I live, but my commander—and friends—are gone. Had we not lost our commander due to my hesitation, we wouldn’t have had to march again so soon to join the battalions in Verdun. Thousands and thousands went down, Evie. All because of that tiny moment of hesitation months earlier.
I have felt like nothing but a coward ever since. I failed, utterly, in my position as leader of my men. I didn’t mention it to you before because I couldn’t. The shame goes beyond anything I can describe. It’s their faces that haunt me at night, the screams I hear as the phantom gas swirls around them. And now I’ve left them behind again, in the hell they call Verdun, facing all that terror every day. What sort of leader cracks into a thousand shards like brittle glass and abandons his men? The guilt strangles me sometimes.
I’ve thought often about you and your journals, how you used to carry them around. Now I understand that we can express ourselves on paper in a way we can’t out loud. Which reminds me—how are your columns coming along? Well, I hope.
The pressed daisies I enclose are from my daily walk around the lake. Their sunshine makes me think of you.
Ever yours,
Tom
P.S. Visitors are allowed, but I’ll need permission, and I would rather you didn’t ask your Uncle to look in on me. We aren’t well acquainted, and I can’t put on any false cheer these days. I am able to leave the grounds most days as well, venture into town or around the lake. I would dearly like to see you.
From Evie to Thomas
7th September, 1916
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
Thank you for writing when I know it must be so hard for you to tell me what you are going through. Your words mean so much to me.
While I can never fully understand the horrors you have witnessed, I refuse to shy away from the truth. I saw the film The Battle of the Somme last week. I am ashamed to admit I’d been putting it off, afraid to see the brutal reality for myself. I found it terribly upsetting—everyone left the picture house with reddened eyes and without speaking a word—but I am glad to have seen it, and to understand a little better what you face out there.
While the film and your descriptions distress me, it serves no purpose to pretend it isn’t the truth. Do not blame yourself for what happened. Never blame yourself, Tom. This is nobody’s fault but those who brought this war upon us. The blame lies all with them. And for all that I am saddened to hear of the loss of your commander and fellow men, at least that moment of hesitation spared you, Tom. And for that, I would wish you a lifetime of hesitation. That extra second is sometimes all we need to make the right decision, even if it doesn’t feel like that at the time. God must play his part in these matters. It was his will that you survived.
We heard of the most dreadful casualties at Verdun and the Somme, although reports in the papers back in July were of nothing but remarkable victories, and terrific bombardments and vigorous attacks on the enemy. I am terrified to know that you were among them. So many didn’t come back. While I am desperately sorry to hear of your suffering, I am also—selfishly—full of relief to know that you survived the worst of it and are away from the firing line for a while.
Try not to resist the doctors’ treatments. They really do know best. And please try to eat. I cannot begin to imagine you as “scrawny.” That chubby young fellow who used to pinch whatever he could from Cook’s larder—scrawny? That strong hearty fellow whose laughter filled a room and made the chandeliers shake—scrawny? I don’t believe it. Eat, Thomas, please. You really must. For me, if not for yourself. If you will not eat, then neither will I, and you know how desperately bony I am at the best of times. And if they cannot clear you to return to the Front, if this is the end of your war, then so be it. You have done your bit. You have done far more than your bit.
I am glad to hear that you have rediscovered the joys of writing—you’ve had plenty of practice, after all. The bundle of letters from you is now so thick I can no longer keep them beneath my pillow. (Perhaps I didn’t tell you that I ever did.) I, on the other hand, cannot seem to write a decent word. My columns drip out of me agonisingly slowly. It is like walking through wet sand. My words trudge across the page thud thud thud. I seem to have lost all sense of joy in the process, which is why I am writing this letter to you rather than finishing the dreaded half-written piece I am due to send off to Hopper tomorrow morning. Procrastination is a terrible companion. Truly. He gives me a headache.
Thank you for the beautiful daisies. They made me smile—as did the thought of you picking them by the lake. To know that you saw them and thought of me—well. It is in the simplest things we find the greatest treasures sometimes, is it not. You will be pleased to hear that I have added their pretty little sunshine faces to my flower press. In return, I have enclosed a violet, picked and pressed in the spring. It was the first of the season. It brought me such cheer and hope to see it while I awaited word from you. I do hope it will bring you the same cheer and hope now.
I have also enclosed another sketch. A chiffchaff. Isn’t he a darling little thing? We have them in the garden and they sing such a sweet song. I sketched this handsome fellow while he warbled away to his sweetheart on the fence post. I do hope his amours were rewarded.
Do take care, Thomas. I joke to try and cheer you, but you know I worry so very much.
Evie
XX
P.S. Do let me know about visiting. If you can get permission I can be on the train tomorrow.
From Evie to Alice
10th September, 1916
Richmond, England
Dearest Alice,
How are you? No word for a while now and, of course, I think the worst. Can you tell me where you are? Will you get any leave? I find myself in urgent need of an Alice hug and the sound of your laughter. I used the last of the soap today that you gave me as a gift last Christmas. I wept as the last of it dissolved into suds in my hands. Everything reduces me to tears these days.
What do you know of the condition of emotional weakness? Thomas is recovering from it in a hospital for officers in Edinburgh. He seems terribly glum. Says he is stick-thin and undergoes treatments of hypnosis. I am rather alarmed by it all. Perhaps you can reassure me. I’m hoping to arrange for one of my Scottish cousins to look in on him. Actually, Alice, I rather hope I might find some excuse to visit them so that I can look in on him myself.
I mentioned it to Hopper (who is rather unsympathetic to Tom’s condition). He says Thomas needs only the care and treatment the doctors can provide and strongly believes that my visiting will cause him distress and remind him too much of home and make it much harder for him to focus on his recovery and returning to the Front. Do you agree?
I hardly think Hopper is in much of a position to offer an opinion on the effects of war, since he fights only from a desk and can have no idea what Tom is going through. I find myself becoming rather tired of Hopper’s company. He drinks too much brandy and becomes loose tongued and speaks unkindly of the staff at the LDT. I cannot even repeat the things he says about Jack Davies.
Please write soon. Make me laugh. Cheer me up. Make me smile. Remind me of happier times. I recently saw the film The Battle of the Somme and find myself unable to stop seeing the images in my mind.
I miss you terribly.
Evie
X
From Alice to Evie
17th September, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dearest Evie,
Never fear, mon amie, I am alive and well! I’ve been working at a field hospital at the Front in . It’s been nonstop. Absolutely bone wearing. It’s a real slaughter here; more so than any of the other battles I’ve tended, but I go in every day with a bright, rouged smile, whispering comforting words, making light of something when I can. It’s difficult, but there’s enough of a grim attitude to go around and frankly, someone needs to cheer us on to a victory.
Also, I think I’ve found my new calling. It started with singing lullabies an
d songs from home to sweeten the boys, until one afternoon, a nurse from New Orleans heard me singing. She taught me a few tunes; jazz she calls them. Apparently they’re all the rage in the dance halls in her hometown. It’s a new kind of music, not yet popular, she said, but lucky for me, I’m at the forefront of invention. We’ve managed to enlist a bugle player to join the foray as well. Our merry-making is brief and infrequent, unfortunately, but as welcome as rain in the desert.
As for your Tom, go to him! From all that I have seen here, what the men need most when they are suffering is to feel a woman’s love, feel cared for, to know that their sacrifice means something. Hypnosis and the like is all very well, but he needs tenderness and a reason to hope for the future. You’ll show him that in volume, won’t you, dear?
I miss you, too!
Alice
P.S. Yes, those are my lips on the paper. Sending you kisses!
P.P.S. I don’t think I’ll be able to take leave until after this mess at the ends. They need every spare set of hands. I’ll let you know as soon as I’m able.
From Thomas to Evie
19th September, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Evie,
Thank you for your kind words, and as for visiting, I can’t think of a single thing in this world that would make me happier, dear girl. I’m as alone as one can be, except for the good doctor. I’ve lost too many friends, my family. I feel adrift sometimes, more alone than I ever imagined possible. Your face might anchor me back to this world. I’ll speak to the staff at once about the protocol—if you’re able, and it pleases you to come all this way.
I’ve done as you’ve instructed and accepted the treatments. Can’t say that I believe in them all that much, but I’ve noticed the nightmares seem to be abating some. Whether or not they’re related, I have no idea. Either way, it helps talking to people who understand what I’ve seen. The doctor says I have a reasonably mild case of war neuroses. Something to be grateful for, I suppose. Some have it so bad they’ve been sent off to the lunatic asylum.
I’ve posted your chiffchaff over my bed. I’ll think about that bird with its little song, wooing a paramour. That’s a happy thought and I could use more of them.
Send word when you can visit. I’ll do my best to keep my hopes up that it will be soon.
Ever yours,
Tom
Telegram from Evie to Tom
21 SEPTEMBER 1916
TO: LT. THOMAS HARDING 0 CRAIGLOCKHART WAR HOSPITAL, EDINBURGH
SENT: 11:23 / RECEIVED: 12:14
WILL BE WITH YOU FRIDAY. TRAIN DEPARTS TOMORROW MORNING. WILL STAY WITH COUSINS IN LEITH. TERRIBLY ANXIOUS TO SEE YOU. P.S. MR. CHIFFCHAFF IS UNITED WITH HIS LADY LOVE. E.
From Evie to Alice
28th September, 1916
Leith, Scotland
My dearest Alice,
I was so very glad to hear from you. You make me smile with your endless positivity. You are perhaps the only person I know who could possibly find reason to smile during such awfulness. You are a tonic. A pure tonic. What is this “jazz” music? It sounds awful! I’m afraid I’ll hardly know you when you come home. Do you think life will ever be the same again? I don’t know how we will ever forget these years.
So, to news from England, or rather Scotland.
I went to him, Alice, and now I don’t know how I shall ever be parted from him again.
We met in the hospital gardens—a more beautiful place you couldn’t wish to see. He was dozing on a bench when I arrived, a blanket over his knees and the afternoon sun on his face. So peaceful, and yet he is so tormented by his dreams. The smile that lit his face when he saw me—oh, Alice. We didn’t speak a word. He simply held my hand as I sat beside him and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to feel the beat of his pulse beneath my fingertips.
He is so terribly thin. So physically broken and haunted by what he has seen and done. The doctors tell him he will make a full recovery, which is wonderful news, and yet my heart breaks to hear it because when he recovers he will return to France, and I will be without him again and I don’t know how I can bear it.
I’ve been here a week now and hope to be able to stay in Scotland until he is fully recovered, if Mama (and the postmistress) can spare me. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle in Leith. Their driver takes me to the hospital where my cousin, Angela, is a nurse. She has been a tremendous help in making arrangements for Tom and I to see each other. We meet at the bench beneath an oak tree and talk while the birds serenade us from the branches above.
He improves a little each day, but he tires easily and must go for treatment regularly so my visits are brief.
You will, no doubt, wish to know if there has been any exchange of love between us. I am anxious to know whether he ever received the Christmas letter I belatedly sent to him, but I cannot bear to ask. He has enough troubling him without my adding to his emotional struggles. It seems to me that I have known Tom all my life, and yet I haven’t known him at all until these long hard years of war. You thought me madly infatuated when I first declared my love for him (I know you did, although you never said as much), but something has changed and I know now with a certainty I have rarely felt about anything, that I love him with the deepest affection possible.
I love Tom Harding!
I cannot tell him so I share my secret with the waves. They carry my love away on the turn of the tide, and wash it back to shore the next day along with the driftwood and pretty shells that I collect during my long walks, each perfect shell a reminder to me to be patient, to remember that nature will work its magic and produce something beautiful in the end.
All I want is for him to recover. To get better. To become the old Tom once again. We were frivolous and childlike when we met in London last year. Now there is a quiet understanding between us. A closeness we hadn’t known before. That gives me the greatest comfort of all.
As part of his treatment, he is encouraged to write things down: memories, anxieties, etc. He has taken to writing me a little note to take home with me after each visit. Really, I do not know how my heart won’t burst.
Stay safe, darling girl. Keep those red lips smiling and singing your jolly jazz songs. I can think of nobody better to put on a show to cheer the troops. You always were an impossible show-off!
With much love,
Evie
XX
P.S. Go easy on the bugle player. I fully expect to hear that his lips have strayed from his instrument and have found a new tune to play upon your scarlet smilers!
From Thomas to Evie
1st October, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Evie,
I enjoyed our tea and game of cards yesterday, even though you’re quite the cheat. I’d forgotten how good you are! Will would have had none of it. As much of a jokester as he could be, he was such a sore loser, especially to his little sister.
Your friendship means so much to me, Miss Elliott. I hope you know that. I look forward to your visit tomorrow.
Yours,
Tom
From Thomas to Evie
5th October, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dearest Evie,
I don’t know what to say except I apologise. My episodes don’t usually happen during the day, but to hear booming thunder . . . I hope you aren’t hurt. My instincts took over and I had to keep you safe. The shaking in my hands subsided about an hour after you left. The doctor says I need to hear these sounds more often, to dull my sensibilities to them. He’s considering moving me to another wing of the hospital, closer to the noise of town.
If you’d like to skip your visits for a while, I understand completely.
Yours,
Tom
From Thomas to Mr. Charles Abshire
10th October, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Charles,
I have enclosed all the paperwork you required with necessary signatures. I think it bes
t Hopper continues to run the paper for now, as we discussed. Jack Davies will have to play nice with him a while longer. I’ll remind him to mind his p’s and q’s. On another note, I can’t believe our Miss Wren is generating so much fan mail. We may consider opening a permanent column to highlight female voices after the war. Something challenging and interesting, not: “How to Bake a Proper Christmas Goose” or “The Best Knitting Needles.” Evie would be bored silly by such a column.
I hope you’re well, Charles. Home feels like a distant memory, but I hope it will soon become a reality.
Sincerely,
Thomas
From Evie to her mother
15th October, 1916
Leith, Scotland
Dear Mama,
A few lines to let you know that Scotland is astonishingly beautiful in the autumn and that all is well.
Tom continues to improve at a rate of knots—much to the surprise of the doctors here who find him something of a medical marvel. They say he will be well enough to return to France soon. I suppose I should be happy for his recovery, but I am desperately saddened to think of him going back. I find myself looking for excuses for him to stay while he is ever eager to return, and get back to his men. I know I must admire his loyalty, but still.