1000 - Had biological/chemical attack exercise. Far too close to enemy now. Feel that the day has very nearly arrived.
I wish I had my violin. But never mind. How was your day?
Love, Rosie
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Mrs Hughes (via the Post Office)
Date: 19 March
Dear, Mum.
I’m sitting in the HQ tent watching Bush’s address to the nation on TV. It’s so surreal. I stood outside in the dark earlier and looked across at the glow of a couple of Iraqi oil fields in the distance. It’s a very important commodity – oil – isn’t it? Hope Dad is bearing up OK. Big hug for the dog. Sorry for the short letter. Don’t know what to write.
Love, Rosie x
Bluey
From: Gethyn
To: Aggie
Date: 19 March
Hi, Aggie
Well, the hour to go over the top is almost upon us. I considered declaring myself as a conscientious objector but have singularly failed to act with moral fortitude and have followed the masses instead. Is this how all wars gather momentum, with individuals who no longer think or act as anything other than a collective? Saddam Hussein has done many terrible things, and he’s clearly an imbalanced sociopath. Maybe he’s ill (I’ve heard rumours), but surely what we’re about to do is not rational either? If I thought this war was a genuine humanitarian mission I would feel better, but I’m sure it’s a smoke screen. But for what?
I re-read your Scheherazade letter and it struck such a note. Here I am, in Arabia. And collectively with my colleagues, like Scheherazade’s father, we are carrying out the bidding of the King, despite our objections. But there is no story-teller to save us, to weave me a magic carpet. Words have not been mightier than the sword.
Have you ever read Kipling’s Law of the Jungle? Despite everything history can teach us, it seems the men who run countries and armies are not as clever as Scheherazade – they have not the intellect to learn from stories or to weave words into peace – and so the law of the jungle remains ignored. As a result, I cannot see how our aggression in Iraq will not lead, in time, to an almighty backlash, possibly giving rise to Sheer Khan. But as you told me, every story needs a villain, and there may well prove to be a twist in this tale yet, and the illusion someday be revealed.
Whatever the case, the war starts tomorrow or the day after that. I will throw my soul to the devil and try to survive the storm.
Take care, Ag.
Gethyn
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Mr and Mrs Hughes
Date: 19 March
Dear, Mum and Dad
Some people have written letters to their loved ones, only to be opened if they don’t make it home. This kind of letter writing is not for me, but the notion got me thinking. Why do we always wait until it’s too late to tell the people who are dearest to us how we feel? I’m absolutely not going to die, but if I had written a letter, this is probably what it would have said:
To my lovely Mum and Dad – thank you.
Thank you for always having a full fridge and a topped-up biscuit tin. Thanks for handing me the remote control and saying, ‘Watch what you want, love.’ Thanks for putting the gas fire on in June when I’m cold, and thanks for keeping my bedroom exactly how I left it. Thanks for buying me my first car and slipping me a tenner when I went out with to the pub. Thanks for putting me through university, even though you couldn’t afford it, and thanks for all the times you went without the things you wanted, just to make sure I didn’t go without. Thanks for all those magical Christmasses, and for holding my hair out of my face when I threw up. Basically, thanks for unswervingly providing a home where the weight of adulthood floated away from my shoulders as soon as I stepped through the back door. I love you with all my heart. Please try not to worry.
Your loving daughter,
Rosie x
PART TWO
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 20 March
Oh Jesus, Rosie. It’s started. I hope you’re ok. Stay safe, lovely lady. Not sure what to write, nothing seems relevant. Oodles of love. Ag x
‘E’ Bluey
From: Mr Hughes
To: Rosie
Date: 20 March
Dear, Babe
Well, it’s started then, my love. For God’s sake, keep your head down and no heroics. Write as often as you can.
All our love.
MumnDad xx
‘E’ Bluey
From: Josh
To: Rosie
Date: 21 March
Hi, Rosie
I’m sorry, too. Fuck the lamp. I see scuds are hitting Kuwait. It should be me out there, not you. Take great care.
Josh x
Bluey
From: Gethyn
To: Aggie
Date: 22 March
Dear, Agatha
It’s 3a.m. and for the first time in a couple of days I have time to myself to sit still for a few moments.
I haven’t written many letters since I arrived in Kuwait, but of the few I do write, for some reason, I feel that I can be the most honest with you. As the death toll rises and the war gears up, so my job has also ramped up and my attitude to the event has turned from varying shades of grey to black and white. In very basic terms, I’m the guy who provides a detached overview for battlefield first aid. It’s much harder than I expected it to be. The death toll is comparatively low, but each singular death is still a person’s life snuffed out. And there are those who are injured to care for, too. I’ve had to make some hasty decisions and all I can hope is that I’ve done well.
I wonder if anyone is keeping track of the Iraqi dead and injured. The children? The animals? All just a few miles away from where I sit as I write this letter, but I’m on the safer side of the line. The other side must be a frightening place to be. The arsenal at our disposal via the Americans is immense. It’s so immense, in fact, that the Iraqis haven’t bothered launching their aircraft to fight back – there’s no point.
I wish the Iraqi’s had had the sense not to fight back at all – they can’t possibly win. I wish they had said, ‘OK, America. Do what you will, but we won’t lose more lives than we have to.’ But how can a nation just lie down and not fight back? On those terrible first two nights, when the British Marines began the assault on the Al Faw peninsula, I managed to lay down for a couple of hours between scud attacks and I could feel the force of the war reverberate through the desert. It’s very difficult to explain, but I swear the Earth knew what was happening, and I think it wept a little.
I’m so proud of Rosie. I can’t believe she was put into this situation so completely unprepared. Since the war started she has found an inner strength from some deep recess within her soul that fires her on. I hope she knows how valuable her role here has been. I’ve tried to tell her, but it seems to fall on deaf ears. Having a woman around, and not just any woman, but a woman with a warm smile, whose voice on the radio to the troops every day is calming and gentle, has been a blessing. Some men have dealt with Rosie’s presence here better than others. Perhaps the very few who have felt the need to subjugate her, do so out of fear – fear that they will prove to have less moral courage than the little blonde lady who speaks of nothing but sunshine, every single day. Her nickname, in fact, is Little Miss Sunshine (and she hates it) and it’s meant with nothing but love, but perhaps they don’t look deeply enough into her eyes. If they did, they would notice the sadness that lies beneath.
My eyes are stinging so I’ll sign off, but please do write soon. I’m ashamed I encouraged you to veer away from the lighter side of your writing. Humour and a little joy is surely the best medicine a person can have during dark times. I keep one of your books in my respirator sack, and when my sadness consumes me, I take it out and read a few pages. The lightness of your spirit is the best antidote to war I could have found. I said in my last letter that I wa
s lost without my very own Scheherazade to save me, but of course, I now realise that Scheherazade and her stories have been with me all along. And for this, I will be forever in your debt. Thank you.
G
Letter
From: Headmistress of Midhope Primary School
To: Rosie
Date: 23 March
Dear, Rosanna
I don’t know if this letter will reach you now the war has started, but my name is Angela Cartwright and hopefully you will remember me as I’m the Headmistress at Midhope Primary School.
The reason I am writing is to tell about an eleven-year-old boy who would like to write to you. On the day the war started we held a special assembly for collective worship and prayed for all the victims of war – it’s such a worrying time for the children and so confusing, too. I had heard from Janet at the shop that you are caught up in the conflict and so I mentioned in assembly that a lady originally from our village was serving in Iraq. After the assembly, a boy in year six, Oliver, asked if he could write to you. I phoned your parents to ask for your address. Your Dad felt you wouldn’t mind if Oliver corresponded, so I allowed Oliver to use my laptop during lunch to pen a letter and I helped him with his spelling etc.
You must be exceptionally busy, but if you could find the time to reply to Oliver I would appreciate it. He’s a soulful child but also wilful and disruptive. His name is particularly appropriate as he is presently in foster care having suffered from a disturbed childhood. The fact that he has asked to write to you has taken us all by surprise. He’s a very bright boy and could do well in life but does have some learning disabilities, including difficulty in handwriting which is why I’m allowing him to use my laptop to write to you and helping him with his typing. Unfortunately, he will almost certainly move on again in a few months, as I believe his present foster mother is shortly to cease to provide care. If you reply, it would be best if you send your return letter to me at the school address (mail is being forwarded to our temporary billet) and I will pass it on to Oliver. Take care of yourself, Rosanna, and remember that we’re all very proud of you.
Very best wishes, Angela
Here is Oliver’s letter:
Dear, Rosie
Mrs Cartwright told us about the war and we were told to pray for you and all the soldiers. We had a really long assembly today. My bum hurt but we did pray for you and so all the children think God will now make it so you don’t die.
I asked to write to you because I want to know about the war. Have you got a gun? Is it hot out there? Why are we at war? Is there a lot of sand? What about lizards? Is Saddam Hussein going to send bombs to England? Have you shot anyone? Are you scared? Will you get a medal? Did you know our school burnt down? We have to get the bus to Oakworth now. Some of the mums and dads don’t let the small kids get the bus and they drive them to school. I get the bus.
Yours faithfully, Oliver
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 23 March
Hi, Aggie
It’s 11p.m. and there is a quiet but busy throng going on around me in the HQ tent so I thought I’d take a moment to write, although I’m not sure when you’ll get this.
We went to war a few hours earlier than expected. Despite feigning bravery, I was frightened to death, but it’s strange how quickly you can teach yourself to stay calm. One missile landed far too close for comfort, but the Patriot system seems to be neutralising most of them before they land. The front-line troops are doing incredibly well but it’s horrendous when you hear them crying out for support on the radio, especially if there are no aircraft immediately available to run in and help out (most jets seem to be going to Baghdad).
Scud attacks have been steady since the war started, but don’t worry because they are an inaccurate weapon and the good news is there’s no sign of gas yet. Because I haven’t much work to do, I feel like a fly on the wall watching the nightmare unfold. I would honestly donate a major organ just to be busier right now. Despite working for the General, we at HQ only discovered that the war had started at the same time as the rest of the world – when Fox News showed footage of the first US missiles being fired into Iraq. I’m not sure how I thought I’d hear news of the start, maybe I thought the General would come out and fire a starting pistol? Almost immediately the first US missile was launched against Baghdad, the scud alarm went off and we were ordered to jump into trenches. We were already kitted up in our chemical suits and I wish I’d taken more notice of the defecation and canister changing drills now. Surprisingly though, when the alarm sounded for the first time, I felt an immense sense of resigned inevitability wash over me. We piled into the trench like sardines and I now regret my complacency regarding the digging of trench – how naïve I was and what a bloody fool.
I’ll never forget that first time in the trench. The soldier to my right was shaking violently – it was impossible to know the age or gender of the soldier because the body was covered in an NBC suit, over-boots, latex gloves and a respirator. I took the person’s left gloved hand in my right one and we kept our hands held tight, hidden under my leg. We sat there for about ten minutes and waited for the all-clear. When he took off his respirator, I saw that the poor lad couldn’t have been a day older than twenty. The scud attacks have been merciless, and we’ve jumped into trenches many times today and it’s a day tinged with nothing but sadness and news of losses, but we’ve got through it. We gather around the bird table several times per day and each brigade, including the Marines and the Paras, brief the General via radio link and listen to how the brigades and marines are advancing. I have to admit, it’s fascinating. This is the blackest period of my life, and yet since the war began I feel utterly invigorated. Is it wrong to feel so alive?
Love, Rosie
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Mr and Mrs Hughes
Date: 23 March
Hi, Mum and Dad
Just a quick note to say that I’m safe and not to worry. I’ll phone as soon as I can. Love you.
Yours, Rosie xx
‘E’ Bluey
From: Aggie
To: Rosie
Date: 24 March
Hi, Rosie
I haven’t had any letters from you for a little while so I’m just going to keep on writing in the hope that my E Blueys are still being printed off for you. Anything I can think of to write in this letter seems rather banal considering your situation, and I’m not really sure what to write other than news from the home front, so I’ll do that and hope it keeps your spirits up.
The main news to report is that Isabella is here and is bunked up with me at the cottage. I wasn’t sure if we would get along. You must admit, it’s a bit weird having a celebrity chef rock up on your doorstep, but it seems that celebrities have exactly the same habits and insecurities as the rest of us, so I told her, ‘Mi casa es tu casa’, and she was happy to crack on. My only house rule is that I’m prepared to share absolutely everything except my Bic razor. She readily agreed to my condition, so I’ve put her in charge of the chickens. She loves the café and I can tell she’s trying not to take over, but I don’t mind. OK, I do a bit. Anya would call it karma.
Isabella couldn’t have come to a better place for a little peace from the rigors of celebrity status, but you should see the faces of our customers when they walk through the door to be greeted by the lady off the telly! Anya and Ishmael are possibly the last two people on the planet to care about her celebrity status, and ‘the noisy family’ are far too hippy-happy-clappy to notice a famous chef moving into their manor. I’ll admit, though, in the darkest recesses of my soul, I’m hoping word will get out that Isabella is here. I dream of doubling our customer throughput from ten to twenty customers per day. But as our numbers depend entirely upon how many people Hector can squeeze into his little boat, we will always be exclusive.
Despite our little shenanigans, I don’t want you to think that we’re not keeping up to date
with the war. Isabella and I sat on the beach last evening, watched the sunset and said a prayer. At first, we said a prayer for you and Gethyn, but then I remembered I had sent you The Railway Children. In the film version, Dinah Sheridan (the mother) reminds Jenny Agutter (Bobby) to remember not just her father in her prayers, but all prisoners and captives (or something like that). And so, in a similar vein, we said a prayer for all those who are affected by war, on whatever side, in whatever battle. Despite our prayers, however, we’ve decided to listen to the news just once every day – I’m afraid it’s just too stressful to listen any more than that. But our thoughts are with you, always.
Stay safe, beautiful lady.
Love, Ag
P.S. A lady called Stella Valentine came in yesterday – isn’t that just the best name ever! I’m going to nick it for a book – or even better, a pseudonym.
Bluey
From: Rosie
To: Aggie
Date: 26 March
Hi, Aggie
I’m following your lead by taking a moment to enjoy a little peace and quiet at twilight, sitting at the map table and drinking a cup of tea, writing letters.
Night times seem busier in terms of the operational tempo than during the day, which means the scud alarm goes off regularly in the early hours. The bird table briefings have increased in number and intensified, and we all hold our breath in the hope that more UK losses won’t be reported, but each day and, especially, each night, we hear the inevitable news – more losses. Do you think it’s too late to find God? If not, where should I look and, given the circumstances, shouldn’t God find me first?
The tempo has ramped up for Gethyn, and I haven’t seen him much since the war started. He sits by the radio in the US Marine tent waiting to dispatch assets and has gone into operational doctor mode. He is suddenly the most serious, single-minded operator I’ve ever known. Shit, scud alarm’s just gone off. Must go.
I’m back. It landed a mile or so away. Anyway, must have a look at the weather and phone round the brigades, see what they need from me.
Take care, love Rosie
Dear Rosie Hughes Page 12
