Sleeper in the Valley

3.

Diary of Nora Vivienne Holland

Today I received the briefest of letters from Tom. This one simply said: Frank died. Grenade. Bled out in my arms. He followed this by damning whoever invented war to hell. Then he apologised. As if this were all his fault!

I don't know who Frank was. He must have been a friend Tom had made since leaving for France. I imagine he's made a few comrades, and lost even more. I cannot imagine how terrifying and awful it is, every day not knowing if you will see the sun set or rise. Wondering if you'll see your family again...

I try and keep my letters upbeat, give him something happy to focus on. I tell him all that Nicky does, but I worry that it only adds to his homesickness. I know he feels guilty that he is missing out on Nicky growing up. Nicky is already so much bigger than when Tom left. I cannot say it to Tom, but I doubt Nicky will even recognise Tom when he returns. If he returns.

No, I shouldn't talk like that. I promised Tom and myself that I would stay strong and positive, that I would carry on life as normal. But it's not normal. It's not normal to feel hollow all the time, catching yourself burning clothes whilst ironing, worrying if your husband is warm enough, if he's getting enough rest, food and water.

Jessica, horrid sow that she is, was telling me over afternoon tea the other day how the men were more likely to perish from infection than gunfire! That their feet become gangrenous from being in the wet and cold environment without enough changes of clothes. I have since knitted Tom five pairs of socks, a cap for his head, fingerless gloves, a vest to wear underneath his uniform and a scarf. I've also packed him some of his favourite biscuits, in the hope that a little bit of home will keep him going.

God, I miss him. I miss waking up in his arms, his hair tousled on the pillow case. I miss his strong hands on me, caressing me, our bodies intertwined in ecstasy...

I'm pregnant. But I cannot tell him. For it will only serve to make him suffer more, for him to pine for home worse than he already is. I know he leaves information out of his letters, but I know he's struggling. He is not meant for war. He is too good, too kind, too generous and empathetic to kill others and not be affected by it.

Nicky is crying, but I don't want to leave my diary just yet. I want to keep on thinking about Tom, wrapping him safe and warm in my thoughts, where no harm can come to him. But I must go to my son, for he is the closest thing I have to his father.

**

Letter to Mrs. Nora V. Holland

My Love,

Please forgive my previous letters briefness. I didn't mean to frighten you. I couldn't bear to write anymore that day. Frank was a good man. He saved my life and he deserved better than to die the way he did.

It has been eerily quiet of late. The ground stills shakes and the sky thunders with the occasional bomb. Sometimes there's the faint sounds of guns, far away as if in another world and not this one. But the silence lasts longer now, the minutes stretching into hours, which leach into days. It sets your teeth on edge, and you're constantly braced for the next onslaught, though it never seems to come.

Thank you for the biscuits and clothes, especially the socks. Such small, trivial items but they have made a world of difference. One of the men was taken to the makeshift hospital tent after he removed his shoes the other day. His feet were all but black. They stank and there are murmurs that he may lose them. I have been religiously removing my socks and cleaning them as best I can daily, in the hopes that I shall retain my feet.

Please don't fret too much. I am in much better health than others and whilst the food is dry, hard and tasteless, it is better than nothing. I pretend that whatever slop I am eating is your Sunday roast chicken, with creamy gravy and mashed potatoes.

Forever yours,

Tom

**

Diary of Thomas S. Holland
Private in His Majesty's British Expeditionary Force

They made me hold him down. Me and three other blokes, holding down a screaming man as the doctor sawed away his rotten feet. My arms still bear the imprints of his desperate fight as he writhed and kicked like a mule on fire, and even now I can feel his fingers digging into my flesh.

When I close my eyes I see his, terrified and wide, his crusted mouth begging for help, pleading with us to not let them do this. My ears ring with the sounds of his bloodcurdling screams as the saw cuts into his flesh, the awful crunching sound of the saw against his bone, his hot wet blood spattering against our uniforms.

It took everything I had not to vomit then and there. I can barely stomach the biscuits Nora sent, let alone whatever my dinner was.

But I cannot tell her any of this. These are the horrors of war that she must never know. It is something that I must endure alone.

I have not told her about my vision either. It would only make her worry more, and I cannot do that to her.

But I saw her again. I saw her that night as I sat guarding Frank's grave.

The bombs were no longer falling, the men quiet as they slept or kept watch over the trench, when I saw something in the trees. At first I thought it was my eyes playing tricks on me in my exhausted state. But no, through the trees she flitted, lithe and graceful, her hair floating around her face. She was shimmering, a half-formed apparition. But as I watched her shimmering form took shape, revealing herself to me. I sat, frozen, as she walked towards me, her feet light on carpet of dewy grass.

"Oh, my love" she whispered as she knelt before me, reaching out to cup my face with her hands. Her eyes were soft, those beautiful eyes that I missed so much, that I had lost myself in so many times. I gladly drowned in them, letting them swallow me whole, consuming my pain and fear and sorrow. "You are so brave. Nicolas and I are so proud of you"

"I can't go on, my love" I replied, my words choking in my throat. I could feel her hands, cool either side of my face. I could smell her perfume, sweet as it filled my nostrils.

"We love you so much Thomas" she breathed, her lips caressing mine.

"Don't leave me" I sobbed and she reached out and took me in her arms, holding me close as I wept.

I woke up to find myself curled next to Frank's grave. I can still taste her on my lips, smell her on my clothes, feel her hands against my cheeks.

I must endure. I don't know how. But I have to endure. For her.