Vox Meditantis

Wednesday, 18th November 1942

You stand here at the edge and you ask me, as young fellows will when they’re waiting, “What is your favourite month of the year?” As though a man of my years still keeps favourites, as though the calendar means anything beyond the count of days we’re given and the tally of those we’ve spent. But I’ll answer you straight: November. Always November, if I must choose. Not for any joy it brings – there’s precious little of that in these short days and long nights – but because it tells the truth. No false promises in November. The leaves are down, the ground is hard, and what you see is what there is. A man knows where he stands in November.

We’re at the threshold now, you and I and all the rest. You’ll cross over in the morning, and I’ll stay on this side, as I’ve done these forty-odd months while better men than I go forward. That’s the arrangement, that’s my duty, and I don’t question it, though God knows there are nights when the accounting troubles me. Three years we’ve been at this business, and the butcher’s bill grows longer every week. Stalingrad bleeds, the desert takes its share, and the sea – well, the sea keeps its own counsel and gives nothing back.

You’re thinking I’m meant to send you off with brave words, something to stiffen the spine. I won’t insult you with that. You know what’s required. You know the cost. Every man who’s stood where you’re standing now has known it, and they’ve gone forward all the same, because that’s what’s asked of them. Sacrifice. That word gets spoken in churches and at recruiting stations, gets printed in the papers, but here at the water’s edge it means something plainer: you go, and perhaps you don’t come back. Your mother’s son, your father’s hope, your sweetheart’s tomorrow – all of it wagered on a throw you didn’t choose and can’t control.

I’ve watched them go, week after week, month after month. The harbour at night is a void, lad. Blacked out, no lights showing, just the sound of water against the quayside and the creak of ships being loaded. You look out there and it’s like staring into an abyss, black as judgment, and somewhere beyond it there’s France, there’s the enemy, there’s the whole bloody Continent waiting. And I think: how many have we sent into that darkness? How many have we fed to it? And still it asks for more.

Don’t mistake me. I’m not saying it shouldn’t be done. I’m not one of those fellows who questions the necessity. But necessity is a cold master, and it demands we look clearly at what we’re spending. Young lives, old certainties, the world we knew – all of it going into the furnace to keep the flame alive a little longer. And the terrible thing, the thing that wakes me at three in the morning, is that we don’t know the price until after we’ve paid it. We send you forward not knowing if it’s enough, not knowing if it’ll make the difference, only knowing that if we don’t send you, we’ll surely lose.

That’s why November suits me. It doesn’t pretend. It doesn’t dress things up in summer colours or spring optimism. It says: winter is coming, the hard season is upon us, and we’ll endure it or we won’t. There’s a kind of mercy in that honesty, harsh as it is. Better than April’s lies or June’s false comfort. November tells you to prepare, to count your stores, to look at what you have and measure it against what’s needed. And if the reckoning is grim – well, at least you know it.

You’ll cross at dawn. The crossing itself is just water and time, but what’s on the other side – that’s where the true accounting happens. Every man makes his own peace with it in his own way. Some pray, some write letters they hope won’t need to be sent, some just go quiet and look inward at whatever reserves they’re drawing on. I can’t tell you which is right. I can only tell you this: when you go over, go knowing what you’re spending and why. Don’t squander it. Don’t waste the coin of your life on foolishness or false courage. Be afraid if you must – there’s no shame in honest fear – but go forward all the same. That’s the bargain. That’s the cost. And God help us, we’re all paying it, those who cross and those who remain to send others across.

The abyss is patient. It’ll still be there in the morning, and the morning after, waiting for its due. All we can do is face it clear-eyed, without flinching, and trust that the sum of what we spend will be enough to purchase what we’re fighting for. Though I confess, on nights like this, I no longer know if I believe that, or if I’m simply beyond the luxury of doubt.

Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.