met on the street. I used to sneak out to play football with Billy Treacher, even when there was an alert on. Did you know him? He was killed in his first week at the Front. My best friend gone, just like that. He was put on concrete duty. Poor lad; only sixteen. I guess you didn't play in the street much. Not many kids do, what with the bombings and evacuations. There weren't so many kids about anyway. Not in London anyway. My mother disagreed with the evacuations; she said we wouldn't be any safer out of the city. Said the boche would soon be bombing the farms and I suppose she was right. Did you and Dulcie ever get evacuated?
Dulcie asked about my father and whether he had known your mother too, before. Before he died I mean.
I think about him a lot, my father. I wonder if you think about your father too? Dulcie must think of her father and that is why she asked me; I suppose we all think about fathers from time to time. A whole country of missing fathers, it must have been odd, back before 1914 when children all knew their fathers; grew up knowing them I mean. This is what it must be like in those far off countries outside of the war. Families all together. I can't imagine it. I can't imagine my father really, what he must have been like. Nowadays I can't even picture his face anymore.
I was seven when he was killed. My mother showed me the letter; smudged typing on thin Ministry paper. Funny how I can picture that in my head but not his face. He was killed defending the revetments at Arras. It said that he was a hero of the Empire. It had the Minister of War's name at the bottom but it wasn't even signed. No bugger had even bothered to sign it. Apologies for my language, but I always find that thought upsetting.
I didn't get a chance to visit my mother when I was on leave. She has pictures of him. I wish I had pictures of him. It's hard to get to see her anymore. To be completely honest I am not even entirely sure where she is. Not since she was sent to hospital, I guess you knew about that. Or at least that she had to go away.
The last time I saw her she was being shipped up north somewhere. She hugged me on the platform at Kings Cross. She said it was the steam and smoke that was making her cry. I could smell the sweet lavender in her hair. I didn't know what to say. And then the stern faced women in suits bundled her onto the train.
I suppose they wanted her out of the way after she CENSORED CENSORED CENSORED in London. At least that is what they told me she did. I couldn't believe she was CENSORED. She never said anything about it. Not sure I believe it. I hope you and your family don't think too badly of her because of it. Or of me.
Of course they questioned me about it. Took me to a barracks at CENSORED, south of the Front. Sat in a tiny room with an imposing Colonel. Never even told me his name. I guess he must have been S.I.S. or Ministry of Communications or something like that. It was like one of those spy films. You know, an old black and white one where they shine a light into the face of some dastardly Hun fifth columnist to make him spill his secrets. I thought I should feel scared but I didn't. I just tried to stifle my cough as he blew heavy swirling pipe smoke into the light. All I could see of his face was his big immaculately trimmed moustache above the curl of his pipe.
Anywhere away from the Front isn't nearly as scary, so I felt good somehow sat in that interrogation room, even when he was asking me all these questions about my mother. I couldn't tell him anything anyway. I didn't know anything about it. Mother kept that whole business quiet for sure. I suppose she was protecting me. Although it is obvious that it has made me a marked person. It's an unspoken truth that everyone knows I suppose. Nobody really talks about it, although Sapper Jones said I wouldn't be getting a promotion or any kind of move too far away from the Front anytime soon. I asked him why but he just tipped his head, tapped his nose and raised his eyebrows, and then he winked as if we both shared some terrible secret or something.
I had better sign off now. Soon we will have to go on duty. Perhaps I will tell more of my life here in my next letter, censors permitting. I do hope you don't mind me writing to you my dear Esme. I hope too that you will write back soon. Of course I will understand if you feel that I am being too forward or too familiar with you, especially as we have spent so little time together. Please be kind enough to let me know if this is the case.
Rest assured my thoughts are with you, wherever you are back in dear old England and whatever you are doing. Please consider writing soon.
Yours sincerely,
J. Fitzpatrick.
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
Saturday 2nd December 1961
Dear Jimmy (or do your prefer James?),
Thank you so much for your letter. It was so very kind of you to write. Dulcie was so excited when she saw your name on the back of the envelope that I had to almost restrain her from opening it herself! She has taken to pestering the post girl every morning to see if there are more letters from you. She giggles so when she reads your words and she has read them often. Over and over she reads them to us at the breakfast table. I hope you do not mind that I let her read it; she was so very insistent.
I am not sure mother approves fully but she did say that I could write you back. She says it is our duty to support the troops in whatever way we can.
Dulcie, though, talks of romancing and 'boyfriends' and I will be honest and say that such talk makes me blush. I sometimes wonder where she gets her ideas from, she can be such a silly headed girl. I guess it's my fault; the influence of a beloved older sister. She has copied my love of reading and perhaps takes those old fanciful pre-war romances too literally. Do not get me wrong, I think it's charming for a girl of her age to be full of dreams, and flattering that she dreams of my happiness as well as her own. But she will need to grow up soon. As we all have to. I know I am only seventeen myself, but I have to be mature and a working woman in order to do my duty to King and country.
I will be frank with you Jimmy, lots of girls my age hope to marry the first young boy they can; many at sixteen, before the boys go off to war. As you know it is encouraged by the War Office; that we should marry and have babies I mean. Of course this is something I think of, but, to be honest with you, I am not entirely sure I am ready for such things. Not just yet.
I know that is what Dulcie dreams of, for myself and for her, in her own romantic childish way. I'm not saying that it is foolish to have dreams; we all have them after all. But we cannot live on dreams in these times of war. Perhaps if the war ends one day. But this too is a dream I know. The papers talk about this push or that push ending the war; talk of new impossible weapons to end the threat of the Hun, and I suppose we can live in hope, but the reality is that we must dedicate our lives to war if we are to survive. Just like our parents and their parents before them.
Your wonderful letter didn't arrive until the fifteenth; the post girl says that letters to and from the Front can be a bit hit and miss, what with them having to pass through the ministries for censorship. So I apologise for the delay in my reply.
The other reason for this delay is that I have made you a present. I did not know it was your birthday, so I wish you many belated happy returns. I have written it in my diary so that I am sure not to forget next year. I have spent the last few days knitting you some socks to send as a belated present. I un-picked the wool from one of Dulcie's old hand-me-downs that no longer fits her. I hope you like the green colour. I also hope they fit, I know that men have bigger feet so I made them extra-large. I hope they keep your feet warm and dry.
I must say that I am terribly flattered by your talk of feelings for me. I am a simple girl and somewhat unused to such felicitations. Please understand that I am not entirely naive but I am not so sure
about how to respond.
I too enjoyed our walk on the pier at Brighton, although I do think it was terribly naughty of Dulcie to corner you like that when I was getting the ice creams. I do trust that you are a decent sort. In fact, from your letter and our conversations I think you are a kind man and I have never come across such a romantic soul, if you don't mind me saying. As you say, us girls back home have limited experience with the opposite sex and so we have to be careful, so to speak, and I understand what you say about men. I do have some experience in these matters despite my age.
Let me tell you that it isn't just the soldiers that we should be wary of. Mr Jenkins at the factory, for example, has quite the reputation. He didn't enlist due to weak lungs, or so they say, and sometimes he seems to positively affect a limp, though I am not sure why. He was trained in munitions design and manufacture and is twenty five but in my view he has the mannerisms of someone much older. He is like a scheming villain in a Dickens novel. The girls on the shop floor say he has 'wandering hands' and that on no account should one allow oneself to be alone with him; say in the storerooms or accounts office. I don't like the way he looks at me. It is not at all like the way you looked at me. Your eyes were altogether shy, always looking