September 19th, 1916.
Dearest Father:
I'm writing you your birthday letter early, as I don't know how busy I
may be in the next week, nor how long this may take to reach you. You
know how much love I send you and how I would like to be with you. D'you
remember the birthday three years ago when we set the victrola going
outside your room door? Those were my high-jinks days when very many
things seemed possible. I'd rather be the person I am now than the
person I was then. Life was selfish though glorious.
Well, I've seen my first modern battlefield and am quite disillusioned
about the splendour of war. The splendour is all in the souls of the
men who creep through the squalor like vermin--it's in nothing
external. There was a chap here the other day who deserved the V.C. four
times over by running back through the Hun shell fire to bring news that
the infantry wanted more artillery support. I was observing for my
brigade in the forward station at the time. How he managed to live
through the ordeal nobody knows. But men laugh while they do these
things. It's fine.
A modern battlefield is the abomination of abominations. Imagine a vast
stretch of dead country, pitted with shell-holes as though it had been
mutilated with small-pox. There's not a leaf or a blade of grass in
sight. Every house has either been leveled or is in ruins. No bird
sings. Nothing stirs. The only live sound is at night--the scurry of
rats. You enter a kind of ditch, called a trench; it leads on to another
and another in an unjoyful maze. From the sides feet stick out, and arms
and faces--the dead of previous encounters. "One of our chaps," you say
casually, recognising him by his boots or khaki, or "Poor blighter--a
Hun!" One can afford to forget enmity in the presence of the dead. It is
horribly difficult sometimes to distinguish between the living and the
slaughtered--they both lie so silently in their little kennels in the
earthen bank. You push on--especially if you are doing observation work,
till you are past your own front line and out in No Man's Land. You have
to crouch and move warily now. Zing! A bullet from a German sniper. You
laugh and whisper, "A near one, that." My first trip to the trenches was
up to No Man's Land. I went in the early dawn and came to a Madame
Tussaud's show of the dead, frozen into immobility in the most
extraordinary attitudes. Some of them were part way out of the ground,
one hand pressed to the wound, the other pointing, the head sunken and
the hair plastered over the forehead by repeated rains. I kept on
wondering what my companions would look like had they been three weeks
dead. My imagination became ingeniously and vividly morbid. When I had
to step over them to pass, it seemed as though they must clutch at my
trench coat and ask me to help. Poor lonely people, so brave and so
anonymous in their death! Somewhere there is a woman who loved each one
of them and would give her life for my opportunity to touch the poor
clay that had been kind to her. It's like walking through the day of
resurrection to visit No Man's Land. Then the Huns see you and the
shrapnel begins to fall--you crouch like a dog and run for it.
One gets used to shell-fire up to a point, but there's not a man who
doesn't want to duck when he hears one coming. The worst of all is the
whizz-bang, because it doesn't give you a chance--it pounces and is on
you the same moment that it bangs. There's so much I wish that I could
tell you. I can only say this, at the moment we're making history.
What a curious birthday letter! I think of all your other birthdays--the
ones before I met these silent men with the green and yellow faces, and
the blackened lips which will never speak again. What happy times we
have had as a family--what happy jaunts when you took me in those early
days, dressed in a sailor suit, when you went hunting pictures. Yet, for
all the damnability of what I now witness, I was never quieter in my
heart. To have surrendered to an imperative self-denial brings a peace
which self-seeking never brought.
So don't let this birthday be less gay for my absence. It ought to be
the proudest in your life--proud because your example has taught each of
your sons to do the difficult things which seem right. It would have
been a condemnation of you if any one of us had been a shirker.
"I want to buy fine things for you
And be a soldier if I can."
The lines come back to me now. You read them to me first in the dark
little study from a green oblong book. You little thought that I would
be a soldier--even now I can hardly realise the fact. It seems a dream
from which I shall wake up. Am I really killing men day by day? Am I
really in jeopardy myself?
Whatever happens I'm not afraid, and I'll give you reason to be glad of
me.
Very much love,
CON.
The poem referred to in this letter was actually written for Coningsby
when he was between five and six years old. The dark little study which
he describes was in the old house at Wesley's Chapel, in the City Road,
London--and it was very dark, with only one window, looking out upon a
dingy yard. The green oblong book in which I used to write my poems I
still have; and it is an illustration of the tenacity of a child's
memory that he should recall it. The poem was called _A Little Boy's
Programme_, and ran thus:
I am so very young and small,
That, when big people pass me by,
I sometimes think they are so high
I'll never be a man at all.
And yet I want to be a man
Because so much I want to do;
I want to buy fine things for you,
And be a soldier, if I can.
* * * * *
When I'm a man I will not let
Poor little children starve, or be
Ill-used, or stand and beg of me
With naked feet out in the wet.
* * * * *
Now, don't you laugh!--The father kissed
The little serious mouth and said
"You've almost made me cry instead,
You blessed little optimist."