#also I sing in a choir that does a lot of settings of the Nunc dimittis so it gets stuck in my head in a similar fashion

[hardly-an-escape]

I wrote a second chapter for my little fic Fridays.

He does, one night on watch, scribble a letter to his stranger (just in case). He buries it at the bottom of a shellhole the next day without rereading it.

- - -

3rd Nov. 1916

My Stranger —

Where do you go, in between our meetings? Have you a home, a place to return to, someone a place that always welcomes you back? Or are you an itinerant soul, ever wandering, never settled?

I have pictured you in a manor house; I have pictured you among the clouds as an angel. I have pictured you a prophet, touching down briefly amongst the rabble of humanity to show us some version of a different self.

Wherever you are… I hope it is far from here.

I don’t know if I believe in Hell, but if I did, this pit of mud would not be much removed from my conception of that plane. I confess there have been moments, clouded by gas or bombarded by shells, when I do think that whatever blessing or magic you bestowed on me in the White Horse has run its course, and I have been damned to Hades. I suppose I’ve committed sins enough by now to have earned the trip of my own accord.

If indeed I should not live to see

Should you deign to return after last

I want

[The bottom of this page is singed too badly to make out the remaining words. The text continues on a fresh sheet.]

4th Nov.

Sorry. Bomb. You know how it goes.

Not that you’ll ever see this. I don’t know why I even

5th Nov.

Guy Fawkes Night. Some of the lads are joking about bonfires. Even after five hundred years I remain in awe of our human capacity to joke in the midst of the most horrific experiences known to man. These boys are whistling into a hurricane, and they know it, and they do it anyway. Just because.

Is that why you keep returning? To watch us whistle? I suppose it would be understandable, although somehow I don’t think that’s your particular cup of tea.

The padre came by a little while ago to read Compline before we went out on night watch. I don’t know if you’re familiar with the prayerbook — you could have written half of it for all I know — but there’s a bit in there that never fails to send my stomach swooping these days. Once, when I was a younger man (yes, I know) I climbed a church spire on a dare. That dizzy view, looking down at the sickmaking ground from on high? That’s what I mean.

I keep returning to these words over and over. They have lodged somewhere deep inside me, I don’t know exactly where, but they run through my head like a melody that’s gotten stuck:

Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace according to thy word. For mine eyes have seen thy salvation, Which thou hast prepared before the face of all people; To be a light to lighten the Gentiles and to be the glory of thy people Israel.

Do you know the story? Simeon was an old man, promised by the Holy Ghost that he would not die until he beheld the Messiah; this is the prayer he speaks when he sees the Christ Child is presented at the temple. The promise of the Spirit finally fulfilled, he releases himself gladly to death.

I suppose it’s obvious, psychologically speaking, why this speaks so to me. I don’t go in much for psychology myself, but our captain – a highly educated man – is very interested in the subject, so I’ve picked up a bit. I can only imagine what the analysts would make of a man who can’t die, whose mind is so fixed on the words of a man who is waiting to die.

It is getting late now and my eyes are heavy; but I have an hour left on my watch so I will write to stay awake.

Do you think, Stranger, that I am secretly longing to depart this life in peace, like Simeon? If so, it is a secret I have kept even from myself, if it is possible to do such a thing. All I want is to get to the other side of this war with my faculties reasonably intact and see you in 1989 and resume my life as I see fit. I have no desire for Heaven.

And yet. The words keep circling in my mind.

I think perhaps I am Simeon before he sees the babe. I am still waiting for what I was promised and have not yet seen thy salvation. I wonder what will happen to me after mine eyes behold you once more.

I have faith – I believe that whether you name me “friend” or no, you will be there in 1989. It is a blasphemous faith no doubt, but I cannot help but hold as fast to it as I do to God. Perhaps more so, for I know you are real, and it is hard to find God in a trench.

You will never see this letter (after all, I have no way to send it even if I wanted to).

Wherever you are, my strange friend, I hope you are safe. I hope you still believe in me.

Yours ever, Hob Gadling

[This letter was buried at the bottom of a shellhole in the early hours of 6th November 1916 and never recovered.]

[Read on A03.]