by John R McKay
However, I don’t want to alarm you but a few days ago I am sure I spied Alexander. He was with a group of officers on horseback as we marched by. I turned my head as we passed and I think that he did not see me, thankfully. I have kept myself very discreet since and am always on the lookout for him, in case he reappears. There are so many of us here that it is unlikely that our paths will cross again. Anyway it has been a few years since I last saw him, on that night, remember (how could you forget), and we have all probably changed a lot since then, so there is really no need to worry. I just wanted to make you aware. No secrets. Remember our promise to each other.
I go into battle tomorrow morning, I am not allowed to say where I am, just that there are many of us here and this looks like the big one. It may be the start of the end and then we can all finally come home.
If I am not to return, please do not weep for me or mourn me. Look after our boy and tell him every day how much his father loved him and would have loved to have spent time with him. That goes for you too. Remember that I will always love you, I always have, from the very first moment I saw you I knew that you were the only one for me. It doesn’t matter about what is perceived to be right, what social class we are considered to belong. All that matters is love. And we have both been lucky in being able to say we have experienced it in its truest sense.
I do not regret a single action we took. Not one. They can keep it all. Alexander can have it. I have no interest in any of it. All I am interested in is you and our boy and keeping you safe.
One day we will be together again, my love, I feel it. And that day will be soon.
Your loving husband
John
#
Telegram:
War Office
23rd April 1917
Regret to inform you that Private 273411 John Cooke of the 12th Fusiliers, died of wounds in battle on the 9th April 1917. Field Marshal Haig expresses his sympathy.
From Secretary, War Office
#
St Marys Hospital, London
3rd September 1917
Dear Mrs Cooke
Firstly may I apologise for not writing to you sooner. My only excuse is that I have been holed up in hospital for a number of months and am only now able to put pen to paper to contact the relatives of all those under my command who have sadly lost their lives in the enterprise across the Channel.
May I say that I am sure their and your husband’s sacrifice will not have been in vain and they died for a cause that was good and true, to free the world of tyranny and allow the rest of us who come through this to live in peace for the future.
I received a parcel recently containing Private Cooke’s effects. I intended to send it on once my part in the battle was over, but that came a bit too soon for me as I received wounds that left me unable to do anything until now. It was only as I lay in my hospital bed recently that I finally took receipt of it.
I am unaware of what you have been told regarding the nature of the death of your husband. All I can say is that he died a hero, and in the company of his friends. Take comfort in the fact that he did not die alone and the end was swift when it came. He was a well-liked member of his platoon and a credit to the Fusiliers. It was an honour serving with him and being his commanding officer.
I notice that your address is not too far from where I am currently resting. I am due to be discharged from the hospital next week and will be taking some convalescing leave. I will probably be discharged from service following that. If I may, would it be to your liking and convenience if we could meet so that I could pass on his things to you in person? Maybe a café somewhere local to you? I know it is not normal for this to happen but it may put your mind at rest if you see me in person and may help you to come to terms with your loss. If this is inconvenient, or I do not hear from you by the time I am to leave, I will forward the parcel on to you at the address I have been given.
May I wish you all the best for the future.
James Grayson (Capt.)
12th Fusiliers
#
Grayson sat alone at the table, a pot of tea and two cups in front of him. He had picked a position close to the window, facing the doorway, so he would see Georgina Cooke as she arrived. The café was quite busy for mid-afternoon and there were hardly any free tables left available. Many people in military uniform, more than likely on leave, he presumed, had come into the establishment with their wives and sweethearts. Grayson had decided not to wear his, as he had received notification from the War Office that he was to be discharged in three months time, following a short period of convalescing leave, and felt that if he was to become a civilian again then he may as well start looking like one now.
He was grateful that he would soon be out of the army but felt guilty that he would no longer be able to watch out for his men. However, he realised that he was in no physical condition to ever soldier effectively again. The wounds he had received during the attack on the Chemical Works had left him with a permanent limp and a right arm that was now practically useless. He had had to learn to write and do most things with his left hand and was still finding it difficult to accustom himself to these changes.
He had received a letter the previous week from Georgina Cooke in response to the one he had sent her from the hospital. Under the table, between his feet, was the small box containing Cooke’s things that he now intended to hand over to her. He was aware of her appearance, from the photograph he had taken from the box and which was now in the inside pocket of his jacket. The picture showed her with a very young baby on her lap and as soon as he had seen it he had felt an immediate attraction. Although he had never met her before, the picture seemed to speak to him, to tell him that there could be happiness in this world for him and gave him back a little of the hope that he had lost in the trenches. Maybe it was just a dream, he thought, a way of taking his mind away from all that he had seen and experienced over the past few years, but he was captivated by her image nevertheless. He had decided that he had to meet her, to see her in person, and was pleasantly surprised that she had responded in the positive to the suggested rendezvous to collect the box containing her husband’s effects. He had realised many times that this was not the correct way to behave, especially for an officer, but he was not sure that he cared anymore. All the time that he had spent lying in the hospitals and clearing stations, in France and then England, he had thought about how his life had changed and been damaged irreparably. His wife, Josephine, had wanted to visit him but he had stopped it. He was not the same person anymore. He was not the same man she had fallen in love with and married and that was a fact that affected the both of them. That man died on the battlefields of France. His injuries, he realised, were not only physical and she was better off without him.
If Georgina Cooke wanted answers as to the nature of how her husband had died and the rather strange events that had taken place then he would give them to her. What he knew anyway. The report he had written had never been forwarded and Cooke’s remains had, as far as he knew, been placed in a grave with other soldiers, as though he had died of wounds during the battle. It is what he had ordered and he had no reason to believe that the order had not been carried out. Maybe letting her believe this lie was for the best, to leave it at that, but something about the whole episode niggled at him. Something was not quite right. Lieutenant Jones, the poor sod, had told him of suspicions around the death but Grayson had written them off because, frankly, he had been too busy and too pre-occupied to be bothered to listen to him. He had been too distracted to properly deal with it. Had the company not been going into battle the next day then he would have dealt with it a lot differently, he was sure of that. It had just been inconvenient for this man to die at the time and in the way that he had.
He looked up as the door to the café opened and saw that it was not her but a young couple entering the establishment for afternoon refreshment. A sergeant of no more than twenty one years old accompanied by a young girl o
f around eighteen, laughing at something he had said prior to opening the door. She stopped the merriment suddenly on noticing Grayson observing her and she turned her head away abruptly and walked to one of the free tables in the far corner, followed by the soldier who nodded his head toward Grayson as if in apology.
Grayson realised that he would have to get used to this kind of reaction. He had once, and not that long ago, been quite handsome, but now he was but a shadow of his former self. A black patch covered the hole where his left eye used to be and scarring filled the rest of his face where shrapnel had taken away some of the flesh. His withered arm and the loss of the knee cap on his left leg added to the overall picture of freakishness to which he now saw himself. The loss of an eye and the full use of an arm and a leg were countered by the gaining of one thing. Oh yes, he thought glumly, there was one thing that he had gained from all of this. Self-loathing.
Outside in the street, trams passed by taking normal people about their business and occasionally the odd car would drive along. People walked from here to there, going about their daily routines oblivious to the hell raging just a few short miles away across the English Channel. He could not get used to the triviality of it all. How something so bad could be happening so near and not one person over here in England, it seemed to him, was being affected by it on a daily level. But then what did he know?
A young woman approached the café pushing an old looking perambulator. She stopped on the other side of the window and applied the brake. Leaning into the pram she took out a baby wrapped in a white blanket. Balancing the child on her hip she approached the door and he could see that it was her. Grayson recognised her instantly from the photograph and was at once regretting taking the picture from the box. Now that he could see her in the flesh he suddenly felt overwhelmed with guilt regarding all the fantasies he had been having about her. She was a real person, not some image he had drawn up in his own mind, and a person who had recently lost the love of her life. Why had he been so selfish? He should have just forwarded the box on, he realised now, like he would have done for anyone else.
As she struggled with the door a young man about to leave the café held it open for her. This gave Grayson time to take the photograph from his pocket, bend down and slip it back through a gap in the side of the box. It did not belong to him.
She thanked the man for his assistance and walked in, looking around the room for Grayson. She obviously had no idea what he looked like and so he stood up and indicated to her. Seeing him she walked over and Grayson was aware that she did not recoil or change her expression on seeing him, like the way the young woman who now sitting in the corner with her sergeant had done, and for this he was grateful.
Grayson held out his left hand and she took it in her left, her right arm occupied with the young baby who was fast asleep, his head resting on her shoulder.
‘Captain Grayson?’ she enquired.
She was beautiful, he thought. She was everything he thought she would be, exactly like the image on the photograph. She wore modest clothes but her face was faultless. Hers was the face of a princess, a goddess even, and he could see immediately why Cooke had fallen in love with and married her. Her dark hair and pale complexion enhanced her darker eyes giving her an air of mysteriousness. He was hit with the realisation that those dreams he had been having could never become reality. This was the real world. She was too innocent and he wanted her to remain that way. Innocence and beauty were things to behold now, not to be destroyed or to be taken to appease his own desires. He felt guilty at this selfishness and reproached himself. He may not be the man he once was, but he had certainly not thought of himself as a selfish man either.
‘Yes,’ he replied. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs Cooke.’
He moved around the table to assist her into the chair but on seeing him struggle she said ‘It’s OK, I’m fine.’
Grayson was aware of people staring at them and it made him feel slightly uneasy. After all, they looked an unlikely couple.
Once seated, he called to a waitress who came over and stood before them, a pencil and notepad in her hand.
‘Can we have a fresh pot of tea please?’ Looking across the table to Georgina he said, ‘Have you eaten?’
‘I’m fine,’ she replied. ‘Tea is fine.’
He looked up to the waitress and said, ‘Just the tea then, please,’ and she moved away.
‘I’m so glad you were able to make it,’ he said. ‘I thought that as you lived so close to where I’ve been staying that it would be nice to give you Private Cooke’s things in person.’
‘John,’ she said hesitantly. ‘His name was John.’
‘Sorry,’ replied Grayson, ‘Yes John. It’s hard to get used to this. I’m so used to referring to my men by their surnames. I suppose it’s easier really. Not to get too personal, too attached you know.’
‘How well did you know him?’
‘I tried to know all my men as best I could. It was difficult because there were so many replacements for those who were wounded….Or killed.’
‘So not really that well then, is that right?’
‘I suppose you could say that yes,’ responded Grayson somewhat awkwardly. ‘His platoon commander, Lieutenant Jones, I knew well. He was killed the same day as John unfortunately.’
The baby on Georgina’s knee began to stir. ‘How are things with you, now that John isn’t here?’ asked Grayson, changing the subject. ‘If you don’t mind me asking?’
‘No it’s fine,’ replied Georgina with a sigh. ‘Not good, to be honest. You see I have no real family and John had a big fall out with his. There’s been no contact with them for a number of years.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ replied Grayson sympathetically. ‘So how are you getting by financially? Are you coping?’
‘I have a job at the munitions factory and Mrs Allsop, who lives next door, looks after Gregory when I have to work,’ she replied. ‘I get by.’
He looked up as the waitress returned with a tray of tea. She placed it on the table and took away the one Grayson had been consuming whilst he had been waiting for Georgina. Once she had left, Georgina said: ‘I see from your ring that you are married, Mister Grayson.’
Grayson looked at his hand and nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said with a sigh and he was suddenly overcome with a feeling of deep sadness.
Noticing the change in his mood, Georgina said, ‘I’m sorry to pry, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘Not at all,’ said Grayson looking at her, his hand resting on the cup in front of him. ‘It’s just that I haven’t seen her for quite some time.’
‘Has she not been able to visit you?’
‘I didn’t want her to,’ replied Grayson. ‘I stopped her from coming.’
‘Why was that? I hope I’m not speaking out of turn……Sorry.’
‘You’re not….Not really anyway,’ he paused again. ‘Look at me,’ he said suddenly. ‘What do I look like? My face is destroyed, I can’t walk properly and my arm is a mess. Why would she want to be with me now?’
He closed his eyes. He remembered the vow he had made to himself in France and forced himself take control of his emotions.
Once composed he said: ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Cooke. I didn’t mean to get so self-pitying.’
‘You have been through a lot,’ she said sympathetically. ‘So much that I could never understand. Nobody can if they haven’t been there, I suppose.’
‘That’s very true.’
They sat in silence for a while, each lost in their own thoughts. However, it was not an awkward silence, both respecting each other’s personal privacy for a few moments.
Grayson looked at her and caught her eye. Then he made a decision.
‘Look Mrs Cooke,’ he said. ‘There’s something that I need to tell you. Something that has been niggling at me for a while that I think you should know. That you have a right to know.’
She leaned forward, ‘Go on.’
�
�The way John died.’ He paused. He ran his good hand down his face as he again contemplated whether to tell her or not, whether this was a good idea. But he knew that it was probably the right thing to do, the truth was always best out in the open. Surely it was not right that she should be continued to be lied to. Not to know that truth. She looked at him expectantly.
‘Private Cooke…John,’ he said quietly, ‘died the night before the battle and not during it. He took no part in the fighting.’
A look of horror and surprise covered her face. ‘What on earth do you mean?’ she responded. ‘The War Office….and your letter….said he died in battle. Died from wounds are the words they said. I know because I’ve read them over and over again. Why would you and they lie to me?’
‘We decided it may be easier that way,’ said Grayson, almost whispering. ‘For you that is. To think that he died a hero’s death we thought would be easier for you to bear.’
‘So why are you telling me this now?’ she asked, aghast. ‘If you thought it would be better for me to think he died like the others. What happened to him?’
‘I’m telling you now because I don’t think it’s morally right for you not to know the truth. It’s not my right to lie to you.’
‘So what happened?’ she repeated, more insistently.
The baby began to cry, sensing the tension in his mother’s demeanour. She rocked him gently and made soothing sounds to comfort him. Eventually he settled and she looked at Grayson expectantly.
Grayson could sense that the conversation was in danger of getting out of control. He could not let that happen. Others in the room looked over, detecting a change in the ambience of the strange couple who sat by the window.
‘I do not want to alarm you, Mrs Cooke,’ he said gently. ‘It happened in the evening the day before we had to go into that battle. We were due to go over the top at five thirty in the morning. You see we were billeted in these strange caves underground for about four or five days before the attack was due to start and it happened down there. I was told by John’s platoon commander, Lieutenant Jones, that he had passed away suddenly.’