about what the War is actually like. No-one who has been through the trenches speaks freely with a person who has not done so. When the War is over, a great divide will cut through England.
Nonetheless, Iris seemed to read between my words, and to understand much that was unsaid. She fed me—how, with the restricted civilian rations, I neither knew nor asked—and clothed me and made me feel as if I had another home.
Whole, dry stockings! And two nights cradled by lavender-scented linen! Her flat gleams in my mind as an island of plenty, and of peace, and of all that is good in the world.
So, after a few brief hours behind the lines with my new regiment we came forward, and here I sit again, writing on the pages of my Egypt-leather journal while the shells fall in the distance.
But oh! What a difference from one month ago, for now I need but close my eyes and green eyes gaze back at me. And, is it not fate that my new posting is even closer to hers than the old?
24 April
Terrible news—the entire unit is to shift down the Line, near Reims. Good for the men, of course, since it’s a quiet sector for soldiers stretched near to breaking by the continual onslaught of the months past. But that’s miles away, miles beyond reach of my fair Helene. I will find a reason to visit the aid post tomorrow (reasons are always so plentiful—shall it be my feet, or the festering cut on my arm, or the cough?) and wait for her to come in. I must see her once before I go,
2 May
The deed is done. We leave tomorrow at dawn.
2 June
Three weeks of quiet, broken only by the stray shell and the ever-present snipers, and then it all came down on us, hell breaking out anew just after mid-night on Monday last. It had been such a lovely holiday, too, with actual fields instead of pitted mud as far as the eyes could see. The trees had branches and delicate spring leaves, there were birds nesting in the church’s steeple, the people were still capable of smiling. Birdsong— nightingales—animals other than rats! And one night I heard what I’d have sworn was a dog fox. Then at one in the morning the earth heaved and the sky turned to flame with their guns, and it was back to Hades for us.
Except that this time they’ve got us out of our trenches and running for our lives. God knows how much equipment we’ve shed between here and where the front line was 72 hours ago. I managed to hang on to my pack, running through fields with the bullets going zip, zip over my head, although some Jerry’s got himself two pair of nice new French stockings that I’d left drying in the dugout along with my mess kit and entrenching tool. I gave one old pair of stockings to a man who’d run five miles in bare feet, which leaves me with one of Aunt Iris’s pairs on my feet and another in my kit that’s more holes than yarn. I know what the next letter home’s going to ask for!
14 June
Thank God for the Yanks. The Second Division had been set down not far from where we are now, troops fresh off the boat and spoiling for a fight, and when Jerry got to them, he bounced back like a rubber ball. Not at first, but once they had the feel of it, the Yanks dug in their heels and shoved back. They even retook Belleau Wood, and that seems to be about as far as Jerry’s getting this time. But it was close. If he’d had more troops, better supplies, he’d be strolling up the Champs Elysees in the morning.
The guns must have given Iris and her friend Dan a few bad hours. I had a letter from her, one from home, and one from H. all in the same post today; no doubt they’d sat waiting for us until hdq. could spot where we’d ended up.
Lost only one man—head wound, but he’ll live to see Dover. One of the other fellows lost his entire platoon, taken prisoner when he was separated from them. Poor bastard, feels like he lost his mother. Or his sons.
23 June
Back up the line to shore up some weak places in the French fence. Sorry to lose my old batman, he was a great comfort, but I’m closer to H., although I haven’t seen her to talk to yet. Spotted her ambulance—I’m pretty certain it was her Ford—scrambling its way down a hill yesterday morning, but she didn’t see me, one khaki figure in a hundred.
Holiday’s over; we’re back in the thick of it. I wonder if Jerry’s listening to the nightingales right now. There certainly aren’t any around here, just rats.
Shelling heavy tonight, damn them. Makes my nerves jumpy, can’t help it. Not even knowing my green-eyed Helene is near can stop the twitches.
Had a man go bad on us yesterday—not one of mine, thank God, but about a hundred yards up the line. His nerves just crumbled and he downed his rifle and ran. Took a bullet in the shoulder, with luck it’ll see him out of trouble, and nobody’s saying anything about the fact that he took it in the back. But he’ll have to live with knowing he deserted his mates in a pinch. Don’t know about him, whether that would trouble him or not, but I know that, once or twice, it’s been the only thing that’s kept me facing forward, knowing I’d have to live with the shame of abandoning men who counted on me.
Word is, we’ll be home by Christmas. They’ve been saying that since the first winter, I know, but this time it may be true. One way or another.
The padre’s just been through. Good man, name of Hastings, too old by far for this stunt but doesn’t complain, always a word of encouragement, especially for the young boys. A countryman, Surrey rather than Berkshire but close enough, had some interesting stories about water voles.
Beautiful full moon tonight, brighter than the Very lights. Anyone with nerve enough to peep over the top will catch a glimpse of our own version of the moon, all pitted and lifeless. I watch the real thing pass through the sky over the trench, and think about showing Helene the lawns under a summer moon. The time Uncle Alistair took me out to Abbot’s Clump in the full moon to watch the hares dance. I couldn’t have been more than four at the time. Damn the Kaiser.
29 June
Front line for going on three weeks, don’t know how much longer the men can stand it. One private a week older than I am shot himself in the foot yesterday, trying for his Blighty. Only instead of a boat home, he’s in a hole, having missed his aim and hit an artery. Bled to death before they could get him on a stretcher. Probably just as well—it was obvious what he’d done, he’d have been court-martialled for it, and considering the current state of the fighting, probably been shot to discourage others from trying the same. Backs- to-the-wall time, there’s no doubt.
Pray God watch over all VAD drivers. Especially those with green eyes.
15 July
No doubt they’re partying in Paris today, dancing in the streets outside Aunt Iris’s apartment. Not too many bottles of champagne here. Plenty of Bastille Day fireworks, though. Had a blessed three days off the line, baths, warm food, the lice baked out of my clothes, and a chance to see Helene. She managed to trade with another girl and we sat on a bombed-out building wall and talked and talked while the half moon lay over the poor wounded countryside. I told her about Justice Hall, how I want to show her every corner of it. The Pater’ll have a fit. Tried not to let H. know how much of a fit he’d have; time enough for that.
23 July, near mid-night
If we lose this bloody awful war, it won’t be because of the fighting men, it’ll be due to the incredible stupidity of the higher-ups. Still can’t believe it—full moon, huge thing brighter than a whole string of Very lights, and down comes the order to take out a wiring party. Insanity! Absolute, blithering idiocy. The men went to ice when they heard it, a sure sentence for the death of ten good men. But they were willing. They’d have done it, for me and for their fellows, but I was having none of it. The order had obviously been sent weeks before and gone astray. Even the daftest old general in London wouldn’t send out a wiring party under those circumstances—and when the line’s shifting daily and we hardly bother shoring up trenches because we’ll be out of ’em in a week? Why wire here at all. Nuts, I said, putting on my best Yank accent. Nuts to you, my men are standing down.
26th
I cannot fathom this. I can’t begin to understand. I’m going to wake up now and find it’s all one of those loopy dreams. They can’t be serious.
