"My Dear Devil"

November 16, 1914

My Dear Devil,

Am finding that, contrary to all current popular mythology, leave is not nearly as exciting when one has no one to see, and that no one wants to see you.

Arrived home in the middle of an infernal gale that made me question why I’d ever disparaged the heat of the lovely English summer sun. The only person awake was Mrs. Crockett, dear soul, and she proceeded to cry over me more than the Mater had in our twenty years of co-habitation. Since then, it’s been dull meetings. One after the other until my head aches. Have only been twice to the theater, and both times rather disappointed--everyone seems to be substituting furious merriment for actualy artistry these days.
Find myself unused to be alone now, despite being willing to sell my soul for a little peace during the whole endless weeks of drilling.

And what of you, Devil? I’ve no idea if this is indeed your address, but Allington said this was where you could be reached. How in the world did you end up that far north? Are you near Gibson Gardens? The Pater had some interests around there in former years. Have you seen polar bears? Does the postman even deliver to those parts anymore?

And A--? Not to pry, of course. Simply tell me when we are next sitting in a damp hole somewhere that she is…or isn't. And I shall be content.

Well, we’re off, so I’m told. Minnie Walker (the brunette, if you remember) has attached herself to my side this week to make sure this sentence of enforced gaiety is carried out to its fullest extent. How I wish they has warned us that the worst part of military training is in the leaving of it.
Until Friday, then, I suppose.
B.R.

The second document wasn’t a letter. It was a will.
It was standard for a solider to carry a will in his pay book, so that if his proverbial number came due, there would be some record of his last wishes. They were fairly informal and unwitnessed, more a precaution than a formal document. Later in the war, official forms with witnesses became a bit more common. Form B.243 allowed the benefactor to name one beneficiary--usually his mother, but occasionally it was a sibling or a wife. Form B.244, which was a rarety in my experience, was used when more than one beneficiary was listed. Most of the men who filled out these forms were too young to have many possessions or funds that required dispersal. The formal documents were left with the commanding officer so there was no risk of them being destroyed, but it wasn’t uncommon to find them jumbled up among the maze of paperwork that the war left behind.

There were myriad superstitions among soldiers, and some of the more gruesome came from the First World War. I’d read a few diaries and letters where men stated in no uncertain terms that those who carried their own wills were all but inviting a smiting from the Almighty. Others believed that to write one at all was requesting a bit too much attention from unfeeling fate, while a few others said that, just as you put your life in your comrades’ hands, it was symbolic to hand them your will, as well. While the policy may have let some men sleep better, it also meant that wills were frequently lost or mutilated and any worldly goods were simply forwarded to the next of kin, even if the particular signatory had designated otherwise. Thus, I wasn’t overly surprised to find that Barnaby Rutledge’s will was in L. Thomas’ collection. Perhaps he had believed in passing on his paperwork for safekeeping. It could very well have been a complete mix-up somewhere along the line, as well, so I decided not to worry about the presence of the will in the collection, at least until I’d read it. The signature on the form was similar to the one on the letter, but looked as if the writer had been running through a hurricane at the time of signing. The pen had punctured the paper twice in the signing, and the ink ran from a few places where the paper had been soaked through at some point in the past. It was dated October 1917. It specified that, in the event of the death of the below signed Barnaby Francis Rutledge left all his worldly goods, including items specified with his solicitor, to one Lieutenant L. Nathaniel Thomas. The money in his account and his books were left to one Alice Thomas (with a provision in case her name changed due to marriage), of Green Lanes, Haringey, London.