I laughed when I received your letter, just as we arrived. I suppose the postal service is faster than we think it is. And for your information, yes, I am an Archibald, and I’d happily lob an ice cream at you if you were here. Make fun, Evelyn Maria Constance Elliott, but don’t forget the tree house or the horse manure and your little rag doll. I may be a proper soldier now, but I’m not above pranks and retribution!
It looks as if we’ll train and learn the drill here at camp in Mytchett for four weeks, then ship off to the Front. The regiment is all enthusiasm and energy; we are all looking forward to seeing the real action. Already I’ve learned marching orders, basic first aid, and face-to-face combat. Your brother and I decided the training isn’t so different from wrestling with Robbie Banks. That bullheaded fellow was always looking for a brawl at the pub. I’m anxious to get to the more interesting bits. Will is brimming with eagerness. You know how he can be.
You asked for a picture of what it’s like at camp, so here goes. At reveille the bugle drives us out of bed at the start of the day. I say “day,” but it’s so early we’re up hours before dawn when it’s black as pitch. Still, no one grumbles about a lost hour or two of sleep, not when we’re headed to war. We dress, eat, and do some variation of training until noon when we break for a short lunch, after which we have more training until four or five in the afternoon. We’re free to head into town then if we wish, though not every day. Most often we hang around the billiards hall or play rounds of cards, smoke, etc. Being a lieutenant, I try to avoid getting mixed up in any mischief with the privates. Well, not too often anyway. I spend a lot of time in my bunk alone, in fact. Looking back at Oxford—and this is difficult to admit—I’m thankful for my time in the Officers’ Training Corps. (Don’t tell Will. He’ll give me hell.) Some training, though little, was certainly better than none. Anyway, the privates really are the last rung, poor chaps. They will bear the brunt of the attacks. If I were among them, I would work like the devil so I could move up in the world.
That’s all for now. Getting called to the card table.
Sincerely yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Archibald Harding
From Evie to Thomas
15th October, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas Archibald,
You replied! How jolly to see your letter among the morning post. It made for a very pleasant change from polite invitations to tea, and the rather less polite rejection of my latest attempt to have a piece published in the Times. Perhaps I should submit my next under a male pseudonym. If it’s good enough for the lady novelist who writes as George Eliot then it’s good enough for me. Evan Elliott has a rather nice ring to it, don’t you think?
Joking aside, I do sometimes wish I were a boy so I could see more of the world. Even the prospect of the battlefield is more appealing right now than sitting here waiting for a marriage proposal. “Boys go to college and war. Girls marry well.” This, from Papa when I complained of it being unfair earlier today.
Speaking of marriage, Mama checks the casualty lists daily for news of Charlie Gilbert. She clings desperately to the hope of my receiving a proposal from him when he returns, while I, meanwhile, hope he will fall in love with a beautiful French girl and forget all about his infatuation with me (which, as you know, I have always enthusiastically discouraged). Poor, dull Charlie. He’s not a bad sort, but you know how he is—and how I am. Marrying Charlie would be rather like marrying a broken carriage clock. How the hours would drag.
Your training sounds much like dorm life at school. Didn’t they wake you with a bugle there, too? Or was it a gong? I forget. I imagine you and Will having great larks with the other chaps. You certainly sound in very good spirits and ready for the off. I expect the waiting is terribly frustrating. Like waiting for Christmas—all the anticipation, and yet still no snow and still no parcels under the tree.
Talking of Christmas, do you think it silly of me to still hope we might manage that trip to Paris we all became rather excited about after a few too many sherries? Papa says the city is full of refugees and that despite the allied victory at the Marne, it may still come under German attack again. If we do make it, Alice Cuthbert will come to make a foursome. She’s terrific fun, and you know how fond she is of Will. (Remind him, would you. It would make me so happy to see the two of them together.) They say Paris is impossibly pretty at Christmastime, and it will be just the tonic after months of fighting for you and months of boredom for Alice and me. Let’s say we’ll go if we can. ?a va être merveilleux! All those hours hunched over my French textbooks may prove to be of use after all.
In quite exciting news, I am now a member of the Richmond Lady Cyclist’s Club. I mostly fall off so far, but the ladies assure me they all struggled to control their bicycles at first, and that I must keep practicing. I would far rather ride an unbroken horse to be honest, but I shall persist and try again tomorrow (you know how stubborn I can be!). If I ever do master the art of bicycling, I have plans to ride all the way to Brighton to visit Alice. I recently read about Tessie Reynolds’s exploits in The Lady and find myself having grand notions about dashing around the country on two wheels. Don’t tell Will.
I hope this reaches you before you head off. Papa says you won’t be able to tell us where you are once you leave Mytchett in order to prevent information from falling into enemy hands. He says all letters from the Front will be censored before they reach home, so be careful of spilling any secrets or you’ll be court martialed before you’ve pulled the trigger once.
Is there anything I can send before you ship out? Mama said you would probably be grateful for some decent tobacco. She is convinced you are all living in squalor. I’ve included the best Virginia I could find, just in case.
Yours in friendship,
Evie
From Will Elliott to Evie
20th October, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Writing Desk,
Do not be fooled by Evie’s charms. She is untidy and presses too hard with her pen. She will have you ruined in weeks. Please pass on my thanks for her letter (albeit half the length of the one she sent to my friend Tom) and reassure everyone at home that I am in the best of health.
Not much to report from training camp, except that we are keen to get to the Front, see an end to this and return home as swiftly as possible to reclaim what is rightfully ours, writing desks included.
Behave, Evelyn.
Yours, in ink,
Will
From Thomas to Evie
25th October, 1914
Surrey, England
Dear Evelyn Elliott,
I assure you, you look much better as a woman than a man. I can see it now, Evan Elliott in heels and skirt, riding a bicycle like a banshee from hell. Gave myself a good laugh over that one. But in all seriousness, you should keep submitting your articles. You’re quite the writer. Don’t let them make you believe otherwise.