The Libyan Letters

II

'Are you quite alright, Captain?', asked Alison.
The two of them were alone in the drawing room (well, alone except for the fact that Kitty was listening attentively outside the door, a ghostly ear occasionally intruding into the room). Alison sat at her desk with the letter in her hands. The Captain stood with his back to her staring out of the window across the windswept grounds. A fine, persistent rain blew in grey drifts across the autumn landscape. His swagger stick was clenched firmly in both hands at the small of his back. The face he presented to the rainswept window was a mask of stoical reserve.
'Perfectly alright thank you Alison. Anxious to hear what my old second-in-command has to say... had to say, that is. He pootled off to North Africa in early '41 to have a crack at Jerry and the Eye-ties. Damn sorry I couldn't go with him. Ministry wouldn't hear of it you see. Had a touch of pneumonia as a boy so the medicoes insisted I was only fit for service on the home front. Damnable pen-pushers!'
'I see...', Alison said gently. She could tell the Captain had been deeply moved by this wholly unexpected letter from a long-lost – and presumably long-dead – friend, and she didn't want to see the Captain hurt. He could be a little ridiculous at times, and some of his more old-fashioned ideals didn't sit well with her own, more tolerant 21st-century take on the world, but there was a decency and fortitude about him, alongside a certain boyish enthusiasm that it was hard not to like. She thought of him as a sort of kindly but slightly misguided great-uncle.
'Did you hear anything more from him – or about him – after he left Button House, until this letter I mean?' Alison asked.
'Not a dicky bird, no. Rather disappointing as it goes. Quite attached to the chap ... I mean in a strictly professional, fellow officer, esprit de corps, sort of way', he added hurriedly.
'Shall... should I... read it, then?' Alison asked hesitantly.
'Carry on' replied the Captain, rather formally.
'Dear Captain Fotheringhay', she began.
'Forgive me for not writing sooner, we have hardly had a free moment since the regiment arrived in Egypt. Finally, though, we have reached a town in Libya by the name of Marsa Brega. We officers are billeted in a tumbledown old wayside hostelry, two to a room. We are making the best of it and have made a fine start on fortifying our sector of the line.'
'Quite right', interjected the Captain, 'wire entanglements, mixed-munition minefields and concealed anti-tank positions, that's the way to do it. Draw the Hun into the killing-zone, let him advance past your forward elements then pick off his tanks and take him in the rear', he said with considerable enthusiasm.
'Yes, I'm sure', said Alison.
'Continue', said the Captain with a motion of his swagger stick. He was beaming from ear to ear.
Alison read on: 'The officer I bunk with, Redmond, is a younger fellow, a fine, striking-looking chap, always full of bonhomie, slapping me on the back, resting his arm on my shoulder when we look at the terrain maps, full of mischief and good humour. A "man's man", if you follow me sir. We swim together at the oasis just before dawn each day. Nothing like a skinny dip to perk one up in the morning, sir, before a hard day toiling in the sun.'
Alison glanced up at the Captain, he seemed to have stiffened suddenly. 'Hmm-uh-hmm', the Captain cleared his throat and shuffled uneasily for a moment.
Alison paused, not sure whether to read on, feeling awkwardly like someone forced into overhearing a private conversation they have no desire to intrude upon. The Captain, however, seemed to master himself and he motioned again with his stick, indicating that he wished her to continue.
'The thing is, sir,' she read on, 'I find myself feeling something towards Redmond that is more than, well, brotherly. I don't know anyone, least of all Redmond, that I can speak to about these unaccountable feelings. So, I decided to write to you, sir, knowing that you have always been a man not only of great honour and decency but also of discretion and above all of insurmountable kindness. Can it be wrong, Captain Fotheringhay, that I should feel such powerful feelings of admiration towards another man, a fellow soldier and a brother officer? I realise that such feelings are overwhelmingly unacceptable, not only within the Army but within society at large, and yet they are there – and I sense not only on my side but reciprocated by Redmond, too. The old world is going up in smoke about us, the war has thrown everything into turmoil. Perhaps then, in this time of hate, we cannot reject love as wrong. How could it ever be?
You may of course choose to burn this letter or cast it away, never to be seen again. But if you would do me the great kindness, of sharing your wise counsel with me, I should be eternally grateful for your advice.
Your servant and your friend
Lieutenant William Havers'