Though I haven’t received a reply from you, I wanted to let you know we are heading to France tomorrow. We’ll disembark at Brest and train in from there. We were warned not to share any specifics of our location since the French intelligence will strike out any information they consider a risk to our security. I’ll write again from France. I hope you’ll put our differences in the past and support me, Father.
As for training, you know me, I’m bringing cheer to the troops when I can. But I admit—to you, only—I’m worried about what we will face at the Front. It’s easy to be swept up in the camaraderie and tales of courage before we’ve faced loaded artillery and the barrel of a gun. I suppose you know this all too well. At times I still feel like the little boy on your knee, wishing he were all grown up. I suspect I’ll do a lot of growing up soon.
Your son,
Thomas
From Evie to Alice Cuthbert
5th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Alice,
A few lines to say hello to my dearest friend and to tell you how miserable I am.
I’m sorry to be glum, but you are the only one I can tell. To everyone else I must be all cheer and chin up but, you see, the boys left their training camp and shipped out to the Front a few days ago and a silly part of me worries terribly for them. I know I shouldn’t, and that the newspapers are full of encouraging news of all our wonderful victories and our brave soldiers, but Charlie Gilbert wrote recently and his words troubled me (he didn’t propose, in case you were wondering). He says war is very different to what he thought it would be and there is very little chivalry or heroism about it at all, regardless of what the newspapers report. He says the men are as cheery as can be expected but they all pray for conscription to come into force as they are in desperate need of reinforcements. I can’t help worrying that things are not going as well over there as the newspapers would have us believe. The casualty lists take up more column inches every day. Am I silly to worry? Please tell me I am. And if I am silly to worry, then you mustn’t either. I know how you were hoping for a dance with Will at Mama’s Christmas Ball so we must trust that it will still happen.
The problem is I have too much time to dwell on things. I can’t picture what war looks like, or where the boys are. When they were at Oxford it was different. I knew the dreaming spires and the Bodleian Library. I spent lazy summer afternoons punting on the Cherwell. Now, it feels as though they have gone to the ends of the earth—to some undiscovered land I know nothing about. And I can’t help feeling terribly afraid.
I can’t even go out for a decent hack to take my mind off things because the horses have been shipped out, too. I’ve asked Mama to give me permission to volunteer in some capacity—I hear women are getting involved in all sorts of ways: working on the omnibuses, serving as War Office clerks, delivering the post—but she won’t hear of it. She says the best thing I can do to help is join her knitting circle. I can think of nothing worse. You know how useless I am with knitting needles. Perhaps if I have someone’s eye out, she’ll be happy to let me work on the omnibuses instead.
Anyway, I’m sure—as they say—it will all be over soon and we can get back to thinking about happier things. Christmas, for one. I still love the idea of Paris and hope you were serious when you said you would come. Everything is always much more fun when you’re there, Alice.
Write soon. Cheer me up. Send me something wonderful or shocking to read. Tell me about the latest unfortunate young fellow to have fallen head over heels in love with you.
Much love,
Evie
X
P.S. I am now a lady cyclist. Terrific fun. You must try it.
From Evie to Charlie Gilbert
10th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Charlie,
A few lines to thank you for your latest letter. You sound a little blue. It must be terribly difficult for you there, but everyone back home is full of hope that we will see an end to it very soon.
Don’t worry about writing so often. I know it must be hard to find the time, or the words. You must concentrate on staying fit and healthy and leading your men to victory.
We are all very proud, and send good cheer to the troops.
Sincerely yours,
Evelyn
From Thomas to Evie
20th November, 1914
Somewhere in France
Dear Evie,
I’m in France now, and I think we’re settled for a while so I can write again with our latest address. Things turned rather hectic after my last letter. They needed our regiment overseas immediately and cut our training short, though it continues here. They’ve got me set to be a machine gunner and Will is being trained as a grenadier. I must say, for the first time I feel like a man. No more boyish Oxford days. I have responsibilities to my troops, and I enjoy being in charge.
I still haven’t worked up the courage to tell Will about the horses. I’m guessing he already knows, deep down. As for Charlie Gilbert, I assume he’s still sweet on you? I think you’re a little hard on him. He’s a decent fellow and you could do a lot worse. If this war sees an end to us all, you might not have much choice in the matter anyway. I know he’s your mother’s first choice for a “suitable” fiancé, though I am the last to listen to my father so I suppose I can’t very well comment on following parental advice, can I?
Things are tense here at , but that’s to be expected. We’re no longer playing at war, it’s the real thing. My toes are thoroughly drenched and aching, but my spirits are high. All is going swiftly now. There’s still hope this will end by Christmas, and we can indulge in our Parisian plans for vin chaud and boeuf bourguignon.
Sincerely yours,
Lieutenant Thomas Harding
From Evie to Thomas
25th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Thomas,
Bonjour, mon ami! What a relief to hear from you—and Will, whose note arrived on the same day (perhaps just use one envelope?). I hope the crossing wasn’t too choppy. Will feels seasick on the Thames, let alone the English Channel.
Get the job done and come back soon, would you. All the reports in the newspapers are very positive and full of allied victories and good news. The censors struck out a few lines from your last letter, but I got the sense of most of it and I’m glad to hear you are all in good cheer.
I’ve enclosed a knitted scarf. It’s my first attempt, so please forgive the rather unusual shape. If it can’t keep you warm it might at least make you laugh. I’m attempting socks next, so prepare yourself!
Stay safe.
Bonne chance!
Your friend,
Evelyn
From Evie to Will
25th November, 1914
Richmond, England
Dear Will,
Bonjour!