As difficult as it was, I cherished our talk today. Remembering Will, how much has changed . . . Your tears, somehow, made me feel less alone. I don’t know how to thank you for listening to my terrible stories. You have a heart of gold.
Sometimes I can hardly believe that you’re here. My dearest, closest friend has elected to stay in Scotland, far from her own home—for me. I can’t imagine how I’ll ever settle the score.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Evie to Jack Davies
3rd November, 1916
Leith, Scotland
Dear Mr. Davies,
Please find enclosed my latest column. As you know, I have been visiting relatives in Scotland these past weeks, and have also been to Craiglockhart War Hospital to visit Tom Harding, who improves with great speed. I am moved to write about the condition of war neuroses which I see here, in abundance. I know it may be risky for the paper to print my thoughts (since they are not always expressed with the timidity one might expect of a woman), but I believe your readers need to know more about this “condition”—not least so that they may help their loved ones by understanding it a little better.
You might send word to let me know your thoughts?
I expect to return to London soon and perhaps we could meet for lunch to discuss the future of the column. I may not be a trained journalist, but I feel increasingly compelled to tell the truth of the things I encounter.
Also, I hear rumours of a Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps being established. Perhaps I can find some way to get myself over to France after all, as we discussed.
Yours sincerely,
Evie
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in London, Genevieve Wren
“To sleep, perchance to dream . . .”
And so it goes on. Month, week, day, hour, minute, second . . . time drags interminably on and still the battles rage and still our men fall faster than winter snowflakes.
No year of this war has been the same. With each new battle, it seems we must relearn what war means. Each offensive brings dangers beyond the familiar rifle and bayonet our men were trained to use. Now they face poison gas, powerful shells, all manner of disease . . . weapons for which there was no training. Weapons which—in some cases—didn’t even exist two years ago.
And yet, amid all the gunfire and the rumble of shelling that those who live on the south coast can hear, carried on the wind all the way from France, there is another weapon our men must confront, a weapon as deadly as any other: despair.
For the past month, I have been an occasional visitor to Craiglockhart War Hospital, in Scotland. It is an impressive military hospital for officers who go there to recover from the trauma of battle. And yet, if you were to visit—as I have—you could be forgiven for thinking these men were nothing but frauds. They walk on both legs without the use of crutches. They swing both arms by their sides. They have no need for face masks to hide their injuries. These men suffer in an entirely different way. They suffer in their minds. The horrors they have seen and the endless sounds they have endured night after night stay with them, so that they can no longer function as normal men. Some have lost the power of speech, such is the extent to their distress.
Here, at the hospital, it is called “war neuroses.” Those who suffer from the condition are referred to as “lacking moral fibre.” There is a sense among those in the highest levels of command that these men are weak minded. Not real men, if you will.
These patients are something of an oddity to the doctors, who treat them not with medicine, but with hypnosis and hot baths and the occasional round of golf. While I am no medical expert and cannot fully explain the symptoms, what I do know is that this is not an affliction that can be treated with a bandage and good bedside manner. This goes far beyond the reaches of normal medical knowledge. Just as our men were not trained to deal with the new weaponry they face at the Front, so our doctors are not trained to deal with this new “disease.”
So, what can we do? As mothers and wives, sisters and friends, how can we help the men who don’t return to us with broken limbs, but who return to us with broken minds? Perhaps we can do nothing other than to listen when they are able to talk, to hold their hand when it cannot stop shaking, to understand that the sound of a passing train or a distant rumble of thunder may be nothing more than an everyday occurrence to us, but for them is a reminder of everything they fear and takes them back to the trenches in an instant.
This war may be a battle of many things, but it is also a battle of endurance. None of us were prepared for it to last so long. None of us were equipped with the skills needed to cope. And yet cope we do. Somehow we find a way.
So please continue to send your letters, your words of pride and love and encouragement, and ask those you love to tell you what they see and hear—not only when they are awake, but in the silent hours of their dreams. Let them know that, whatever happens, to you they will never be lacking in anything. Let them know that, to the people who matter the most, they will always be the best kind of hero.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
From Alice to Evie
5th November, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m returning your letter at last. Sorry to have taken so long. The horrific battle I mentioned has raged for months and I’ve been on my feet day and night, exhausted beyond anything you can imagine. Scan the news reports for the most devastating battles and that’s where I am, in the thick of things. It appears to be winding down, thanks be to the great potato in the sky. I don’t think any of us can last much longer at this pace.
As for your Tom, you see? You did the right thing, going to him. Poor man. It sounds like he was really shaken. Could you hint at your confessional Christmas letter? (What on earth did you tell him, darling? I hope you didn’t hold back.) Perhaps you can get at it that way. I can’t imagine he would broach the subject himself, even if he has read it, especially in his present condition. Just remember he asked you to visit him—in Scotland, no less. How could that not be love? Dash it, Evie, perhaps you should just tell him. What if he returns to the Front and doesn’t know? Could you bear the agony? Could I?
Sending hugs to you both. Say a little prayer that I’ll be moving on soon. I feel my good cheer slipping and that won’t do, not for me.
Alice
XX
From Thomas to Evie
20th November, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Evie,
Cards again tomorrow, or a walk in the garden? Don’t forget your umbrella this time. My scarf is still soaked through and will make for poor cover.
Yours,
Tom
From Evie to Alice
20th November, 1916
Leith, Scotland
Dearest girl,