Love Letters from Belgium

July 27^th, 1914

Last night, I said goodbye to Thomas at Chelmsford station. He looked so handsome in his green woolen uniform and helmet, bound for the war in Europe. He was excited, looking forward to the action with his friends, looking forward to killing some Germans from the Central Powers. I don’t really care, but I think all this talk of death is foul and I told him so. He laughed and drew me into his embrace. His coat smelled of pipe smoke and cabbages from his family's farm. I traced the lines of his face with my hands, trying to memorize them. He leaned towards me and my heart raced with anticipation. He was going to kiss me. I almost pulled away out of fear, but he took hold of me, taking me captive and our lips met. Steam covered us and he pulled away, looking behind him with worry. The train began to move and he ran to catch it. His friends waved and jeered from the windows making fun of him. “Goodbye Annie!” he yelled, jumping onto the train and waving. I cried for a time, longing for his return and then I determined, I would keep this journal to remember him. (Sketch of Thomas)

August 3^rd, 1914

I wrote my first letter to Thomas and took it to the Chelmsford post office. I wore my finest dress, did my hair, and put on makeup. I might not be seeing him, but I wanted to feel like I was going to see him.

I climbed the steps and entered the post office. Men were everywhere behind the counter sorting the mail, piling the letters and packages into enormous crates. I stood in the long line with many others and waited for my turn. Most of the people in line were women writing to their husbands. Some stood with children who fidgeted and complained. I played peek-a-boo with a small boy to distract him and he smiled.

The man at the counter laughed and watched with great interest. He seemed a gentle soul beneath his round-rimmed glasses. His brown hair was neatly parted to one side and he wouldn’t meet my eyes, though when I looked away, I caught him staring at me from the corner of my eye. It seemed almost a game.

“How are you today, Miss?” he asked when it was my turn.

“Miss Anna Brown. I have a letter to send to my sweetheart in the war,” I replied. “I believe they sent him to Belgium. His name is Thomas O’Connell.”

“Right-o, Miss. Sign here,” he said and winked, dropping the letter into a box.

I hope my letter finds him. I’ve been led to understand it will reach him, though I do not know how.

August 14^th, 1914

I received a letter from Thomas this morning. The man from the post office showed up at my door and personally delivered the letter. He told me he remembered me from earlier that month because of how beautifully dressed I was and how I was sending mail to the front in Belgium. The letter had arrived that morning and when he saw it, he excused himself for lunch to bring it to me. He introduced himself as David McIntyre and asked me about Thomas.

I told him of how we met at one of the local dances. Thomas’ family had come in from their country farm to the community dance. We met drinking punch, discussing how we longed for real chocolate and strawberries over the candied carrots and war-time cake. I avoided the cake because it made my stomach turn and gave me the runs. David laughed and told me how he’d never touched the stuff, but he wasn’t opposed to the occasional candied carrot. He handed me the letter and left.

I sat on the steps and hastily opened it, fearing the worst and hoping for the best. Thomas spoke of how they landed in Belgium and began fighting across the Mons Canal. He and his friends got caught sneaking chocolates to bring home and had been sent to dig fresh latrines for the camp. He complained about the heat and longed to return home. I relaxed, feeling relieved he had made it to the war front safe and sound.

August 29^th, 1914

The newspaper that came this morning brought news of a battle in Belgium. I have not heard from Thomas in weeks and I fear the worst. Many of the women in town have received telegrams bearing the bad news of their men’s deaths, but I had not heard from Thomas’ sister, so I am sure he is fine. Thomas’ sister, Marie is my dearest friend and confidant, though we do not get to see each other often. Their parents do not approve of me, so I am not welcome in their home. Marie has to sneak out at night to escape her farm chores and catch a ride into town with the other farm kids. We meet up at the local pub or a dance if one is being held.

I took my letter to the post office and ran into David. His eyes lit up when I entered the room and he spoke excitedly of, well I suppose nothing and everything. He took an early lunch and we sat on the steps of the post office talking. I spoke of Thomas and my fears for him in Belgium. I told him how I was worried I hadn’t heard from him. He smiled and said he would keep an eye out for anything from Belgium and bring it to me.

September 13^th, 1914

I received another letter from Thomas. David showed up at the door with it and I invited him to have tea. We had a wonderful discussion about the language of flowers over Earl Grey and milk. I had no idea, but David is an avid gardener when he is not working at the post office. He told me about his family's vegetable garden and how his mother kept forget-me-nots and lilies.

Thomas’ letter spoke of how he survived the battle and then described the sights of Belgium. The letter spoke of his love for me, how he longed to return and marry me, and how he dreamed of showing me the places in Europe. He spoke of his desire to have a family and have a wonderful home. This struck me as odd. Thomas had never mentioned wanting to have a family before nor had he ever dreamed of anything. He was a man living in the moment; taking advantage of any opportunity when it presented itself. He might have seen enough violence to have reflected and changed his mind. I hoped this was the case.

September 18^th, 1914

After spending a few weeks considering Thomas’ unusual proposal, I finally responded. I told him I would marry him. I am so excited. All I dream about is wedding dresses and bouquets of sweet-smelling flowers.

I posted the letter and ran into David as he was leaving the post office for the day. He walked me home, passing by the old stone church. I hung on the fence, daydreaming while he prattled about the church's history.

“What are you daydreaming about?” he asked.

“Thomas asked me to marry him and I told him, yes.”

“You did?”

“Yes.”

The postman was a mix of emotions while we walked the rest of the way home and I wondered why. Was something going on at work that was causing him problems? Or was he being given a hard time about being a young man and not going to war to serve his country? I asked him, but he stayed quiet before explaining the problems with his lungs. They kept him from serving and caused him issues with breathing in the spring.

He took off his hat and smiled, bowing as he left. It seemed to me his gaze lingered a little too long for my liking. Had I given him the wrong impression?

October 3^rd, 1914

I have been busy with the other women gathering supplies to help the men at the front. The newspapers tell us of the terrible living conditions of the men. I’ve spent the last couple of weeks knitting socks with the remaining wool I have and what I have salvaged from old jerseys. I took a large box of them to the post office and other supplies the women in town had gathered.

David met me there, smiling at me. I handed him my latest letter for Thomas and the box and asked if he had heard anything. He told me no. Worried, I nodded and left disheartened. Thomas is always in my thoughts and I worry about him every day.

November 23^rd, 1914

The letters have returned. They come and go weekly, sometimes daily along with regular visits from David. He brings me flowers from his mother and we walk together, discussing the war and the places he would love to visit one day. I worry sometimes that he becomes too attached, but we have become friends.

December 1st, 1914

The snow came last night and David visited, bringing extra coals for my family to keep the fire going. He took me outside and we had a snowball fight. My younger brothers raced outside to join us and soon snowballs flew everywhere. I slipped on a patch of ice and he caught me, but he lost his balance too and we fell together. I ended up in his arms on the ice, pressed up against his face. Our eyes met and I couldn’t look away. My cheeks grew warm. It took my brothers teasing us for me to pull away and return to my feet.

I feel guilty for my moment of weakness, but I am sure Thomas will understand.

Thomas tells me he is well in his letters and is moving about all over Europe. He speaks of the places he has been and his dreams. How much he loves me, but he never mentions war. I have concluded he does not wish to talk about such things, and from the injured men I have seen returning home, I think I can understand why. The soldiers’ eyes are filled with despair and fear. They hobble along, missing legs and arms, balanced on crutches and canes. They jump at the slightest noise and they do not talk much. I worry my Thomas will be the same.

December 19^th, 1914

I think of the war and the terrible news I hear. I worry that Thomas is stuck in one of the trenches the newspapers speak of. They sound like terrible places of suffering. I can’t imagine starving and being covered in fleas with bullets flying above me. They speak of the piles of bodies and the mustard gas choking the men to death. I hope he is not there.

To brighten Thomas’ mood, I went to buy him a Christmas present. One small enough to send him. I decided on an ornament he could hang in the trench that might bring joy to him and the others.

In the store, I ran into Marie. She seemed sad, playing with an ornament on the stand depicting a happy soldier beside a Christmas tree. She was silent, ignoring all else around her. It seemed like she and the ornament were the only things in the room. I went up to her and asked her what was wrong.

“Why are you so cheery?” she snapped.

“I don’t understand.”

“Didn’t you hear? Thomas is dead. He died in the Battle of the Mons.”

I stared at her shocked, wondering if she was mad. Marie seemed certain in her outburst. Her emotions were genuine and she was perfectly coherent. “He can’t be,” I cried, “He has been writing to me. He is traveling around Europe. He told me about the places he had seen. He….He asked me to marry him.”

The small girl pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her pocket and tears filled her eyes. She straightened it out and handed it to me, looking back at the ornament. It read – September 19^th, 1914. We deeply regret to inform you that Thomas O’Connell died of multiple bullet wounds to the chest and was killed in action. The British army expresses its deepest sympathy to your family.

“No,” I gasped, “It can’t be….but…but…he has been writing to me. There must be some mistake.”

“Look at the postmark and date,” she managed, her voice wavering and the tears were falling freely down her cheeks. “Thomas is gone. His unit is supposed to return in January along with his remains. I don’t know who has written to you, but it's not him.”

Tears welled up in my eyes and ran down my cheeks and I left in a hurry, racing home. I couldn’t contain the pain in my heart. It feels like it's eating me from the inside out. It can’t be true. He can’t be dead. (Tears covered the entry and the words were blurred)

January 2^nd, 1915

The letters continued to arrive, bringing me more and more confusion.

I waited at the train station every day, asking for news of Thomas’ unit. They would be able to clarify if there had been some mistake.

Eventually, the injured began returning from the Battle of the Mons. They arrive in large groups at the train station along with bodies piled up in the train carriages, being moved into trucks to be delivered to their families for burial. I searched the train station and ran into Fred, one of Thomas’ friends. He confirmed what Marie told me. Thomas’ body was with those being returned home. I broke down and wept. He told me how Thomas died. I won’t write it down. I don’t want to remember it.

I went to Thomas’ family and asked to attend the funeral, but they told me I wasn’t welcome. How could they keep me from him? Why are they so cold-hearted?

January 5^th, 1915

I watched from the church fence as they lowered Thomas’ body into the grave. His family and close friends stood by as the priest said the rites. I felt like my heart was being torn out of my chest. The grief consumed me, eating me from the inside. I wanted to explode, to burst into tears and run screaming. This was not the way it was supposed to be. We were supposed to get married here when he returned, not have a funeral. The crowd of mourners returned home and I watched, staring at the pile of fresh earth next to the roughly hewn stone marker. (Tears covered the entry)

David popped into mind and his strange behavior on the day we both stood beside this fence looking at the church. My eyes went wide and then became filled with anger. I had told him about Thomas’ proposal. He was the only one who had known. The only one I had told and Thomas had spoken of it in his letters.

I realized I knew who wrote those letters.

I went to the post office and screamed at him, pushing my way through the crowd and slapping him. I told him I never wanted to see him again. Why would he do something like that? How could I ever love someone I could not trust?

March 29^th, 1916

I sat on my bed this afternoon staring at the letters spread out, trying to figure out which were Thomas’ and which were David’s. I reread through them, recalling Thomas and how he smelled of pipe smoke and cabbages. Thomas had brought excitement into my life and we had fun together, conquering the world and having new adventures. I recalled the feel of his lips on mine. The man I loved had died. He was gone.

Fresh tears filled my eyes and I wept into my pillow, longing for him to return and knowing it was not possible. 

I frowned at the rest of the letters, piled on the bed. There were so many of them and they stared back at me, causing me even more pain. How could I move on and trust another man when I had been so deeply betrayed?

I picked one up, ready to crumple it and throw it in the waste paper basket, but hesitated. I reread through it and then another. Soon, I had read through all the ones I was sure were David’s. They were different, and the warmth in them touched my heart. He spoke of a future for us, of children and traveling. The memories of our walks, the flowers, and our snowball fight filled my mind, bringing me the same warmth and fondness for him that I had once felt for Thomas. He was so shy and gentle. The anger I felt towards him gave way and I realized I also loved him.

March 30^th, 1916

I went to the post office this morning to send a letter. David looked at me from behind the counter, his eyes were filled with guilt and he couldn’t meet my gaze.

“Can I help you, miss?” he said almost in a whisper.

“I wish to send a letter to the man I love.”

“Who are you sending it to?”

“David MacIntyre.”