An End of Poppies

dangerous places; concrete duty or worse. It is quite clear the punishments for such things.

  I know that perhaps I take a risk to write about them in my letters to you, dear Esme. I am perfectly well aware that you won't be the only one to read my words, but sometimes I need to express what I feel to someone or perhaps I will burst with the sheer confusion of my emotions. The constant fear of our position heightens and sharpens one's feelings sometimes, as if they are magnified beneath a spyglass. In times like this it is best to force yourself back into the dull routine of the soldier's life to try and forget. But this is not always so easy or possible.

  Please, my dear Esme, please understand I am not unpatriotic in the slightest. I just want you to know me as much as I long to know you.

  There is still no talk of leave although it seems to me that we are long overdue one. Also there is no talk yet of us leaving the camp for a new posting. This seems odd as I don't think I have spent this much time in camp since I first crossed the channel. Every day there is a trickle of new faces here, French and British alike and small units from the colonies; a few small bands of fresh faced pals brigades, new to all this like Thompson was, and they join the throngs of weary faces back from the front. It's almost as if we are gathering everyone in one place. Though this cannot be true. The whole wall has to be manned; all along those miles and miles. Of course some parts of the front are very sparsely populated and rarely encounter fighting, especially, I am told, those low final sections of the Wall that reach to Switzerland. I wonder what a soldier has to do to get posted to one of those quiet places?

  Both armies watch each other's movements from the sky with spotter planes; little single-prop planes that buzz like curious wasps very high in the sky on clear days, trying to keep out of range of the ack-ack batteries. And so both sides match each other and they mass what numbers they have to face each other, mostly in these middle sections of the Wall, at places like Ypres and Verdun. And every six months or so one side may think it has a numerical advantage and tries for a push of some kind. Perhaps that is what will face us all too soon.

  I do hope they announce a leave for our regiment soon. Just a week or two of blighty would be marvellous. Just to see your face in reality.

  Thank you, my dearest for thinking of me, and please thank your Aunt Mathilda for trying to find my mother. I do not suppose she will have much luck, I have written five letters now, explaining the situation to the ministry and trying to establish her whereabouts. All to no avail. Those bureaucrats in Whitehall don't even bother to furnish me with a reply. It so good that Aunt Mathilda is staying on with you. I hope to meet her one day soon, she sounds like a card.

  I do not mind what you send to me in a parcel, anything is marvellous and, please, do not feel obliged to send one. Cigarettes and chocolate are always welcomed here.

  As ever you are in my thoughts my love and I look forward to your next letter.

  Yours with hope and love,

  Jimmy Fitzpatrick

  X

  M.O.D Approved. Home Office Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4c. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.

  Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

  Miss E. Wilbraham

  41 Whitefriars Drive

  Harrow Weald

  Greater London

  (Defence Zone F)

  HA3 5HW

  Thursday 18th March 1962

  Dear Jimmy,

  Thank you for your letter; I do hope my letters cheer you up. This last letter of yours seemed like you really are down in the dumps. I know the horrific things you must face every day must be terribly hard. I can only begin to imagine what it must be like for you. I felt terribly sad after what happened at the concert in Victoria Park, but I know that for life to mean anything I must remain optimistic. I take heart from my family. So please take heart Jimmy that someone back home is thinking of you and please keep hope because some men do make it back from the war. I know it is only the lucky few but I like to hope that you will be one of them.

  I have some good news and some bad. First the good. Aunt Mathilda had a luncheon meeting with a woman she knows in Whitehall who has kindly managed to find out about your mother. From what I can gather I think that Mathilda had to pay her to get the address. I suppose some might call it bribery. She wouldn't tell me how much, and brushed it off when I asked her. She is such a generous soul. I do not think she had to pay because it is secret information or anything like that, but rather that the record keeping is not always as good as it should be so the information was hard to find.

  Anyway, it seems your mother is ensconced safely in a hospital outside of Newcastle. Sadly it is a type of asylum. She is at the Sanatorium at the village of Barrasford if you want to write to her; it is on the moors I think. I am sorry that we do not have the exact address. If, when you next get leave, you wish to go and visit her then I will gladly come with you. I have been saving my days off from the factory so that I can meet with you when you finally do get leave. Mathilda even said that she could borrow a car for us to take; wouldn't that be marvellous? Of course mother insists that Mathilda should accompany us on such an excursion, sort of like a chaperone. Though Mathilda says that I am grown up and sensible enough to take care of myself. And, of course, Dulcie has been pestering me to go as well, though I tell her it would hardly be a holiday. Mind you, I don't drive so we may well need Mathilda to drive for us, unless you drive? Going by train might be expensive. So, what do you think of that my dear Jimmy?

  Anyway, now for the bad news. Aunt Mathilda was attacked last week when she was up in London. Punched in the face and kicked. It is an awful business; she is on the mend but she suffered a broken nose and collar-bone. Such an awful shiny black eye. She refuses to talk about it much, but I listened to her discussion with mother after they thought I had gone to bed, Dulcie was asleep and I sat on the stairs clutching the banisters. From what I can gather Mathilda was at an illegal meeting of women. Apparently they are radical types who want votes for women and an end to the war. Imagine it! I knew that Mathilda had some strong views but I didn't think that she could possibly be actually mixed up with such an unpatriotic bunch. The meeting was broken up by a group of policewomen with truncheons. Sounds like all hell broke loose. Mathilda spoke about 'infiltrators' and she swore a lot. Mother is especially unhappy about it. I think that she wanted Mathilda to leave and go back to Dover, but stopped short of that, perhaps because she knows we are coming to rely on Mathilda and her generosity. Especially now the shops and the market seem emptier than ever and our winter supplies are so reduced.

  Of course Mathilda is indomitable about her injuries and refuses to let it dampen her spirits. Her nose will mend without much problem; well the doctor says so anyway. Unusually the Doctor came to our house. Normally one has to trek to the surgery or one of the tented hospitals. She was a jolly woman, the Doctor, not one that I have encountered before. I think she is one of Mathilda's many acquaintances. She put Mathilda's arm in a sling and told her to rest. She even left a supply of aspirin powders. That must have cost a bomb.

  It strikes me as funny sometimes how the world is not always as it seems. Just like you I wonder about the times that we live in. What has happened with Mathilda, and the letters you write to me are beginning to make me question my sensibilities. I suppose as children we are protected somewhat from the difficult things. Well to a certain extent anyway. You describe the awful scenes of death that you encounter whilst you carry out your duty to King and country. You soldiers are so brave it seems to me. I will admit that I have seen death too, not only at the concert but also when I was younger, as I may have intimated in a previous letter. It is something I have tried to forget; pretend it never happened to me. But your letters have made me realise that we all must face these things and that in some small way it must help us to share them. As if unloading the hurt lessens it somewhat.

  So
I hope you do not mind Jimmy but I want to describe to you what happened to me when I was younger. I do this because I feel that through our written words we are becoming ever closer and because I feel that we should have no secrets between us. I do hope you understand.

  You told me in a previous letter that you have never kissed a girl Jimmy. Well I must be honest and tell you that I have kissed a boy. Kissed a boy and more. So when, in previous letters, I spoke of knowing about relations between women and men, I spoke from experience. Experience that I have been reticent to share with you. I do hope you are not disappointed and will hear out my story. Of course I will understand if you no longer wish to correspond with me.

  It was when I was fifteen; two years ago but it feels like a lifetime. In retrospect I was so young and naive, and foolish. Yes, definitely foolish. It frightens me when I see such similar foolishness in Dulcie's eyes now. I met a soldier just back from his basic training. His name was Phillip; Phillip Trent. His mother lived in Watford and I met him on the horse-drawn bus one Saturday afternoon. He was only sixteen but to my eyes he seemed such a sophisticated chap with his uniform cap at a jaunty angle as he smiled at me. I must have gone all gooey inside just looking at him. Foolish girl that