DEAR Charles,--As the men, for reasons best known to themselves, will
suddenly chant on the march--"We're here because we're here, because
we're here, because we're here," goodness knows when (if ever) we shall
get to the Front; so this is yet another letter for you from the Back,
where we are, much against our will, kept to deal kindly but firmly with
the German invader as, home-sick and sea-sick, he alights gloomily on
our shores. If, by the way, I have given hints in this correspondence as
to the disposition of any part of our troops, it is a comfort to think
that the artful spy who gets hold of them will have the utmost
difficulty in making up his mind as to the real or fictitious existence
of (1) my Division; (2) my Brigade; (3) my Battalion; (4) my Company; or
even (5) me.
Meanwhile we are in a very difficult position, such as I believe few
soldiers have ever been called upon to face. You will remember how, four
months ago, we collected ourselves together in accordance with our
long-standing engagement to protect these islands against the foreign
trespasser, the condition of our contract being that our service should
begin (as charity should) and end (as charity often does) at home. In
the bad old days when I was at the Bar I should of course have known
that contracts are apt to turn round on those who make them; but now I
am only a plain soldier and I am unable to understand why I should be
made to stay at home when I desire to go and make a nuisance of myself
abroad. But the real trouble comes from this, that some six weeks ago I
received written and explicit orders to the effect that I was to sail
forthwith.
Suppose this had happened to you and you had been given special leave of
forty-eight hours to make all necessary preparations, would not you have
gone where your more impressionable acquaintances and friends were
gathered together in the greatest numbers, informing them of the
position and doing, on the strength of it, a quiet but irretrievable
swank? No ostentation, mark you, and nothing approaching a boast, but
just a suspicion of a brave careless laugh, a voice just slightly choked
with emotion and but a formal reluctance to accept the numerous and
costly gifts proffered by relatives who at less emotional times would
have grudged you a Christmas card?
We did. We went home and were made a fuss of; we took our leave and nice
things were said to us, tears welled, and hands, peculiarly firm or
peculiarly tender as the case might be, held ours for rather longer than
the customary period. With a brave "Pooh! Pooh! It doesn't matter in the
least," we went off at last, off amid deafening cheers to the unknown
future....
The following week-end we were home again as before, but, since the joy
of a temporary reprieve may outweigh even the annoyance of an
anticlimax, they were pleased to see us and gave us another farewell
only slightly less emotional than the last. But on the third of this
series of week-ends a note of insincerity crept into the "Goodbye, old
man," and the hand-pressure was slightly curtailed.
Alas! there have been even more week-ends since that. I trust it is only
our self-consciousness makes us think that we are looked upon as frauds,
who have obtained by false pretences the field-glasses, electric
torches, knitted wares, tears, hand-clasps and choicest superlatives of
our friends. It becomes worse as time passes; we do not go home now, and
we would even refrain from writing if we could hope by that means to
have our whereabouts unknown and our existence doubtful. If the
authorities won't part with us, they might at least give us an address
which would make it look as if they had--something like "Capt. Blank,
Blankth Blank Regt., Blankth Fighting Force, c/o G.P.O." What will
happen is that we shall go suddenly and without time to explain, and,
when our friends are told, their faces will cloud over, not with sorrow
at our departure but with annoyance at being pestered with the news of
it again. It is a hard life, is a soldier's!
One bold bad private informed our most youthful orderly officer, upon
being asked if he had had a sufficient breakfast: "Yes, thank you, Sir:
a glass of water and a woodbine;" otherwise personal idiosyncracies
become less marked, since individualities become merged in the corporate
machine. The battalion is cross as a whole, nervy as a whole, laughs as
a whole, almost sneezes or has indigestion as a whole. Recalling the
good old days of annual camps, when energy used to be rewarded with free
beer rather than demanded as a matter of course, the battalion as often
as not sings as a whole while route-marching at ease past the C.O.:--
"Nobody knows how dry we are,
Nobody knows how dry we are,
Nobody knows how dry we are,
AND NOBODY SEEMS TO CARE."
While the conduct of all of us becomes every day more disciplined, our
speech, I have to report with regret, becomes more loose. Emphasis is an
essential of military life, and it must be such emphasis as the least
intelligent may readily appreciate. Sometimes I tremble to think in what
terms I may inadvertently ask some gentle soul later on in life to pass
the marmalade, or with what expletives I may comment upon some little
defect in domestic life. My literary friend, John, has shamelessly
compiled a short phrase-book for our use abroad, reproducing our present
regrettable idioms. One inquiry, to be addressed to the local peasant by
the leading officer, runs thus:--"Can you tell me, Sir, where the enemy
is at present to be found?"--"_Où sont les Boches sanguinaires?_"
The other point of view as to going to the Front was put last Sunday
with unconscious aptness. At breakfast we had read aloud to us a letter
written with inspiring realism by a Watch Dog who is actually there and
seeing life in all its detail in the trenches. Having listened to it
with rapt attention, we then marched to church and (actually) sang with
unanimous fervour:-
"The trivial round, the common task
Will furnish all we need to ask...."
Nevertheless more to be feared than the enraged German is the sceptical
scornful Aunt of
Yours ever,