An End of Poppies

An End of Poppies

  By Simon Poore

  Copyright 2013 Simon Poore

  [email protected]

  simontall.com

  DEDICATION

  For my dear Father, who did his bit in World War Two…

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to all those who put up with me while I write, especially Claire and Karen…

  An End of Poppies

  By Simon Poore

  M.O.D Approved. This letter has been censored in accordance with War Office Directive 728/4. All content of a sensitive nature has been removed by order of the Ministry of War. Remember - CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES!

  076938964

  Ypres Zone

  Middlesex Regiment

  Sappers Unit 2064

  29th October 1961

  Pvt. 761382 J.Fitzpatrick

  My Dear Esme,

  I hope you don't mind me writing to you like this; I know we don't know each other too well but I did feel we had a certain connection between us when we walked out together on the pier during my last leave. It's a funny thing being a soldier, a lonely thing, and I know it is presumptuous of me but I feel that you feel it too. I suppose most girls do, what with so many of us being out here at the war. It must be sometimes lonely for you too. Always the war comes before all.

  It was fortuitous that my Aunt Gracie introduced us. She is such a funny old stick; all curly white hair and smiles. She seems to always be one of those fortunate types that doesn't let any misfortune affect her. I don't know how she does it. She is friends with your mother I know, and that is how your family knows mine, although I am not so sure how this connection came to be.

  Do you visit Brighton often? Strange to think it was my first time there. I liked it. It had the air of a holiday about it despite the rain. Not that I have ever had one of those.

  It is my birthday today. I am twenty one. I don't suppose you knew that. The men in the unit got me this pen as a present; well the few who are pals that is. Goodness knows where they got it from. They know I like to write. A lovely blue fountain pen like people used to use. Not one of those cheap biros that people had a few years back from China or Japan, until the blockade stopped most imports from the east. Most people here write with cheap stubby pencils; apart from the officers that is. The lead is almost always broken down the whole length of it before it is even issued to you. Impossible to sharpen; let alone write with. So it is a joy to write to you with a real pen. They got me five bottles of blue ink too and this pad of lined paper. Don't you think that was awfully kind? The miserable Sergeant even let me have an extra chocolate bar in my rations this morning.

  I have decided that if I am going to write to you then I am going to chance my arm and say the things I feel because, well, let's just say you never know what is around the corner in this day and age. Nobody does. So I will begin by saying this; when I think of you my stomach does a sort of flip inside. I think of your hair and your eyes and especially your smile. And I do think of you such an awful lot Esme. Could you call this love? I don't know. Is it possible to 'love' after just one meeting? Not that I am sure what love is anyway. It's strange how one can have so much experience of some parts of life and yet be so naive and clueless about others. You probably think I am daft and you must think me awfully forward to speak of such things. I hope you do not think me to be foolish.

  I am hoping that the unit will get another leave soon. It's unusual I know. Most only get one leave a year and even then it's down to the C.O. and whether or not anyone in your unit has blotted their copy book. Our current C.O. is called Jeffers but he doesn't bother to get to know any of us men individually; he simply listens to whatever the Captains or Sergeants say about us, and like everyone at the top I suppose they have their favourites. Not sure that I am one of those. There is a rumour that we might get a weekend before Christmas. No guarantees of this because we lowly foot soldiers know nothing of the bigwigs running things and their machinations. There are always such rumours. If I do get a leave it would be terribly kind of you to let us meet again. I could come to your house and meet your mother if you like. Take tea with you. That would be nice.

  I know your sister would like that, she told me that you liked me when we met. She seemed awfully keen, like young girls are. You don't know this but she took me to one side on the beach that day. You had gone to get the ice creams, remember?

  "Fancy having ice cream on a rainy day!" she said to me. At least it wasn't so cold. Not cold like it is here. Here the cold runs through to your very bones. Even here underground where we are stationed. And it’s only October. It will only get worse when the ground freezes above us as it inevitably will. Sapper Jones says it’s the cold of the earth; the natural temperature of the dirt and rock surrounding us, we are so far underground that the sun's optimistic warmth can't ever reach us. He is always the joker, says we should dig even deeper, and then we could warm ourselves around some molten rocks at the earth's core. The Sergeant said the only thing that would warm us down there would be the fires of hell. Miserable git that he is. Jones just muttered something under his breath about us already being in hell.

  At this part of the Wall the tunnels and CENSORED are CENSORED feet deep at least. So far down; we are like moles that have lost their way. Blindness and fear making us dig so deep. Deep in the dampness and dirt. Despite all the concrete above us, freezing water drips everywhere, stalactites of green mould form on every ceiling. My cap is always damp from the incessant dripping. I am trying to keep the drips from smudging my ink as I write to you now. I don't always succeed, so I am sorry if this letter isn't in such a perfect condition when it reaches you. Everything is damp. Always damp. It seems to continually seep through the leather of your boots even if you aren't standing in heavy puddles. I have three pairs of socks on, squeezing my toes like oranges squashed into a Christmas stocking. Still the cold and damp seep in. So I guess the sweet vanilla taste of an ice cream on Brighton beach when it was a relatively warm day, despite the rain, didn't seem like such an odd idea to me.

  Anyway, back to Dulcie and what she said. I think she deliberately sent you off to get the ice creams so that she could have time alone with me. I don't mean that to sound like she was scheming or anything; she just seemed genuinely pleased that I had asked you to walk along the pier with me. I wonder if you were disappointed that she insisted on joining us. I will say that I wasn't, I enjoyed her company as well as yours. Although next time I would like time alone with you, if that isn't too forward.

  Dulcie seems so young to me. I know fourteen isn't considered so young these days but she is full of the delightful dreams of the young. I feel so much older, although in truth I am not. Is it foolish to have such expectant and hopeful dreams when life is always going to be war? I suppose, like all girls, she doesn't meet many boys or men. So perhaps I am like some exotic creature to her. Am I like that to you Esme? We spent so little precious time together.

  Dulcie kept asking questions. Her quick teenage voice firing all sorts of questions. Mainly questions about me. As if she was sizing me up. Was I a suitable romantic suitor for her dearest elder sister? Were my intentions honourable? And just to clear that one up Esme, I must explain myself. I know that women are taught not to always trust the soldiers. That our reputations with the fairer sex aren't always seen as whiter than white. When lives are short men must take what they need it seems. Or so some seem to feel. I have the utmost respect for you and, in short, my intentions towards you are nothing but honourable. I know that a pretty and intelligent girl such as yourself must be approached by the few men you do encounter in your everyday life, and that perhaps you are used to fending off their dishonourable intentions. All I will say is that I honestly hope you do not put me
in the same category as such men. I hope I may gain your trust in time and that we can correspond and build such trust.

  Dulcie asked about how my family; my mother and my aunt knew your mother and how my mother had known her in the tank factory at Stanmore. Before it was bombed. Did you know that we were born in the same street, you and I? Dulcie didn't know that. Whitefriars drive. Fancy us two living there all that time and not knowing each other. Before the war they used to have some schools where boys and girls went together. Imagine that! We would have met then. Not all single sex schools like now. Everything for the war effort; boys learning about war and tactics and weapons, girls learning about manufacturing and food production and the home front. I am surprised we never