My son, I love you so much, for you are my reason for being. You are the courage that lives in me when I fight on the front. You are the heat that will warm me when I arrive in North Africa. You are my son! On this deep cold day I must leave you; I must leave to defend the kingdom; I must leave London to go to the battleground. It is this train that will carry me to the coast of the North Sea, where I will board the boat for Africa. The battlefield is not far off. I do not yet know where in North Africa I will be posted, but I hope it will be with the British Eighth Army, that formidable force that guards Egypt and her pyramids. The prestigious army that watches over the Egyptian people, and safeguards the supremacy of the British Empire. My son, if only you could understand the danger the Empire is in. The Nazis are bombing our fine city every day. Yes, my son, those are enemy bombs falling upon our dear city, and I must go and fight to bring an end to the din. My son! Every blast cuts like a knife in my back; I must go. The Eighth British Army has the best soldiers in the kingdom. You can count on your father. He is proud, and brave.
I’m not the only one leaving: my son, look at these young Englishmen climbing aboard the train. Some have never set foot on a carriage before, never heard the music of the locomotive pistons, never known the sound of wheels scraping on rails or the feel of the cars lurching from side to side. When the train stops I’ll be boarding a ship to Egypt, where I shall be forced to admire the splendour of the pyramids and the majesty of the Pharaohs of old. My son! If the Pharaohs were still there, perhaps this war would never have come to pass. War is an atrocious thing; she kills men, strangles women, tears children to bits and reduces humanity to ash. Still, my son, I have faith in the British Eighth Army. Lieutenant-General Alan Cunningham is exceedingly competent, judicious, savvy and courageous. He knows how to take risks; he has the art of war in his blood, and is a master tactician. Have no fear, my son. Look at all these children saying farewell to their fathers. We are all heading for the same destination: victory.
Soon, my son, we shall see each other again! When England has won I shall take you walking; hand in hand we shall go. From father to son, you have my word. I love you very dearly, and the war shall not separate us for long. She gives me reason to love you even more. When I am gone, departed for the field of battle in the deserts of Egypt, take care of your mother. Without her, the love between you and I could not have come to be. Soon, my son, we shall see each other again! I must go now, for I hear the whistles sounding. Look at all these conscripts boarding the train that will carry us to our final victory. Blood will spill, and some of us will die on the battlefield, and mothers will weep. The British Eighth Army will put an end to the cavalry rattling the continent and threatening our kingdom. She will emerge victorious. Bombs may fall on London, but she will remain undefeated.
Until we meet again, my son!
Alan Alfredo Geday
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