Lovely War(22)
Now that he’d found her, how could he let himself be carried away from her?
He’d never have met her, if it wasn’t for the war. And now the war had torn them apart.
“The War giveth, and the War taketh away. Blessed be the name of the War.”
His vicar back home would’ve had a swift comment on such blasphemy. James still remembered his cousin Will’s funeral. Vividly. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. . . .
“God, bring me home to her,” he whispered. “Please.”
* * *
You may ask me, as others have done before, whether it was kindness or cruelty to allow them to meet, so soon before his departure, with so little time to discover each other. Whether the pangs of loss do not invalidate the bliss of love. Especially where war is concerned, and Death runs rampant with his bloody scythe. You may say that it was wicked of me to allow James to find Hazel, and Hazel, James, if three days were all they would have.
I don’t call it cruelty.
I do not apologize.
ENTR’ACTE
December 5, 1917
Dear Miss Windicott,
I hope you’ll excuse my writing to you without permission. There’s so much I’ve wanted to tell you. Nothing short of a court-martial could’ve made me board that train. If I hadn’t gone to war, I wouldn’t have met you. If I hadn’t met you, I wouldn’t now be missing you so terribly.
I had hoped, with my experience in building, that I’d be selected for the Royal Engineers, but I’ve been assigned to an infantry division. I’ve been here nearly a week. Training isn’t as bad as I feared. The testing occupies my mind, and marching keeps a body warm. Sleeping in tents is miserable. We’re miles from the Front, but the guns echo night and day. One bright spot is making comrades of my squadron. I expect some will come to be good friends.
Our days are mostly drilling and marching in the bull pen. Watching the convoys arriving with wounded men from the Front is hard. Some kind of sickness is spreading, and trainees do go down with coughs and fevers from time to time. So far, I am hale and hearty.
Write, if you will, and tell me about ordinary life. It will help me to picture a world outside this dirty camp. Tell me about you, your growing-up years, your parents, your adventures at school, your pastimes. I feel I know you so well and yet hardly know you at all, so please, help me fill in the missing bits. Tell me what you like for breakfast, and what you would name a dog.
Your friend,
James
* * *
December 11, 1917
Dear James,
I would name a dog Pepper. I always wished for a dog. When I was young, I read storybooks about a boy named Willie and his splendid dog, Scout. I used to imagine myself on those adventures, and Scout sleeping at the foot of my bed. Most of my childhood, when I wasn’t practicing scales, was spent curled up with a book. I always wished for siblings.
For breakfast, I like a poached egg on toast, and an orange, when we can get them. They’re harder to come by nowadays. Were groceries as restricted in Chelmsford?
Ordinary life is fairly well summed up in Christmas choir rehearsals. There’s a great deal of singing to be done in the parish, and I’m the one they call. I don’t mind accompanying as much as soloing. I need a distraction. I’m not rehearsing audition pieces as I ought. I shouldn’t complain about piano when you’re sleeping in a tent, marching through mud, and waiting to head to the Front. But you’ve asked for normal life, so you shall have it.
Dad and Mum have gotten over being so upset with me for not telling them about you. I’m determined that you shall become acquainted. Do you have a photograph you could send?
My dad, as you know, plays piano in a music hall, and wishes he had more chances to go fishing. He’s crazy about chestnuts. My mum writes sentimental poems and keeps so many perfumed sachets in her bedroom drawers that just going in there makes my father cough. Her hands are rough from the thousand needle pricks one gets sewing shirts and trousers for a living. Every year I buy her a bottle of lotion for Christmas. Scented.
They’re both dears, and I adore them. They put me first always. It makes me all the worse a person for feeling so restless, for wishing to do something outrageous on my own for a change.
How about you? What would you name a dog? What do you prefer for breakfast? How do you feel about cats? Also, what’s the best book you’ve ever read? Where, if you could go anywhere in the world, would you plan a picnic? Tell me about your siblings. And about the most foolish thing you’ve ever done.
Yours,
Hazel
* * *
December 16, 1917
Dear Hazel,
Asking you to dance was the most foolish thing I’ve ever done. Look what it did to me.
I’d never call it great literature, but I enjoyed Tarzan of the Apes. And Kipling’s Jungle Book. In school, I was partial to Macbeth over Julius Caesar.
Pepper is a fine name for a dog. A second dog could be named Salt. As for cats, I have no objection, and Ginger and Nutmeg would do nicely. I draw the line at Mustard.
My siblings: Maggie is fifteen, still in school, and keen to become a typist. The typewriter noise gives our dad headaches. Maggie frets about her frizzy hair, but she’s just the girl you want around in a pinch. Bob, age thirteen, is wildly enthusiastic, and devoted, body and soul, to Boy Scouting. He spends every spare moment tracking around meadows and woods with a compass and field glasses. It’s good there aren’t wolves in Britain, or he’d be eaten by one.