Sunday 30 October

Letter from Lieutenant Michael Fisher to Gabriella Weiss (his mistress), dated July 25, 1940:

My darling, darling Ella,
How I miss you! I wish you could be here with me to see France, as it is SO BEAUTIFUL. But, darling, I do not think it will be possible for us to arrange to meet as we did in PRAGUE (!) last year. Although the war goes well here, things are not so settled yet in the administration, and it will take some while yet, I think, until they are. Prague! Each time I write that name I must say it aloud also, and I smile at every recollection of the wonderful happiness we shared for that weekend we spent in the Hotel R. I remember how you wrapped yourself in the sheet and stood in the morning sunlight, and it made your hair like a white and yellow flame. But it also makes me so sad to be able to remember such beautiful memories of the time we shared so closely, because they have finished now, and I cannot say when we will be together again. Do you sometimes feel the same thing? You never write of such things in your letters, and sometimes I am filled with doubts. If only I could free myself from Beatrice, we could be married. But I must think of happier thoughts. This is a sad train of thought.

The summer weather is unbelievable, and now that the fighting is finished we can enjoy the blue sky and the sun, and the plentiful good food and drink. There is champagne here, and brandy, and plentiful cheese, meat and eggs. And of course the good French wine. Yesterday, in celebration of our recent victory, the Army commander threw an evening drinks party for the officers of all the units stationed locally. This party was held in the commander’s headquarters – a fairytale chateau in pink stone, with blue-grey turrets and slate roofs. Really quite a sight, with the chandeliers lit and the waiters in their uniforms and the glittering cutlery and jugs and so on on the tables. But all I could think of was you, and how I wish that you could be here with me. I drank a lot of wine and champagne, and sat up late into the night with our C.O., drinking brandy and playing cards. (He likes to have people with him, and the officers take it in turns to stay up with him, as it is very tiring and makes the next day rather difficult.) I did not go to bed until 6:30 this morning. But the whole evening was miserable without you here. But I shall write about something else, darling.
I hope very soon that you will receive the parcel I have sent you. It is about 5kg, and well-packed to prevent breakages: there are two bottles of wine, some soap, some sugar and salt, two bars of chocolate, and some cheese and sausage (local produce). I hope that they will not be delayed too long.

Please write and tell me what you have been doing, Ella. I miss you so much and I wish that you could be here with me. Your letters mean so much to me. Being away from home and loved ones makes one realise how much those people mean to one. When I come home from the war I will never take such love for granted again. Please write soon, darling.
I love you,
M.

Jan remembers tracing the progress of the army as it advanced westward in the early summer of 1940, its lightning strikes and coordinated attacks taking the enemy by surprise and carrying all before it. The tanks only halted when they overstretched their supply lines, by which time the campaign was already won: the only doubt was about the extent of the disaster for the enemy. There were weekly newsreels flown in from home, and the Service officers would gather in a large, cool white tent to watch them on Friday evenings, after dinner. With the ventilation flaps open and the exotic smells of the middle eastern night mingling with the spicy odours of brandy and cigars, Jan watched the images on the rippling, flexible projection screen: grinning tank commanders braced in their turret hatches, racing past, wreathed in sunlit dust clouds; long lines of disconsolate, defeated enemy troops, faces grimy with dust and tears, marching unprofessionally away from the battle and into captivity; piles of captured helmets and weapons; the burning hulks of the enemy’s outdated armour; and roads strewn with dead horses, smashed carts, and the abandoned debris of the refugee columns. With the hysterical triumphalism of the commentator still shrill in his ears, Jan would mark up the latest conquests on the wall map in his office, using thumb tacks and red wool to demarcate his approximations of the new front line. The campaign started in May and, by the end of June, the stretched wool line had reached the enemy capital, and was only a matter of kilometres short of the channel coast. In the neutral country where Jan was posted, the Service officers watched the diplomats of the enemy nations grow increasingly tense and unsmiling as they saw the military situation at home stagger from crisis to crisis, and eventually into hopelessness. When the surrender came, the tension broke, and a period of resigned calm overtook everyone while the European autumn and winter put paid to any threat of further campaigns.

It was a strangely distant war, seen from the middle east, but the newsreels and the newspapers communicated something of the dynamism and excitement of the military’s westward drive, and Jan and his colleagues looked forward to their Friday evening movie shows, which invariably left them feeling elated and optimistic about the future: the fatherland’s forces were peerless and invincible, seemingly capable of carrying off any attack with flair and the guarantee of success.

And there were occasional letters from Mariette as well: she was now a relief worker in one of the light industrial jobs vacated by men drafted into military service. She insisted that she wouldn’t want to stay out at work after the war was over, but Jan could sense that she really enjoyed being engaged in something constructive and creative, and the opportunity to meet and socialise with different kinds of people was clearly intriguing for her. […]

(c. 1060 words)