Our men in the salient are quiet today–too quiet. In fact, Edward Brittain has also been in the thick of it for ten full days. But he hasn’t told his sister Vera, who has been engaging in a sort of magical-thinking silent treatment.
Four days later, I learnt that his company had left the front line on September 24th, after being in the “show” without a break since the 14th. “We came out last night,” he told me, “though perhaps ‘came out’ scarcely expresses it; had about 50 casualties, including 1 officer in the company — the best officer of course. I ought to have been slain myself heaps of times but I seem to be here still.”
It was during this offensive that he came to be known as “the immaculate man of the trenches.” In addition to his
daily shave, he wrote most considerately whenever he could to let me know that he was still “quite alright.”
…This was war in real earnest, yet to my tense anxiety he did seem to bear the proverbial charmed life. So long as he remained, even though the others were dead, hope remained, and there was something to live for; without him — well, I didn’t know, and blankly refused to think… his activities so distressed me that I seldom wrote to him at all, superstitiously believing that if I did he would certainly be dead before the letter arrived. With his usual tolerance he only protested very mildly about this unexpected treatment.
“quite understand why you didn’t write during the interval but, if possible, please don’t do so again or else I shan’t tell you when I am about to face anything unpleasant, and then you will not be able to help me face it.”
This is not the first time that Vera Brittain has had to contend with the emotional push and pull of communicating with front-line soldiers. It’s the fourth time, really: Roland, Victor, and Geoffrey all went into danger, and from each, eventually, there was a letter that became a last letter, and a telegram that brought the worst news. But Edward is safe, for now, and he has explained for us the soldier’s side of the story: I need your letters, too; and even if I can’t write often or in depth from the trenches, I still need to be able to signal across the gulf, and know that someone is there, reading and waiting…
Henry Williamson has been convalescing in Cornwall–after illness and a touch of gas–for several happy months. At a medical board, today, a century back, he learned that this pleasant interval will end–but gently. Wililamson was declared fit for “light duty,” and given leave…