But it does.
Like so many other women, I am doing my bit here with the WAAC. I dress in uniform. I follow orders. I sleep in a dilapidated dormitory that any decent gardener would refuse to grow his tomatoes in. It is far from the comforts of home, and the continual distant sound of shelling is a stark reminder of what is happening not so very far away. At times, I wonder what on earth I am doing here, or how life brought me here at all. My role is only one tiny cog in a very large military machine, but it is a role once filled by a man. By taking up his work, he has been able to join the fight. When released in volumes, those additional men are of great importance. But we must never forget our own importance, too.
Never feel your role is insignificant. Never feel your small contribution cannot make a difference. It can. And it does.
I will continue to do my part here in France, and as I do, I will fight this war with the only weapons permitted to me: my pencil, my paper, and my words.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
From John to Evie
5th July, 1917
London, England
Dearest Evelyn,
I couldn’t wait to hear from you so I had to write to tell you the latest column created a sensation—again!
A pack of angry readers stood outside our doors the morning after the paper went out. By mid-afternoon, it had turned into a horde. They picketed outside, chanting about dismissing the column and “this woman” who wrote it. Others demanded we do something about ending the war (as if it is in our hands). We could not print fast enough to keep up with the demand. The police arrived, yet again, and broke up the disturbance. The downside is, after the incident, I suffered a belligerent “request” from the War Office to cease. They said if we do not comply, the paper will be shut down.
Still, I would like to run a few more of your columns and then we will pull it, or perhaps shift its focus entirely. For now, though, hold off on the next few months to let some of the fervour pass. We’ll aim for an autumn return for Genevieve Wren.
I have been in contact with Tom Harding. He tells me you two still exchange letters at quite a pace. How lucky he is. I will continue to watch the post for word from you.
Evelyn, I know that marriage may feel like an impossible thing to think about right now, but I cannot tell you how happy you would make me if you would only write with a “Yes.” I can offer you a very comfortable life, a life in which you need never work again. Imagine the fun you and that friend of yours (Annie?) will have, lunching and shopping to your heart’s content. What other man can offer you such prospects? What other man deserves the beautiful Evelyn Elliott on his arm? I can certainly think of none.
Be safe over there. You are greatly missed.
Yours, with affection.
John
Telegram from Thomas to Evie
12TH JULY 1917
TO: EVELYN ELLIOTT, ROUEN, FRANCE
SENT: 18:33 / RECEIVED: 19:52
INJURED IN BATTLE. NOT TOO SERIOUS. OPERATION ON RIGHT HAND MEANS NO LETTERS FOR NOW. I WILL SEND TELEGRAM OR WRITE WHEN HAND HEALS. AFFECTION. T.
From Evie to Alice
11th September, 1917
Rouen, France
Dearest Alice,
What news? I hear of dreadful casualties in the area where you are and cannot stop thinking of you working in such awful conditions. I hope you are bearing up.
So much is happening now I can hardly keep up with the intelligence coming down the wires. The girls in the exchange here really feel that things are moving towards a conclusion and that victory will soon be ours. I hope and pray for it with all my heart.
John presses me for an answer still, and Tom suffered an injury to his right hand. He says he cannot write for a while, which is probably just as well. Sometimes I haven’t the energy to write to either of them.
I often find myself thinking about Will. I somehow feel closer to him here, knowing a little of what he experienced. I wonder what he would say if he could see me. His little sister, among it all. I remember he once teased me about being smitten with Tom Harding. I laughed at the notion—Tom Harding! But he was right, wasn’t he. Perhaps it has always been Tom. The thing is, Alice, when I see a few lines from Tom, my heart devours every single word. When I read letters from John, I feel suffocated.
Yesterday, I started thinking about that silly notion we all had to spend Christmas in Paris. It seems impossible now, doesn’t it, and yet I have more reason than ever to want to go. I need to find someone, you see, who, if I have things straight, will be most precious to me. But more on that when I see you. It isn’t the thing for letters.
Please write soon.
Much love,
Evie
X
From Evie to her mother
3rd October, 1917
Rouen, France
Dear Mama,
A short note to tell you that I am well and still enjoying my work here on the switchboard. We relay dozens of messages per hour. It’s exhausting, but the time passes quickly and I sleep well at night.
I am quite out of any danger, although we hear the distant pounding of shells and the rat-a-tat-a of gunfire. It has become so familiar to me that I often don’t hear it at all. I wouldn’t wonder that I will find the tranquillity of life back at home rather unusual. I’ll have to ask Cook to walk around the house banging on her copper pans to make things feel ordinary.
I hope you and Papa are in good health. It looks unlikely that I will be home for Christmas. It will be rather quiet around the table this year.
Your loving daughter,
Evelyn
X
From John to Evie
10th November, 1917
London, England
Dear Evelyn,
I have not heard from you in three months, and I am worried. Please let me know that you are all right. I assume you are caught up in the action there?
If you are willing, I would like to run your column again next month. The fervour has abated some, yet demand is still high. Everyone asks when Genevieve Wren will write something new. Now is the time to strike.
I still have hopes for a spring wedding. Your mother has started to look for a dressmaker. Let’s not leave things until the last minute, all right? I hope you will not disappoint me.
Sincerely,
John
From Thomas to Evie
1st December, 1917
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,