I hope you will give me your blessing now, and pray for me.

  I will write when I arrive in France and will send word as often as I can.

  Ever your loving daughter,

  Evelyn

  X

  From Evie to John Hopper

  30th March, 1917

  Richmond, England

  Dear John,

  Please try not to be angry when you read this, but I have left for France.

  I am enrolled with the WAAC and will be based at the Western Front, close to Rouen, under the supervision of Helen Gwynne-Vaughan. I expect to be assigned as a clerk or telephone operator. Finally, I have the chance to do my bit and for that I am immensely grateful and proud.

  I know you will be disappointed by the sudden nature of my departure, especially since you haven’t yet had an answer from me, and for that I am sorry. I do not wish to play games with you, but I also feel certain that assisting in the war effort is something I must do. More than anything, I believe that if I am to find the right answer to your question of marriage, I will find it in France. For that alone, I hope I have your support and understanding.

  Jack Davies is already aware of this. I will know more when I arrive in France and am assigned my new duties there. I will continue to send my column to you in the first instance, as has become our arrangement of late.

  I will send word as often as I can.

  Yours,

  Evelyn

  From Evie to her mother

  4th April, 1917

  Rouen, France

  Dearest Mama,

  A few lines to let you know that I am safely arrived in France. We hear the shelling and gunfire in the distance, but I am in no danger, I assure you.

  We are all in good spirits, happy to do our bit at last (even if some of the men were rather scathing about our ability to do any of their jobs at all).

  Send my regards to Papa and to all at the house.

  I will write again soon,

  Your loving daughter,

  Evelyn

  X

  From Evie to Thomas

  7th April, 1917

  Rouen, France

  Dear Thomas,

  I suspect you are still cross with me for being here, but in case you should wish to write again I wanted to let you know that I have arrived in France, and to pass on an address where you can contact me.

  The journey was rather arduous (not helped by heavy seas), but I am happy to be here. I am based in the town of Rouen and appointed as a telephonist. This, I am glad about. Some of the women have been assigned to wait on the officers. Others have been given roles as cemetery gardeners. Given these alternatives, I am thankful for my position in the military telephone exchange.

  We are staying in a dreadful little hostel in a camp behind the lines. The bathroom arrangements are rather undesirable, but I refuse to complain. This is, after all, what I wanted. To be amongst it all—even if that does mean taking a bath in a makeshift shed accessed through a coal cellar. I hope the image makes you laugh. Who would have thought I would see the day?

  I feel quite safe here, although we hear the shelling and gunfire in the distance, which is unsettling to say the least. Those who have been here longer assure me I will get used to it. They say they don’t hear it anymore, although I can’t believe that to be true.

  If you are still angry with me, then I suppose I will have to accept it, although I will be bitterly disappointed. If not, please write. Even a few lines to share your state of mind and good health? I also still wish to hear what you remember of Amandine Morel, Will’s French nurse. I can’t explain why at the moment, but anything you remember about the circumstances in which she left her post as nurse would be gratefully received.

  I will write more when I have the chance. What news from the Front? Can you tell me where you are? Good news that America has declared war on Germany. I wonder when the first American troops will arrive.

  Your friend,

  Evie

  From Alice to Evie

  8th April, 1917

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  You’re in France! I’m torn between being afraid for your safety and thrilled that you made it here at last. I know it was what you dearly hoped for and that you will be pleased to play your part now. So much is happening here, so much drudgery and despair, that I need a reason to be glad. You’ve done it!

  I’m in the town of Clouette at the moment, and will likely be here another couple of weeks. I’ll ask the head nurse, see how I might secure a transfer to be near you. It was clever of you to join up now. It will give you proper time to consider Hopper’s proposal.

  Doctor Peter has been moved to another location, but he writes to me almost every day. I never knew a man who had so much to say, but our letters go on for pages sometimes. Unabashedly, I wait for the post, hold my letters tightly against my chest, and squirrel them away until I can pore over his elegant hand in private. He is the only man I’ve ever met who thrills me; I’m in awe of his brilliant mind and his passion. He’s so noble, so determined. Plus he’s handsome as a prince. Who knew one man possessed so many qualities? Oh, there I go, gushing about him. I think I am in love. Love, I say! And not the foolish infatuations I have felt before. Now I quite understand the difference.

  I am sorry you and Tom are falling out. Are you certain he wasn’t simply being protective of an old friend? Surely he doesn’t think you can’t handle things in France just because you’re a woman. It doesn’t sound like Tom. But listen, dearest. Can you feel the way this war is changing you, even in your short time here? Imagine what Tom has seen and done, all he has lost in the last two years. Can you blame him for wanting you safely at home? I want you safe, too! I understand why you need to be here as I do, but I can’t help but want you far from harm, as selfish as that is. It’s out of love, you see? Perhaps you misread Tom’s feelings. It sounds like he doesn’t know his own. Some men need proper encouragement, (which is why I left a little note in Doctor Peter’s notebook).

  Just a little advice before I close—you mustn’t become too serious while here. One can’t survive the rigours of war if one doesn’t catch some air from time to time, if you know what I mean. Find a way to bring yourself some cheer. And make friends with any soldiers you might meet. They need encouragement so desperately now. They don’t care what circles we come from these days. That’s the only beauty in all of this bloodshed. The ranks and classes of yesterday are falling away like dead leaves. Now, we’re all in this together.

  I am so proud of you.

  Affection, kisses, love.

  Alice

  From Thomas to Evie

  15th April, 1917

  Somewhere in France

  Dear Evie,

  Please accept my apology for yelling at you. A gentleman shouldn’t send an angry telegram to a lady, and certainly not from the battlefields of war.

  Of course I don’t believe your womanhood makes you incapable of handling this, nor of proper reporting or writing excellent articles. Somehow you assumed I thought you aren’t strong enough to be here. You’re one of the strongest people I know. Have I ever treated you as an inferior? You know how cracking smart my mother was, how much I admired her gumption. I see the same qualities in you. Selfishly, I fear for your safety and want you protected at home, even if it means you might suffocate from boredom and regret. At least then, I won’t lose you. I have lost too much to the Germans already.

  To answer your questions about Amandine Morel, yes, of course I remember her. She’s the only girl I have ever seen Will fall hard for in all our years as friends. She was beautiful, but also had a great sense of humour. She kept your brother on his toes. I don’t know anything about the circumstances of her leaving, however. Our battalion had marched on and the two wrote a few weeks of feverish letters before Will was killed. I sent word of his death to her at the field hospital where she was based but was told she had fallen ill and returned to her home in Paris.
Has she been in touch? Is she looking for him now?

  I hope you find what you are seeking here in France. If it is inspiration you’re after, and malaise you’d like to banish, there’s plenty here to help you with both. I look forward to hearing how you are getting on. I hope you will continue to write to this ridiculous cad, despite his unintended insults to you.

  Ever yours,

  Tom

  From Thomas to John Hopper

  28th April, 1917

  Somewhere in France

  Dear John,

  I have reviewed the latest documents from Abshire and I am impressed by the paper’s numbers. Abshire has been copying the most important information for me and forwarding it on since Father’s death. Well done. I will admit I am miserly with praise, but perhaps we can put the past behind us. The world is at war so family should stick together, shouldn’t we?

  I like your idea of adding another war column from a male perspective to partner with Evie Elliott’s, though I would caution you not to give it more play than hers. She has worked very hard to be recognised as a proper journalist, and she deserves all the accolades. She writes every few days to keep me abreast of all news from her new appointment at the switchboard in Rouen.

  I hope all is well in London. Beware the zeppelins and stay safe.

  Sincerely,

  Lieutenant Thomas Harding

  From Evie to John Hopper

  5th May, 1917

  Rouen, France

  Dear John,

  A few lines to let you know that all is well here and to enclose my latest column. I must warn you that it does not make for pretty reading, so I will understand if you and Jack feel inclined to edit it heavily, or indeed if you cannot print it at all, although I believe you are not ones to shy away from the truth.

  I am appalled and incensed by what I have seen here. The War Office is doing a remarkable job of portraying this war as nothing more than a jolly foray into the French countryside. The men are desperate. It is like another world entirely, a world of unimaginable suffering and fear and loss. Not one of gallantry and chests bursting with pride as they would have us believe. Not a single man would come here willingly if he knew the truth. No human being should have to live this way. Ever.

  I hear the Germans are now bombing England with airplanes rather than zeps. Dear God, what next? Perhaps I am safer here in France after all. Lloyd George will have his work cut out for him. I do not envy the man taking office amid such uncertainty.

  I must close but will write again soon.

  Yours,

  Evelyn

  A WOMAN’S WAR

  by our special correspondent in France, Genevieve Wren

  “The View from the Front”

  For so long, I have imagined this war. I have seen it in my dreams, in my nightmares. I have pictured it through the eyes of family and friends close to the action. Mostly, I have read about it through the reports printed in our newspapers.

  Now, after years of wishing to do something more useful than knitting, I am here, amongst it all. I hardly recognise it as the same world I have known for twenty-three years.

  Nothing I ever imagined could have prepared me for the bleak reality of war, and certainly nothing I have read in the newspapers resembles what I see here with my own eyes.

  We have been done a great disservice by those who claim to bring us the news. In bold typeface marching across the newsstands they tell us of “Great Victories” and “Terrific Advances.” They would have us believe this war is nothing but boys playing a game. We read of bravery and fallen heroes and learn of the loss of a loved one, another dignified end to life, described in the neat handwriting of a general, safe in his bunker while he sips the best French brandy available.

  They deceive us. Conceal and fabricate.

  There is no such thing as a dignified end. Not here. When our men fall, they fall hard. They fall into thick mud where the corpses of hundreds of horses lay rotting beside them. What dignity is there in that? What dignity is there in any of this?

  There is no glory to be found here. Only fear and suffering. Grown men weep for their mothers and beg for a swift end. The men live each day as if it were their last, and that is no way to live at all.

  So what can we do, apart from ignore the newspapers who shy away from the truth?

  We can encourage our men not to spare us the gory details. Of course, the censors will do their best to strike out their words of brutal honesty, but let us read between the lines. Let them tell us, if they can. Let them talk of the bloodiest battles, be it in letters or poetry or face-to-face during their home leave. Let them cry like babes in our arms, knowing that they must return to it.

  Those who cannot endure it, we call deserters. Shoot them by firing squad. Call them cowards.

  But they are just human beings—you and me—who simply cannot suffer this hell any longer. The real cowards are those back in England, in charge of the printing presses. The real cowards cover up the truth and shy away from the reality of this “war to end all wars” before sinking into their warm beds. They are the ones who deserve our scorn. They are the ones who should bow their heads in shame.

  Let us demand the truth. And let us pray for a swift end to this war.

  Until next time—courage!

  Genevieve

  From John Hopper to Evie

  16th May, 1917

  London, England

  My dear Evelyn,

  On a personal note, it is wonderful to hear from you. On a professional note, I encouraged Jack Davies to run your article, all of the gory details included. I am so glad I did as it sparked a real fervour among your fans and a complete uproar among the other newspapers.

  This morning when I arrived at the office, I met a crowd of conscientious objectors outside the door. They want to submit an anonymous article supporting your claims and denouncing the war. I cannot abet potential prisoners, of course, so I turned them away. Shortly thereafter, the police arrived, questioning me and the other staff. Davies was furious, but I reminded him of our duty to make a profit for the newspaper.

  Regardless, I think what you’re doing is important. The more abhorrent aspects of war should be made public. Citizens deserve to know the truth. I know you agree, so I urge you to submit another piece immediately.

  In other news, I find myself wondering if the woman whom I admire beyond all others will ever accept my proposal. I do hope you will decide soon, Evelyn. A man in my position cannot wait forever.

  Yours,

  John

  From Charles Abshire to Thomas

  18th May, 1917

  London, England

  Dear Thomas,

  I write to inform you of unsettling news. Our war columns have elicited a flood of response. Letters come from supporters and naysayers, and more unsettling, policemen, lawyers, and councilmen. The London Herald has also received this sort of attention, and they employ two female columnists. I’m not entirely sure what to do about it. Your cousin seems to think it is a grand thing. He is further spurring on our columnists and it is putting the paper at risk in the form of serious reprimands with potentially very expensive consequences, or worse—closure.

  Thomas, I value my time being a part of this family, and pride myself on having run the financial aspect of your father’s business for so many years, but I cannot abide making a mockery of the paper. I will not stay to see its ruin. I care too deeply for you and your father, as well as my future. Take care to watch John Hopper.

  I am glad to hear you are well. I look forward to seeing you walk over the threshold for good.

  Best wishes,

  Charles

  From Evie to John Hopper

  25th May, 1917

  Rouen, France

  Dear John,

  Thank you for your letter. I am astonished to hear of such a furore caused by my words. I am sorry it led to you being in rather hot water with the constabulary. This is, however, what we wanted, is it not? You and Davies have certa
inly encouraged my honesty, and to not shy away from the truth.

  Already, I have seen so many things here that I wish to write about—things I believe readers need to know. I find it difficult to limit my observations to the number of words permitted by the space allocated to my column, so I am only too happy to write as often as I can. Far too much has been concealed from the British public. The truth must be known before thousands more men lose their lives in such senseless battles as those we saw last year at the Somme and Verdun.

  I find myself particularly moved by the soldiers’ cemeteries, many of which are in Rouen, which is close to a number of hospitals. Some of the women in the WAAC have been given the task of maintaining the cemetery gardens. Do people back home even know that such a job is carried out here—by women—and no doubt replicated across France and Belgium? To see such well-tended gardens—and the peace they bring—amid such atrocities is really very sobering. Perhaps I will write a short piece about it. Something a little gentler might appease some of the diehards who are causing a bit of a stink for you.

  I will send another piece on as soon as possible.

  As for my answer, I hope you can wait on it a little longer? You have been a great help in my journalistic endeavours, and I’ve enjoyed our luncheons and dinners and many conversations. The thing is, I am too distracted here to think about marriage. The future seems so intangible when every day may be the last. If you do not feel able to wait for an answer, then of course I understand.

  Yours in truth,

  Evelyn

  From Evie to her mother