You mentioned adding rum to my food, so I must tell you about this “rum” we are given (and which I, as a Lieut., distribute) in rations. It isn’t a sweet, tawny liquid mixed well with fruit, or drunk cool. It’s so strong it almost walks from the bottle, burns your eyes and nose, and slides down your throat like a violent tar, assaulting your stomach as it settles. But there’s no doubt it does the trick, dulls the mind. In fact, it’s a scourge. I’ve witnessed too many men stagger from the trenches in front of enemy fire to be struck dead instantly, without so much as their hand on their gun. Sure, the rum numbs the pain of loss for a time, but it’s short lived and as it dissipates, it seems to intensify the aching. It leaves a man in a darker place from where he started. I know, sadly. After Will, I remained in a stupor for weeks. It’s a miracle I survived it, Evie. But since, I’ve given it up completely. It’s too dangerous.
We’ve had a slight reprieve the last two weeks, outside the usual daily sniper incidents. (Who knew I would consider a random shooting a relief?) I call it a reprieve, but the trench foot, typhoid, and pestilence make up for the lack of heavy bombing, and there are Blighty wounds, of course. I suppose I should explain the military lingo. Blighty wounds are serious injuries, in which a Tommy is in bad enough shape to be sent home, but the injury isn’t fatal, or even crippling. In truth, many of the men hope for them. I know some injure themselves on purpose. It is a measure of how desperate we have become.
Thank you for visiting Father. I’m sure he enjoyed seeing you, as always. I must admit, it makes me a bit green. I should be home right now, caring for him, and looking after the LDT. Maybe I will tell him I’ll run the paper as you suggested, though I’m not ready to commit to such a permanent change in direction yet. At least through your letters, I’m coming to understand the real value in news, the honour in seeking truths. I had never thought of journalism that way before. Father has always focused on it solely as a vehicle to make money.
Do you know what would make me happiest right now? Visiting a friend of mine who goes by the name of Genevieve Wren and talking about all of this over a roast and Yorkshire puddings.
I am making myself hungry again. I’ll focus on that blue button instead.
Yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
P.S. The badge enclosed was Will’s. He slipped it into my hand before he died and I kept meaning to send it. I found it in my greatcoat pocket and wanted you to have it.
P.P.S. I do hope you’ll send on a copy of your first column. I can hardly wait to read it.
From Alice to Evie
3rd September, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
How happy I was to receive your letter! Only a month away and I feel as if my life has taken on new meaning. I don’t mind nursing half as much as I thought I would; I’ve grown accustomed to the sight of blood, and am actually quite good at changing dressings, though I do hate to see our boys suffer. I fear many will never recover their wits fully. And the empty look in their eyes, Evie. It keeps me awake at night. I hope you never see anything like it.
My mother is proud to see me doing my bit, but she scolds me in her letters as always, warning me to remember what I am there for and not to fall for the officers (it happens more often than you might believe). What good will it do, she says, if I go losing my heart to someone and then a German shoots out his eye or he loses an arm? Worse, what if he loses his soul to war? I suppose she’s right, but I ask you this—what valiant young man hasn’t stolen my heart, at least for a week or two? We both know the answer to that! And we are, after all, still human beings, even when we are in this hell.
I can’t believe it has taken you so long to admit it, dear girl, but I knew you felt something for your ginger Tom! Perhaps you have always had feelings for him? He has been your friend since we wore pigtails and he’s a lively fellow with that big grin and wicked sense of humour, yet gentle somehow, and so scholarly, too, which you’ve always admired in a person. And like you, Tom loves nothing more than a little adventure. What could be more perfect?
I can see you shaking your head all the way from here. Don’t deny it. You as much as said it in your letter. Fall madly in love, Evie. Have a little fun! You need it now, more than ever.
Give my love to your parents (and Tom, wink wink).
Love,
Alice
From Evie to Tom
5th September, 1915
Richmond, England
Dearest Tom,
Thank you so much for Will’s badge. I will treasure it. Such small tokens become incredibly precious when they are all you have to remember someone by. A badge. A button from a tunic. A letter. A lock of hair. A crumpled photograph. I am sure I have delivered them all to a grieving mother or wife along with the final words of their loved ones. I’m not sure what else was returned to us with Will’s personal effects. Whenever I mention them, Mama bursts into tears.
Whatever my personal feelings about losing my only brother, I cannot imagine the grief Mama suffers having lost her only son, so I do not press her on the matter. I’m sure she will show me, when she feels able to.
I must say that your letters are being heavily censored by your superiors of late, so I cannot know where you are or what battles you refer to. (Can you not use an Honour envelope? A friend was telling me how her husband writes to her and uses the Honour envelope to prevent any intrusion by those in command. She says his letters are hopelessly romantic, so it is the contents of his heart, rather than any great military secrets, that he wishes to protect.)
I scour the papers daily for reports, but more often than not all I find are words of positivity and encouragement. “We are very close to victory.” “In our finest hour of this war.” “A day of promise.” It is so different to the picture you paint in your letters and all your talk of disease and near-starvation and Blighty wounds. It is hard to know whether we are reading any truths at all, or simply the words the government wishes us to believe. For that alone I think you must press on with your interests in the newspaper. Financial gain is one thing. To tell the truth is a far nobler prospect.
I try to cheer myself with your letters. It might sound silly but I have come to think of your handwriting as you. Each loop, each flowing curve and flourish is like looking at a familiar face. The contours and undulations so definite and unique. There is quite a substantial pile of letters now. I keep them bound together with a red ribbon. They must form a stack four inches high already (and a good inch higher than the pile of dance cards I kept from my debut season). I tell myself that before your correspondence reaches five inches in height, you will be home. Time, you see, can be measured in means other than the ticking of a clock.
What news of the nurses there? Alice Cuthbert is now serving as a VAD. Can you believe it? Our flighty Alice?! I imagine she will be a real tonic to the injured soldiers with those eyes and lips, and that wicked sense of humour of hers. Do you have time to think of such things as pretty girls? I expect you are as deprived of affection as you are of fresh bread. Hot bread and love. You will be ready to consume both greedily and without restraint when you get home!
I am still sketching—a jackdaw this time. Slightly gloomy in all his funereal attire, but handsome nevertheless.
Be safe, my friend.
Yours, Evie.
X
Telegram from Charles Abshire to Thomas
9TH SEPTEMBER 1915
TO: LIEUTENANT THOMAS HARDING, 2ND OXFORDS
SENT: 7:25 / RECEIVED: 7:55
FATHER INJURED IN ZEPPELIN RAID. TRANSFERRED TO HOSPITAL. WOUNDS DON’T APPEAR FATAL. LONDON HOUSE ALL BUT DESTROYED. ONCE DISCHARGED WILL STAY WITH RELATIVES IN RICHMOND. WILL KEEP YOU INFORMED. ABSHIRE.