17 February 1919
Dear Diary,
I went to see Alastair today; I got back about 3 o’clock and have been reading the letters he used to send me when he was away fighting. Then, those letters seemed so sweet, so masculine. Today, he was just sitting there, if he was in fact sitting, his face with it’s permanently sad expression, the one I last saw on the day that he left to join the other soldiers. Now he looks, as I would expect an old man to look not a boy of 18. His face was grey and drawn, and his skin looked wrinkled, like an old lady’s hand. He sat there and talked about the blood, how he used to like the sight of it, how it made him feel strong and powerful. He told me that now the sight disgusts him, making him feel physically sick…
27 January 1916
…Please give me condolences, his death was sudden and it has shaken me terribly. I always believed that he and I would see it through to the end together. Everything here is the same; hope everyone back home is ok (including you). There is talk of the end being near; can’t wait to be home with you again. Will write soon, all my love Ali
… Just reading back over his letters makes me realise how bad the conditions he live din must have been. The lies in the letters about how everything was fine, “talk of the end being near…” I believed him when he wrote me those things. Now it’s hard to believe how delusional reality had become for everyone. I remember talking to May abut Stuart, she was devastated (obviously) but determined to carry on and put the tragedy behind her. I remember writing to Alastair to tell him how horrific the funeral was. “Died of a broken heart”. Me, her best friend could not see how much the death had affected her; she hid it so well from everyone. Alastair seemed upset about all the events too, he told me so today, for I did not receive another letter from him, until…
Tuesday 14 December 1918
Dear Megan,
Sorry I have been unable to write to you in so long. I have thought of you everyday and would be delighted if you would do me the honour of visiting me. Just after I wrote to you last, I was badly injured and have been in this hospital ever since. I have been searching for you since the day I arrived here; I thought Mother would have told you what had happened…Please visit me…
…Only now do I realise why it took him so long to write to me. Seeing him today, it seemed like I was there a lifetime, but all he told me was old stories, dreams and feelings, now long forgotten. How lonely he has been without me, how he felt he had nothing left to hang onto. How ironic!
Seeing him there in that chair, his hair unwashed, his skin grey, I felt no sorrow, no remorse, and no love. He looked so helpless and yet all I could think about was how quickly I could leave that horrible place and discard my memories of this part of my life forever.
When it finally came to saying goodbye, I didn’t not have the guts to kiss him. I just said “I’ll come back and visit you soon.” The lie slipped out so easily, and as I turned to walk out the door, I could hear him weeping, “Why don’t they come?” I did not turn around; I knew why they did not come; the same reason I would never be returning. He has lost everything. He is no longer a man, hardly even a human. The thought of him disgusts me, just as does everyone else. He has disturbed me for long enough, and finally now, I can continue my life with family and set my restless soul to sleep. Goodbye Alastair.
