by JT Lawrence
Love you
Frederick
2nd June 1917
My love—
You'd be impressed by my new skills here. I'm not referring to stripping down a Vickers machine gun or driving tanks—although I'd like to show you that, too—but I have learnt to cook, and clean, and sew buttons. Everything my mother used to do for me. The boys here say that the war has taught them how to be "men" and I'm sure a particular part of that is inevitable, although I think their definition of "men" may be slightly different to mine and yours. These men just do what they are told; they are not taught to think for themselves. If you were to think for yourself in a war like this … well, perhaps there wouldn't even be a war at all. But as it stands, I think you wouldn't be able to pick me out from a line-up. We're all identical here, same uniforms, same horse-clipper shaven heads. Thinking for yourself is not encouraged.
I think back now to the days we were in training. Do you remember how I complained about the early wake-ups, and PT, and only one rasher of Lance Corporal Bacon on our breakfast bread? I lamented the fact there was only plum and apple jam — what a boy I was; nothing but a child. I wasn't able to darn my clothes then. I was horrified by having to piss in my army boots to soften them up. But now I know what real horror is; it's when you feel good about taking another man's life. They say that war makes a man out of a boy, but I think the opposite. The shameful truth is that I feel like a scared little boy when I run and stab someone with my bayonet. Perhaps I am just weak and not meant for war.
I’ll sign off before I make you feel maudlin.
I do love you.
Fred
15th August 1917
My love—
You may hear stories of soldiers being brave and happy, see pictures of them waving at the camera and sipping from their steaming tin mess cups. But mostly we are overwrought and ill, and I fear this war is damaging me in every way.
I am not writing this to worry you. You are the only one I can tell, and I am desperate to feel close to you.
All my love,
Frederick
21st September 1917
My love—
Do not waste your energy worrying about me. I will fight my way through this for you and because of you. We will have our perfect moments on the porch. We will have our babies and be glad they are safe from the danger that lurks in our enemies.
There is shellfire all day long, which burrows into one's mind and heart. It is not an easy way to live. At first, I tried to imagine it was birdsong, but it was easier, in the end, to accept it for what it was: a constant barrage of projectiles meant to kill us.
The French trenches are like a maze, and it's easy to get lost. We sleep on sandbags and wear dead men's coats on cold nights. Our world is divided by no-man's-land beyond which the Gerries camp. They are like bogeymen because you know if they see you they will kill you. When you look through the periscope, all you see are hundreds of shell holes, our barbed wire, and the German barbed wire. Dead bodies hang on the wire until they're rotten enough to slip off. It's one of the most desolate things I've seen. It's eerie because you never see a sign of life, but you know there are hundreds of men there, within shooting range, ready to put a bullet in you.
There are signs all over the trenches: Piccadilly Circus and Regent Street and that sort of thing, showing you where water was available and where the dangerous parts are—where the German snipers can get you. A bullet can get through a sandbag, so even when you're crouching down in the mud, there's still a chance of getting hit. We spend four days in the line, and then we swap. "Give our love to Gerry," the men joke as they see you off.
It’s difficult to sleep and difficult to stay awake. I dug a side in the trench I was guarding last time, and that worked well to keep out of the water. Tea helps you stay awake. The first thing you do when you get to the line is to make a cuppa. The Vickers is a water-cooled gun, so if you fire a few shots, the water boils. Then you disconnect the tube and brew a cup of tea.
We keep our water in petrol cans. Unfortunately, you can taste it in the brew.
If you make a fire to boil water, you use the smallest pieces of wood you can find, even if you're freezing. If the Gerries see smoke, they'll know where to toss their hand grenade. Once you've had your tea, you save a sip to shave with. We go for weeks without washing, and some men are chatty with lice. I run my clothes over a flame, and I can hear their eggs popping. I'm sure you must find that disgusting, but it's quite satisfying, really. I'm always happy to get rid of the buggers; they itch like hell.
We eat tinned stew and bully beef. We eat bread. There never seems to be enough food for us all, but no one complains.
The worst thing about trench duty is hearing the continuous shelling. It sets my heart thundering. It’s nerve-wracking and never stops. I think I will hear the whizzing and explosions in my dreams for years to come.
Tell me if this is too much for you, my darling. I don't want to give you nightmares, but it is a relief to tell you what happens here.
I love you.
Fred
11th November 1917
My love—
I will tell you about our future. At first, I thought I'd return home tanned, strong, unhurt, and ready to sweep you into my arms. Now, less naïve, I dream of you tending to me and cooking for me until I am strong enough to start our new life together, and then it will be my turn to tend to you, and tend to you I will. I shall wash your hair as I did during our short engagement; I shall mend your clothes; I shall cook for you. I will never take you for granted.
Frederick
2nd December 1917
My love—
I can picture us under our apple trees, and I shall weave a crown for you made of wildflowers. I don't think you can imagine how very much I love you. How wonderful it is to think of sunshine when here it is so wet and cold. When our boots fill with water it freezes and then you can't get them off. The frostbite is unbearable. The water first covered our boots, then our belts, now it is up to our chests. We try not to complain because even frozen feet are better than trench foot. If you get gangrene, you're simply sent down the line to get your legs hacked off. Sorry, there's no prettier way to say it.
They say here that a man's rifle is his best friend. Mine is a Lee-Enfield, an excellent rifle indeed, a sturdy one. In the beginning, we had to keep our buttons polished and complained we were given nothing to clean them with (we used our toothbrushes). No one shines buttons anymore. We're a rag-tag army now, isolated and despairing that this hell will never end.
I saw a boy die yesterday. He slipped into the sucking slime—that's what we call the sour mud here that's full of decaying bodies and rats—and he just got pulled under. There was nothing we could do to help him, and it was horrifying to watch. Another nightmare to add to my collection, like jam jars on a shelf.
3rd February 1918
My love—
I hope you are getting my letters. I admit it is a difficult thing for me when I don’t receive a reply from you. I lie awake worrying for your life and your affections.
They give us a rum ration every morning in an 18-pounder shell cap protector. It's the size of an egg cup. We get forty cigarettes every fortnight; I swap my woodbines for food. I am eternally hungry. Smoking is soothing, but my body craves food. We drink cold peppery pea soup from cans and eat biscuits furred over with green mould. They don't taste too bad.
Love
Frederick
27th August 1918
My love—
I have been ordered to the front line and told in no uncertain terms that we will not be returning home. My feelings are mixed up. I am as scared as all hell of dying—of course I am—scared to become these swollen bodies that boil in swamps around us here, tainting everything, even our petrol tea. I'm fit and young. I'm healthy despite the conditions here. I don't want to die.
There are other feelings, too. I feel bitter about being cheated out of the life we were going to have togeth
er. But there is also sweetness—I think of that sunshine porch and the dappled shade of the French apple trees. I think of resting my head in your lap and twining our fingers together as you look down on me, your hair a halo around your face. This is the picture I'll have in my mind when I go down; my last thoughts will be warm and wonderful because they will be of you. How I wish for one last moment with you.
As I sit here on the fire step, I will bid you farewell, hoping to meet you in the time to come if there is a hereafter. Know that my last affectionate thoughts were of you. You have been the best of wives, and I love you deeply. The only one I ever loved. The one who made a man of me. Know that my last thoughts were of you.
Sincerely
Frederick
11th November 1918
My love—
There was a huge poster. “All hostilities will cease on the Western Front at 11 o’clock on the 11th of November 1918.” We said to each other—what day is it? And someone discovered it was November the 11th! We got shined up, all ship-shape and Bristol fashion. There weren’t any cheers or celebrations as the clock reached 11. The noise of gunfire just faded, like thunder. It was so quiet, all I heard were my ears ringing. We were so dazed that we could stand up straight, in the sunshine, and no one would shoot at us.
I hope you don't find me too changed, for I only love you more.
Frederick
13th November 1918
My love—
We are marching out of France, and I'll be home by Tuesday. I have decided to bury all these letters I never posted, along with the apple seeds, on my way. My hope is that the seeds will grow into beautiful trees and provide shelter and sustenance for someone who needs it. I hope they will touch someone one day, the way you touched me. Your memory kept me alive during the most brutal of times. There is a tragedy in that you shall never grow old, but perhaps an orchard will grow, after all.
I love you with my whole being, and more.
Eternally yours
Frederick
12
Honeytrap
I was tidying our home office, humming the soundtrack of the new peculiar and confusing game show I had been watching that morning on my phone while I waited for my soba to cook. I was singing—tunelessly—and dancing a bit. What can I say? Even tidying can be fun if you're in a good mood. I like to use the magic feather duster I ordered online. It was from one of those companies that sell everything from tattoo guns to bizarre satin banana-themed underwear—and it only cost two hundred yen—so my expectations were low. But it's great! It's the best duster I have ever used! It is coloured like a rainbow, and it shimmies when you clean. If you get out of bed on the wrong side, it will definitely cheer you up. And not only does it look very neat, but it works really well, too. It traps the dust like no one's business. You must see the dust that comes out of this thing when I shake it out after a day of cleaning! It's like a dust storm has arrived in Tokyo. I tell everyone about it; I love it. I hope the company still manufactures the product. I should check. Maybe they make different colours and shapes. Possibly there will be a unicorn one. Unicorns are so popular right now; I see them on the streets. Stickers, toys, balloons, cakes. Unicorns everywhere. Who would have guessed? It's a wonder anyone in Tokyo is depressed when you see unicorns and glitter everywhere you look.
So I was dusting and shimmying, and I found a box of old gadgets at the top of the long cupboard. My wife, Amaya, is taller than me, so it would have been easy for her to reach, but I had to stand on my office chair to get to it. Now, standing on a chair with wheels isn't the brightest idea, but I was lucky and came away unscathed and with all my vital organs in working order. Not everyone can say that, right? It's another reason to be happy.
The box didn't have too much to cheer about. Some old DVDs, a dust devil, and a flash drive in the shape of a pink and red Hello Kitty®.
"Why, Hello there, Kitty," I said, taking her out of the box. I could tell she hadn't been used very often because the plastic was shiny and the pink lanyard was clean. I was in the middle of cleaning the room, and I didn't want to lose momentum, so I put the drive aside and continued my work. But I hope you won't be disappointed to hear that after a while my curiosity got the better of me. I had never seen this adorable thing before, and I couldn't help wondering where she came from, and what data, if any, she contained in her round belly. I put down the rainbow dust trap, switched on the kettle, and flipped open my laptop. While I mixed some matcha and homegrown honey, I slid Hello Kitty®'s legs into my USB port and waited. The aroma of the tea was delicious, and I couldn't wait to drink it. I was blowing on it too hard, I think, because one moment the tea was in the cup, and the next it was steaming all over my keyboard. I thought I saw a zap of short-circuiting electricity under the keys, and before I even reached for a towel, the laptop had died a short and (hopefully) painless death. That was not ideal, but worse things have happened! Luckily it was not the end of the world. It was an old laptop and needed replacing, anyway. It was good because I'd now be able to get a new computer, which I had wanted for a while. Good things come to those who wait! Even if the drive turned out to be empty, it had brought me luck. I was grateful to hot matcha tea and Hello Kitty®!
I still had no idea if there was anything on the stick, and I really wanted to find out. Something had gotten into me; a fiery energy emerged from my curiosity. I felt like I would do whatever it took to find out what was on it. I decided I'd go immediately to buy my new laptop. Usually, I'd order it online. I enjoy buying things online and then they arrive at your front door like magic. Ding-dong! Your magic is here! But I felt impatient and decided I wanted to go out, anyway. It would be good to get out. I'd buy my new machine and then grab something light for lunch from a street vendor. I like supporting vendors. They stand out there all day cooking for people like me, chopping spring onions and chillies and sweating over boiling noodles. It's not an easy job, and I like to show them my appreciation with a tip. They say no, no, you’re a loyal customer, no need to tip, but I just smile. I always get extra toppings so it’s the least I can do!
The people at the computer shop were accommodating, and I walked out with a new, bigger, better, sleeker laptop. I promised myself there and then as I paid for it I would never drink anything while working on it—not until I was due another upgrade. By then, I was itching to see what was on the Hello Kitty® stick, so I went straight home again to get to know my new machine. By evening, it was all set up. Just then, I heard a rustle at the door, and it opened. I startled, belly burning as if my wife had caught me doing something illicit, and quickly shoved the flash stick into my pocket and plastered a fake smile on my face.
“Amaya-chan!” I said, getting up from perching at the kitchen counter and hugging her.
She smiled and put her handbag down. “Daiki!”
We hugged, and then she washed her hands and began preparing dinner. I offered to chop the onions—Amaya hates chopping onions—and I busied myself with that while struggling to forget about the stick in my pocket. Why had I hidden it from my beloved? I had never kept a secret from her in my life. Something silly in my head was telling me she would be upset if she saw the thing.
“How was tea with Sakura?” I asked.
“Good!” she smiled, tossing the greens into the pan that was spitting with sesame oil. I caught a whiff of sake on her breath, which was unusual. Sakura was Amaya’s best friend from school. They’d often spend time together—they’d visit once a week at the least—and Amaya always seemed to come back in a good mood. Throughout dinner, the disk burned in my pocket.
At midnight I crept out of bed and into the office. Amaya was sleeping soundly, so it was the perfect time to execute my plan. I would check the disk, put it back in the box at the top of the tall cupboard, and then go to sleep and forget about it. That stinging feeling in my stomach was back as if my body knew I had a shameful secret inside, even though I did not. My new laptop started beautifully, and I finally slid the Hello Kitty® into
the port. There was only one folder, called Daiki Tanaka. My name. I clicked it open.
I didn't understand the contents of the file. The sub-folders were called 'Hobbies'; 'Books'; 'Movies'; 'Music', and 'Miscellaneous'. They contained lists of my favourite things. Also, my birthday, star sign, and pictures of me as a child and teen, and even one at graduation. Who would have compiled these lists and collected these photographs? I didn't understand. How did they get the baby pictures? As far as I knew, the only place they existed was in my parents' family album. Hearing a movement from our bedroom, I quickly whipped the drive out and slung it in my drawer, shutting the laptop. When I climbed back into bed, my feet were cold, and I couldn't sleep. Looking at the data had just made me more curious, not less. What on earth was that about?
Usually, when I can't sleep, I count my blessings. It's like counting sheep, but more fun. Amaya was always top of that list. I knew how fortunate I was to have her. When I got to 35 years old, my parents began to nag me to settle down. I didn't even have a girlfriend, and they wanted grandchildren! Amaya appeared as if in a honey-flavoured dream. I was attending a beekeeping workshop, and she happened to sit next to me. I quickly read her name tag and then looked away as not to appear inappropriate. She was so beautiful that I started to sweat. When she smiled at me, I blushed and felt idiotic. I had never been very good with women. Some friends of mine were always talking to girls, but I never knew what to say. Amaya had long, flowing dark hair and a complexion of fresh snow. Her name means "Night Rain". I remember thinking how perfect it was for her. Eventually, I gathered enough courage to greet her. I loosened my collar and cleared my throat.