possibility doesn’t bear thinking about.”
We sat and reminisced for a bit, and then when the tea was brought in, she said, “I thought my world had ended when the news came about Vincent. His commanding officer wrote to me. A Colonel Prescott. A lovely letter, assuring me that Vincent hadn’t suffered, and how much my letters had meant to him to the very end. He must have known my husband well. Little things are such a comfort at a time like that, and he told me that Vincent was liked by his men and that they had been brokenhearted by his death. That they had asked to see his body and pay their respects before it was taken away. Vincent cared for his men. It would have meant so much to him.”
All this was very interesting to me. How could Colonel Prescott have known so much about the Major’s death in the lines? Unless it was true. I felt a twinge of doubt.
“It was indeed thoughtful. Er—had he served under Colonel Prescott for some time?”
“Well, there were the censors, of course, and he seldom mentioned names in his letters. It was Private J. and Captain H. and Colonel R. He kept a journal too, and he used the same code, so to speak, in that. In the event he was taken prisoner and the Germans could use the information against us. I’m told journals are discouraged for that very reason.”
Piecing together such small bits of information could sometimes lead to a picture of a regiment’s strength and position.
“Did Colonel Prescott send his journal home with the rest of his possessions?”
“I don’t believe he knew about it or he would have looked for it. It wasn’t in the box of his belongings. I wept when they came. They still carried the scent of Vincent’s pipe tobacco. Do you remember? He had it made up for him in London. I could bury my nose in them and feel that he was close again. There was the pipe, his Testament and his shaving kit, and so on. Two of his books, one a volume of poetry, another a history. His other uniforms. So few things to mark a man’s life and death.”
I had to agree with her. Her husband had been an energetic, intelligent, and caring man. Hard to capture those qualities in the small packet of his possessions.
Still curious about the journal, I brought the subject back to that. “Did he ever show you his journal? When he was on leave?”
“He read to me bits and pieces, the parts that he said wouldn’t disturb me. The pages on his short leave in Paris were wonderful. He promised to take me there after the war. Well, after France was herself again. And he read me a section about his first crossing to France, and some of his feelings about leaving me and facing death. I remembered those lines when the news came. ‘I vowed to love, honor, and cherish Julia until death parted us, but this separation feels like a small death. If it should come to the worst, and be the real thing, if I am capable of carrying any thought into the grave with me it will be, I shall love you until the end of time, just as if I’d been at your side until we were old and gray and still slept in each other’s arms.’ ”
The tears came then, and I chided myself for being the cause of them. But she said as I comforted her, “I find I do well for the most part. And then suddenly I am bereft and I find myself crying uncontrollably. It’s so silly.”
“It isn’t silly at all.” Indeed, it showed me that there was no trouble in this marriage. “You miss him terribly, and I won’t promise you it will get any easier. But with time, it will be a different pain.”
She looked up at me. “Your mother said something like that to me. I was so grateful for her understanding.”
When she was calmer, I asked, “Was there anyone in France that Vincent was particularly close to, someone he confided in?”
“He and Andrew were close—they were at Sandhurst together. But Andrew died early on, at Mons. After that, Vincent was reluctant to make friends. It was too painful to send them into
We sat and reminisced for a bit, and then when the tea was brought in, she said, “I thought my world had ended when the news came about Vincent. His commanding officer wrote to me. A Colonel Prescott. A lovely letter, assuring me that Vincent hadn’t suffered, and how much my letters had meant to him to the very end. He must have known my husband well. Little things are such a comfort at a time like that, and he told me that Vincent was liked by his men and that they had been brokenhearted by his death. That they had asked to see his body and pay their respects before it was taken away. Vincent cared for his men. It would have meant so much to him.”
All this was very interesting to me. How could Colonel Prescott have known so much about the Major’s death in the lines? Unless it was true. I felt a twinge of doubt.
“It was indeed thoughtful. Er—had he served under Colonel Prescott for some time?”
“Well, there were the censors, of course, and he seldom mentioned names in his letters. It was Private J. and Captain H. and Colonel R. He kept a journal too, and he used the same code, so to speak, in that. In the event he was taken prisoner and the Germans could use the information against us. I’m told journals are discouraged for that very reason.”
Piecing together such small bits of information could sometimes lead to a picture of a regiment’s strength and position.
“Did Colonel Prescott send his journal home with the rest of his possessions?”
“I don’t believe he knew about it or he would have looked for it. It wasn’t in the box of his belongings. I wept when they came. They still carried the scent of Vincent’s pipe tobacco. Do you remember? He had it made up for him in London. I could bury my nose in them and feel that he was close again. There was the pipe, his Testament and his shaving kit, and so on. Two of his books, one a volume of poetry, another a history. His other uniforms. So few things to mark a man’s life and death.”
I had to agree with her. Her husband had been an energetic, intelligent, and caring man. Hard to capture those qualities in the small packet of his possessions.
Still curious about the journal, I brought the subject back to that. “Did he ever show you his journal? When he was on leave?”
“He read to me bits and pieces, the parts that he said wouldn’t disturb me. The pages on his short leave in Paris were wonderful. He promised to take me there after the war. Well, after France was herself again. And he read me a section about his first crossing to France, and some of his feelings about leaving me and facing death. I remembered those lines when the news came. ‘I vowed to love, honor, and cherish Julia until death parted us, but this separation feels like a small death. If it should come to the worst, and be the real thing, if I am capable of carrying any thought into the grave with me it will be, I shall love you until the end of time, just as if I’d been at your side until we were old and gray and still slept in each other’s arms.’ ”
The tears came then, and I chided myself for being the cause of them. But she said as I comforted her, “I find I do well for the most part. And then suddenly I am bereft and I find myself crying uncontrollably. It’s so silly.”
“It isn’t silly at all.” Indeed, it showed me that there was no trouble in this marriage. “You miss him terribly, and I won’t promise you it will get any easier. But with time, it will be a different pain.”
She looked up at me. “Your mother said something like that to me. I was so grateful for her understanding.”
When she was calmer, I asked, “Was there anyone in France that Vincent was particularly close to, someone he confided in?”
“He and Andrew were close—they were at Sandhurst together. But Andrew died early on, at Mons. After that, Vincent was reluctant to make friends. It was too painful to send them into
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