each been issued with boxes of Enfield rounds and three Mills bombs each, and the drills and cleaning of kits continue. Routine as ever. You would imagine that without it the army would collapse into chaos. As usual I had hoped that there might be some announcement of a leave, but this re-equipping of the regiment seems to suggest otherwise.
I also saw a regiment of women arrive last week. I knew there were rumours of it and of course the R.W.V. have been providing support regiments of women for years. But it is the first time I have seen a regiment of women that is destined for combat. You should have heard the cacophony of wolf whistles and cat-calls from around the camp as they marched through with sloped arms. I will give them credit; they held their heads with dignity, pony-tails swinging beneath their helmets. Jones commented that he was disappointed that they don't wear skirts. The talk is that they will fight, but only in sparsely populated parts of the front. The officers apparently think they will be a distraction, so the less men around them the better.
Last week an odd thing happened. I saw that officer who questioned me before about my mother. You remember, the Colonel who sat me in a room and almost interrogated me. He looks incongruous here; almost as if his uniform is too clean. I find it unnerving that he has come sniffing around again. I had thought that that business was over; that they had forgotten about me.
This Colonel simply turned up one morning and stood by our fire; one foot up on a chair, nonchalantly smoking his ever-present pipe and fingering his moustache. He might have been a Victorian gent out on some kind of hunting party. He is tall and imposing; holds his thin aristocratic frame with a confidence born of breeding.
I had heard voices so I walked out of the tent and there he was. Just standing there without a care in the world. Hendricks was sat by the fire looking at the down at the dirt. The Colonel spoke; "Hello Fitzpatrick," he said. Simple as that, as if we were friends who hadn't seen each other for a while. I was a bit flabbergasted. Out of force of habit I stood to attention and saluted.
"At ease," he said.
I felt uncomfortable as I was only dressed in my britches and undershirt.
"No need for formalities Fitzpatrick," he said, "You remember me don't you? Colonel Conway...we met last year,"
I stood to a formal at ease position, legs apart, hands behind my back, looking straight ahead.
"Of course sir," I said.
"Just a social call," he said, "I was just chatting to Hendricks here, wonderful that a chap of his age can still give such service to the cause don't you think?"
I didn't reply; I was still a bit taken aback and didn't know what on earth I should say. He continued; "so, how the devil are you Fitzpatrick? How is life treating you?"
He spoke with practised ease; as if we had known each other for years. I just said "Fine sir, just fine," and continued to look straight ahead. He stood up straight and banged the embers and ash from his pipe against the side of the metal fold up chair. Little sparks drifting to the floor. He checked the bowl of the pipe with his yellowed thumb, looked up at the sky for a thoughtful moment and then turned away.
"See you chaps," he said and then he was gone. Just like that.
Hendricks and I both slumped a bit in relief. It is clear to me that he has his eyes on me still, and I am convinced it is to do with my mother and what they say she did. I asked Hendricks about him, apparently he has encountered Conway before too. He says that the diamond pips on his uniform collar denote that he is S.I.S. - military intelligence. It is no secret that such men exist. We need to make sure that enemy spies and infiltrators are caught before they can commit sabotage. It is why we must submit these letters to censorship and we must be careful what we say.
Hendricks spoke in whispers about it afterwards. I cannot write about what he said, but suffice to say that we had both better watch our tongues, especially while Conway is hanging around the regiment. Hendricks also warned me that perhaps I should be more careful about what I write to you; he has experience of men getting into hot water for the letters they write. I certainly do not want another grilling from Conway so I had better keep my head down for a while.
Another worry for us is Thompson. He isn't eating terribly much and his pallor becomes paler by the day. He never seems to sleep and has taken to sitting on the yellow grass floor of the tent rocking for hours each night. When this happens either Hendricks or I attempt to get him back into bed but he just gets out again. Jones doesn't have much time for him and is less sympathetic, saying that he should just pull himself together because war is just 'bloody shit' for all of us. Please excuse the language. To be honest he swears much more than that.
Thompson just about manages to go through the motions every time we have a drill, but I can see his hands shaking as he holds his rifle and fixes his bayonet. The Sergeant-Major shouts at him more often than not and I know he is trying hard to keep it together, but I fear he will fall apart soon. I requested again that he get seen by the M.O. but the Captain just said that the M.O. is a busy man and has far more important things to attend to than some 'silly cissy boy'. It's ridiculous really; the Captain is probably the same age as me and not much more than a boy himself.
I have all but given up trying to talk to Thompson about it. He refuses to communicate and is simply monosyllabic in any conversation. That is if he talks at all. Often all he will say is "Yes" or "No". He did talk for a while with me a couple of weeks ago. He told me about how he misses his mother; just some small stuff about how he wished he could be at home. At night you hear him whispering "mummy" over and over in that fitful place between sleep and wakefulness. I asked if I could perhaps write to his mother for him but he simply grunted at the suggestion. I don't even know where he is from. Perhaps I should try and find out her address, but then I would have to write a letter that was a lie. To comfort her where there is no comfort. Can you imagine her distress if I confided the truth? What on earth would she feel knowing the dreadful state her little boy is in? I am not sure I would have the courage to write such a letter.
I have tried to explain to him what will happen if he doesn't manage to keep it together but I don't think he understands and if he does he doesn't care. He is simply a shell of a human being; an empty boy who never made it to becoming a man. He came here a child and now all is left is the husk of that child. But, unfortunately, that husk is not empty. The cavity within him where his humanity used to lie is filled to the brim with fear. The outside looks perfectly human, but inside he is being eaten alive. As if the horrendous parasite of worry is chewing away at him, turning all of his inner flesh to mush; transforming his backbone to mere jelly. I wonder if there can ever possibly be a cure to such a debilitating disease. And the truly frightening part is that we all suffer from this disease to one extent or another. I am at a loss to know how we can possibly help him; the only true comfort would be in his mother's arms. But not much chance of a discharge without some truly disabling physical injury. Injury of the mind doesn't count.
I was sorry to her about your Aunt Mathilda. Please do send her my best wishes and tell her that I hope she gets well soon. I suppose she too has to be careful who she fraternises with and what she says. As I think I have said before, I do so hope to meet her when I next get leave. She sounds like lots of fun.
Thank her also for finding out about my mother. That was awfully kind. I hope she is being treated well in such a place. I don't mind saying that it makes me apprehensive to know she is in a sanatorium. I am not sure what to think.
I am definitely going to write a letter to her, as soon as I get time, and I hope that she replies. And thank you for your kind offer of accompanying me to visit her when I get leave. That would be marvellous, so long as it wasn't too much trouble. I do hope I am not imposing too much.
I shall sign off now my dearest Esme, I can hear the Sergeant-Major bellowing in the distance and it is probably time for another drill.
Please wrote soon,
All my love,
Jimmy
&nb
sp; 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
Tuesday 10th April 1962
Dear Jimmy,
Thank you so much for the many kind words in your last letter. You are so very compassionate and understanding. It makes me feel that much better that you will still write to me despite my youthful indiscretions. I know there are many who would judge me harshly for what I did with Philip, and I was anxious that you may have been put off writing to me. I am so very glad that you are not put off. I cannot tell you how glad. I am also glad that you remain safe and well.
I have passed on your best wishes to Aunt Mathilda and be assured that she is very much on the mend. You would think that such an encounter with the police would dampen her enthusiasm for all things radical, but I have to tell you Jimmy that this is far from the case. She is, by any measure, more radical and strident than ever. Much to mother's continued annoyance. She has refused to let that incident slow