To Emily

My dearest Emily,

Thank you so much for your letter. You will know by now that it takes quite a while for post to reach us here, so we always look forward to it most eagerly. Furthermore, I won’t deny that things here can be a trifle bleak at times, so I cannot overstate how much of a tonic it is to see your words on the page and to hear your voice in my mind as I read them. It never fails to bring me a renewed sense of vigour and cheerfulness. I'm always so glad to hear news from home, too. It hardly seems possible that Charlotte could already have finished at Roedean but, all the same, I can picture most clearly how she must be growing into a fine (if somewhat eccentric) young lady. What will be next for her, do you think? Girton College or nursing? And be sure to congratulate Walter for me on his commission as lieutenant. I do hope it will bring him an adventure every bit as great as the one he has been longing for, these two years.

I wish I had news to share with you in return but I’m afraid there is not a great deal to say that would interest you, since day-to-day life at the front is rather dull. You might be surprised to hear that but it’s the truth of the matter; it’s not quite the thrill I was expecting when I joined up. There are moments of excitement, naturally – the Boche do like to keep us on our toes by popping over to visit unannounced – but, other than that, there’s a lot of hanging around, smoking disappointing cigarettes and waiting for something to happen. What’s more, not much that is noteworthy can be committed to paper in any case. Unfortunately, we can never be sure who might read our letters before the intended recipients, so I cannot say much – or indeed anything at all – about actions I have been part of or even where I am. I can tell you, though, that I’ve been promoted. A vacancy opened up in my company for a captain, the CO offered it to me and I was honoured to accept.

It occurs to me that I might also tell you a little about the men I’m serving with. You may remember Oliver Walker. We were at school together, joined up on the same day and we’ve been part of the same company since this whole business began. It’s reassuring somehow to have a good friend with me and the connection with home that entails. The other chaps are excellent sorts, too. Harris is a strong, silent type: not much of a talker but you could never wish to meet anyone more dependable. Abbott is impossibly dim, bless him, but he’s ever so funny. (And after all, what would you expect from an Old Harrovian?) Jenkins is a rotund fellow who complains too much about the food, but he has a lovely singing voice which I enjoy listening to in the evenings. Before I arrived, I had some concerns about the enlisted men – there was no knowing what calibre of men they might have sent me or what fellows from Leeds or Liverpool might have thought of a young toff like me ordering them around – but it’s hard to imagine now what on earth I was worried about. To a man, they’re honest, reliable and – above all – brave.

Of course, you might have heard news that I was wounded. But my dear, you mustn’t worry. It was all a fuss about nothing – just a scratch, really – and I was soon back at the front with my men. The field hospital was absolutely capital, by the way: top-notch care and the best food I’ve tasted in a long time. I do believe I put on weight in the two weeks I was there. Apparently, I’ll be getting a medal for my trouble too, so I can’t complain.

Thank you also for the photograph, although it scarcely does you justice. I keep it where I need it most: pinned to the dugout wall by my bunk. When the night is at its coldest and darkest and the German shells are pound over my head and showering soil down on me, you remind me that there are places in this world that are made of more than mud, rats and duckboards. And then, I close my eyes and remember summer afternoons at Farnham, sipping lemonade by the lake, strolling through the woods together and talking, finding a quiet spot in the shade to sit and do something other than talk for a little while. Please forgive me for waxing sentimental. I find myself uncharacteristically prone to reminiscence at the moment. In part, this is simply because I miss you terribly. To another degree, I am also feeling the loss of a dear friend. I mentioned earlier how good it is to have Oliver Walker here but I’m sorry to say he’s with me no longer. The poor chap’s luck finally ran out a few days ago. He was leading a reconnaissance patrol taking a closer look at the German lines and I’m afraid a sentry spotted him and picked him off. I’d rather taken it for granted that Walker and I would be together for the duration and I hadn’t realised until now how much I’d relied on him to keep my spirits up.

The other thing playing on my mind is the offensive we’re preparing for. They’re saying this is ‘The Big One’. In fact, we’re under orders to attack at first light and I must confess, I’m a little anxious about how this might turn out. The men are putting a brave face on it – at least for as long as I’m within earshot – but there is a definite apprehensive mood: so definite that even I can detect it. A good few of us have been in this position before, you see. We’ve given the Boche what-for with our artillery for hours on end but we can’t help but suspect they’ll still be ready and waiting – and rather ticked off – when we turn up at their front door.

My dearest Emily, if you’re reading this letter, then I’m afraid it’s not good news. You see, when I’ve finished writing, I’ll leave the letter in my dugout, come back to it after the attack and rewrite this last bit. If my batman has posted it to you as it is, it’s because I didn’t come back. I really am dreadfully sorry. I so wanted to come home to you. I never dared assume that you would be waiting for my return as eagerly as I, but the mere thought of seeing you just once more has sustained me for as long as I’ve been away. As it is, I must content myself with knowing that you need not worry yourself any more on my account. I wish you every happiness: a peaceful, comfortable life; children; a good man who will give you the affection and high regard you deserve so richly. For my part, I am glad to have known you and shared those few, fleeting moments of joy.

Your ever-devoted

John