous leaflets to advertise it. All across London. We had no idea how many would turn up. It goes without saying we didn't tell mother.

On the day I just pretended to go to work as usual and then met M at the tube station. From a phone box I called the factory and told that hideous man Jenkins that I was sick. I didn't care that I would lose a day's pay.

It felt illicit and dangerous to lie to him. But I liked the feeling. Sometimes there is a frisson about doing something when you know it to be wrong. Or more accurately this felt like I was doing the right thing; it felt so right. I am not proud of lying to my mother, but needs must and we have to protect her delicate feelings. But I enjoyed lying to Jenkins, as if I were a spy in one of those black and white films from the forties; where a brave woman sneaks into Germany to steal secrets. Made me wish I had a twin-set and pearls like Olivia De Havilland! A feeling of being grown up and glamourous; to be on a secret mission as it were. You must think this so childish!

I never really did many naughty things when I was a child, so this did feel naughty to me. I wasn't like you and Billy Treacher. I was always such a good girl. Sneaking off to the demonstration felt like it must have done when you and Billy used to sneak off to the railway lines or bomb sites. Except it was more than that. It had sort of grown up air to it, as if for the first time in my life I am truly making decisions for myself. And, like I said, it felt so right, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to do. The only thing to do. And something we should all be doing. Shouting with our real voices about what we really think.

I just sat thinking as we huddled together on the crowded tube train; the Metropolitan line always gets more crowded as you approach Baker Street and I just looked at all the passive faces of the women squashed in together. Holding squirming babies in slings or carrying heavy shopping baskets. There wasn't a man to be seen. All the faces blank, expressionless and impersonal. Avoiding eye contact like people do on the tube. All squashed in together but separate, individuals alone. Lonely almost. How many of those faces knew what I knew and thought what I thought? How many had suffered loss? How many would be at the demonstration? I wanted to ask them; these strangers, but knew it was best to stay silent. I wondered how many of these ordinary women felt they had any kind of say in our world.

And when I thought about it J, I realised how very little say we do actually have. Any of us. Men or women. Britain is always held up in the history books as the true bastion of democracy, with Westminster as the 'mother' of parliaments. Funny how they would make it female; parliament as a 'mother', when women are not even seen as clever enough to be able to vote. But even the pretence of democracy is a foolish lie. The men who can vote can only vote for the same sets of men who have formed this Government since Asquith formed the coalition in 1915. The same old Liberals and Conservatives. Is there any real difference between them? I think not. Not one of them is brave enough to stand on a ticket of peace, even when they bother to have an election. M says it is scandalous that they haven't had an election since 1947. Strange how I haven't ever thought about this before. The war effort and the idea of 'total war', where we all have to play our part, do our bit, is seen as more important than any trivial matter of voting and elections. Macmillan says we are 'all in this together'. I cannot ever believe this now.

Mother always argued that we should have had Lloyd-George as Prime Minister back then, or maybe someone like Churchill. She says they would have won the war. But then again she says Macmillan will do it. But we all know he won't.

We got off at Piccadilly Circus and walked down towards Trafalgar Square. You could see purposeful women with determined faces striding down the street from all directions. A sombre parade against the bustle of the horse-drawn buses and gas-taxis. It must have been about half past ten when we entered the square and the scale of things was immediately apparent. Thousands of women jostling for position, some sitting on the plinths with placards, most standing and waiting. Banners and pink flags everywhere. Women with colourful headscarfs turned into armbands. The sign of feminism; armbands like I had seen before at the factory, when they demonstrated because it was shut down because for a while and we weren't getting paid. Back then I had thought those women to be strident; reckless even. Now I was joining them and I tied my paisley headscarf around my arm with pride.

The whole square was a kind of colourful patchwork display, scarves and banners and placards everywhere. A centrepiece of banners had been quickly erected around the ragged lump of stone that used to support Nelson's column. I have never seen anything like it. There for all to see, banners proclaiming an end to the war. Placards denouncing the government. All kinds of slogans.

Up by what used to be the portrait gallery were a few policewomen, but they were vastly out-numbered and stood there bemused by the vast crowd. There was simply nothing that they could do. A few more were stationed, together with a few armed troops, outside South Africa House. It was clear they were taken by surprise.

The crowd was hushed, just women whispering, waiting. The atmosphere was tense. I felt electric. Like nothing I have felt before J, I cannot describe it, I was swept along by the tide of feeling.

M explained to me that they were waiting for the secretary of defence, Watkinson, to arrive. It had been announced in the press that he and the Colonies minister were to have a meeting at the South African embassy to argue for more troops to be sent from there. 'Zulu' regiments they call them; poor black Africans sent half way across the world to fight our stupid war. No choice for them but to follow orders from the apartheid government. As if slavery still existed. But then again, boys like you J had no choice either.

The rumour was that Watkinson would be joined by the Prime Minister; such was the urgency of the need for fresh troops.

Nothing happened for a while. I looked around at the expectant faces. Ordinary women from all classes. From the poorest rag-bound cockney women to the high born ladies, their faces covered with mink stoles to avoid recognition. All shoulder to shoulder in the square.

I suppose I had expected speeches to be made but when I asked M about it she said that the leadership of the women's resistance is always kept secret. Any women standing up to make a speech would be deemed a threat and arrested later. She would be 'disappeared'; that's what M called it. Like they did with your mother. They 'disappeared' her, so that she could no longer be a nuisance.

So no one knows who the leaders are; the network works on a 'need to know' basis and you only ever know the next person in the chain so to speak. At meetings it's rare to know people's real names. M says, the plan is to simply demonstrate in large numbers, and with each demonstration the numbers will grow, through word of mouth. Until they are so large that they can no longer ignore us.

At about eleven a cry went up, 'Mac is coming!' and the whispering of the crowd turned in a flash to an excited hubbub. People moved forward, jostling towards Africa House. At that point M and I were not that far from the front; I could see the troops run across from the embassy and, with rifles held across their bodies; attempt to hold some of the crowd back. Stop it from crossing the road. A policewoman with a megaphone was stood by the balustrade in front of South Africa House. She called for calm and asked people to stay off the road. There was an oddness to her commands, as if she were embarrassed to be asking. Her tone was supremely polite; I remember thinking that it struck me as bizarre and discordant with the moment.

I stood on tip-toes, arching my neck to see the black cars coming up Whitehall. Sleek and modern compared to the few other petrol cars still on the road. American imports. Sunshine flashing from the darkened windows. They went out of view as the crowd surged again. I was fairly lifted off my feet and somehow separated from Aunt M in the bustle.

In amongst the tide a stout blonde woman gripped my arm and smiled as we both prevented each other from tumbling. She pulled me forward until I was on the pavement opposite the embassy; two rows back from a young black soldier, rifle raised, eyes darting between our faces with fear. Behind him the white South African officer, pistol drawn; bawling at the men to keep the line. His drawling accent stark against the chatter of women.

The black cars seemed to be taking an age to move through the crowd that was blocking the road further down the square. And then the singing came, from somewhere at the back of the vast crowd of women. 'We shall not be moved,' they sang. At first a distant ripple, then it surged to a crescendo until every female voice was soaring. So loud it seemed to echo from every stone of every building in the square. I don't mind saying J, that at that moment, as I was singing at the top of my voice, I was so filled up with emotion that warm tears fell from my eyes. I grasped the small hand of the blonde women next to me and we both cried. I cried for D and for my father. I cried for you and I cried for the feeling of true hope that the singing brought us. Each and every one of us.

Eventually the cars somehow pierced the crowd and drew up sharply beyond the line of soldiers in front of the arched entrance. Quickly they opened the doors of the two cars. At the sight of the Prime Minister the crowd surged again. Shouts began to mix with the singing. All I saw was his shock of white-grey hair as men in bowler hats and dark suits bundled him up the steps. I suppose at this point he was perhaps in full view of most of the crowd and the surge forward became immense. A seething uncontrollable mass trying to push across the road. The tide of dissent trying to crash against the beach.

The blonde woman and I again struggled to keep our feet. I never saw Watkinson. My feet seemed to float as I stumbled and was lifted off the ground more than once by the crowd. Like my shoes were running on air as the breath was squeezed from my lungs by the crush. The poor frightened black soldier in front of us was flung to the ground and women's heels of all kinds stepped on him and over him. I heard him groan as I jumped over him. His officer was stumbling backwards right in front of us, I could see panic in his eyes as he lifted his pistol high, aiming above our heads, and pulled the trigger. The crack of the shot sharp and loud. It emphatically cut across the singing and shouting of the crowd and immediately induced panic.

The multitude around us surged again, this time backwards against the tide; screams mixed with the shouting and swearing and those still somehow singing at the back. It was frightening. Women were flung to the ground and trampled like that black soldier. Like the women trampled at the symphony concert. There is something incredibly frightening about an uncontrolled crowd, as if every woman was connected, part of one organism; a massive writhing animal in pain. I felt scared J, but also strangely exhilarated. Exhilarated by the power of it.

I think I heard more shots from the front, but everything was happening so quickly. M says there were many shots fired and that some shots were fired from windows and balconies that actually hit the crowd. She says that women were killed that day. Although we have no way of knowing for sure. I certainly saw many women being taken away in ambulances afterwards. And blood. Lots of blood. Blood of women trampled and shot. Blood of women hoping for peace spilled on the hard stone paving of the square.

And it was 'peace'; the desire for peace that stopped the carnage being worse that day. Stopped the panic.

The first word was 'ceasefire!' A female voice shouting it over and over. The policewoman had now reappeared on the balcony with her megaphone. 'Ceasefire!' she shouted, 'ceasefire!' and slowly but surely a hush descended, the crowd stopped where they stood and settled themselves; women helping each other to their feet. Calming themselves and regaining dignity in a way that I think only women can do. I even saw a woman straightening her hair and checking her lipstick in her compact mirror as the silence descended. The whole square seemed to hesitate, draw breath and look at the balcony.

I was still grasping the hand of the blonde woman and we both looked up like everybody else. I could see the young policewoman, megaphone pressed to her lips, curly brown hair tumbling from her helmet. She also had paused and even from a distance I could see her breathing deeply. Above the heavy silence of the multitude she spoke again. No longer shouting, her voice soft and deliberately calming despite the metallic tone of the megaphone.

"Peace..." she said, and again, "Peace..."

The hush remained, as if everyone wasn't quite sure what was happening. Soldiers and policewomen, on the street and from windows and balconies all stood looking, unsure what to do next.

"My name is Marion Braithwaite," said the policewoman, her amplified voice, echoing around the square. A repeat bouncing back from the buildings on the far side.

"My son...my son was Charles Braithwaite...he was taken at Arras. He was just seventeen..." her voice was more hesitant now, you could detect the emotion, as if it were about to crack. I wasn't close enough to see but I like to believe she had a tear in her eye.

"His father, George...was taken when he was twenty four...I barely knew him..." she paused, "I was lucky enough to marry again and have another child...my husband...like so many...is wheelchair bound..."

Still the crowds were hushed. She continued "I became a policewoman because I wanted to do my bit, and like every one of you help to end this war..."

At that there was a slight ripple of a cheer and some applause. The policewoman paused to let it die. I didn't know what to think. I suppose I thought that she was about to order us to go home and 'do our bit' to defeat the Hun. I suppose most of the crowd thought something like this.

"Last week..." she said, now obviously choking emotion, "last week...my daughter, my precious daughter, and...and my mother were taken. Killed by one of those foul rockets...just last week...she was only five..."

Again the crowd was hushed. Women around me were crying. The Policewoman seemed to slump with the emotion of it all and let the megaphone drop for a moment. Then she did something wondrous. Slowly she undid the chin strap of her blue helmet and lifted it from her head. The dark curls of her hair shaking free. She held the helmet high for all to see, and put the megaphone back to her lips.

"No more..." she began quietly, "No more am I a policewoman. I am a widow and a grieving mother...and a grieving daughter...just like...just like...all of you...so I say no more, no more of this! No more death and destruction! No more sons or daughters or husbands or wives or mothers or fathers taken from us! No more!" and with that she threw her helmet high; spinning like a top over the crowd. There was an explosion of noise; cheering and clapping from the four corners of the square. It was unbelievable. The other policewomen and soldiers on the balcony seemed dumbfounded, rooted to the spot, slow to react.

"No More War!" shouted Marion Braithwaite, "Can you hear us Macmillan! No More War!" the crowd was tumultuous, joyous in repeating her chant. 'No More War!' we shouted at the top of our lungs. And despite the injuries that day, despite the fear and the hurt and those who probably lost their lives, that moment of unadulterated joy was perhaps one of the best feelings I have ever had in my whole life J. I wish you could have been there.

Of course it didn't last. Black suited figures and more soldiers appeared on the balcony and jostled Marion Braithwaite away. M says she will be 'disappeared'; put away somewhere in some prison or hospital. Diagnosed as insane or something. Or worse still quietly shot or hung for treason. M says that this happens to some objectors. They are got rid of without trial.

Marion Braithwaite. I want you to remember that name J. I wish I could have met her, thanked her for her bravery.

After she was gone the crowd continued chanting and singing for at least the next hour or two. The police and soldiers simply hung back; not wishing to provoke anything, but as the afternoon came they were reinforced with more units until they were on all sides of the square. Ambulances came and went; stretcher bearers snaking through the crowd and taking the injured away. I didn't see any arrests but I suppose there must have been a few made example of.

I suppose they must have bundled the Prime Minister and that fool Watkinson out of some back entrance of the embassy, there was no sign of them again. Cowardly of them not to even dare to face their own people.

Eventually late in the afternoon the crowd began to disperse. Ordinary women going back to their ordinary lives. I waited alone by one of the fountains as the numbers began to dwindle, hoping beyond hope that M had not been one of those injured. Thankfully she spotted me and we gave each other the biggest breathless hug, tears in our eyes; no words for the moment about the momentous events we had witnessed.

Of course, the next day there was no mention of this in the press or on the wireless. And I suppose some may wonder what the point of it was. The government does not seem to be listening to us. But the point is this; thousands of women were there that day. And those thousands will tell countless other thousands of Marion Braithwaite and what happened. Her name will not be forgotten. Whispers passed on to whispers. And soon everyone will know. Everyone.

Next time there will be so many more of us. And even more the time after that. Until we are hundreds of thousands strong. Until there are millions. They cannot possibly ignore us forever.

Aunt M and I travelled arm in arm back on the tube, a glowing feeling between us. We knew without words that we had done something good. Been part of something good. And as we sat there with the carriage rattling along the tunnel, you could see it in the faces of those women who had been there. A knowing smile passed between strangers who were suddenly no longer strangers. A look of recognition that said 'we are all in this together'. And by that I don't mean the empty meaningless rhetoric of the Government. I mean that we are together now; a secret community bound together by a noble cause.

Woman after woman on the tube seemed to recognise this feeling. On the platform as we changed at Baker Street I saw the blonde woman who had held my hand in the crowd and she smiled such a loving smile at me before scurrying off to the exit.

We are changed women J, and it gives me such excitement to tell you of what happened. It is confirmation that there is hope and that this offensive war will actually end. I believe it.

So, I implore you to have hope and to feel the love and hope that I send to you. There is a future for us J. We just have to be patient and strong and stay safe. Please try your utmost to stay safe for me. Write soon and tell me of your situation and your thoughts about what has happened.

Much Love to you dear J,

Esme

Xx

Madame F. Moreau

46 Rue de Rosamel

ÉTAPLES

62630 FRANCE

24th October 1962

Dearest E----,

Things are going wrong here. My foreboding premonitions were correct. In fact I have to say that it is a pretty desperate situation and I sincerely hope that somehow the underground network is still working and that this letter reaches you.

Your letter was so full of hope, what with the demonstration you an M---- attended. It must have been truly amazing to have been there and heard that brave Marion's words. But, for now, I find it hard to share such optimism. I don't mind saying I am frightened. Very frightened. The bright glimmers of hope that you send only serve to make my fears grow ever more. For losing those embers, having them snuffed out before the fire can truly take hold, would be so very heartbreaking.

As I said it is desperate. The Germans have breached the Wall. It seems unbelievable to say it. That massive monolith to war is, all of a sudden, a useless relic. What we grew up to think of as permanence is now disastrously shifted.

It is no wonder that the Government was imploring for more troops from South Africa. All around is disaster and chaos ensues. I do not know if this is being reported in England but a mass of rocket attacks utilising these new weapons of theirs has broken down the Wall in several places. Split it wide. They concentrated the rockets on places like Ypres where they had already damaged the Wall with that previous attack. Apparently there are breaks at Arras and Verdun to the south. That is what the gossip says anyway. There may be more breaches by now. The truth is that we don't actually know what is happening, apart from something bad. Something very bad.

You could see the attacks from where we are near the coast. Those that could stand left their hospital beds and stood in the courtyard outside and looked at the distant sky above the vicinity of the Wall. We are about ninety miles or so away but we could still see the fires and foreboding orange glow in the sky. The explosions shook the ground beneath our feet, even at this great distance.

The rumours say their crawler tanks soon crossed the gaps followed by large concentrations of troops, artillery, rocket launchers and tracked troop carriers. Their planes seem to rake the sky largely unchallenged, and it wouldn't surprise me if stormtroopers parachute in droves from the sky. They must have been massing underground at certain points for weeks. Once through the gaps in sufficient numbers it could not have taken much for them to over-run our rear trenches and camps.

There was panic around the hospital as the night wore on. So H---- and I took our chance, before dawn came. The remaining few able-bodied troops here and the doctors and officers were called away to the local HQ or some such. The place was empty apart from us pathetic patients. Most of the nurses fled. So I took fate into my hands and broke into one of the doctor's offices. Smashed the glass and let H---- and I in. Nobody seemed to notice there was such confusion.

We searched through drawers and cupboards and then I broke open a filing cabinet with a dinner knife and finally found some medical discharge papers. Forged the signatures so that H---- and I have papers that will hopefully get us onto some ship or other back to England. It is a big risk I know, but we are hoping that no one will notice a couple of wounded soldiers in amongst the thick of confusion that surrounds us. It seems a desperate measure but it is highly likely that they will try to send every available soldier to face the advancing Germans and our wounds might not be deemed sufficient to not send us.

So H---- and I donned our uniforms and gathered our things to leave the hospital before the dawn arrived. Aurelie stood waiting at the doors, as if she knew something was up; perhaps she had seen us break into that office. She hugged me and kissed me on the cheek, pushing a brown paper parcel of sandwiches into my hand. I didn't know what to say. H---- stood there speechless too, and she kissed him, full on the lips, and he held her round figure tightly for a fleeting moment. "Bon voyage, mon ami..." she whispered in his ear and then we shuffled out into the darkness.

This was two or three hours ago. We have walked out of the town towards the docks. The dark streets were filled with Frenchwomen fleeing; babies on handcarts and tired children crying. Dragging suitcases and meagre possessions over wet cobbles and heading south. H---- gripped my elbow as we stumbled against the tide.

Soon, in the distance, we could see ships and boats of all sizes buzzing around the docks, illuminated by the flashes of explosions. Ships coming and going, with troops and supplies, and ships sadly burning and sinking.

We have decided we will wait till morning and try our luck trying to board one of the returning steamers. I do so hope our paperwork is sufficient. H---- thinks we should look for one of the merchant navy ships or civilian steamers. They are more likely to be convinced of our story than a warship or troopship from the Royal Navy.

We heard from a passerby this morning that German tank regiments had taken Dunkirk and were fast approaching Calais. We are south of there but I fear it will not be long before they get here. I suppose this was always the risk of the years of stalemate strategy. It only takes one split in the defences for the dam to break and suddenly a war defined by impasse becomes a quicksilver fluid thing. Those unseen gods are moving their chess pieces swiftly towards the endgame. I just hope that the army we have been massing can somehow stem the sweeping tide.

For now we are hiding in a long abandoned warehouse as evening draws in. H---- lies snoring on some dirty sacking. How he can sleep at a time like this is beyond me. I suppose years of sleeping in fear means that he can sleep through anything. The sky seems to be filled with the sound of enemy planes, you know those fast ones that they have now, bombing and harassing the constant flow of ships. I couldn't possibly sleep.

I don't mind telling you E----, that H---- is as scared as I. Earlier he clung to me like a frightened child. Even though he is much older than I, he still can't see properly and has come to rely on me. He shakes with every bomb that drops. Even in his sleep. His shaking reminds me of Thompson. I have to be strong, for him and for you.

It looks like this war might be over sooner than we had thought. I cannot imagine that the Germans will want to stop now. I cannot imagine that the channel will be much of a barrier for them. Their mentality will be much the same as ours would and revenge will be in their hearts. If we had broken their wall then it is clear that we would wish to crush them. Ride on to Berlin and crush them into the dirt. And I fear that they will want to do the same to us. To poor old England.

In this dark lonely moment of the night my fears burn in my mind. I cannot stem them. I fear I shall never see my poor mother again. And my love, I fear that I may never see you again.

If there is one ounce of bravery in my poor tired body then it comes from you E----. I am writing this letter to you so that you know that I love you E----. With all my heart. You are the dream I cling to and if I can survive somehow, against all the odds, I wish for us to be married. I know that is not the most romantic of proposals; not one that you or I might have wished for, but I need you to know what is in my heart. Just in case.

So I am trying my very best to be brave and get myself back across the channel to you. Whatever it takes. H---- and I are between a rock and a hard place. First we must try our level best not to stick out amongst our own soldiers and to try convince some sailor types to let us on their ship. On the other hand the prospect of being captured or killed by the advancing Hun is distinctly unpleasant one.

In the morning, before dawn, while it is still dark, I will post this through the door of a house nearby where I know one of the women in the network lives, in the hope that it will find its way to you. And then H---- and I will take our chances down at the docks. Here's hoping the docks aren't smashed and that there are still ships coming in. The bombing right now is quite heavy.

I hope with all my heart that you get this letter and know that I will try my very best to see you again. Who knows, perhaps H---- and I will turn up on your doorstep in time for my birthday; I am sure he will love to meet you, and we can celebrate together. A year since I first wrote to you. I can scarcely believe it. Please have the kettle and the cake ready for us.

I love you, always,

J

Xxx

Josephine Tyler BA MsC PhD

University of Michigan

Anthropology & Archaeology Faculty

Field Research Unit

'Remembrance expedition'

C/O USS Robert F. Kennedy

North Atlantic Station

Email: josephinetyler@umail.com

Monday 29th October 2012

Dear Nancy,

Today is Remembrance day, and as I write to you, all around the world people will be stopping to pay their respects to all of those millions who perished in the Great War and its aftermath; all those horrors of the twentieth century. So I felt that I had to write to you today Nancy, and tell you of my discovery. Today of all days it seems fitting. Today, the fiftieth anniversary of the first German atomic rockets.

Firstly, I must tell you how thrilled I am and what an honor it is to be on this expedition. Of course you knew this before I left. I still can't quite believe that I was picked. Never thought I had a chance when President Clinton announced the multi-national expedition to Europe for the anniversary. But then I never voted for her anyway. So it's been quite a whirlwind this last six months. I can't quite remember when I last saw you.

I have to say that actually being here is something else. I know fieldwork isn't your thing, but I think even you would marvel at being one of the first to be allowed to walk the streets of London again after fifty years. Despite the risks. I know you said that no amount of money would get you to wear one of the radiation suits and how you didn't trust them, but to actually walk there among the ruins! I honestly don't care if I have to wear a clunky suit or if there is risk. There is nothing like it for an archaeologist, actually being there, and you as a historian ought to appreciate that.

I will try my best to tell you what it's like. Every day we suit up below decks, check all the seals and our rad meters over and over, and board the helicopters for the hour and half flight from the ship. Flying over the south coast of England you wouldn't think anything was wrong with it. You must have seen the satellite pictures; it all looks green and healthy from the air. That is until you reach the outskirts of the city. At first you can see some buildings still standing or the shells of burnt out buildings, but then they gradually disappear to be replaced by unbelievable grey wasteland the nearer you get to the epicenter; ground zero. Still no discernible life there, not from the air anyway. The biologists argue that insect life is probably pretty abundant on the ground, cockroaches and other hardy specimens.

The scientists here say that the first rocket was aimed directly at Westminster, supposedly hitting at eleven in the morning. The measurements they have now taken from the air say that it probably hit south of the river Thames about half a mile from its target. We know that the rockets and warheads were obtained by the Germans as part of their secret pact with the Soviets, but we also know that the guidance systems were pretty primitive, so not entirely accurate. Not that it matters, they fired another two rockets later that day, just to be make sure, as well as those that hit Paris.

Of course the biggest problem in understanding exactly what happened has always been that fact that the Russo-Germanic pact broke down so quickly and within a matter of days after they bombed London they were firing nuclear rockets or dropping bombs on each other and over most of Europe. So many millions obliterated in such a short space of time.

It always seemed odd to me, as I was growing up, that there are thousands of miles of the planet that we could not go to; a contaminated vast land, from Ireland in the west to the Russian steppes in the East. But then perhaps it is me that is odd. Most people wouldn't want to go to any of those places if you paid them. Me? I always thought of it as a treasure trove, like someone had preserved the past in jello. Stopped time, so someone like me could go and study it. And now it's come true, that someone is me! What an opportunity...

The helicopters mostly fly quite high especially near ground zero. The radiation levels, they say, are still too high right in the center of the city, even with rad suits and protection. So the plan for our archaeology teams is to scout any remaining buildings around the periphery, looking primarily for signs whether people survived the initial blasts and shock waves. And any things of interest that might help us piece together the human stories of that terrible war.

The first time our helicopter touched down it was unreal. There was a whole street of houses and shops that, apart from being dirty and slightly blackened around the edges, seemed perfectly normal and intact. Not even all of the windows were broken. But then you walk around the corner at the end of the street and suddenly all you can see is rubble and wind-blown wreckage for as far as the eye can see. It is really surreal Nancy, I've got to say. Like being on an alien planet or something.

Why the effects of the blast should leave some things intact whilst others are so utterly destroyed is a mystery. Some things are so destroyed you could never hope to know what they were in the first place. I don't understand it and neither do the scientists. I asked one of the physicists but she said they didn't have a clue, and that frankly she hoped that we would never find out because the only way to find out about the pattern of destruction for sure would be to blow up one of those damn things.

I have to say I agree with her. I hope that those teams sent into Germany and Russia can make any bombs or rockets they find safe. Or better still that there aren't any left. We have been so right to ban any country from ever having them again. The sooner we are sure there are no atomic weapons left the better.

Anyway Nancy, I guess you are wondering what kind of things we have found. Well, that's one of the main reasons I am writing to you, although when I get back we must catch up. Have a glass of red or a coffee or something?

I found something during our second week here that I thought you would be really interested in. In fact I would go so far as saying that this could be a true gem of a find. Perhaps it could be a breakthrough for both of us! It's so exciting. I hope you agree about it. I wish you could be here Nancy, it is an astonishing place to do archaeology.

I found a set of letters between a soldier at the front and a girl who worked in a munitions factory in North London. I have attached scanned copies of these letters and when I finally hit American soil again I can bring you the actual letters in person.

I think you will find them fascinating because I know that you are trying to write a history of the Great War from the perspective of the ordinary people, especially the women and the feminist angle; something that is so difficult when so few personal accounts are accessible.

Please correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't one of your proposals that the burgeoning women's movement in England was much closer to overthrowing the government than we previously thought? Well these letters appear to show this may well be true. Of course you will need to corroborate them and have them verified and we may need to seek more evidence; maybe if there is second expedition in the coming years.

I want you to read the letters carefully and tell me what you think. Send me an email at the above address. I don't want to describe what I think until I know what you think about them if you know what I mean. I have a hunch that you will come to the same conclusions as me!

Yours

Jo Tyler.

Email: nancyalbright1@umhsc.com

31st October 2012

Dear Jo,

Thanks so much for your email. You are right, this is so exciting! I printed the letters and sat up at least half the night reading and re-reading them and making notes. I will get straight to the point and tell you what I think:

  1. The soldier in these letters, 'Jimmy Fitzpatrick', is possibly the son of Evelyn Fitzpatrick. I think that is a certainty. Birth records would help confirm it, but I suppose data like that may not have survived or at the very least be hard to recover.

  2. Evelyn Fitzpatrick was reported to be the leader of the women's underground movement which organized protests and demonstrations and made connections with feminists both in France and here in America in the second half of the fifties and into the early sixties until the rocket attacks. She was also rumored to be involved in terrorist activity and a founder member of the Women's Resistance Army, although there wasn't much evidence of this until now. She was possibly involved in organizing terrorist bombings, like the fertilizer bomb we know of that killed eight civil servants and a general outside the Ministry of War in the summer of 1959.

  3. The girl in these letters, Esme Wilbraham, talks of her 'Aunt Mathilda' - this could possibly be one 'Mathilda Courtney' - we don't think this was her real surname - who acted as a 'go-between' between the women's underground in England and the American Embassy between 1960 and 1962. Effectively she passed information and messages to the American government asking for their support. To our everlasting shame we did not give it. We know she had links to the WRA as well. She was also responsible for distributing fake American passports that the embassy supplied to some of those lucky few women and men who escaped through the Irish network. We don't know if she was involved with the underground network of letters between France and England that is clearly described here. The letters also imply that Mathilda and Esme were partially instrumental in helping to organise a mass demonstration against the war on October 17th 1962 in Trafalgar square. This is a truly remarkable piece of evidence of an event which we knew nothing about. Corroboration of this would be great.

  4. Jimmy Fitzpatrick gives us astonishing well written accounts of his life on the 'Wall' in that last year of the war. Of particular interest are his accounts of the German use of rockets and how they broke through and overran the front at the end. There is so little detail of this. Did the Germans really need to use nuclear weapons? Would they have won the war anyway? We have always speculated about this. When the Wall was breached did they have the manpower to take France and England? What was the German High Command's motives for the nuclear strikes? Could it really have been simple revenge? Hopefully the teams exploring Germany will find some answers.

  5. Esme Wilbraham also gives fascinating accounts, particularly of ordinary life on the home front. Some very interesting descriptions of the social mores of gender in the home and the workplace. From a history perspective the norms and values displayed are stilted and certainly behind the times compared to advances that were taking place at the time in America. We know that both the British and the Germans indulged in heavy state control and propaganda, which hugely influenced public attitudes. These letters clearly reflect this.

  6. Marion Braithwaite, who Esme describes at the demonstration in Trafalgar square, is also of great interest. It would be great to find out more about what happened to her. Such demonstrations are only vaguely alluded to in the few British Government communiques that we have (decoded from radio interceptions) and to have such a full account of what happened shows that, as we suspected, momentum was clearly growing in the Resistance movement.

Of course a lot of this is conjecture on my part, and much other evidence about these women is hearsay, especially about the secretive roles they took in the resistance, but these letters seem to confirm lots of things. At the very least we now know what happened to Evelyn Fitzpatrick. I cannot begin to imagine what it must have been like for her in that northern hospital. At least those in the south died pretty much straight away when the blasts came. Those in the north and the other extremities of the UK often died slow horrible cancerous deaths caused by the radiation. All those that couldn't make it the west coasts or didn't know that we sent ships to get them out. And God knows we saved so precious few of them. Evelyn probably died strapped to that hospital bed.

Her story needs to be told Jo. All of these stories need to be told. This is important. If the American government had supported these women much more forcefully in the fifties then maybe the Great War could have been ended sooner, before the nuclear rockets and radiation that has affected us all.

I can't tell you what an amazing find this is Jo! Of course we need to check and verify everything. Where and how exactly did you find these letters? Are there any more? What other evidence or artifacts did you find with them? God I would love to know what happened to Jimmy and Esme; I wonder if he made it across the channel? I wonder if he managed to see her again before the rockets hit?

Thank you so much! Keep me posted on your progress,

Nancy Albright,

Associate Professor of History.

Josephine Tyler BA MsC PhD

University of Michigan

Anthropology & Archaeology Faculty

Field Research Unit

'Remembrance expedition'

C/O USS Robert F. Kennedy

Atlantic station

Email: josephinetyler@umail.com

Thursday 1st November 2012

Dear Nancy,

Just a quick email before I have to go and suit up for the helicopter. I promise I will write again soon with more details, but I've got to tell you how I found those letters. I knew you would love them!

We found a street in a northern part of the city - in an area called Harrow - with one or two houses still standing. One of the houses was strangely near perfect and when my colleague tried the front door it just opened as if it had been left unlocked for us to come in. Much of the inside was in remarkably good condition. Lots of artifacts from the time undisturbed, apart from a patina of radiation filled dust.

There were three bodies downstairs or what was left of them. Two women and a soldier, his dog tags intact. In the kitchen together; I imagine they were just sat down at the table taking tea when the first atomic rocket hit.

I awkwardly climbed the stairs in my suit, and there, in the back bedroom, were two more desiccated bodies lying on the bed together. One still in uniform and the woman in a faded flowery dress. It looked like they were holding hands. And there between them were all of the letters; thin paper in remarkably good condition. Just lying between them on the bed, as if they had been reading them together. So it is true Nancy. Jimmy actually made it back to Esme...

Yours

Jo,

The End

Simon Poore is a tall English writer from Norwich, a fine city...
