What blissful agony it is to have them back. All our hopes and dreams come true. Those long months without them, fading into nothing. They are here—in our arms and our beds, at our tables and by our sides. And yet, something is different because part of them is not here with us at all. It is still over there, with their pals. With their brothers in arms. And for all that we love them with every bone in our bodies, part of us daren’t get too close because it is always there, lurking in the shadows: the knowledge that they must go back, and that when they do, our own battle with hope will begin once again.
We might never understand the life they have lived while they’ve been away. We might never understand their longing to return to life in the trenches, or their desire to relieve the man whose turn on leave is next. We might never understand the horrors they see in their dreams and shout about in the dark as we try to comfort them and remind them they are safe. We might never understand any of this.
They return to us as husbands, lovers, brothers, friends—but they also return to us as soldiers. War is part of who they are now. Part of who they will always be. And we will love them while they are here, and we will love them when they go back.
We will love them until we see them again, because no matter how far away from home they are, they will never be far from our thoughts or our hearts.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
From Thomas to Evie
10th November, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
Please ignore the brown smudges. I have a cut above my eye that won’t stop bleeding. Got hit by shrapnel this afternoon. I’m low on paper or else I’d toss this and start again. We followed orders from Lieutenant Colonel Duncan, my superior, and stalked through a patch of forest not far from the river. Barbed wire ran along the hill right to the water’s edge so we knew the Boche (French slang for Germans, in case you didn’t know) were nearby or had set a trap. We scooted around the edge of the wood, glad to find it vacated. But we didn’t know we were standing in a minefield—until it was too late.
Two mines went off and took out a dozen men. I ran around the outskirts of the field like a madman, ordering my men to follow me. We were either going up in flames in an instant or getting the hell out of there. Walking gingerly on tiptoe, sweating after each measly footstep, would have been too excruciating. Thankfully, we lost only one more soldier as we pulled out.
Make a mad dash for it, Will used to say. “Like we should in life, Tom. Always make a dash for it.” It was his voice I heard as I ran. I swear to God he saved my life.
I was pretty ragged after, wretched with disgust at the senselessness of it all, and these weapons we’ve devised to annihilate more, and more, and more. A good friend was shipped off to the hospital. He lost at least one limb. His face looked pretty bad as well, but I think he’ll pull through. I can’t imagine what he’ll do with himself when he discovers he’s bound to a wheelchair the rest of his life. He was a champion rugby player at university. He’ll be crushed, poor chap. At least he’s alive, though I’m not sure that’s much of a consolation to some.
I heard about Edith Cavell. What kind of man shoots a woman, in particular one who has devoted her life to helping others? Had I been on that firing squad, I would have walked away, faced punishment for disobedience. It isn’t honourable, and in the midst of all this suffering, a man’s honour is what distinguishes him from the beasts.
On a lighter note, I have a little scrapbook of your bird sketches now. You notice this time I didn’t attempt to replicate one. With a buggered hand and a bleeding brow, my attempt at a brambling or a robin would likely make you laugh. It’s difficult to write today as is.
Evie, about your tears. It was nice to feel appreciated and missed, feared-for even. I will reserve my shoulder for the curve of your cheek anytime. I hope I am lucky enough to feel it again.
Yours,
Tom
P.S. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel like weeping the day I set foot on French soil again. Also, I miss Will, too. Every single day.
From Evie to Alice
20th November, 1915
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
Apologies. I seem to have no time to put pen to paper. I am very busy at the post office with the approach of Christmas, which brings a flurry of new letters every day, and with the pathways too icy to take Rusty out, my round must be done on foot. Also, my column takes more time than I’d imagined. I fall into bed at night exhausted and barely have a moment to think, although when I do, it is the same thoughts I keep returning to and I remain as confused as ever when it comes to matters of the heart.
You do not know John Hopper, so I cannot expect you to be as sympathetic towards him, but I can assure you he is the perfect gentleman: handsome, witty, intelligent (and not without considerable wealth in his various businesses). He makes it very difficult not to be charmed in his company (I can only imagine those eyelashes of yours fluttering under his gaze). What is a girl to do when otherwise wholly deprived of male company? John encourages my writing and talks of opportunities that might present themselves when the war is over. He firmly believes women will find themselves better placed to continue in the roles they have adopted during the men’s absence. He talks about the future a lot, Alice. He has hinted, on more than one occasion, that he would very much like me to be part of his.
As for Hopper not being at war, he assures me he would like to be, but is on official war duty with the War Office at Wellington House (don’t ask me to explain what he does there. It is all rather secretive). We must remember that the war is being fought from many angles, and not always with a rifle in hand. After all, they do say the pen is mightier than the sword.
And then there is Tom. I’m certain he still sees me as nothing more than Will’s sister and a good friend, and yet there were moments when we were together recently, moments when I thought he might take my hand, or look at me a certain way. His latest letter referred to “a week of perfect days” that we spent together during his leave. He also says that he hopes his shoulder can be used for the curve of my cheek again sometime soon. Much as I adored the time we spent together, when I think about it with a level head, much of it was occupied with the usual lighthearted banter that has always existed between us, and not of anything one might misconstrue as romance. You know how we like to poke fun at each other—always have. With Hopper it is different. I feel more like a woman in his company, but then I feel more like myself in Tom’s.
Oh, Alice. It is ridiculous. Why must love be so complicated? I suppose I have only myself to blame for bringing matters of the heart into it at all. Why I can’t simply do business with Hopper and send words of encouragement to Tom, I don’t know. But apparently we cannot choose with whom, or indeed when, we fall in love. My feelings for Tom come as much as a surprise to me as they would no doubt be to him, were he ever to find out. And he mustn’t. This is to be our secret, Alice.
Do take care in that ambulance. You never were the best at direction and control when it comes to things on wheels.
Much love to you.
Evie
X
From Alice to Evie
22nd November, 1915
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,