Chapter Text
The war had ended, in fact, in many people’s eyes it had been over for many months. Other’s didn’t particularly agree with that sentiment. The nations hospitals were filled with wounded civilians and army personnel alike.
There were young boys who never got the time to enjoy life before war broke out, who never told the girl they liked out on a date. Some had never even had the time to finish school. Some never got to finish their university degree.
Men were also abundant. Too young to fight for Britain under the first war. They were brought up to believe that their fathers had fought in the war to end all wars. It was never supposed to be another one. They had left their wives, girlfriends, parents and children. Some of them were poisoned by hate, but too few knew where that hate should be placed.
One could also find factory workers, who had been on duty when a bomb had been dropped. Too many of them had too few limbs left.
Medics, nurses and doctors also needed help from their colleagues. They had seen death one simply could never unsee.
There were wounds, missing limbs, broken bones and physical trauma as far as the eye could see.
Some troops had yet to come home. Hogging beds in French hospitals and churches. No one had been prepared for the masses. The never-ending queues of soldiers.
***
At a small school in England, one teacher had decided to do the little she could. She herself had lost a brother, and her mother claimed her father still woke up in cold sweats, decades after the previous catastrophic war.
She taught 18-year-old boys. Those who hadn’t been drafted but who rather were left behind. In just some months they would be amongst the first to start their university degrees after the war. In the hopelessness of it all, with BBC reminding them of the horrors over the radio each and every day, she had decided to challenge her students.
They were tasked with writing letters to veterans. They could sign with their name if they so desired, but it couldn’t be addressed. They would be delivered to the local British Army office, who in turn could stay responsible for the distribution to veterans.
She gave them 90 minutes to write up the letters, giving her ample time to correct some of their math homework. It was the last class of the day and she had told them that they could leave as soon as they were finished.
The first left after mere 10 minutes, having merely written down a couple of sentences.
“Thank you for your service” showed up in abundance. Only some of them had added their names to the bottom.
The next half-an-hour the crowd thinned down substantially. The letters piling up were now reaching length of a couple of paragraphs. These letters too, in one shape or another, thanked the soldier for their service.
With 30 minutes left, only one of her 20 students remained. Mr Pevensie, in the far left corner had spent an awful lot of time writing. Multiple papers were scattered over his desk and it all seemed to be a mess.
However, upon inspecting him further, the teacher found him in utmost focus. As the bell rang, Peter rose on his feet and gathered his papers. His utensils were put away and he handed her 4 sheets of paper.
“It’s not much, and I would rather have known to whom the letter was addressing. Given this I did my best. Good afternoon, miss” and with that Peter Pevensie simply walked away.
It was with great curiosity she started reading the letter he had left behind.
“Dear Soldier,
I wish to convey to you my utmost apology. I humbly apologize not only for what you have lost, suffered and endured, but also for what is to come. There is pain and cruelty in war, and it never ends when those in powers decide it is so. You didn’t know what you signed up for, and it doesn’t end when you’re told you may leave. The war has tormented you for the past 5 years, and in the process, it has claimed your life, from now till it ceases…”
***
A week later, the local office for the Royal British Army, received a parcel. It had been opened by a soldier, as the secretary still struggled with fear of letter bombs daily. One could never be weary enough. In it was a stack of letters and attached to the stack was a sheet with handwritten text on it.
“Hello,
I am sending you a parcel with letters my students have written to veterans. Please deliver them as you see fit.
Have a good day,
Miss James
Paddington Upper Secondary School”
They had received numerous letters to veterans after the war. Some had sent gifts, others money, but mostly what they received was letters. They knew that some of their veterans had lost it all. Some had no family members left, while others were so broken that there was nothing left to fix.
The pile of letters was brought to the Secretary’s desk. There they lied for nearly a week before they had any time to read them.
Each letter was inspected and read. Most of them ended up in a box, that whenever it filled up, was sent off to a hospital where it’s contents could be distributed accordingly to the veterans.
At the bottom of the pile was a thicker letter. The handwriting was exemplary, and some places the ink had started to spread, as if water had been sprinkled over it. Upon inspection, the Secretary got a faint whiff of salt.
Slowly, the Secretary began reading the letter. Unlike most of the other letters, this one started differently. It was written differently. As if it was written by someone who knew. But the letters had come from a school, which the Secretary could hardly understand.
“...
No medal of honor or praise will erase what you feel in your heart. What you have endured does not change. I would gladly bestow dozens of medals to you if I had even the faintest hope that it would help you.
No matter what I do or tell you, you have seen things which should not be seen. Heard what must not be heard. Felt what no one should have to feel.
You have sacrificed more than you thought you had. Given more than you had to give.
Still, you’re here. A damaged soldier, from a damaging war. I will not thank you for your service. How can we thank someone who has lost so much. No. But what we can do is apologize. From the bottom of our hearts…”
***
With suppressed sniffles, clenched hands and watery eyes, the Secretary knocked on a door. Besides the wooden door was a brass name tag. “Major Harrington”. A grunt one could only assume meant “come in”, came from the other side, and the secretary let themselves in.
“Major, a letter from the public has come in, and I believe you would prefer to read it yourself.” The Secretary placed the letter on the desk, excused themselves, and walked out the same door they had come in.
Major Harrington had seen much of war the past years. He was an old man. He had been drafted during the First World War, and had stayed within the army ever since. Even if they had told the public that the war on continental Europe had ended, he had never believed them
He had seen the League of Nations rise and fall and the Spanish Civil War tear a country apart. He had seen Mussolini and Hitler rise from where no one had expected, only to flip the world upside down.
Major Harrington simply knew war. He was a hardened fellow and was perceived as such.
The letter on his desk seemed to be something else than endless reports to do, so he opened it and read it.
Major Harrington had ever only cried four times in his long life.
The first when he was 8 years old, and he fell off his very first bike.
The second when he was covered to his knees in mud in the trenches, and they told him the war was over.
The third was when he married Mrs. Harrington, a girl he had met upon his return to England.
The fourth was when his only son had been born.
Today, Major Harrington of the Royal British Armed forces cried again. For the fifth time he cried, silently wiping away his tears, further contributing to the saline content of the letter in his hand.
“…
It doesn’t matter if you came home from the war today, last week or several years ago. Nor does it matter if you have yet to come home. You, more than others, are exhausted from the war. Yet the feeling that you didn’t do enough lingers.
Please understand that you never let us down, soldier. You aided your country in crisis. Men in suits and top hats decided upon the future of your life and you were never consulted.
We let you down. As a people, as a nation and as human beings. We forced you into a nightmare you can never recover from. We did this to you, and we owe you a most sincere apology…”
***
Within 24 hours, at the authority of Major Harrington, three separate printing presses across the United Kingdom had received a typed up version of the letter. It had no title but was addressed “Dear Soldier” and signed below with just the name Peter.
Three copies turned into hundreds, which in turns became thousands, tens of thousands and hundreds of thousands of letters.
It was folded up and placed in envelopes carrying the insignia of the Royal British Armed Forces. After a week the first letters were sent out. Veterans in the big cities such as London, Liverpool, Birmingham, Bristol, Edinburgh and so on received the letter in their mail.
The Royal Mail had received a tsunami of letters, and it took months for the massive amounts to die down. By feet, bike, car and train, the letters spread over the British countryside. At one point the veteran hospitals received more letters than new patients. The next weeks and months, every single British veteran they could account for, received a letter in the mail.
It did not take long for the conspiracies to begin. When the soldiers found out it wasn’t a letter just for them, but rather one that had been distributed to the masses, the questions rose.
They called it "Peter's Apology" and more people knew it by heart than were willing to admit it. Bit the questions started rising.
Who was this Peter?
In the beginning, some assumed it might just be an old veteran who himself had known war. This theory was however quickly discarded. Some also dabbled with the idea of it being a conspiracy from the army generals, in an attempt to please the soldiers now that the war was over and the unemployment rates sky rocketed.
Someone in the Daily Herald had suggested that it had come from none other than King George VI, but this theory had been laughed at more than any other .
Someone also suggested that it had come from a Peter in parliament.
In the end what had become the theory people preferred was that someone, probably a veteran, had sent it to the Army, who then had redistributed it.
Whoever it was, they held the British veterans’ utmost gratitude. In many homes, the letter had been framed and hung up over the fireplace.
***
Three weeks after Peter had submitted his letter to Miss Jones, the letter had been delivered by the mailman in the Pevensies’ mailbox.
Still unemployed, it was Mr. Pevensie who gathered the mail that day. Along with the paper and some bills he found the letter. It held great similarities to the letter he had received when he had been drafted.
His pulse quickened, and his breath started increasing its pace. He practically ripped the letter open. The sheets of paper were quickly turned to see if it held any information that would mean he might be hurt again. Whatever he looked for, he didn’t find it.
Therefore, the only imaginable next step, was to read it. He found his reading glasses and looked down at the paper.
“Dear Soldier,
I wish to convey my utmost apology…”
Mr. Pevensie shook his head. He was confused. After returning from the war everyone had thanked him. The army officials had thanked him and welcomed him home. Then he had been left to his own devices.
London’s streets were littered with veterans. No one had any jobs. Some were homeless. They were all looking for money. Some way to get by.
He kept reading. Never before had he read something with so much intensity. Before the first paragraph was finished, he was teary eyed, sniffling as he read.
The further he read, the shorter his breath and harder his cries. While he at the beginning had been standing, leaning to the wall, he had ended up sliding down and was now crying on the floor.
“…
England is not the home you thought it was. It will never be as you remembered. You might have returned, but this is not the England you knew. This is not the England you fought for.
The streets of London have been bombed in air raids, but it’s not the physical changes that are different.
You are.
While the army officials welcome you home, congratulating you on your contribution to end this war, your war isn’t over.
This world isn’t just, it’s cruel. The first part of the war is over, but the second has just begun. It’s a fight against yourself, and it will never end.
I am asking you, no begging you, to hold your head over the water and remember to breathe.
We’ve let you down soldier. But we do not want to lose you. You are not expendable. Not anymore.
My sincerest apology,
Peter”
***
An hour after the mailman from the Royal Mail had walked through their gates, Susan Pevensie did the same. It was 15.34 and she was, as always, on time. She had peaked into the mailbox to find it emptied and thus continued to open the door to her home.
“Hi Dad, I’m back” she called out.
There was no reply. At least not one that consisted of words. Instead she heard sobbing from the living room. With hurried movements she dropped her coat and bag.
In the living room, clutching his torso, her dad lied, crying on the floor. The tears were a never ending river and coated his face. The sobs echoed from his chest into the room.
Susan fell to her knees, reaching around her dad and she held him. Right now she was not only Susan, 17 year old girl. For Susan held him with all the experience of a Queen. A 32 year old Queen who had held her subjects when another war had ended. But the man in her arms was still her dad.
“Dad? Dad please. Talk to me. You’re here, I am here.” She whispered.
She kept holding him, and after long moments, she saw the letter he was clutching. Carefully she eased it out of his shaking hand. It was stamped with the insignia from the armed forces. That alone made her wince uncontrollably.
But there, at the bottom of the page she saw something that made her at ease. Tears started welling up in her eyes.
“…
We’ve let you down soldier. But we do not want to lose you. You are not expendable.
Sincerest apology,
Peter”
A smile grew on Susan’s face, and as her father started to sob again, she could feel him loosen up. Years of tension slowly melted away as he cried.
She leaned her head on his shoulder and chuckled as lightly as one would, given the situation, and thought to herself.
“He was always going to be the Magnificent”