And for so many, the war was finally over.

51

VIVIAN HAD ALWAYS known he would come home to her, and in a way he did. The letters were dated from the third week after he had left her; he had written approximately one a week for the duration. Knowing that they would never be read, he had not self-censored. They were gloriously free, honest, forthright. They were Howard. He had taken some form of solace or perhaps strength in recording his war. Or possibly he’d just wanted to write it down to prove to himself that it had all happened and he wasn’t going mad imagining it.

19th November 1916

I’ve been over the top now. Would you believe me, Vivian, if I told you it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be? Isn’t that the strangest thing? I can hardly remember it although it was only yesterday. I was dazed and drunk on all sorts of things: fear, horror, fatalism. Amazement that mankind had come to this. I can’t imagine any deeper depths to sink to. The worst is done. I have shot a man. I am a killer. No doubt I’ll get a medal soon.

17th September 1917

I am seeing more action than most. Aubrey takes me with him wherever he goes. Friends close, enemies closer, isn’t that the saying? He puts us both at risk. It’s funny, he thinks he is invincible and will come home to you victorious. He thinks I’ll die out here. I think he is right. I’m surprised it’s taking so long. They say that those who know death is coming always see it. I have seen it all, Vivian. French women rearing babies brought on them by violence. Roofless farms and houses, fallen churches. My soul has shivered, then frozen. Will anyone ever remember that once this country was one of beauty, the cornfields bronze, the poppies scarlet and bonny, the little white churches framed by orchards, trees heavy with fruit? It was once that way. Will it be again, do you think? I hope you do. I hope it will.

17th January 1918

My boots leak.

8th June 1917

I still see no difference between them and us. The boys in grey look startlingly similar to those in khaki. We all hate each other now. That’s new. I do hate now. I just want it over, and if I have to kill and kill and kill and kill to end it, then I shall. I wonder, would you admire me more or less now, if you knew, if I could get these letters to you? You always thought war was the answer. When my finger is on the trigger and I’m waiting for the command, steady, steady, I have the time to marvel that that same finger has ever touched you. Been inside you. It’s a queer thing if you think about it.

15th December 1917

I killed a Yorkshire lad today. He begged me to. He was very badly injured. I was doing him a favour.