To My Beloved Mary

My Dearest Mary,

The Admiralty has seen fit to cut my shore leave, wrenching me away from your embrace and the warmth of your kisses. They have ordered me back to the madness some call the Battle of the Atlantic. I cannot say where our course leads, but I pray that fate grants us a reprieve from the North Atlantic’s gales and treacherous sea, if only for a moment. The North Sea is a harsh and unyielding mistress, and though I have braved her many times, nothing wounds me so profoundly as being apart from you, my dear Mary. As the North Sea winds strike home, think of me, my darling, and pray I sail into quieter waters.

I stand on the deck of my ship, rigged and ready in the harbour; I send this last letter before we set sail before dawn. As dawn approaches, we shall steam away from my beloved England. As I write this letter, the sun slowly sinks behind the gun turrets as I scribble this last farewell to you, my love. I look out at the strange golden beams of light that dance upon the water, slapping against the side of our ship. This ship is a wondrous sight; indeed, I know why many consider her the pride of Britania.

I have received my new uniform, and when the opportunity permits, my love, I will send you a photograph. Yes, before you wonder, I have safely tucked it away, far from the eyes of the Admiralty. That handkerchief you accidentally dropped on that London Street so long ago. It is forever a treasured token of your interest and future love. How strange it is, my love, that something so small, so seemingly insignificant, should become the most cherished possession I may ever hold. I keep it tucked safely in my breast pocket, close to my heart, where it belongs.

Life has its daffy moments. One day, a playful jest, a teasing smile as you let it slip from your slender fingers handkerchief. I still recall reaching for it as you toss your hair with your other hand and give the slightest seductive grin. Now, it is a sacred reminder of our love as I sail off, possibly to the boiling fires of hell. Mary, did I ever tell you? I still smell your scent on it; it’s faded, but enough to bring you to me peace in my few quiet moments. I close my eyes, and there you are, laughing beneath the gaslight, your eyes shining like the stars above Piccadilly as we wait for the last bus to get you home and sneak you into your home before your papa notices.

The days are long here, the nights longer still, but the thought of you that sees me through. Your letters are my lifeline, each word a whisper of hope, a promise of home. I read them by the dim glow of a lantern, tracing your words with my fingers, imagining it is your hand I hold instead.

Know this, my love—no matter where this war takes me or how far from home I must go, my heart is forever yours. Keep faith, as I do, that one day soon, I shall return to you, and the touch of our child’s hand will join that handkerchief.

Promise me, my darling, that you will heed the air raid sirens, especially at night. I know you too well, your stubborn spirit, sharp wit, and dreamy smiles. You would sooner let Herr Hitler ruin an entire city than mess with one of your famous custard pies. But I beg you, do not take risks. You and I both know that this war will not be over quickly and though we have had more than our fill of that vile bastard, we must endure a little longer before Britannia stands victorious and his shadow figure is pitched upon a sea of burning sulphur.

Not knowing when or if I shall see you again, I send you this farewell. It is full of love, longing, and the hope that God will grant me the privilege of coming home. Should the North Seas toss me all about, I will close my eyes and think of you by the hearth, our child nestled in your arms, or of evenings at the Swan and Gull, laughing over a game of darts while the old hands regale me with tales of real naval warfare from the last great war.

Remember, my beloved Mary, should my ship be torn apart upon the sea, my spirit will forever soar until I return to our island nation and find our little flat by the sea. Yes, my heart and soul forever belong to you.

No one had ever assigned me to such a large ship; I am sure we will give old Hitler a good bashing and be home for tea by Christmas. Oh, my sweet Mary, if only it were that simple.

I hope the Royal Navy gets this into the post quickly so you may read my thoughts and feel my heart, which only truly beats for you. Should our journeys take us to a friendly port, I will immediately prepare a letter and send it to their post.

You have always told me to be ready for the best, but I must also be prepared for the worst. Should death and darkness gather all around me and the might of the British Navy falter, know my last thoughts will always be of you and our child, our love and our beloved England. Let our little one always know his or her father died for the liberty and security of our home.

Keep me in your prayers, my love, as I keep you forever in my thoughts, prayers, and love. Whatever may come, know that I am yours always, and my eyes always turn towards home.

I shall blow you a kiss, my love, as we steam out.

Yours eternally,

Mark Edward

Authors Notes

On May 24th 1941, the British Royal Navy fought the German Kriegsmarine in the Battle of the Denmark Strait. The HMS Hood’s power magazine exploded, and the ship blew up, killing all but three crew members.

1,415 died that day, the weeping and wailing for their loss and a thirst for revenge on the Bismark would be on the mind of many

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