I will send word when dates are settled and to let you know of my expected arrival home. Uncle Boris and Aunt Isobel send their regards. They have been incredibly generous letting me stay and giving me the use of their motorcar and driver to take me here and there. You would like it here very much, with the exception of the stiff breezes which play havoc with hats and hairstyles and make it almost impossible to walk upright at times. We must come back on a holiday when we are at peace again.
Will always loved it here, didn’t he? I think of him often as I know you do, too. I saw a young man on crutches yesterday playing with his little girl on the beach and I thought what a wonderful father Will would have been. I miss him dreadfully. I wish we spoke about him more often. Perhaps we can try when I return? Look through old photographs and laugh at his childhood escapades? We must do whatever we can to keep his memory alive. We owe him that much, at least.
Your ever-loving daughter,
Evelyn
From Thomas to Evie
1st November, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Evie,
As difficult as it was, I cherished our talk today. Remembering Will, how much has changed . . . Your tears, somehow, made me feel less alone. I don’t know how to thank you for listening to my terrible stories. You have a heart of gold.
Sometimes I can hardly believe that you’re here. My dearest, closest friend has elected to stay in Scotland, far from her own home—for me. I can’t imagine how I’ll ever settle the score.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Evie to Jack Davies
3rd November, 1916
Leith, Scotland
Dear Mr. Davies,
Please find enclosed my latest column. As you know, I have been visiting relatives in Scotland these past weeks, and have also been to Craiglockhart War Hospital to visit Tom Harding, who improves with great speed. I am moved to write about the condition of war neuroses which I see here, in abundance. I know it may be risky for the paper to print my thoughts (since they are not always expressed with the timidity one might expect of a woman), but I believe your readers need to know more about this “condition”—not least so that they may help their loved ones by understanding it a little better.
You might send word to let me know your thoughts?
I expect to return to London soon and perhaps we could meet for lunch to discuss the future of the column. I may not be a trained journalist, but I feel increasingly compelled to tell the truth of the things I encounter.
Also, I hear rumours of a Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps being established. Perhaps I can find some way to get myself over to France after all, as we discussed.
Yours sincerely,
Evie
A WOMAN’S WAR
by our special correspondent in London, Genevieve Wren
“To sleep, perchance to dream . . .”
And so it goes on. Month, week, day, hour, minute, second . . . time drags interminably on and still the battles rage and still our men fall faster than winter snowflakes.
No year of this war has been the same. With each new battle, it seems we must relearn what war means. Each offensive brings dangers beyond the familiar rifle and bayonet our men were trained to use. Now they face poison gas, powerful shells, all manner of disease . . . weapons for which there was no training. Weapons which—in some cases—didn’t even exist two years ago.
And yet, amid all the gunfire and the rumble of shelling that those who live on the south coast can hear, carried on the wind all the way from France, there is another weapon our men must confront, a weapon as deadly as any other: despair.
For the past month, I have been an occasional visitor to Craiglockhart War Hospital, in Scotland. It is an impressive military hospital for officers who go there to recover from the trauma of battle. And yet, if you were to visit—as I have—you could be forgiven for thinking these men were nothing but frauds. They walk on both legs without the use of crutches. They swing both arms by their sides. They have no need for face masks to hide their injuries. These men suffer in an entirely different way. They suffer in their minds. The horrors they have seen and the endless sounds they have endured night after night stay with them, so that they can no longer function as normal men. Some have lost the power of speech, such is the extent to their distress.
Here, at the hospital, it is called “war neuroses.” Those who suffer from the condition are referred to as “lacking moral fibre.” There is a sense among those in the highest levels of command that these men are weak minded. Not real men, if you will.
These patients are something of an oddity to the doctors, who treat them not with medicine, but with hypnosis and hot baths and the occasional round of golf. While I am no medical expert and cannot fully explain the symptoms, what I do know is that this is not an affliction that can be treated with a bandage and good bedside manner. This goes far beyond the reaches of normal medical knowledge. Just as our men were not trained to deal with the new weaponry they face at the Front, so our doctors are not trained to deal with this new “disease.”
So, what can we do? As mothers and wives, sisters and friends, how can we help the men who don’t return to us with broken limbs, but who return to us with broken minds? Perhaps we can do nothing other than to listen when they are able to talk, to hold their hand when it cannot stop shaking, to understand that the sound of a passing train or a distant rumble of thunder may be nothing more than an everyday occurrence to us, but for them is a reminder of everything they fear and takes them back to the trenches in an instant.
This war may be a battle of many things, but it is also a battle of endurance. None of us were prepared for it to last so long. None of us were equipped with the skills needed to cope. And yet cope we do. Somehow we find a way.
So please continue to send your letters, your words of pride and love and encouragement, and ask those you love to tell you what they see and hear—not only when they are awake, but in the silent hours of their dreams. Let them know that, whatever happens, to you they will never be lacking in anything. Let them know that, to the people who matter the most, they will always be the best kind of hero.
Until next time—courage!
Genevieve
From Alice to Evie
5th November, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m returning your letter at last. Sorry to have taken so long. The horrific battle I mentioned has raged for months and I’ve been on my feet day and night, exhausted beyond anything you can imagine. Scan the news reports for the most devastating battles and that’s where I am, in the thick of things. It appears to be winding down, thanks be to the great potato in the sky. I don’t think any of us can last much longer at this pace.
As for your Tom, you see? You did the right thing, going to him. Poor man. It sounds like he was really shaken. Could you hint at your confessional Christmas letter? (What on earth did you tell him, darling? I hope you didn’t hold back.) Perhaps you can get at it that way. I can’t imagine he would broach the subject himself, even if he has read it, especially in his present condition. Just remember he asked you to visit him—in Scotland, no less. How could that not be love? Dash it, Evie, perhaps you should just tell him. What if he returns to the Front and doesn’t know? Could you bear the agony? Could I?
Sending hugs to you both. Say a little prayer that I’ll be moving on soon. I feel my good cheer slipping and that won’t do, not for me.
Alice
XX
From Thomas to Evie
20th November, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Evie,
Cards again tomorrow, or a walk in the garden? Don’t forget your umbrella this time. My scarf is still soaked through and will make for poor cover.
Yours,
Tom
From Evie to Alice
20th November, 1916
Leith, Scotland
Dearest girl,
Y
ou don’t sound yourself at all, no mention of music, or men. It must be awful for you out there, but think of all those you have nursed back to health with your pretty smile and that sparkle in your peepers. You are a marvel and I have nothing but the greatest admiration for you.
I’ve tried, several times, to talk to Tom about my Christmas letter, but I can never find the right words, or moment. He seems so fragile still. I just can’t bear to burden him with expectations of love, on top of everything else. You, more than anyone, know it isn’t in my nature to be patient, but with this I must be. Perhaps he will remember better when he recovers. He is a little muddled at times, and reacts to the slightest of bangs or loud noises. War has turned my brave-hearted lion into a kitten. It wouldn’t be fair to smother him with my own selfish needs. Not now, at least.
Come home soon. I miss you terribly.
Evie
XX
P.S. Have you heard anything about the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps? I am making plans for adventures overseas. I’ll be on the first train to Dover if I get a whiff of a chance.
From Thomas to Charles Abshire
22nd November, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Charles,
I’m sending a quick note to thank you for the cigs and scotch, and also your concern. I fear I’ll never be free of the heavy load I now carry, but I am on solid ground again. That has to be enough for the time being. I wish I were returning to London, victory behind me, but I’ve been told I’m to return to the Front in a few weeks.
Keep me abreast of news about Davies and Hopper. I’m grateful for your constructive influence on them.
Wishing you well,
Thomas
From Alice to Evie
1st December, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’ll be home on leave in three days! It will be a short visit, but long enough to go for a drive and eat some Christmas goodies. Something to revive my waning spirits. Yes, even I am succumbing to the melancholy coating everything. It’s desperate here and no one can endure this at such length without being affected. I’m desperately sad you won’t be home while I am, but I wouldn’t dream of asking you to part from Tom. I daresay he needs you far more than I do.
Kisses,
Alice
From Thomas to Evie
18th December, 1916
Edinburgh, Scotland
Dear Evie,
How wonderful to celebrate Christmas with you, even a quiet one, a week early. That little tavern in town was perfectly cosy. Roast chicken and potatoes, a tot of brandy by the fire. For just a few hours it felt like we were living in another time. The time before it all.
I’ll remember it always; the first real laugh I’ve had in ages, the way the firelight lit your face. If only I could bottle you up and take you with me when I return to the Front.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Evie to Thomas
20th December, 1916
Leith, Scotland
My dearest Thomas,
How unbearable to endure another goodbye. We seem to dance around each other like autumn leaves, forever twisting and twirling about until a gust of wind sends us skittering in different directions. How I wish we could be still for a while, that the winds of war would end and let us settle.
It will be bittersweet to wave you off tomorrow: so glad to see you well again and so sad to watch you leave. How typical of you to show such fortitude when others would have gladly run back to their mothers’ apron strings. You’ll be on the train when you read this, hurtling south again towards the camps on the South Downs and on, across the Channel towards France. Your men will be so encouraged to see you again. Don’t think of it as returning to war. Think of it as returning to good friends.
I’m writing this in one of the lovely little harbour cafés where I’ve spent many hours these past weeks. The vastness of the sea reminds me how big the world is, and how little of it I have seen. When the war is over, I want to travel as far as I can so that I know what you were all fighting for—what we are trying to save. Do you remember me mentioning Lillias Campbell Davidson’s little travel book? I found it in Papa’s library and shared a few lines with you on appropriate dress for cycling tours: “. . . have your gown made neatly and plainly of flannel without loose ends or drapery to catch in your [bicycle]; dark woollen stockings in winter, and cotton in summer; shoes, never boots . . .” I have the book with me now. I was so full of enthusiasm when I first read those lines, but it seems to have all been knocked out of me since. I mustn’t let war do that to me, must I? One must always have adventure in life, or the promise of it, at least.
Was there something you wished to tell me when we parted yesterday? There was a moment when you hesitated and I felt sure you had something terribly important to say. Perhaps I am imagining things? If not, and there were things left unsaid, perhaps they could be more easily expressed in a letter. “I’ll call for pen and ink and write my mind.”
And now the proprietor is closing up, so I must end and seal this. Tomorrow I’ll leave the rugged landscape of Scotland and return to the starched perfection of Poplars. I can’t say I’m relishing the prospect. I rather feel as though a piece of the Highlands has settled in my heart. I hope to return in the spring, circumstances permitting.
For you, a goodbye gift. An oystercatcher. I drew him during one of my long walks along the mudflats when I was waiting to visit you. He was so patient, breaking open his oysters against the rocks. I imagined him finding a pearl to treasure. With a little patience we might all find something to cherish. Do you think?
Happy Christmas, Thomas.
With much affection,
Evie
XX
From Thomas to Evie
24th December, 1916
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m settled in again, as much as one can be settled here. It’s odd how, with only a few days back, it feels as if I never left. This war is seared onto the very fabric of my being.
A few of the men looked at me funny when I returned, but only one made a comment about my time in “that” hospital. If I weren’t a Lieut., I would have pounded Private Johnson’s face for his snide remarks. But the last thing we need is to fight amongst ourselves. Instead, I cut him sharply with a few choice remarks. He was too stupid to understand my rebuttal but plenty of the others got it. That was satisfying enough.
Now to a more peaceful thought. I’m placed under the care of a nurse here on request of my doctor in Edinburgh—Rose Blythe is her name. She’s a kind soul, bright and breezy, and has a natural empathy about her. I suspect you’d like her a great deal. She is instructed to watch me for any signs of regression. I would have despised such nannying not so long ago, but I must say I’m rather glad of her company. Many more of my friends and comrades were lost in the battle that raged in my absence. Without Rose I find myself alone all too often.
Thank you for your letter, which kept me company on the long journey back here. I’ll picture you in that harbour café. It sounds like heaven. My world has grown smaller, not larger unfortunately, but that will change for me, too, I hope. When the war is over, I’d like to spend a good long while at home, knock the business back into shape and then, perhaps, a spot of travelling. A visit to America or the Mayan villages in Guatemala. Maybe somewhere in the West Indies.
In your letter, you asked what we are fighting for, what we are trying to save. My dear girl, we’re trying to save you. And every woman, child, relative, and friend that mean something in this world. Protect our home and what is ours, defend our interests, our way of life. At least that’s why I’m here. The other “honourable” nonsense is the talk of a naive man who hasn’t spent time in battle, or perhaps the few I’ve met who are true warmongers. I was one of those naive soldiers before, as was our dear Will.
But I am here to save you—just as you have saved me. I’m not sure I can properly e
xpress my gratitude for your lengthy visit. That’s what I was trying to say when we parted. How deeply I care for you. You have been the greatest friend a fellow can ask for, and I am so thankful.
Ever yours,
Tom
From Evie to Alice
25th December, 1916
Richmond, England
Darling Alice,
A very belated Happy Christmas to you. You must think me very remiss to have forgotten you, but you see, I haven’t! My Christmas wishes to you, although belated, are heartfelt.
Alice, I have discovered something very troubling and I have to tell you because there is nobody else I can. When I returned from Scotland, I pressed Mama to talk about Will. He feels so absent and I feel dreadfully sad that we don’t share our memories or look at photographs of him more often. I asked Mama if I could see the personal effects that were returned to her after his death. She became very flustered and took to her bed with one of her headaches. It is not the first time she has avoided the subject.
Alice, I’m afraid I did something awful. While Mama was in town earlier today, I looked through her writing desk, hoping to find some of Will’s things, and I discovered a packet of letters. They were written between Will and his French nurse, Amandine. I don’t wish to betray his confidence until I can confirm the implications of the sentiments exchanged, but suffice to say I am rocked to the core. There is also a letter from Will to Mama, to be read in the event of his death and expressing his last wishes. He gives an address in France where Amandine can be contacted.
Mama has never mentioned this. I can only presume she found it all too shocking to accept. I don’t know how to confront her about it because then she will know I was rummaging through her things like some sort of awful vagabond. If I do mention it, she will only forbid me from interfering, and I feel that I must.