Letters from the Trenches: A WWI Correspondence

Letter 1: Private James Whitford to Nurse Eleanor Hartley

12th November 1916, Somme Sector

Dearest Miss Hartley,

Do you recall the day we met? It was raining—a cold, spiteful drizzle—and I’d been brought to your field hospital with a shrapnel wound in my leg. You handed me a cup of tea, your hands steady despite the chaos around us, and said, “Drink this. You’ll live to see another sunrise.” I thought then that your voice was the kindest sound I’d heard since leaving Sussex.

They’ve moved us back to the front now. The trenches are a quagmire, ankle-deep in mud that clings like a second skin. The rats grow bold, and the men whisper of gas attacks. Yet when I close my eyes, I think not of the artillery’s roar, but of the way you tucked a blanket around young Private Collins as he wept. You’ve a soldier’s courage, Eleanor, though you wear no uniform.

Forgive my forwardness in using your Christian name. But here, where death leans on every sandbag, propriety feels a luxury. I write this by candlelight, my fingers numb, imagining you reading it beneath the lamplight of your infirmary. Do you ever glance at the stars? However dark the night, they remind me that beauty persists.

Yours ever faithfully,

James

Letter 2: Eleanor Hartley to James Whitford

3rd December 1916, Field Hospital 14, Calais

My dear James,

Your letter arrived this morning, creased and smudged with mud, as though it had fought its own battle to reach me. I read it twice, then hid it beneath my pillow—a secret to warm me during the long nights.

You speak of courage, yet it is I who marvel at yours. Yesterday, a boy no older than seventeen died in my arms, whispering his mother’s name. I could not save him. But your words, your remembrance of small kindnesses, remind me why we endure this.

The hospital is overcrowded. We’ve run out of morphine, and Sister Wilkins insists we reuse bandages. Still, when the wounded speak of home of sweethearts and hearthside—I find myself thinking of Sussex. You mentioned it once: the chalk cliffs, the sea’s briny breath. Will you tell me more of it? Of yourself?

You are not forward. In this shattered world, we must grasp what light we can.

Yours in hope,

Eleanor

Letter 3: James Whitford to Eleanor Hartley

24th December 1916, Somme Sector

Eleanor,

Tonight, the Germans sang Stille Nacht across No Man’s Land. We answered with God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen. For a few hours, the guns fell silent. I thought of you stitching wounds by candlelight, your hair escaping its pins—how I wish I could shield you from all this.

They’re sending us over the top at dawn. I’ve made my peace, or tried to. But I need you to know: these letters have been my lifeline. In Sussex, I was a gardener’s son, you a curate’s daughter. We’d have passed each other in the village with polite nods. Here, you’ve seen my fear, my frailty, and called it courage.

If I don’t return— No. Let me say instead: when the spring comes, look for the first crocuses. They’re stubborn little things, blooming through frost. Like you. Like us.

Yours, always,

James

Letter 4: Eleanor Hartley to James Whitford

2nd January 1917, Field Hospital 14, Calais

James,

Your Christmas letter reached me today. The crocuses will rise, as you said, but oh, how I wish you’d be here to see them. Word came yesterday of the assault. They told me you were brave that you carried two wounded men to safety before - My hands shake. The ink blurs. I keep your letters tied with ribbon. When the war ends, I’ll take them to Sussex and read them where the sea meets the sky. You’ll be in every petal, every sunrise.

You asked once why I work so tirelessly. It was never duty alone. It was you.

Goodbye, my dearest friend. My love.

Yours beyond the veil,

Eleanor