by Chris Barker
One of my washer-up colleagues is a very decent chap (he was one of those I mentioned originally) and I have just discovered that he used to tour the Yorkshire villages during the Spanish war, with projector and film The Defence of Madrid. He did it after his day’s work, and I think he is a genuine old soul (he’s about 36!). Certainly he is not asleep or putting a halo round Churchill, like so many.
I love you.
Chris
3 July 1945
My dear Bessie,
I am sorry that your Labour Party efforts are such eye-worriers. I used to find that if my eyes ached the rest of me was not so good as well. I am glad you can rise above the poor organisation that probably exists. At least, you’ll have the satisfaction of knowing you did more than vote at the 1945 Election. I got my papers yesterday – I will send them to you later on perhaps, although maybe you will have seen them at 161 [Ridgeway Drive]. I like the Liberals’ address best of them all. Yes, I have heard of Alderman Reeves. James or Joseph, I believe. He is a Royal Arsenal Cooperative man I think. Probably not too bad a candidate. I’d like the chance to heckle a little – it’s an art.
My darling, I think you’d look lovely in a jumper. I much enjoyed your drawings – the fact that you had done them was the important thing. I will not pretend to be an expert on brassieres, but I think I should say I shouldn’t adopt one if I were you, unless you feel it’s desirable of itself. Never mind about what you are supposed to do at 30. They’ll probably tell me I should put my hair in curlers, next. When I come home I don’t suppose your brassiere will last long – nor anything that impedes my meeting you, gets between us.
I shall be glad to read Shaw’s ‘Ibsen’. But I think it unwise for you to send it to me out here. If I can discover a copy somewhere, all well and good. All the Shaw one gets generally in Service Club Libraries is Pygmalion in Penguin edition.
Don’t really resign yourself to twenty months’ wait. That is the maximum, if the four years remains. If it is brought down to 3½, I shall be back in August 46; if to 3, then in February 46. And remember that the aim is 3, and that our letters to MPs and the War Office can keep them alive to the fact that we are really human beings and don’t regard this separation as a long holiday provided by a kind country. Sometimes I feel quite hopeful about seeing you earlier than 14 months’ time, and that we shall certainly be on our honeymoon in August or September of next year. The time will pass. Sometimes slowly, sometimes with a rush. But pass it will, then I shall come to you.
You commence your letter by saying you can’t understand why I decry my lack of education and knowledge. Well, I am sorry about that. I feel I could be much more useful to society (whom I like to think I indirectly serve – while remembering I’d ditch it or anything for you) if I had received more than an elementary education, and had I spent my years 16–28 acquiring book knowledge instead of hacking and huckstering around in the Labour Party and ‘Mets’.*
I am glad that Iris and Lil have received [the almonds], also that you have one packet. Blow me, I posted two lovely bags on June 5. I hope you get them eventually, as the bags looked a smashing bit of work, apart from the contents. When eating them, do you put in hot water, and remove skin? It’s better I think.
No, I don’t think I am paying undue attention to childbirth, but when I think of a woman’s body – it’s yours I have in mind – and as the MO spoke of painless births (did I tell you he said larger heads of Scottish population is responsible for higher infant mortality rate?) and the agonies of the mother, it was natural for me to think of you, and your agonies, whether you eventually endure them or not. Perhaps I have your body too much on my mind.
Think of me when you put on your brassiere, think of me when you take it off – no, think of me always, and know that I am your man, a long, long way away, but ever-conscious of your beauty, your delight, your loveliness, always wanting you, always weaving the pattern of our lives together in imagination. I could wake you as you have never been wakened, love you as you have never been loved.
I love you.
Chris
5 July 1945
Dear Bessie,
Today being Polling Day I wondered how you were employed, and if you were knocking on doors or carrying on work as usual. It is very hard to arrange the Army vote, and so we are having about four days for the job, spread over about a week. As I had received my papers, I marked and posted my voting paper today. I do not know how many chaps are voting from here. Many have not got a vote either through their own neglect (in which case they would appear to be satisfied with the Fascist conception) or mischance. There must be many, even at home (like Deb and Marjorie Webb), who are on holiday and will also lose their opportunity of ‘striking a blow for freedom’.
Went along to see the Variety Show, which was a mixed Italian-English affair. I came away after two acts, one a blonde Italian female who sang a song in English, I thought obviously without knowing its meaning. And another, a quite good card conjuror. There was one mentionable joke, about Dirty Gertie of Bizerte, who lived in a street ‘three smells along’ somewhere.
Tonight there is a film in the village, Irish Eyes Are Smiling, and I am glad I am on all day, so prevented from attending.
S’all for now. Sorry.
I LOVE YOU.
Chris
6 July 1945
Dearest,
The newspapers you have sent have been most useful, and have been well read by myself and others. When the results are announced, will you try and send me a copy of them? The Times has the best, but I doubt if you can get that. Maybe all the papers will have them in full at this election.
I am eating well, though my bowels are not acting properly. It’s a 300-yard walk to the latrines and I think this has something to do with it. One of our chaps actually can’t go to the lavatory if anyone is watching (in the Army that’s always) and goes out into the fields on his own, for that purpose.
I wonder, do you think I could send you back one or both pairs of the socks you knitted me? One pair has holes in them, the other’s OK, but I think civilian use is better for them. I have a spare pair of Army socks, making four. What do you think? I don’t like to wear them out, out here, I’d like to send them back for you to keep.
Ignore all the stuff you read about the Allies being out of Italy by November, December or any other time. Italy is a good strategic centre from which to send troops to Spain, Greece, Yugo, Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Tunisia. All reports I have seen say that garrison troops will remain. You can bet your front door knocker that I shall be classed as garrison troops.
I love you.
Chris
9 July 1945
Dear Bessie,
What I find myself pondering now is the smug way in which we both allowed ourselves to measure how much of ourselves we should pour out. Inside we were raging, tempestuous, tumultuous. Outside we were almost always so naicely self-contained. I should have crushed you to bits when I put my arms around you. I should have kissed you to pieces. I should have done everything. And yet, most all I produced was a sweet smile and a correct embrace. Is this the civilising influence at work? It might be the wisest thing at the time, but it seems madness now, when I can imagine you, see the shape of your breasts – yet vainly stretch my arms towards you. Yes, my darling, I was home for five weeks, and it did happen. Where ever I touched you I found beauty, acceptance, willingness, a claiming-ness. I wonder if you understand that ‘claiming-ness’? I know that you want me and that we complete each other. I am happy that our minds are together.
I want you to carry on with your clothes as though I was at home, because I’m sure we shall not seriously differ about what you should wear, though I’d like you sometimes to heed my own choices for you. Could you send me the little pieces of cloth that might suit you, so that I could send you some cloth, if obtainable. I don’t want you to cut up your frocks to supply the material for the pattern of course, but I daresay that even you hoard some little pieces of cloth?
I love you.
Chris
11 July 1945
My dear Bessie,
Regarding Deb, I will write her, in reply to the next letter I get from her (but not specially), that I have noticed her ‘earlier observations about Bessie, and can only say she is my heart’s desire and I have every reason to believe that I am hers’. Does that seem satisfactory to you? I shall wait your reply before I actually write to her on the point. Now, do not be too, too crushing with my old pal Deb if you start any conversation with her. Certainly you may say I told you of her enquiries – but do avoid the wonderful chance to slosh her for her inquisitiveness, or however you regard it. You may say what you like and I will support it, but be a good girl and don’t be too eager to bash her. If you do, then of course, I am with you, but I hope you’ll be content to be nicely and possessively quiet. You must concede her certain rights about me (although I don’t say necessarily on this subject) and you won’t really gain anything but a momentary satisfaction from sloshing her.
I am glad you think old Churchill hasn’t necessarily been hailed very enthusiastically in all places. We shall soon see.
Always I must want to keep you fully and completely aware of the immensity of our being together. I don’t want my views to be hidden by neglect or forgotten by default.
I LOVE YOU.
Chris
12 July 1945
My dear Bessie,
I am very sorry to hear, in No. 48, of the pain in your chest which continues although, according to X-Ray, it is ‘nothing’. If the doctor only had said there was no need to worry, I should have been anxious and unhappy, but what about the X-Ray, was it done at a hospital or under proper control? If so, I think you must force yourself to believe it is something which will go when you cease thinking of it. I am under the impression that you cannot beat the X-Ray. If we do not accept its findings, we shall never feel sure about anything. So, be sure the X-Ray is OK – go again to a hospital if you feel you must – and then try hard to forget it. It is quite possible that the pain is a digestive one, I think, and very likely that your mode of living has ruined your digestion for the present. But what I feel is that your pain comes from wanting to hug me, which impulse probably overcomes you during your sleeping hours, and plants the pain there. It is perhaps a silly thought, but it’s the one I have. I am so sorry you are troubled like this, and would so much like to be with you to allay your fears, to comfort you. I am disturbed that you should have held on to your ‘secret’ for so long. Please do tell me all you can as early as you can. Because nothing can be gained by non-revealing (I use that instead of ‘concealing’) and I would much prefer to worry or feel with you than be kept in ignorance. This is my right and your duty and obligation.
I am marrying you. Do keep me informed all the time about everything, so that I can always be sure I know just what is going on. It is a good motive not to want to worry me with your fears – but I would prefer the idea that you bring me your fears and cast them away by my knowledge of them. I think I told you once that I had a ‘fear’ that I had TB or something as terrible, through finding a little clot of blood in my mouth in the mornings. I went to a doctor in fear and trembling (and so bravely I thought) to be told it was excessive whistling and speaking that had caused the slight tearing of the tiny little flesh-parts in my throat.
I very much favour you having some sick leave, plenty of it as it seems even slightly desirable. I object to the thought of you working when you aren’t really well. I resent the idea of you ‘keeping going’ just because you either feel there is a war on somewhere and ought to do your bit, or you are too conscientious to stay away. For goodness’ sake, rest when you need it, relax when you feel like it, and give your nerves and body a chance. You have had a very bad time in the last five years. Start realising it’s time you took it easier, and ‘taking it easy’ will be better for you than all the medicines in the world. Blow me, just think of my life of idleness (which is good for me up to a point – I’ve had a wonderfully idle time since I joined the Army) and your scurryings – sometimes you get frantic, don’t you?
Sorry the brassiere did not fit. I should chuck the thing if I were you. No wonder you have no coupons! Oh, I wish I was a brassiere, touching you like that.
How do you pronounce DEVOTEE?
As I write this, you are probably pouring out tea for Mum. You dear girl.
I LOVE YOU.
Chris
* Air-raid precautions.
* An anti-malarial tablet.
* South East Asia Command.
* The ‘Mets’ was the Mets Journal, a publication of the Union of Post Office Workers. Chris was a regular contributor and then editor.
8
Do Mention Marriage
16 July 1945
Joshua Reynolds born, 1723. Chris Barker conscripted, 1942.
Lovely woman, Darling Bessie, My Dearest, Dearest One,
Today marks the third anniversary of my being joined to the Army. The three years seems to have gone with fair speed, although I feel at times that certain periods have gone rather more quickly than others. I have been abroad 2 yrs 5 months. I have been writing you hopefully (I think it was hopefully) for nearly two years, lovingly for nearly eighteen months. Both periods seem far longer. I saw you last nearly four months ago, it seems much longer than that. I was captured seven months ago. It seems very much less. My impression of time is jumbled and confused. My main aim now is to get back to you, as soon as I can. To many, being apart must be almost like losing everything. But we have our written words to assure us that nothing of our understanding is forgotten.
This morning, I started Morse training. Said I could do five words a minute, and I am doing six, running the words together, putting Ys for Cs and so on. I don’t know how long it will last, but it is probably better than picking up stones in the camp and it gets me out of the wind and the dust, which in the daytime are not so good.
One good thing that has been installed here is a Laundry, where you can go to do your washing. Plenty of hot water, scrubbing boards and brushes, and (take your turn in the queue) an iron. I am afraid I don’t use it, as it is ½ mile away from my tent, and I can wash my clothes very easily at the ‘ablution benches’ only fifty yards away. They soon dry in the sun and roaring wind, and I sleep on them at night to give them a crease.
I love you.
Chris
18 July 1945
Dr W.G. GRACE born, 1848
My Very Dearest, Loveliest One,
This morning I decided I would have a break. I reported sick, a beautifully long, drawn-out job. You report at 7.30, wait for a truck to take you away at 8 o’clock, its motor is not heard till 8.30, you arrive at the Sick Bay at 9, and then wait for your name to be called. It was 11 o’clock before I got in to see the doctor, and by that time I had completely read King Cole by W.R. Burnett, an American published book portraying the Election for Governor of Ohio. I shall go sick again on Saturday. It’s just like leave!
Last night in the camp, we had a turn by a magician. Rather boring after an hour. He explained, Italian fashion, his earlier tricks. The big thing, the piece de resistance, was that lead was turned into molten metal, he poured it into a spoon, and put it in his mouth, then spitting out a solid, but still very hot, piece of metal. The lead was heated by blow lamp, it was too hot to be touched by the two ‘witnesses’ on the stage. I suppose he had some false plates of special heat-resisting metal in his mouth. But it was pretty good.
How would you like to live at Sanderstead, Croydon? Have you thought about moving out that way? As it is ‘one of those things’, may I warn you not to discuss this with anyone. Later on it will be obvious why; for the moment I want to know what you think of Sanderstead; no chance remarks to anyone at my home, please, my dear.
I wrote yesterday to the Tottenham Registrar, Mr Grimaldi, asking for details of how to get married quickly. I pointed out it was a general question, particularly now that short leave is
likely to be more widespread.
Incidentally, this morning at Sick Quarters, in a German POW Camp, I saw more Germans than I had ever seen before; thousands. I have only seen them in ones and twos, in hospitals before we started having them working in the camp. Strange how we ‘fight’ without seeing our mortal enemies. They have no doubt seen as few English as we have Germans.
I have written 298 letters in all since April 10th: 98 to you, 59 to Mum, 141 to others. 98, the number of this, was the last you got from me last year, I believe. So we are well up on the numbers this year, though the sooner we can talk to each other rather than write, the better for us both. Oh, my darling Bessie.
I love you.
Chris
19 July 1945
My Very Dearest,
I read with regret of the extraction of your teeth. The racketeers. I think I should go ahead and have the whole lot out now. It will save you a lot of trouble later on. And you’ll almost certainly find a dentist who will tell you you would be better off without them.
Will not proceed further with these comments – as they are the major items you mention. But, take my advice, and watch your engagements carefully. Try and get some time to yourself. Certainly don’t start leaving your Dad’s darning and your own washing for non-important things. You must learn to refuse. I shall be annoyed if you don’t. It may be very wrong of me, but I shall be.
As for having your teeth out and do I still love you – I love you alright. I love you always. But your letter 52, comparatively long, gave me the impression of being rush-written, quickly and hardly with thought. I feel that you are riding for a nervous complaint, or something, and I am displeased. I’d very much like to get home and organise you, tell you what to do. I expect that is rather ‘bossy’, but that is the feeling I have at the moment. But, for goodness’ sake, do try to take it steadier. And do love me more than anything.
