I share a tent in the officers’ lines (the opposite side of the battalion parade ground from the men’s lines) with Lawrence Viney, who is a pleasant tent companion. I have a batman, a man of about thirty from Beaconsfield, from the Old Town I think, called Jenkins. He’s also the driver. We have to get up soon after six o’clock having been woken up by the orderly with tea and hot water. Breakfast at eight o’clock. Chief parade of the day at nine o’clock from which we should, if the weather allows, march or ‘proceed’ to training areas or routes for our route marches. I walk about with a sword. For patrols I have a shining, silver, studded cross belt. On our return there is lunch, then another lecture or instruction from the brigadier or someone at two o’clock until 3.15 p.m. This afternoon we learned about map reading and how to set a compass. We only had one compass to learn with so I hope I remember something. I take notes of everything in the most copious Oxford way.
The brick-red canvas behind him glows in the setting sun. A gust of wind blows under the tent. Raindrops start to spatter the canvas. Martin lifts the pen and looks around. Major Heyworth snores in an armchair with a book open on his chest. The rain pitter-patters above his head.
The other officers are very friendly and pleasant. There are about six I’ve got to know quite well. Sometimes I feel rather younger than usual because many of them are about twenty-eight and quite a few married. After the formalities of dinner are over (we can’t smoke or move off until the colonel has done so) we drift into the antechamber, so to speak – the first of two hospital tents which are used as the mess – and talk, read, write letters, or sing songs. Then I usually go to bed about eleven o’clock but by the time I have found the lantern (it works very discreetly and efficiently), taken off my uniform, tidied everything off the bed and got into the bed, it is 11.45 so I get to sleep about 11.50 and I lie in a deep slumber except when the cold gets through my blankets on the more stormy nights until six o’clock.
There’s a flash of lightning, followed by a muffled clap of thunder. The major snorts, then hauls himself out of the armchair and staggers out with his book in his hand. The rain hammering on the canvas sends gouts of water pouring down the sides of the tent.
The mess sergeant is looking a bit unhappy about all his nice writing paper I’m using. There’s only a limited amount but I assured him that it is very important.
It is pouring hard now. And I soon must go to my Austrian blankets and collapsible lantern. We all sometimes feel terribly weak around the middle from standing about waiting for things to happen. But my heart is very strong and it beats a little harder when I am thinking of you instead of warfare, the delight instead of the grim spectre in the background. You are always in front. Or sometimes you deign to march by me and we go arm in arm.
So much love, Martin.
A flash of lightning lights up the date stamp on the side of the tent: 1939. The brick-coloured canvas glows, like fire. Martin counts. Ten, nine, eight. A clap of thunder explodes above his head. The storm is moving closer.
Martin takes off his helmet and goggles, glances in the side mirror of his Norton army motorbike, smooths his cowlick back, then slides off the saddle. With the bunch of wild flowers he picked for her on the side of the road in hand, he walks towards her front door. The Battalion has been ordered back to its base in Aylesbury. He’s supposed to be delivering some documents to the drill hall at High Wycombe but he has managed to slip away for a few hours. It’s a special day. The anniversary of their meeting. A possible announcement by the Prime Minister. Love entangled with war.
Before he can knock, the door flies open and Nancy is in his arms.
‘My love.’ He kisses her hair, her cheeks, her lips.
‘I thought you wouldn’t make it.’ She latches the door behind her. Kisses him hard, then soft, then everything in between.
‘Not exactly what we imagined for our first anniversary, is it?’ He gives her the flowers.
She kisses him again. ‘Just think what might have happened if you hadn’t almost knocked me over . . . ’ They laugh together, then grow quiet. ‘Is there any more news?’ She looks up into his face.
Martin knits his brow, takes her hand, squeezes it. ‘The British Ambassador delivered an ultimatum to the Germans at 8 a.m.’
‘Maybe sanity will prevail at the last second.’ She pouts, angrily. ‘It’s so unfair! On this, of all days!’
Martin kisses her. ‘Chamberlain should have asked our permission.’
They laugh together, Nancy grows serious. ‘Tino, there’s something I wanted to say . . . ’ Martin raises his eyebrows, a little tremor of alarm running through him. ‘About that day when I didn’t make it to the station to see you off.’
‘Oh.’ Martin flips his hair back. ‘That’s ancient history.’
‘No.’ Her eyes water. ‘I was racing to catch the train in Beaconsfield and the pedal broke . . . ’
‘Oh, darling.’
‘So I dumped the bike in the ditch, and tried to run, but the heel came off my shoe!’ She sobs again. ‘It was as though the gods were against us!’
Martin puts his arm around her, all his feelings of abandonment gone. ‘My love. The gods aren’t against us. It was just Sod’s Law.’ He strokes her hair.
‘But I so wanted to be with you!’ Her shoulders heave.
‘I know, darling.’ He kisses her tear-stained face. ‘And now you are.’
‘Coo-ee!’ Nancy’s mother calls from inside the house. ‘It’s about to start!’
In the living room, LJ adjusts the large, brown wireless set but gets up to shake Martin’s hand as they enter. ‘Dear boy . . . ’ He is about to say something more but turns away. ‘Come and sit down.’
Peg pecks him on the cheek. ‘So glad you could get away.’
‘Me, too.’ He glances at Nancy and they settle themselves on the sofa, their legs touching. Nancy takes Martin’s hand and holds it in her lap, the first time she has done it in front of her parents.
‘Whisky?’ LJ gestures towards the drinks cabinet.
‘Better not.’ Martin shakes his head. Then changes his mind. ‘Oh, why not?’
‘Drink, darling?’
Peg glances towards the decanter. ‘I may need something to steady my nerves. But just a finger.’
LJ squirts soda in his wife’s glass. ‘Nancy?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
Nancy’s father distributes the three drinks, then goes back to his perch by the wireless. There’s a screeching, then six pips: the BBC call sign. Everyone leans forward. Chamberlain begins.
‘I am speaking to you from the Cabinet room in Downing Street. This morning the British Ambassador in Berlin handed the German Government a final Note stating that, unless we heard from them by eleven o’clock that they were prepared at once to withdraw their troops from