August 10th, 1915

My darling Es,

Ten days since I left and I feel I have been gone an age. Oxford might have been somewhere I visited once, and you a dream. But then I opened my Rupert Brooke, and your slip fell out. The words, your handwriting, the familiar texture of the paper—they will be my daily reminder that you are real.

I have decided to keep Brooke in my pocket at all times. If I am wounded and must wait for a stretcher, I want to have something to read and your words to calm me. But there is no chance of that for a while. We are stationed at Hébuterne, a small farming village not far from Arras. We’ve been told there is time to settle in, and our days are filled with drills, and loafing. Some of the lads have mistaken the whole adventure for a holiday, having never actually had one, and quite a bit of my time is spent apologising to the mothers of pretty girls. My French is improving.

An Indian bicycle troop is stationed nearby. Have you ever met an Indian? I hadn’t. They ride around the village in pairs and are quite a magnificent sight with their turbans and their elaborate moustaches. At least, the older men have moustaches: as with the English, there are plenty of Indian boys who join before they are old enough to have facial hair. I’ve been told they take them as young as ten, but I’ve not seen any quite so young. They would be kept well back, one would hope.

Last night, in a gesture of camaraderie, we invited the Indian officers to share our evening meal. They barely touched the food, and drank very little, but it was a late night with a lot of laughter. I was one of the greenest officers there, and it turns out I had a lot to learn. There is a whole vocabulary here that I’ve been unaware of, Es. Most of it applies to the trenches in one way or another, and there are plenty of words that would sit well against some of Mabel’s best. But the word I am sending as a gift has been my favourite so far.

I fashioned the slip from instructions for cooking rice. One of the Indian officers had it scrunched up in his pocket and offered it when I was searching around for a scrap of paper. I was thrilled, knowing how much you would appreciate the Hindi script on the back. The officer’s name is Ajit, and he gave me the origin of the word. He also wanted me to tell you that his name means “invincible”—he insisted I write it on the slip. When I told him I had no idea what my name meant, he gave a wobble of his head and said, “That is not good. A man’s name is his destiny.” By that logic, he is well-suited to war.

At the moment, life is pretty cushy (see how quickly I’ve absorbed the new vernacular), but I long to hear from you, Es. I’ve been told that we will start receiving post tomorrow, the War Office having finally registered our whereabouts. I look forward to an account of your days, and any news from the Press or Scriptorium, and Bertie, of course. Don’t be afraid to include the boring detail: I will delight in it. Please give my regards to Lizzie and visit Mr. Hart for me. I will write to him separately, but I fear his depression will not end until this war does. Your company will cheer him.

Eternal Love,

Gareth

CUSHY

From the Hindi word “khush,” meaning “pleasure” (Ajit “invincible” Khatri).

“Don’t get used to your cushy quarters, Lieutenant; you’ll soon be in the trenches and up to your arse in mud.”

Lt. Gerald Ainsworth, 1915