1st December 1940
Dear Mr. Eckerstorfer,
I hope this letter finds you well. Perhaps in a sunny port with palm trees and exotic food? It’s rather cold here, where I work and in the house where I’m billeted. I am, however, usually dry, unless it rains, so I’ll save my complaints for someone other than a man with extensive shipwreck experience in the North Atlantic.
I’m learning all about what it’s like to be singled out because of my accent. I suppose it’s the first thing people notice when I speak, the fact that I am different. I’m fortunate enough that most people are pleased to know an American is on their side, so to speak, but it’s made me wonder how you feel when strangers hear you and automatically assume you’re the enemy . . .
* * *
20th December 1940
Dear Miss Stevens,
I don’t know if you heard your president’s speech, but I was wondering if you had a garden hose I might borrow? Or maybe not a garden hose—a few more destroyers and very-long-range aircraft equipped with depth charges would do quite nicely. Most people on my ship would welcome the Americans fighting alongside us, but Mr. Roosevelt’s promise to lend us everything we need is heartening. I suppose that means there will be plenty of cargo to keep the Torlin Line and all of its ships busy . . .
* * *
17th January 1941
Dear Mr. Eckerstorfer,
I did indeed read about Mr. Roosevelt’s suggestion that American aid to Britain was like one neighbor offering another neighbor a hose to put out a fire. Over here, it sometimes feels as if things are on fire. Worry over invasion has lessened—we all assume Hitler is wise enough not to launch an invasion in the middle of winter. Most people hide their fear, if they feel it.
My landlady has a garden hose, but she uses it quite frequently, and I suspect she would be rather hesitant to part with it. Her husband died three years ago, and her two sons are both away at war, so she spends a great deal of time with her vegetables. She told me she used to have flowers, but wartime necessitated a few changes. I do love flowers, but I’m grateful for her switch in crops, as much of her produce is used to feed Shirley and me. She puts a great deal of effort into her meals and succeeds quite well, considering all the culinary restrictions that come with rationing.
Have you ever gardened? I haven’t since I was a little girl, but I find it very calming when coming off a watch, and Mrs. Twill is sharing all her best tips. The weather is currently too cold for most crops, but she’s working on carrots and cabbages. I’m not ready to give up crossword puzzles entirely, but come warmer weather, I plan to spend a great deal of time in Mrs. Twill’s garden . . .
* * *
8th February 1941
Dear Miss Stevens,
Last time we were in Halifax, I received several letters from you at once, and I was most pleased to have them. I’m on deck now, enjoying a rare day with a bit of sun. The wind makes it chilly, and the sun is low on the horizon—right in my eyes. In other circumstances, I might wish to change positions to avoid the glare. But after a long stretch of short days and extensive cloud cover, the novelty of having sun shining in my eyes is delightful.
One of my crewmates is also enjoying the sun. Billy Scarlett joined us on the first voyage with Mr. Blake as ship’s master. He claims he is fifteen, but I very much doubt he told the truth when he signed on. I told our skipper of my suspicions, but Mr. Blake said he doesn’t suppose a boy that age would leave home without good reason, and at least here he has his crewmates to look out for him. It’s not unusual for boys to run off to sea. I suppose in some ways, that’s what I did. Mr. Blake, too, though he wouldn’t tell me the details of what I imagine is a fascinating story. Billy has the height to match his claimed age, and he does his share of work. Given the bruises I noticed when he first arrived, I assume life at home wasn’t easy for him. If we get into trouble, he won’t be the first boy in the war to feel the result of a torpedo, but I still find myself worrying about him.
My life at his age was so different. Schooling, ski trips, bickering with Ingrid. I miss her. And worry about her. She might be older than Billy, but she’s still too young to be alone and away from all her family. How are your brother and sister?
I have to go on watch in a few minutes. I’ll write more later . . .
* * *
3rd March 1941
Dear Mr. Eckerstorfer,
Some of your letters arrive so quickly after you’ve written them, and some take absolutely ages. Your last letter asked about my family, so I’ll give you a brief update on them.
I see my parents most weeks. Mum arrived in time for Christmas. She misses baby Judith and Dot but says she was missing me and Dad a great deal too. We’ve lived all over, and I loved experiencing so many different places, but now that Dot and Irving and I aren’t children anymore, I sometimes wish we all lived a little closer. I’m glad Dot’s family doesn’t have to worry about the Blitz, but I miss them. I’ve never even met my own niece. And I miss Irving. He’ll finish his degree this spring, and after that, he plans to join the Air Corps.
I usually take the train to London on my days off. Dad says he is only working a little extra, but Mum is worried. We both tell him he needs to take care of himself, but he points out that there’s a war on, and he’s right. He can’t very well insist on a full night’s sleep when British, Italian, and now German troops, too, are fighting in Africa. Still, I worry about how the war will change him, about how the war will change all of us.
Your crewmate Billy Scarlett reminds me a bit of my billet mate. Billy was hiding his age—but it seems you discovered that quite quickly. Shirley was hiding the fact that her family is peerage. There were several clues, I suppose, but it wasn’t until I saw an envelope addressing her as an honorable that all the puzzle pieces fell into place: her impeccable speech, stylish wardrobe, and a doomed near-engagement to a viscount. The romantic in me hopes her love story isn’t over, but the man in question, an RAF pilot, suffered a horrible crash and refused to let her see him when she went to visit. She says she’ll never date a pilot again, but she still mentions him from time to time. I don’t think she’s over Squadron Leader Walter Cavendish.
Do your crewmates share stories of doomed romances? I like to think that not even war can stop people from falling in love, but it certainly seems to tear a lot of couples apart, one way or another . . .