stand very much of it, however invaluable they pretended I was, when my pals
are dying out there. Poor old S.! He’s in my thoughts every hour of the day.
He was always getting new photos of his little daughter. He longed for a
Blighty that he might see her again. He was wounded, but stopped on duty for
two days. At last, only one hundred yards down the trench on his way to the
dressing-station a shell caught him. He was dead in an instant. Before the
Vimy show two of our chaps in the mess had peculiar dreams: one saw D.’. grave
and the other S.’.. Both S. and D. are dead. The effect that all this has on
me is not what might be expected—makes me the more anxious to get back. I hate
to think that others are going sleepless and cold and are in danger, and that
I am not there. When the memory comes at meal-times I feel like leaving the
table.
It was ripping to hear from you last night. Your letter greeted me as I
returned from the theatre. We’d been out with my major. At the theatre we
picked up with a plucky chap, named K., who belonged to the same battery as
B., to whom, you remember, I was carrying a present from some girl in New
York. The present which she was so keen should reach him by Christmas turned
out to be a neck-tie which she had knitted for him. On asking K., I found out
that B. was killed on October 31st. It’s the same story all the time so far as
the 18-pounders are concerned.
When Reggie leaves me I’m going to start on another book, Out to Win, which is
to be an interpretation for England of the new spirit which is animating
America, and a plea for a closer sense of kinship between my two nations.
Don’t worry about me, you’ll get a cabled warning before I go to France. My
major expects to go back in a month or two, and we’ve arranged to return
together if possible. But you needn’t get worried—I’m afraid I shall probably
spend Christmas in London.
XVIII
The Ritz, London November 17, 1917
Your minds can be at rest as regards my safety for a few weeks at least. I’ve
been collared for fair, but I think I’ll manage to get free again presently. I
suppose you’ll say that I’m a donkey to want so much to get back to the Front;
perhaps I am—the war will last quite long enough for every man in khaki to get
very much more of it than he can comfortably stomach. The proper soldierly
attitude is to take every respite as it turns up and be grateful for it. But
then I’m not a professional soldier. I think in saying that I’ve laid my
finger on the entire reason for the splendour of our troops—that they’re not
professional soldiers, but civilian idealists. Your professional soldier isn’t
particularly keen on death—his game is to live that he may fight another day.
Our game is to fight and fight and fight so long as we have an ounce of
strength left. My major and myself are all that are left of the officers in my
battery. A great many of our best men are gone. They need us back to help them
out.
Here’s a story of stories—one which answers all the questions one hears asked
as to whether the Army doesn’t lower a man’s morals and turn saints into
blackguards.
When we were on the Somme, a batch of very worthless-appearing remounts
arrived at our wagon-lines direct from England. When they were paraded before
us, they made the rottenest impression—they looked like molly-coddles whom the
Army had cowed. Among them was a particularly inoffensive-looking young man
who had been a dental student, whom, if the Huns could have seen him as a
sample of the kind of reinforcements we were getting, they would certainly
have taken new courage to win the war. All the officers growled and prayed God
for a consignment of the old rough-and-tumble knockabout chaps who came out of
gaols, from under freight-trains, and from lumber-camps to die like
gentlemen—the only gentlemanly thing some of them ever did, I expect—with the
Canadian First Contingent.
A few weeks later we sent back to the wagonlines for a servant to be sent up
to the guns, two of our batmen having been killed and a third having been
returned to duty. The wagon-line officer sent us up this fellow with the
following note: “I’m sending you X. He’s the most useless chap I have—not bad,
but a ninny. I hope he’ll suit you.” He didn’t. He could never carry out an
order correctly, and seemed scared stiff: by any N.C.O. or officer. We got rid
of him promptly. When he returned to the wagon-lines, he was put on to all the
fatigues and dirty jobs.
The first time we got any hint that the chap had guts was when we were out at
rest at Christmas. He’d been shifted from one section to another, because no
one wanted him.. Each new Number One as he received him put him on to his
worst horses, so as to get rid of him the more quickly. The chap was grooming
a very ticklish mare, when she up with her hind-legs and caught him in the
chest, throwing him about twenty yards into the mud. He lay stunned for a full
minute; we thought he was done. Then, in a dazed kind of way, he got upon his
feet. He was told he could fall out, but he insisted upon finishing the
grooming of his horse. When the stable parade was dismissed, much against his
will he was sent to be inspected by the Brigade doctor.
The doctor looked him over and said, “I ought to send you out to a hospital,
but I’ll see how you are to-morrow. You must go back to your billets and keep
quiet. The kick has chipped the point of your breast-bone.”
“It didn’t,” said Driver X., “and I’m not going to lie down.”
The doctor, who is very small, looked as much like the Last Judgment as his
size would allow. “You’ll do what you’re told,” he said sharply. “You’ll find
yourself up for office if you speak to me like that. If I told you that both
your legs were broken, they would be broken. You don’t know very much about
the Army, my lad.”
“But my breast-bone isn’t chipped,” he insisted. Contrary to orders he was out
on the afternoon parade and was up to morning stables next day at six o’clock.
When strafed for his disobedience, he looked mild and inoffensive and
obstinate. He refused to be considered, and won out. You can punish chaps for
things like that; but you don’t.
The next thing we noticed about him was that he was learning to swear. Then he
began to look rough, so that no one would have guessed that he came from a
social grade different from that of the other men. And this was the stage he
had arrived at when I got wounded last summer and left the battery. The story
of his further progress was completed for me this week when I met my major in
town.
“Who’s the latest hero, do you think?” he questioned. “You’d never guess—the
dental student. He did one of the most splendid bits of work that was ever
done by an Artillery driver.”
Here’s what he did. He was sent along a heavily shelled road at nightfall to
collect material from blown-in dug-outs for building our new battery position.
He was wheel-driver on a G.S. wagon which had three teams hooked into it.
There was a party of men with him to scout up the material and an N.C.O. in
charge. As they were halted, backed up against an embankment, a shell landed
plumb into the wagon, crippling it badly, wounding all the horses and every
man except the ex-dental student. The teams bolted, and it was mainly due to
the efforts of the wheel-driver that the stampede was checked. He must have
used quite a lot of language which really polite people would not have
approved. He then bound up all the wounds of his comrades—there was no one to
help him—and took them back to the field dressing-station two at a time,
mounted on two of the least wounded horses. When he had carried them all to
safety, he removed their puttees and went back alone along the shelled road to
the wounded horses and used the puttees to stop their flow of blood. He
managed to get the wagon clear, so that it could be pulled. He tied four of
the horses on behind; hooked in the two that were strongest, and brought the
lot back to the wagonlines single-handed.
And here’s the end of the story. The O.C. put in a strong recommendation that
he be decorated for his humanity and courage. The award came through in the
record time of fourteen days, with about a yard of Military Medal ribbon and
congratulations from high officers all along the line. The morning of the day
it came through thieving had been discovered in the battery, and a warning had
been read out that the culprit was suspected, and that it would go hard with
him when he was arrested. The decoration was received in the afternoon while
harness-cleaning was in progress. Without loss of time the O.C. went out, a
very stern look on his face, and had the battery formed up in a hollow square.
There was only one thought in the men’s heads—that the thief had been found.
There was a kind of “Is it I” look in their faces. Without explanation, the
O.C. called upon the ex-dental student to fall out. He fell out with his knees
knocking and his chin wobbling, looking quite the guilty party. Then the O.C.
commenced to read all the praise from officers at Brigade, Division, Corps,
Army, of the gallant wheel-driver who had not only risked his life to save his
pals, but had even had the fineness of forethought to bind up the horses’
wounds with the puttees. Then came the yard of Military Medal ribbon, a piece
of which was snipped off and pinned on to the lad’s worn tunic. The battery
yelled itself crimson. The dental student had learnt to swear, but he’d won
his spurs. He’s been promoted to the most dangerous and coveted job for a
gunner or driver in the artillery; he’s been put on to the B.C. party, which
has to go forward into all the warm spots to observe the enemy and to lay in
wire with the infantry when a “show” is in progress. Can you wonder that I get
weary of seeing the London buses trundle along the well-swept asphalt of
Oxford Street and long to take my chance once more with such chaps?
XIX
London
November 29, 1917
Here’s such a November London day as no American ever imagines. A feeling of
spring and greenness is in the air, and a glint of subdued gold. This morning
as I came across Battersea Bridge it seemed as though war could not be—that,
at worst, it was only an incident. The river lay below me so old and
good-humoured—in front Cheyne Walk comfortably ancient and asleep. Through the
chimneys and spires of the distant city blue scarfs of mist twisted and
floated. Everything looked very happy. Boys—juvenile cannon-fodder—went
whistling along the streets; housemaids leant shyly out of upstairs windows,
shaking dusters to attract their attention. In the square by the Chelsea
Pensioners, soldiers, all spit and polish, were going through their
foot-drill; they didn’t look too earnest about it—not at all as if in two
months they would be in the trenches. It’s the same with the men on leave—they
live their fourteen days with cheery common sense as though they were going to
live for ever. It’s impossible, even when you meet the wounded, to discover
any signs of tragedy in London. The war is referred to as “good old war,” “a
bean-feast,” “a pretty little scrap,” but never as an undertaking of blood and
torture. Last night there was strong moonlight, very favourable to an air
raid. When I bought my paper this morning, the fat woman, all burst out and
tied in at the most unexpected places, remarked to me with an air of
disappointment: “They fergot h’us.”
“Who forgot us?” I asked.
“The bloomin’ 'Uns. I wus h’expecting them lawst night.”
She spoke as though she’d had tea ready and the kettle boiling for a dear
friend who had mis-remembered his engagement. England has set out to behave as
if there was no death; she’s jolly nearly succeeded in eliminating it from her
thoughts. She’s learnt the lesson of the chaps in the front-line trenches, and
she’s like a mother—like our mother—who has sons at the war—she’s going to
keep on smiling so as not to let her fellows down.
All the streets are full of girls in khaki—girls with the neatest, trimmest
little ankles. The smartest of all are the Flying Corps girls, many of whom
drive the army cars in the most daring manner. When you think of what they are
and were, the war hasn’t done so badly for them. They were purposeless before.
Their whole aim was to get married. They felt that they weren’t wanted in the
world. They broke windows with Mother Pankhurst. Now they’ve learnt discipline
and duty and courage. They’d man the trenches if we’d let them. They used to
sneer at our sex; whether they married or remained single, quite a number of
them became man-haters. But now—that kind of civil war is ended. Ask the young
subaltern back on leave how much he is disliked by the girls. Babies and home
have become the fashion. I received quite a shock last Sunday when I was
saluted by one of these girls—saluted in a perfectly correct and soldierly
fashion. The idea is right; if they outwardly acknowledge that they are a part
of the Army, military discipline becomes their protection. But what a queer,
changed world from the world of sloppy blouses, cheap and much-too-frequent
jewellery, and silly sentimental ogling! England’s become more alert and
forthright; despite the war, she’s happier. This isn’t meant for a
glorification of war; it’s simply a statement of fact. The time had to come
when women would become men; they’ve become men in this most noble and womanly
fashion—through service. They’re doing men’s jobs with women’s alacrity.
There is only one thing that will keep me from rejoining my battery in
January, and that’s this American book. We have come to the conclusion that to
complete the picture of American determination to win out, I ought to go on a
tour of inspection in France. The Government is interested in the book for
propaganda work. The extreme worthwhileness of such an undertaking would
reconcile me to a postponement of my return to the Front—nothing else will.
All the papers here are full of the details of the advance at Cambrai. I want
to be “out there” so badly. What does it matter that there’s mud in the
trenches, and death round every traverse, and danger in each step? It’s the
hour of glorious life I long for; for such an hour I would exchange all the
sheeted beds and running bath-taps, not to mention the æons of Cathay. I can
see those gunners forcing up their guns through the mire, and can hear the
machine guns clicking away like infuriated typewriters. The whole gigantic
pageant of death and endeavour moves before me—and I’m sick of clubs and
safety. People say to me, “You’re of more use here—you can serve your country
better by being in England.” But when chaps are dying I want to take my chance
with them. Don’t be afraid I’ll be kept here. I won’t. I didn’t know till I
was held back against my will what a grip that curious existence at the Front
had got on me. It isn’t the horror one remembers—it’s the exhilaration of the
glory.
Cheer up, I’ll be home some Christmas to fill your Christmas stocking. It
won’t be this Christmas—perhaps not the next; but perhaps the next after that.
The young gentlemen from the Navy will be there too to help me. It’s a
promise.
I was present at the opening of the American Officers’ Club by the Duke of
Connaught. This club is the private house of Lord Leconfield. Other people
have presented furniture, pictures, and money. It costs an American officer
next to nothing, and is the best attempt that has been made to give a welcome
to the U.S.A. in London. It’s the most luxurious club in the West End at
present.
XX
London
December 10, 1917
I got a letter from the Foreign Office, asking me to go back to America to do
writing and lecturing for the British Mission. I’m sure you’ll appreciate why
I refused it, and be glad. I couldn’t come back to U.S.A. to talk about
nobilities when their sons and brothers are getting their first baptism of
fire in the trenches. If I’d got anything worth saying I ought to be out there
in the mud—saying it in deeds. But I’ve told Colonel B. that if ever I come
out again wounded I will join the British Mission for a time. So now you have
something to look forward to.
I hear though that permission will probably be granted to me within the next
few days to start for France to go through the American lines and activities.
You can guess how interesting that will be to me. I only hope they have a
fight on while I’m in the American lines. I suppose the tour will take me the
best part of a month, so I’ll be away from England for Christmas. I rather
hope I’ll be in Paris—ever since reading Trilby I’ve longed to go to the
Madeleine for Noël—which reminds me that I must get Trilby to read on the
journey. It’s rather a romantic life that I’m having nowadays, don’t you
think? I romp all over the globe and, in the intervals, have a crack at the
Germans.
After I have finished writing this book on the American activities in France I
shan’t be content a moment till I’ve rejoined my battery. I feel a terrible
shyster stopping away from the fighting a day longer than can be helped. This
book, which I intend to be a spiritual interpretation of the soul of America,
ought to do good to Anglo-American relations; so it seems of sufficiently
vital importance. I can’t think of anything that would do more to justify the
blotting out of so many young lives than that, when the war is ended, England
and America should have reason to forget the last hundred and thirty years of
history, joining hands in a worldwide Anglo-Saxon alliance against the future
murdering of nations. If I can contribute anything towards bringing that
about, the missing of two months in the trenches will be worth it.
I went to a “good luck” dinner the other night, which we gave to my major on
the occasion of his setting sail for Canada. Two others of the officers who
used to be with me in the battery are to be on the same ship. A year ago in
the Somme we used to pray for a Blighty—to-day, every officer in our mess has
either got a Blighty or is dead. It gives one some idea of the brevity of our
glory.
You’d love the West End shops were you here. I’ve just drawn down my blinds on
Oxford Street; I walked back by way of Regent Street after lunch—all the
windows are gay and full. Men in khaki are punting their girls through the
crowds, doing their Christmas shopping. You can see the excited faces of
little children everywhere. There doesn’t seem to be much hint of war. One
wonders whether people are brave to smile so much or only careless. You hear
of tremendous lists of casualties, but there are just as many men. It looks as
though we had man-power and resources to carry on the war interminably.
There’s only one class of person who is fed-up—and that’s the person who has
done least sacrificing. The person who has done none at all is a nervous wreck
and can’t stand the strain much longer. But ask the fighting men—they’re
perfectly happy and contented. Curious! When you’ve given everything, you can
always give some more.
This may reach you before Christmas, though I doubt it. If it does, be as
merry as we shall be, though absent.
XXI
London
December 10, 1917
I hope you feel as I do about my refusal of Colonel B.’. offer to send me back
to America on the British Mission. I was also approached to-day to do press
work for the Canadians. It seems as though everyone was conspiring to throw
tempting plums in my way to keep me from returning to the Front. I don’t know
that I’m much good as a soldier; probably I’m very much better as a writer;
but it’s as though my soul, my decency, my honour were at stake—I must get
back to the Front. The war is going to be won by men who go back to the
trenches in the face of reason and common sense. If I had a leg off I should
try for the Flying Corps. I may be a fool in the Front line, but I won’t be
finished as a fighting man till I’m done. They can keep all their cushy jobs
for other chaps—I want the mud and the pounding of the guns. It doesn’t really
matter if one does get killed, provided he’s set a good example. Do you
remember that sermon we heard Dr. Jowett give about St. Paul at Lystra, going
back after they had stoned him? “Back to the stones”—that expresses me
exactly. I hate shell-fire and discomfort and death as much as any other man.
But I’d rather lose everything than have to say good-bye to my standard of
heroism. I don’t want to kill Huns particularly, but I do want to prove to
them that we’re the better men. I can’t do that by going through oratorical
gymnastics in America or by writing racy descriptions of the Canadians’
bravery for the international press. I shall be less than nothing when I
return to France—merely subaltern whose life isn’t very highly valued. But in
my heart I shall know myself a man. There’s no one understands my motive but
you three, who have most to lose by my cripplement or death. All my friends
over here think me an ass to throw away such chances—they say I’m economically
squandering myself in the place where I’m least trained to do the best work. I
know they talk sense; but they don’t talk chivalry. If every man took the
first chance offered him to get out of the catastrophe, where would the Huns’
offensive end?
You’ve probably been writing hard at The Father of a Soldier, and saying all
that you would like to say to me in that. I’m most anxious to see the
manuscript of it. If you please, how could the son of the man who wrote that
book accept a cushy job?
I wonder if you’ve reached the point yet where you don’t think that dying
matters? I suspect you have. You remember what Roosevelt said after seeing his
last son off, “If he comes back he’ll have to explain to me the why and how.”
That’s the Japanese spirit—honour demands when a man returns from battle that
he can give good reasons why he is not dead. Others, his friends and comrades,
are dead; how does he happen to be living? In that connection I think of
Charlie S., lying somewhere in the mud of Ypres, with an insignificant cross
above his head. He won a dozen decorations which were not given him. He had a
baby whom he had only seen once. He was my pal. Why should I live, while he is
dead? I can always hear him singing in the mess in a pleasant tenor voice. We
used to share our affections and our troubles. He was what the Canadians call
“a white man.” I can’t see myself living in comfort while he is dead. It’s odd
the things one remembers about a man. We got the idea in the Somme that oil on
the feet would prevent them from becoming frozen. One time when Charlie was
going up forward we hadn’t any oil, so he used brilliantine. It smelt of
violets, and we made the highest of game of him. Poor old Charlie, he doesn’t
feel the cold now!
I’m afraid I’ve written a lot of rot in this letter—I’ve talked far too much
of a host of things which are better left unsaid. But I had to—I wanted to
make quite certain that you wouldn’t blame me for refusing safety. I’ve
relieved myself immensely by getting all of this off my chest.
XXII
London
December 17, 1917
I’m waiting for Eric, and, while waiting, propose to tell you the story of my
past few days. I think when you’ve come to the end of my account you’ll agree
that I’ve been mixing my drinks considerably with regard to the personalities
whose acquaintance I have made.
On Friday evening I was invited to dinner by Lieutenant C., the American Navy
man with whom I crossed in November. I met—whom do you think?—George
Grossmith, Leslie Henson, Julia James, Madge Saunders, and Lord C————.
I may say that Lord C————is not a member of the Gaiety Company, though I seem
to have included him. The occasion was really the weekly dinner given by the
American Officers’ Club; the Gaiety Company was there to entertain. I think it
is typical of England’s attitude towards the American Army that people from
such different walks of life should have been present to do the U.S.A. honour.
Lord C————is a splendid type of old-fashioned courtier, with a great, kindly,
bloodhound face. He had ensigns and officers of whatsoever rank brought to
him, and spoke to them with the fine manly equality of the true-bred
aristocrat. It was amusing to see the breezy American boys quite
unembarrassed, most of them unaware of Lord C————'s political eminence,
exchanging views in the friendliest of fashions, while the old gentleman,
keeping seated, leaning forward on his stick with one hand resting attentively
on a young fellow’s arm, expressed his warm appreciation of America’s
eagerness.