The end of war.

 The end of war.

By Christopher Mathews

(A love letter from Flanders)

My dearest, darling Florence,

It’s been so long I can hardly remember the shape of your face, the outline of your nose, or how your eyes twinkle when you smile at me, or the warmth of your skin in the sun, or the smell of oranges after you had been working in your father’s fruit stall all day.

The captain says, I’m not allowed to tell you where I am, somewhere in France in a trench, it’s a sort of ugly scar in the earth we all hide in. Do you know I haven’t seen or heard a bird singing since we got here.

The morning mist with the smoke from the guns hangs thick in the ground. We all live in terror of the Gas Rattles sounding, and Captain shouting Gas, gas, gas. Followed by “Mask up, lads”, and we all scramble for our masks before the green miasma comes.

Oh, for just a glimpse of your smile, to see you again. Sometimes I can’t remember what you look like. Do you remember that moment when your barely coloured hair flowed like ribbons in the summer breeze as I pushed you on a swing in the playground. Or the time when I gave you a ride home on the crossbar of my bike, your father was standing at the door looking cross. And you, trying to hide the oil stains on your dress from my bike chain. And he, with pocket watch in hand, tutting at the lateness of the hour. You were too afraid to kiss me good night in front of him, do you remember?

Where do all the rats come from. They seem to be everywhere and so big too. I swear, some are as big as the pigs on Mr Gregory’s farm. What do they live on? There’s hardly enough in our rations for me and the lads.

After it’s been raining, we’re wading through mud. How come the rats can get so big when there’s nothing to eat but mud?

My mate Frank says, they have found another food supply, out there, in the dark, among the bomb craters and Barbwire. But there’s nothing out there, so how did the rats get so big? Frank says they found a plentiful supply of meat. I don’t like to think of that.

Do you remember that day when we went tobogganing down Shooters Hill, we laughed. We couldn’t feel our fingers or toes, and your friend Betty cried all the way home on the bus. My dad made that sledge from an old bed frame and scraps of wood. I expect it’s gone now.

Lieutenant Gregory says we should sleep sitting upright, with our hands tucked inside our trench coat pockets, otherwise the rats nibble your fingers or ears.

Rob and his brother Wil, didn’t come back after the last push. I wonder if they’re lying there, asleep out in the mud and cold. He still has my tobacco tin. I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.

Oh Flo, I long for the day when we will be wed, and this nightmare will come to an end. We felt so brave me, Charly, Frank, Rob and his little brother Wil, when we set off. He wasn’t even old enough to join up. Do you remember all the girls came to wave us off on the train? But I only saw you my dearest Flo.

Over here, It’s nothing like the posters or the rousing songs back in the pub. Can’t say too much ‘cos they will only blot it out. Something to do with moral back home.

Will you come rowing on the serpentine with me again, bringing a bottle of ginger bear and a basket full of sandwiches. Your mum makes nice sandwiches, and my mum’s fruit cake too?

We just have spam here, it’s not too bad, you get to like it after a bit.

Do you remember auntie Charlotte giggling like a girl when she saw us kissing in your mum’s pantry last Christmas. You went so red in the face.

The captain says, it will soon be over boys, so hold fast. One last push men! But that was Christmas 1915, it’s now February.  

We could hear the Germans singing carols, not one hundred yards away. We joined in too. Who would have thought it, maybe they're not so different from us after all.

I still remember your sweet voice, the first time I heard you sing in church; it was like an Angel singing.

The first day it snowed it was so white it seemed to wash away the war with all his ugly scars. It’s like God wanted to blot out the shame of it all. But it’s all grubby now, trampled under jack boots.

The chaplain says that God is on our side. I don't think he takes sides, do you?

Captain Gregory does his best to reassure us all. He often walks along the trench just to cheer us up, you know, to check moral and bolster our spirits. He gave me a Cigarette once, when I’d run out. Yesterday he laid his hand on my shoulder,

“Take courage lads,” he said but I could feel him trembling. He’s not much older than us.

I can still remember the first time you touched my arm, that made me tremble too, goosebumps all over, like electricity. Funny thing how both love and fear can make a man tremble.

I should really love a July wedding, shouldn’t you? We’ll have ginger beer and your mum‘s best cakes. I still keep the lucky rabbits foot you gave me when we parted, it’s the most precious thing I have, apart from your letters and my Bible.

Frank says, I’m stupid for trusting in such nonsense. He was shot the other day in the arm, they patched him up as best they could, but everything rots down here, I fear he may lose it to gangrene. He says it’s his lucky ticket home. I wish I had a ticket home.

I think I will ask my brother Donald to be best man, what do you think? You could ask your sister to be bridesmaid. I’m sending you ten Bob so you could start saving for our honeymoon. Southend, on the seafront, riding the dodgers or the helter-skelter, holding a big mop of candyfloss, glorious! And dancing too, at the Kursaal! I’m not very good at dancing. I know, you could teach me. Or if we can afford it the Isle of Wight; No, don’t be silly we’re not millionaires are we.

The Big Bertha’s have started pounding again, so I’ll have to sign off.

Did your big sister have her baby yet? I hope it grows up with a dad. Every kid should have a dad.

Do right soon, I store up your letters and keep them in my Bible close to my heart.

I can’t sleep when the bombs are going off the ground shakes. I wonder if my mates can see the fear in my eyes, I can see it in theirs. I think Norman has gone mad ‘shell shock’ they calls it. He wet himself on the first night of bombing, we found him huddled in a corner crying for his mother. Lack of moral fibre, They calls it, but I say, scared witless, like the rest of us.

“Our father who are in heaven… deliver us from this evil”. I never thought about that prayer much before now, but we all pray, every night, even Micki who always said he didn’t believe in God. There are no atheists in the trenches.

Remember me in your prayers Flo, as I remember you.

The captain has called orders down the line, so it’s tin hats on and rifles at the ready. When the whistle blows will be up the ladder and over the top.

Think of me sometimes, if I don’t come back.

All my love, Jack

Copyright Christopher Mathews