used to call me when I was small; you know how mothers have pet names for their beloved children. 'Little Jim' she used to call me. Funny to think of it now, her tucking me up under the heavy eiderdown in a warm soft bed. "Night, night my little Jim," she would say. That seems an age away. To feel so safe and warm and loved. It almost seems like it wasn't me who felt like that, it was so long ago. I miss it in a way I cannot put into words; her lavender smell and kind words. I think that it is an unspoken truth that all soldiers miss their mothers the most, above and beyond anything. 'Mother' is so often the last word to spill from a dying man's lips. I have heard it myself more than once, in a trench or from a stretcher. 'Mother' they whisper. 'Mother'. She is the reason I am the man I am, I do hope she is safe and well.
Of course she didn't always call me 'Jim' or 'Jimmy'. She would always call me 'James' when she was telling me off or chastising me because I had pushed the boundaries. I suppose all mothers do that; they have certain words and a certain tone of voice kept in reserve for when boys are mischievous in the way that boys are. It is a scolding kindness born of protective love; to chastise ones child in such a personal way that at once teaches the child of their folly but also subconsciously reassures them that the special bond between mother and child remains in place. Another thing that I miss. And I suppose fathers must have that bond too, out there in the world in places where there are fathers. Although it is best for me to not dwell on such things; things that I will miss out on in my brief future. Fatherhood is perhaps one of those things.
Once mother caught me on the railway embankment, near Wealdstone; you know near where there was that train crash in '52. We had sneaked out after the curfew and lights out. Billy Treacher had stolen a gas lamp from outside the warden's hut and we were shining it down the tracks looking to see if we could see any wreckage of the carriages. Looking for souvenirs I suppose. The morbid fascination of boys. Mother went ballistic and gave us both a thick ear for that one! I still to this day have no idea how she knew where we were.
"James Fitzpatrick!" she shouted over the fence, her voice with its most serious disappointed tone, "how dare you be out after lights out!" I almost jumped out of my skin. Billy just bowed his head and was silent; it was a fair cop after all.
The next day she marched Billy and I down to the warden's hut, Billy's mum came too. Made us give back the lamp and apologise to the warden and promise we would never do it again. I will always remember that. One of those conflicting memories of childhood that mixes shame with affection. The warden was a fat old man with a big nose propped up by a looping moustache. He had only his left arm; the empty black uniform sleeve pinned haphazardly to his chest with a large safety pin. The kind of shiny silver pin that women use to pin their skirts. Funny how I can still to this day remember such detail. His left leg was gone too, below the knee. A stubby old fashioned wooden foot and shin kept him on two legs. You could see the shiny aged wood between his ankle and boot because his trousers were too short. Only one sock on his good foot. He was a lop-sided man in every way. He literally wore the evidence of his sacrifice on his sleeve.
Billy was trying hard not to giggle because the man had a drip from his nose which kept landing on his moustache. I found his giggling to be infectious and thought it funny that he would use a woman's skirt pin so obviously to pin his sleeve. He was trying to give us a lecture about how we had to keep lights out so the bombers had no targets and we were trying not to laugh. His voice was grave and serious. My body shook and my eyes watered as I tried to suppress the laughter. Billy couldn't and squealed and that was the last straw and we both laughed out loud. That got us both another thick ear once we left. Mother said she couldn't believe how we could be so disrespectful. Of course we both apologised profusely to our mothers, in the grovelling pathetic way that only boys can seem to muster. Wiping grubby tears and snot on our sleeves. I miss Billy now as I think about him. I guess I miss such innocence.
You also asked about my eyes in your letter. They are blue. Well a kind of blue-green I suppose, depending on the light. When I think about it now, I can't say that I have really looked at them that often. A mirror is a rare thing out here at the front.
You say that I am a romantic, but I feel that asking about my eyes is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me. I love the green of yours and be safe in the knowledge that I did see them. Oh how I saw them. I couldn't take my eyes off of you before we spoke. Well, when you weren't looking anyway. The way your red hair curls and frames your face. So delightful. Entrancing one might say. Thoughts of you fill my mind with the colour that is so clearly absent in my world. Your eyes seemed to sparkle and are full of knowing. Of course I couldn't look into them directly as we walked and talked together. I wish I could look into them now.
I have some bad news. I am afraid any chance of leave has been cancelled. At least until well into the New Year they say. There are rumours that the regiment might be on the move soon. My unit has been stationed here for the last six months or so. I had hoped that when I returned from Brighton they would move us from the tunnels, but alas no.
It is our job to CENSORED CENSORED and then there will be CENSORED. It is hard work and dangerous, especially when we don't have enough wood and steel supports for the tunnels, as we often don't. We aren't always safe from the bombardment and rockets, even at this depth below ground. A particularly heavy set of shell bursts hit the north east section of the salient last Tuesday and the shock wave caused a cave in. Eighteen sappers had bought it by the time we managed to dig them out. There is always fear, but I try to comfort myself that at least I am not on concrete duty or scouting in no-man's land.
If we do get moved it will be nice to get to see the sky again. I haven't been topside for at least six weeks. Not since the last leave. All the men down here have the tendency to look like ghosts, almost as if we are unreal spirits or some such. All grey skin and skeletal thin bodies. I suppose I must look like one too. Like I said mirrors are rare. I cannot for the life of me remember when I last saw my own face.
It wasn't entirely unexpected that we are not to get leave anytime soon but I was so hoping that I might be able to see you, somehow or other. It gives me great comfort that you have agreed to write to me. To know that someone, somewhere outside of this unreal war may actually care about me.
I like that you talk about music and beauty in your letter. Everything here is monochrome; grey and khaki and dirt. I too love to read, you mentioned Dickens; he was one of my favourites when I was a boy, and I loved the adventures of Jules Verne. I have no books here. Perhaps you could be kind enough to think about sending me a book in a parcel. A scarf or a pullover would be more than marvellous too, although please don't go to too much trouble on my account. Any communication from you is a joy.
Though I will be bold and say that it would be wonderful to have a book to read in my stolen moments in between duties. That is only if it is not too much trouble, or if you have a book lying about that you no longer want.
I sometimes fantasised about being a writer myself when I was younger. I was always one for making up stories. Billy used to like it when I would dream up some impossible adventures of pirates or pilots for us to play.
When I got the call-up, I applied for war journalism. I foolishly thought that would be my niche in this war. But they turned me down flat; said I didn't go to the right school for that. The letter they sent had a sneering tone to it. Almost as if the typed words could convey how those types at the ministry were looking down their noses at me. It said something about how I wouldn't have learnt the correct things. I have no Latin you see. Those kinds of jobs are reserved for the privileged few, not a middle class son of an ordinary soldier. Perhaps they get a lot of applications from men who think it would be an easy ride to write about things at the front. I was young and naive, although now it seems so obvious to me. Stupid really. I should have realised that such things are not for the likes of me.
So I just ended up in the Middlesex Reg
iment, like my father and like everyone else I knew. A typical 'Pals' regiment. My whole class from Harrow Weald Boys School went off together. I think of them now, boys with proud ruddy red faces marching clumsily out of step; all shiny buttons, fresh oversized khaki and boots too big clumping down the street. Mothers waving tear stained hankies, just like their mothers before them. My mother at the back of the crowd. When I stole a glance at her, below the sloping brim of my cap, it was as if she could barely bring herself to look at me. It wasn't a look of disappointment exactly, more one of sad resignation. Deeply sad.
They sent us to Northumberland for the basic training, all together living in bivouacs under grey rainy skies for four months. It seemed like such an adventure; like we were treading in the proud footsteps of destiny like our fathers before us. I shared my tent with Billy and another boy; Archie Groves. I didn't really know him at school, he was one of those boys that were always on the periphery, on the edge of things; not 'one of the gang'. Poor Archie Groves. Poor, fat, inadequate Archie Groves.
In retrospect we were so very cruel to him, Billy and I. Easy