From Evie to Tom
9th September, 1915
Richmond, England
My dearest Tom,
I assume you have already been informed of the dreadful news that London suffered a zeppelin raid in which your father was injured. Bartholomew Close was one of the worst places hit, with many of the houses destroyed. He was lucky to have been spared the worst of the explosion (twenty-two are dead and over eighty wounded). I rushed to the hospital as soon as I heard. He is being remarkably matter of fact about it all, but he is in a pretty bad way I’m afraid.
Everyone in London is terribly nervous and calling for the government to bring in anti-aircraft defences. My hands tremble as I write these words.
Will you be able to come home on compassionate leave? It would give your father great strength to see you.
For now, I will pray for his speedy recovery, and for a swift conclusion to this damned war.
Yours in prayer,
Evie
X
From Evie to the Editor of the London Daily Times
10th September, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Mr. Davies,
Please find enclosed my first column for “A Woman’s War.” We had not yet settled on a nom de plume and I hope you will be happy with Genevieve Wren. I have taken the liberty of using the name in the enclosed, although you will, of course, have the final say. I found myself so stirred by the recent zeppelin raid on London that I rewrote some of my piece as a result.
I can come to your offices in London any time to discuss the progression of the column in person, although I understand I will submit all future copy to John Hopper for editorial clearance in the first instance.
Sincerely,
Evelyn Elliott (Genevieve Wren)
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in London, Genevieve Wren
“Waving the Boys Goodbye”
How long ago it seems since we waved our boys goodbye, off on their grand adventure to serve King and country and do their duty—heroes all. We were told it would be over by Christmas, but Christmas came and went and still our boys didn’t come home. Nor did they return to us that Easter, nor Whitsuntide, nor for the summer solstice. And still it goes on.
We write words of love and support—incredibly brave, terribly proud, onwards to victory—pages and pages, never knowing if our words will be read, or any reply will be forthcoming. Those of us who are lucky enough to find a letter on the doormat devour the words inside with the appetite of a starving man. Those of us whose doormats remain empty must somehow find the courage to step over them and go out into a world we no longer recognise. We smile at a neighbour, share news with the postwoman, thank the bus conductor in her smart uniform, but in quiet moments, when we’re alone, we ask the same questions: What is this war without end? How much longer will it be?
Questions without answer. Hope without fulfilment.
We have now passed the first anniversary of our nation’s involvement in the “war to end all wars.” Twelve months they’ve been gone—brothers, fathers, husbands, lovers, uncles, cousins, friends—and as we face the prospect of empty places around the dinner table again this yuletide, it is difficult to find the courage and resilience to go on. But that is what we must do. Courage and resilience are our weapons. They alone will help us fight this battle of never-ending dread. We must keep the home fires burning for when our men return to us.
In writing this column, I speak to all the women of Britain, whether in sculleries or parlours, farmhouses or country manors. I hope to share with you stories of courage and resilience, fortitude and heroism—small acts of bravery or kindness that may not lead to medals of honour, but are important nevertheless. With all the losses we must endure, let us never forget that the kindness of a stranger can help a person in more ways than we can ever know.
Do not feel that you are sitting idly by, knitting comforts or mixing another pudding for the Christmas parcel. Take a moment to comfort a friend. Check on elderly neighbours. Such small acts, when multiplied across all the streets and counties of our great nation, can become acts of immense importance. They can have as much impact as the bombs the enemy dares to drop on our cities.
A woman’s war may not be fought on the battlefield, but it can be won in small victories every day.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
From Thomas to Evie
11th September, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Thank you for alerting me at once about Father. Abshire informed me by telegram. I can hardly believe our misfortune. As if his poor health wasn’t bad enough.
Evie, I would never admit this to another soul on this earth, but I’m afraid. Not just about what’s happening out here in battle, but about losing my family, losing my livelihood. I can’t think straight.
I have applied to my superiors for a period of leave as soon as possible. Thank you for being such a good friend. It means more than I can say.
Yours,
Tom
From Evie to Alice
15th September, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
How are you? I am desperately worried. We were all rattled by the recent zeppelin raid on London. The warnings seem to go up nightly now. I say warning, but the sum total of that is simply a policeman pedalling furiously on his bicycle while blowing his whistle and shouting “TAKE COVER! TAKE COVER!” It is so frightening. I had to take shelter in the underground station just yesterday. The sight of those zeps looming in the distance is the stuff of nightmares.
Tom’s father was badly injured in the raid last week. I really don’t think he’ll pull through, although I can’t bear to tell Tom that, not after losing Will so recently. It will destroy him to lose his father, too.
So, I am sorry that I am not in the mood for jokes or silly remarks about my alleged affections for Tom. All I know is that I would love for him to come home on leave. He hopes for the same and has put in his request.