The Last Letter

As a child, I used to hate staying with my grandmother. There was never anything fun to do over at her place but, whenever my father had a business trip (which, given his line of work, was quite often), he would take me to stay with her. Reluctantly, I would pack my bag, he would load up the car with some necessary provisions and we would make the eight-hour drive from Sydney down to Melbourne, where she lived in an old house just outside Royal Park. How I would dread every single one of those hours, knowing that each passing mile was bringing me closer to another boring visit.

“Don’t look so morose,” my father commanded during one such trip when I was twelve. “It’s only for the weekend. She’s always good to you, isn’t she?”

I grumbled, sinking further into the passenger seat, clutching my bag to my chest as if it were a security blanket. Each one of my stays was as drab and uneventful as the last. This one would likely prove to be much the same.

Just past noon, we arrived. The green two-story Victorian house on the edge of the park looked even more decrepit and foreboding than I remembered. Gran stepped out onto the porch and planted a pair of wet kisses on each of my cheeks. I wiped them away as she went to give my dad a hug. The entryway appeared to be a gaping maw, ready to consume me at the first opportunity. A few minutes later, I bid my father farewell, watching as his car rounded the corner and disappeared.

“I imagine you must be hungry after your journey,” Gran said, beckoning me inside. “Come. I’ve made you some soup.” Rolling my eyes, I heaved my bag into the house and closed the door behind me.

My grandfather had passed away years before when I was small. As such, I had only a vague recollection of him, appearing out of the dark recesses of my mind like fragments of a dream one forgets upon waking. Though Gran had pictures of him all over the house, from youth to old age, the man staring back at me was completely unfamiliar. I eyed them tentatively as I followed her into the kitchen.

“Your room’s all made up,” she said as she poured hot soup from a pot into a bowl with a ladle. She was referring to the guest bedroom upstairs, which she always reserved for me. “I promise not to be in your hair much this weekend,” she added. “I’ve some gardening to do.”

I felt a pang of guilt. She must have sensed my dissatisfaction. Never before had she addressed it, despite me having made it quite obvious during previous visits. Regardless, I mumbled my thanks and ate my soup in silence as she sauntered around the kitchen putting things away and washing the dishes.

That night, as I lay in bed, my mind went back to that moment in the kitchen and recalled something else my father had said on the trip over: “You’d better cherish the time you have with her. She won’t be around forever.” A lump formed in my throat as I turned onto my side and shut my eyes, waiting for sleep that never came.

The next morning, after breakfast, Gran announced that she would be in the garden until lunch and that, should I need her, to just shout. I nodded, watching as she rose from her chair and left through the front door. In tableau, I saw her disappear behind the rosebushes that lined the front of the house. It was a warm, sunny day and the laughing of a kookaburra came in through the open living room window and filled the place with sound.

Not knowing what to do, I trudged upstairs with the intent of getting some reading done. But once atop the staircase, I heard a dull thud coming from the attic above me. Pulling the string, the rickety wooden steps folded out from the ceiling, and I ascended them, curious to find the source of the noise.

Sunlight spilled in through cracks in the wall. Little swirling eddies of particles could be seen floating within the rays. It was clear that Gran had not been up there in many years. Cobwebs covered each corner and a thin layer of dust hung over everything like freshly fallen snow. Sure enough, right in the middle of the room, was a ceramic heart-shaped box that had fallen off a small antique cabinet nearby. How it had fallen, I could not guess. Luckily, it had not broken from the impact. Its contents, however, lay scattered all about. As I reached down to pick them up, the more curious I became. Several dried flowers, like those pressed into old books, littered the floor. In conjunction, an Australian military medal was concealed beneath several letters whose edges had been yellowed by time. Their envelopes had return addresses from several far-off places with postmarks from some sixty years prior. Most intriguing of all was the photo of a handsome young man in uniform who I did not recognize. I had grown up seeing pictures of my grandfather as a young man and this was not the same person.

It was then that I noticed a folded letter that was partially opened at my feet. Maybe it was the hasty yet thoughtful hand that had penned it that piqued my curiosity. In any case, I gingerly picked it up and unfolded it, reading the words aloud to myself and intrigued to discover that it was addressed to Gran.

“Dearest Rebecca…”

They were daring to venture farther than they had ever been.

It was just over three months since the ANZACs had landed at Gallipoli, a tiny dot on the map half a world away from home. In that time, they had slowly made their way to capture the Heights, which overlooked the surrounding peninsula. To capture the Heights meant seizing Gallipoli from the Turks and, therefore, allowing the Allies to push on towards Constantinople, thus driving the enemy out of the war. It was a bold move to be sure, one that was proving damn-near impossible due in large part to the rugged terrain, yet High Command kept urging the men forward. Now, they were due to take the Nek, a tiny strip of land between the Australian and Turkish lines in an attempt to support the New Zealanders who were keeping the enemy busy at nearby Chunuk Bair.

Dusk had fallen with night well on its way. Lighting an oil lamp, Private Leslie Jones of Melbourne nestled into a makeshift cubbyhole within the trench. His back pressed against the cold earth, he produced a small tin from his breast pocket, from which he withdrew a pen and piece of paper. He felt it as good a time as any to write a letter to his sweetheart back home, given the advance on the Nek the following day.

Despite wanting to divulge everything to her, he thought of choosing his words carefully at first. Of course, he was scared. He always was whenever the company had to advance, for one never knew whether it would be the last time they would be able to do so. As it was, C Company had already lost several men, including a few with whom he had grown particularly close. Attachments, however, were both pointless yet vital to the army, for you had to entrust your lives to each other, yet never knowing when yours or theirs would be cut short. Doing away with formalities, he decided to lay down exactly what was on his mind.

“Who are you writing?"

“Rebecca,” Leslie replied without even looking up. He instantly recognized the voice that had posed the question. It belonged to Sidney Greene, a fellow C Company private from Broken Hill in the Outback, who now took a seat opposite him atop a pile of sandbags. Sidney whistled and cooed in response, to which Leslie smiled and playfully kicked some dirt his way.

“Say hi to the lady for me,” Sidney said with a grin, politely doffing his cap.

“That ‘lady’ is my fiancé,” Leslie added. It was the first time he had said it aloud to anyone, surprising himself for revealing it so casually. “She just doesn’t know it yet.”

“Going to propose to her, eh?” Sidney added, producing a flask from the right back pocket of his trousers. “I’ll drink to that!” He took a swig before passing it to Leslie, who accepted it with a smile. It was scotch and the familiar, pleasant burn warmed them from within.

But the sudden realization of the advance on the Nek weighed heavy over the pair and a pensive silence fell upon them. For what seemed an eternity, the two of them were lost in their thoughts, each wondering whether they would make it out alive.

“Hey,” Sidney interjected, holding his flask up as if making a toast. “We’ll be fine, mate.”

Leslie smiled in response and returned to his letter, though from the silence that followed, it was clear that neither of them believed it.

The men of C Company were awoken some time in the night, when they were told to mobilize to the front line. Just as the sun crested the horizon, they had arrived, in time to see A Company prepare for the advance across the Nek.

As always before a skirmish, Leslie’s heart pounded in his chest. Readying his rifle, he searched the crowd for Sidney, who stood a few paces behind him. The two nodded at each other in acknowledgement. “You ready?” Sidney asked upon catching up to him. “Today’s the big day.”

“When am I ever ready?” Leslie countered sardonically. The two shared a chuckle, though their expressions turned grave just seconds later. This time, neither of them could find the courage to say anything reassuring. They were now faced with the reality of the situation, and, as always, it terrified them.

They watched as A Company braced themselves for the attack. With a blow of their lieutenant’s whistle, they emerged from the trench in an uproar, only to be shot down moments later by Turkish fire. Leslie, Sidney and the men of C Company watched in horror as several bodies flew back into the trench, their corpses riddled with bullets and stained with blood. It was clear that the enemy had the upper hand as far as terrain was concerned, with the resulting offensive slowly proving to be a bloodbath.

“For fuck’s sake, mate,” Sidney said, peering through a hole in the sandbags. “It’s a bloody massacre!"

Leslie didn’t say a word. A feeling of dread sank deep into the pit of his stomach. He knew, right then and there, that this would be the end. The Australians could only advance so far before being cut down by enemy fire. It was not so much an offensive as it was a death sentence. Reaching into his shirt, he produced the locket that Rebecca had given him upon his departure, which bore her picture within it, and he had worn around his neck ever since. Opening it, he gave it a kiss and mumbled a prayer.

“STEADY, LADS!” the lieutenant for B Company shouted as his men made ready for the next wave. Leslie could see that he was pale, no doubt due to the fact that he knew he was leading his men to the slaughter. His shrill whistle filled the air and sent his troops over the lip of the trench. Seconds later, they, too, had all been shot. The pit in Leslie’s stomach turned into full-blown panic as his own commanding officer urged C Company forward.

“This is it,” Sidney whispered behind him. “Best of luck, lads,” he shouted over the sound of rifle fire. “Good luck, mate,” he added to Leslie softly, his voice shaky. “Maybe, we’ll be the ones to break through.” All Leslie could do was stare at him blankly, his expression full of fear. Sidney mirrored it, but nodded once more, a gesture that Leslie countered.

Finally, the lieutenant’s whistle sounded. Leslie, heart racing and with Sidney in tow, clambered over the edge of the trench. They watched as their comrades were picked off one by one. No sooner had they made it a few feet was Sidney clipped in the head, a spurt of red staining the earth behind him.

“SIDNEY!” Leslie shouted, rushing to his mate’s side. But before he could even get there, a sharp, searing pain tore through his abdomen. He fell to the ground. As his vision began to blur, he saw a pool of his own blood rushing up to greet him. He no longer felt any pain. It was as if he had become weightless. The last thing he saw was the locket, which had come off in the tussle, with Rebecca’s monochrome face smiling up at him…

“Ginny? What are you doing up here?”

Gran stood framed in the entryway. I had been so captivated by the letter that I had not heard her ascend the rickety steps. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to face her. “I’m sorry, Gran,” I whimpered. “I just…”

But her eyes widened when she saw the letter in my hand. Gliding across the room, she took it from me without a word. I watched as she read through it, likely for the first time in years.

“Who was he, Gran?” I asked.

When she finished, her eyes were full of tears. Turning to me, as if she had forgotten I was there, she gave me a warm smile and stroked my cheek. “Bring the box downstairs and I’ll explain,” she said.

Once we were seated at the kitchen table, she told me everything. Leslie had been her sweetheart before he was shipped off to fight at Gallipoli during World War One. She had kept every letter and memento he had sent her, saving them in an old heart-shaped box her mother had passed down to her. When she received word from his family that he had been killed in action, she was devastated. After the war ended, Leslie’s parents had given her his medal, the Victoria Cross, which he had received posthumously for his heroism in a previous battle. It would be five years before she would even consider courtship again, when she met my grandfather.

When she had finished telling me all this, I rushed to embrace her, the first time I had ever done so since I was little. “Thank you,” she whispered into my hair.

“No,” I retorted. “Thank you."

My father shot me a confused/worried look when he picked me up the following day. He appeared even more confused when he saw me wave goodbye to Gran. “Did you have a nice time?” he asked, clearly concerned.

I smiled and answered him honestly. “The best.”