An End of Poppies
I was. I suppose would have done anything for him, even before he spoke to me.
So he wooed me and romanced me and told me that I was his 'dream girl' and that once he had gone to do his bit fighting the Hun for a while he would come back for me and we would both run off to Ireland. Make a new life, maybe as farmers or something. Fanciful I know. And from there, he said, we would go and make a new life in America and everything would be perfect, just like in those glossy yank movies with Doris Day or something. Stupidly I believed every word. I was taken; hook, line and sinker. He bedazzled me with his eyes; such deep blue eyes.
Needless to say I would meet him whenever I could. In secret of course. I bunked off school and would kiss him on a bench in the allotments. We held hands and whispered and laughed. I suppose I thought I loved him. But the truth is I only knew him for two weeks. And yes, I will be honest dear Jimmy; we made love, although I will spare you the hurtful details of this.
One night I snuck out of the house, when mother and Dulcie were fast asleep. Trotting down the road in my shiniest new stockings and highest heels to meet my love. Breaking the curfew, but I didn't care. He was staying in digs in Wealdstone, so it wasn't so far. It was when I was skipping up his street that the sirens began and the searchlights started to scan the cloudy ink sky. I remember banging on his door to let me in, but nothing happened, no one came, and that is when I began to feel uneasy and a fear began to churn and turn inside me. Mother would know I wasn't at home and would be panicked.
I tried to get through the gate at the side of the house as the first bombs began to drop, thuds and explosions that shook the very air got closer as I struggled with the locked gate. I thought that Phillip must be in the shelter in the garden.
In panic I climbed haphazardly over the gate as best I could in my heels. Stupidly I can remember being so disappointed that I had laddered my best stockings on the rough wood.
I ran onto the lawn at the back of the house and that is when the incendiaries hit the street. Blinding flashes and flames everywhere. And the noise Jimmy, such a noise it fairly deafened me. I couldn't hear properly for days afterwards.
One bomb hit the house next door, and, as the houses were semi-detached, it fairly smashed the roof of both houses in. The heat and the shock wave knocked me right off my feet and onto the grass, as flames burst through the windows of both houses, glass and wood flying everywhere. I still have a scars on my legs from the glass Jimmy, and one slight scar on my just below my ear. Constant reminders marked into my skin like tattoos.
Phillip was the only one to make it out of either house. Your description of those poor soldiers dying in flames after the German bomber had crashed brought it all back home to me Jimmy. Poor Patrick's whole body was aflame. I knew his grimacing face instantly. The image of him falling to the grass in front of me; the smell of his skin and hair aflame and his one plaintive scream are stuck with me forever. I threw my coat on him and tried to extinguish the flames. But it was too late, he was dead.
I don't know why they didn't leave the house and get into the shelter. Four men and their landlady died. Four young soldiers gone, before they even made it across the channel. The wardens reckoned they must have been drinking, saying their farewells, and didn't hear the sirens. I found out later that they were due to be shipped out to the Front the very next day, so perhaps it is true that they were intoxicated.
Phillip never told me. Never told me he was going; he must have known. He used me and then I watched him die.
I have never known how I am supposed to feel about it. Do we ever know how to feel about death? Mostly since I have tried to block it out. Later, when I started work at the factory and I began to make friends with some of the girls there I spoke about it. Some of them, Sally included, spoke about how I had done a good thing; a patriotic thing. How I had given one of our brave soldiers the chance to experience comfort and love before he had made the ultimate sacrifice. Sally even said it was a shame that I had not fallen pregnant, as having a child was the best thing a woman can do for the war effort.
After that I didn't speak about it again with them. Or with anyone until now as I write about it to you. That is because it is not something I am proud of. I suppose I feel shame. Shame that he deceived me, and, if truth be told I think he used my naivety. I also feel shame that I couldn't save him. If I had only been there sooner I may have been able to raise them from their slumber, before the sirens called. It is an awful thing to feel such shame.
When your words reminded me Jimmy, I couldn't help but think of it. Of Phillip dying in front of my very eyes and, of course, of my shame. Not that I especially needed reminding. But I wanted you to know what has happened to me. I do not think I will ever forget it or get over it. I hope that you can find it in yourself to understand Jimmy. Please try to not think badly of me because I have done such shameful things.
Afterwards mother was distraught, but of course she looked after me. I didn't speak much for weeks. Of course I eventually told her about Phillip and what had happened between us. I suppose that is why she is so protective of Dulcie and I now. You can't blame her really. And, I suppose, it is why I am so protective of Dulcie too.
I do hope you write again. Please understand that I open myself up to you because I have a trust in you and much high regard. Like you have said, I wish you to know me as much as I wish to know you. I am a different person to that silly naive girl of two years ago that made such selfish decisions. I will continue to think of you Jimmy.
With this letter I have packed a fresh bar of chocolate and wrapped up some tea leaves for you. It is China tea that Mathilda miraculously got from somewhere. I hope you like it, as the descriptions of the tea you have make it sound beastly.
Much love
Esme
X
M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War.
Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!
076938964
Ypres Zone
Middlesex Regiment
Sappers Unit 2064
27th March 1962
Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick
Dearest Esme,
Please do not fret my love. Be assured that I have nothing but admiration for your honesty. Again I devour your words and kindness. I understand what happened between you and that poor young soldier Phillip. This endless war is littered with such stories of heartbreak and tragedy. So, also be assured that it does not put me off in the slightest and strangely it simply increases my feelings for you; that you are prepared to share your innermost thoughts and experiences is a rare thing.
If you don't mind I will share my humble opinions. What happened was not your fault. Firstly, perhaps you do not know his true feelings and intentions towards you? You cannot assume that he was simply 'using' you. In any case it is true that your affection and love for him allowed him to experience some true joy in his short life. Secondly you could not have saved him. The scythe of death seems arbitrary and it is beyond our control. Here there is an attitude that simply says when it is your time, then it is your time. I am not sure that I believe that there is any such thing as fate or any kind of guiding hand making decisions over such things. There is no such thing as a 'bullet with your name on it'. It is simply chance it seems to me. A roll of the dice. Chance that the bomb fell where and when it did and chance that you happened to be there to witness such a horrific thing.
So I will continue to correspond as long as I am able, rest assured my beautiful Esme. I have made that promise. Remember Phillip for what he was; a boy who longed to be a man.
Today I sit by our fire with a clear sun above us. Jones is sat joking with Hendricks and all four of us, Thompson included, are drinking the fine tea you have sent us and munching on squares of the delicious chocolate. It is such a fine day that one might think we are just a group of chums on a camping holiday. There has been much rain of l
ate, which is always the enemy of an army in such muddy terrain, but today the sun shines bright.
There have been no attacks since I last wrote to you and little has happened. All seems quiet along the Front. Not even the distant crackle of rifle fire for the last few days. One of the many long lulls that happens every so often. Time to breath. It is better that we are still here in camp during this and not on some digging or concrete duty at the Wall. When there is a lull in the fighting the concrete teams grow in numbers and have to work triple shifts trying to strengthen the wall while there is time before the next round of bombardments. No one ever knows exactly how long such a break in the fighting will continue. It could be days, weeks or months. I have, in the past, watched the Germans doing exactly the same on their wall, patching the holes and building new defence nests. They scurried like mice atop their wall as I watched them through the greasy lenses of a pair of binoculars or squinted one-eyed through some ancient telescope.
There are some signs however that soon we may well at last be on the move. The pace of things seems to be increasing even though we have been here much longer than we would have anticipated. Trucks arrive daily with soldiers from other parts of the front, all kinds of supplies, ordnance and fresh ammunition. We have