An End of Poppies

brow. I need to share, to write these things, to empty them from my soul. Like I said earlier, I need to feel that I belong and I have an increasing feeling that I don't belong here. So please, please forgive my frankness.

  To finish the story I will say that once poor Groves was gone I shook like I have never shook before. My body shaking uncontrollably with the shock of it. Standing there, next in line, I couldn't help but soil myself. So unpleasant I know. I fear that you will not wish to write to a lowly soldier who confides such unpleasantness to you. Rawlins was screaming repeatedly at me to move and it must have been a full five minutes before I mustered any courage.

  Billy pushed roughly past me and ran to the other side and then I knew I had no choice but to move. I am not proud to say that my heavy boot stepped sloppily on poor Archie's body as I scampered as quickly as I could across the gap. I bumped into Billy waiting there. He looked me straight in the eye and said "Coward!” He could see me still shaking and he turned away. To this day I don't know why he said it. In retrospect he was just a foolish boy I suppose. He was my best friend and patriotic to the core. I guess he thought that we were going to be brave heroic soldiers fighting the good fight together. Brothers in arms as it were.

  Well, it didn't turn out that way. In his eyes I was a foolish child who pathetically shat himself at the first encounter with death. 'Coward' was the last word he ever spoke to me. He didn't bunk with us that night, choosing a bunk in the next row. I only saw him once more, in the porridge line at breakfast. He ignored me. A couple of days later he was reprimanded for discharging his weapon without orders. Apparently he climbed alone to the summit of the Wall at daybreak and fired a few rounds at the Germans. Not that he could have possibly hit anything with a basic Enfield from that distance. I don't know why he did it, maybe he felt guilty and wanted revenge for Archie Groves, or maybe he just wanted to get to the fighting quicker than the officers would allow. For that he got a severe dressing down from the divisional Colonel for wasting ammunition and put on a charge. His punishment was a week on concrete duty on the no-man's land side of the wall. That's where he died. Hanging in a suspended wooden basket shovelling wet gluey concrete into holes in the wall. That was five years ago.

  It is probably best you don't let Dulcie or your mother read this letter. Perhaps you could just read some parts of it that don't involve the reality of death? I know Dulcie will be disappointed not to read it herself. Tell her that my thoughts are with her too and that I will see her if and when my next leave finally comes through. That is if you wish it my dear Esme. Perhaps she would like to play a game of cards or two if I get to visit you? I have learnt some most amusing games from some of the boys here.

  I sincerely hope you do not mind my request not to let them read all of this letter, it is just that I do not wish to upset or shock them or for them to get the wrong impression of me. It is not that I am unpatriotic; I wish to beat the Germans as much as anybody. It is they who are responsible for this awful situation. It is they who murdered our fathers and their fathers before them. It is they who crushed the Belgians in 1914. Such a poor defenceless nation, over-run by a ruthless enemy for forty seven years. Imagine it. I understand that some might find the thoughts and truthfulness I express in these letters as defeatist. But it is not that. I simply want to make sense of it the only way I know how. With this simple fountain pen and some cheap paper. I hope the censors do not remove too much.

  Finally, I must return to the subject of music. Of course I love music and I love that you love it too. I had silly ideas of playing the flute when I was seven or so. They had a flute at school, one of the few instruments the boys could share and attempt to learn; apart from drums and bugles and military instruments. I soon found though that there is not a musically talented bone in my body. I am all fingers and thumbs when it comes to playing music. Instead my creativity came naturally in writing. In those days I wrote stories. Blue exercise books filled with naive boys stories of adventure; African explorers, brave pilots and suchlike. I don't write stories anymore.

  I know that Beethoven piece you speak of. It is beautiful but I can't quite bring it to mind just now. There is no music here but the instructing tones of the bugle and rare beat of a marching drum. The bugle must be the most melancholic of instruments. At least it is here anyway.

  In my mind it is not unpatriotic to like Beethoven. I think all music of beauty, indeed all things of beauty, should belong to the whole world. And be cherished. God knows there is far too little beauty and light to spread around these days. That said, I do understand your mother's caution when it comes to these things. It is not something I would mention in company, you never know who might be listening.

  I myself have never been to a concert of any kind. I imagine that it must be a wondrous experience and I hope you enjoy it when you see the Women's Symphony. I have seen posters for the occasional entertainments they send here to France for the troops, but these take place far away back beyond the lines. I have no idea who actually is allowed to attend them. Certainly not the likes of us.

  Please, dearest Esme, write to me again soon! Of course I will understand if you don't wish to. I understand that these missives take a while to reach their destination, so I will wish you and yours a happy and safe Christmas and New Year.

  All my thoughts are with you...

  Yours Sincerely

  Jimmy Fitzpatrick

  X

  P.S. I do hope I haven't put you off and you are kind enough to write to me again. It would be more than marvellous for you to send me some kind of parcel like you have suggested. But please do not feel you need to go to lots of trouble. I know it is presumptuous of me to ask for a book and realise how tight things are back at home.

  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 28th December 1961

  Dear Jimmy,

  Thank you for your last letter and a belated Merry Christmas to you. Firstly let me say that I did find some of your last letter quite shocking and at first I didn't know what to think, or whether I should reply. The way you describe things feels so vivid and not entirely what I imagine things to be like in France and Belgium. To be honest I am not sure what I thought. Or what to think. It is clear to me now that the papers and newsreels must protect our innocent eyes from such things.

  I know you must think me a naive silly little girl; I know I am only seventeen. But, please be assured that I am not so young as to be completely unaware of the horrors of this war. Like you I have grown up with the bombings and rocket strikes. And like you and so many others I have had to grow up quickly. Perhaps too quickly. I know that there is death and that lots of it is truly horrible. I have seen it myself, death I mean, and some awfully shocking things, although I do not feel that I am quite ready just yet to tell you about that, perhaps I will be brave and tell you when we get to meet, or in a later letter. Rest assured that I kept your letter private and only read certain sections in front of my mother and Dulcie, despite her constant pestering. I have locked your letters in a box I keep especially for private things.

  On reflection I have decided that I would like to continue our correspondence. It is the patriotic thing to do, and it is my hope to bring you some cheer.

  In a strange kind of way your letter made me feel closer to you. It is as if by confiding in me your deepest and most honest thoughts and experiences you are truly revealing yourself to me. That is a precious and rare thing it seems to me. Especially when lives are so wrapped up in the war effort. Sometimes life seems so precarious, perhaps people don't have the time in war to reveal themselves. Or perhaps it is precisely b
ecause of war that our true nature is revealed? As a people we are showing who we truly are, in the face of terrible odds. It feels a privilege that you feel that you can confide in me so, and you do write so very well, even if it is about such beastly things. I think you are a fine writer. You should write stories again. I would love to read them.

  You will see that I have kept my promise and sent you a parcel. I am sorry that it couldn't arrive before Christmas. I managed to save two bars of Cadburys although Dulcie wanted to eat them on Christmas day and I felt it would be mean not to let her have some. So I am sorry I can only send you one bar. I have knitted you a sleeveless jumper from scraps of wool we had left over. I know it is a higgledy-piggledy pattern and the stripes and colours don't exactly match or join up but I am hoping you can wear it under your uniform to keep you warm during the harshest months of the winter to come. I am afraid there wasn't enough wool left over to knit you a scarf.

  I have also enclosed a book for you. It is one of my favourites by Dickens; 'Oliver Twist'. I expect you have read it before, as you did say that Dickens was a favourite, but I hope it will give you comfort as you read it. I did think to send you a book by Edgar Allan Poe (I have two copies of 'The Pit and the Pendulum')