to-day. All one’s senses are unnaturally sharpened for the appreciation of
both happiness and pain. You walk down a road where a shell fell a minute ago;
the question always in your mind is, “Why wasn’t I there?” You shrug your
shoulders and smile, “I may be there next time”—and bend all your energies
towards being merry to-day. The threat of the end is very provocative of
intensity.
It’s nearly dark now and I’m writing by the moonlight. One might imagine that
the angels were having pillow-fights in their bedrooms by the row that’s going
on in the sky. And there was a time when the occasional trolley beneath my
windows used to keep me awake at night!
5 a.m. The letters came last night. You may imagine the place in which I read
them—lying on a kind of coffin-shelf in a Hun dug-out with the usual buzzing
of battened flies and the usual smell and snoring of an unwashed B.C. party.
How good it is to receive letters; they’re the only future we have. After I’d
sent the runner down to the battery I had to go forward to a Gomorrha of
fallen roofs, which stands almost on the edge of No Man’s Land. Stagnant
shell-holes, rank weeds, the silence of death, lay all about me, and along the
horizon the Hun flares and rockets danced an impish jig of joy. When the war
is ended we shall miss these nights. Strange as it sounds, we shall look back
on them with wistfulness and regret. Our souls will never again bristle with
the same panic of terror and daring. We shall become calm fellows, filling out
our waistcoats to a contented rotundity; no one will believe that we were once
the first fighting troops of the European cock-pit. We shall argue then, where
to-day we strike. We shall have to preach to make men good, whereas to-day we
club vice into stupor. We shall miss these nights.
I glance up from my page and gaze out through the narrow slit from which I
observe. I see the dear scarlet poppies shining dewy amid the yellow
dandelions and wild ox-eyed daisies. I am very happy this morning. The world
seems a good place. For the moment I have even given over detesting the Hun.
With luck, I tell myself, I shall sit in old gardens again and read the old
volumes, and laugh with the same dear people that I used to love. With
luck—but when?
LXIII
France |July 19|, 1918
We’re all sitting round the table studying maps of the entire Western Front
and prophesying the rapid downfall of the Hun. It’s too early to be
optimistic, but things are going excellently and the American weight is
already beginning to be felt. It may take two years to reach the Rhine, but we
shall get there. Until we do get there, I don’t think we shall be content to
stop. We may not all be above ground for the end, but people who are like us
will be there.
My batman has just returned to the guns from the wagon-lines, bringing me two
letters and a post-card. They were most welcome. After reading them I went out
into the moonlight to walk over to the guns, and, such is the nature of this
country, though the journey was only 200 yards, I lost myself. Everything that
was once a landmark is levelled flat—there’s nothing but shell-holes covered
with tangled grass, barbed wire, exploded shell-cases, and graves. I can quite
understand how men have wandered clean across No Man’s Land and found
themselves the guests of the Hun.
I think I once mentioned the man we have cooking for our mess at present—how
he was no good as a cook until he got word that his wife had been drowned in
Canada; his grief seemed to give him a new pride in himself and since his
disaster our meals have been excellent. This morning I found a curious
document on my table, which ran as follows: “Sir, I kan’t cock without stuf to
cock with.” I was at a loss to discover its meaning for some time. Why
couldn’t he cock? Why should he want to cock? How does one cock? And whether
he could or couldn’t cock, why should he worry me about it?
Then the widower presented himself, standing sooty and forlorn in the trench
outside the mess. The mystery was cleared up.
The mess-cart is just up, and I’m going to send this off, that it may reach
you a day earlier.
LXIV
France July 23, 1918
I’m sitting in my “summer-house” in the trench. One side is unwalled and
exposed to the weather; a curtain of camouflage stretches over the front and
disguises the fact that I am “in residence.” For the last twenty-four hours
it’s been raining like mad, blowing a hurricane and thundering as though all
the clouds had a sneezing fit at once. You can imagine the state of the
trenches and my own drowned condition when I returned to the battery this
morning from my tour of duty up front. It seems hardly credible that in so
short a time mud could become so muddy. However, I usually manage to enjoy
myself. Yesterday while at the O.P. I read a ripping book by “Q.” with
almost—not quite—the Thomas Hardy touch. It was called The Ship of Stars, and
was published in 1899. Where it fails, when compared with Hardy, is in the
thinness of its story and unreality of its plot. It has all the characters for
a titanic drama, but having created them, “Q.” is afraid to let them be the
brutes they would have been. How many novelists have failed through their
determination to be quite gentlemanly, when merely to have been men would have
made them famous! If ever I have a chance again I shall depict men as I have
seen them out here—animals, capable of animal lusts, who have angels living in
their hearts.
To-day has the complete autumn touch; we begin to think of the coming winter
with its drenched and sullen melancholy—its days and nights of chill and damp,
telescoping one into another in a grey monotony of grimness. Each summer the
troops have told themselves, “We have spent our last winter in France,” but
always and always there has been another.
Yet rain and mud and melancholy have their romance—they lend a blurred
appearance of timelessness to a landscape and to life itself. A few nights ago
I was forward observing for a raid which we put on. The usual panic of flares
went up as the enemy became aware that our chaps were through his wire. Then
machine guns started ticking like ten thousand lunatic clocks and of a sudden
the S.O.S. barrage came down. One watched and waited, sending back orders and
messages, trying to judge by signs how affairs were going. Gradually the
clamour died away, and night became as silent and dark as ever. One waited
anxiously for definite word; had our chaps gained what they were after, or had
they walked into a baited trap?
Two hours elapsed; then through the loneliness one heard the lagging tramp of
tired men, which came nearer and drew level. You saw them snowed on by the
waning moon as they passed. You saw their rounded shoulders and the fatness of
their heads—you knew that they were German prisoners. Limping in the rear, one
arm flung about a comrade’s neck, came our wounded. Just towards dawn the dead
went by, lying with an air of complete rest upon their stretchers. It was like
a Greek procession, frescoed on the mournful streak of vagueness which divides
eternal darkness from the land of living men. Just so, patiently and
uncomplainingly has all the world since Adam followed its appointed fate into
the fold of unknowingness. We climb the hill and are lost to sight in the
dawn. There’s majesty in our departure after so much puny violence.
And God—He says nothing, though we all pray to Him. He alone among monarchs
has taken no sides in this war. I like to think that the Union Jack waves
above His palace and that His angels are dressed in khaki—which is quite
absurd. I think of the irresistible British Tommies who have “gone west,” as
whistling “Tipperary” in the streets of the New Jerusalem. They have haloes
round their steel helmets and they’ve thrown away their gas-masks. But God
gives me no licence for such imaginings, for He hasn’t said a word since the
first cannon boomed. In some moods one gets the idea that He’s contemptuous;
in others, that He takes no sides because His children are on both sides of No
Man’s Land. But in the darkest moments we know beyond dispute that it is His
hands that make our hands strong and His heart that makes our hearts
compassionate to endure. I have tried to inflame my heart with hatred, but I
cannot. Hunnishness I would give my life to exterminate, but for the
individual German I am sorry—sorry as for a murderer who has to be executed. I
am determined, however, that he shall be executed. They are all apologists for
the crimes that have been committed; the civilians, who have not actually
murdered, are guilty of thieving life to the extent of having received and
applauded the stolen goods.
We had a heated discussion to-day as to when the war would be ended; we were
all of the opinion, “Not soon. Not in less than two years, anyway. After that
it will take another twelve months to ship us home.” I believe that, and yet I
hope. Along all the roads of France, in all the trenches, in every gun-pit you
can hear one song being sung by poilus and Tommies. They sing it while they
load their guns, they whistle it as they march up the line, they hum it while
they munch their bully-beef and hard-tack. You hear it on the regimental bands
and grinding out from gramophones in hidden dug-outs:
“Over there. Over there.
Send the word, send the word over there,
That the Yanks are coming——”
Men repeat that rag-time promise as though it were a prayer, “The Yanks are
coming.” We could have won without the Yanks—we’re sure of that. Still, we’re
glad they’re coming and we walk jauntily. We may die before the promise is
sufficiently fulfilled to tell. What does that matter? The Yanks are coming.
We shall not have died in vain. They will reap the peace for the world which
our blood has sown.
To-night you are in that high mountain place. It’s three in the afternoon with
you. I wish I could project myself across the world and stand beside you.
Life’s running away and there is so much to do besides killing people. But all
those things, however splendid they were in achievement, would be shameful in
the attempting until the war is ended.
Between writing this I’ve been making out the lines for the guns and running
out to fire them—so forgive anything that is disjointed.
LXV
France July 29, 1918
I have just had a very large batch of letters to read. I feel simply
overwhelmed with people’s affection. I have to spend every moment of my
leisure keeping up with my mighty correspondence. The mail very rarely brings
me a bag which is totally empty. The American Red Cross in Paris keeps me in
mind continually. I had thirty gramophone records and twelve razors from them
the other day, together with a pressing invitation to get a French leave and
spend it in Paris. But your letters bulk much larger in numbers than any that
I receive from anywhere else. I always leave home-letters to the last—bread
and butter first, cake last, is my rule.
I must apologize for the slackness of my correspondence for the past few days,
but two of them were spent forward while taking part in a raid, and the third
at the observing post. It rained pretty nearly all the time and sleep was not
plentiful. Yesterday I spent in “pounding my ear” for hours; to-day I’m as
fresh as a daisy and writing reams to you to make up for lost time.
You’ll be sorry to hear that a favourite little chap of mine has been
seriously wounded and may be dead by now. A year ago, at the Vimy show, he did
yeoman service, and I got him recommended for the Military Medal. He was my
runner on the famous day. He’s been in all sorts of attacks for over three
years, and at last a stray shell got him. It burst about ten feet away,
wounding him in the head, arm, and knee, besides nearly cutting off a great
toe. His name was Joy. He lived up to his name, and was carried out on the
stretcher grim, but bravely smiling. You can’t dodge your fate; it searches
you out. You wonder—not fearfully, but curiously—whose turn it will be next.
For yourself you don’t much care; your regrets are for the others who are
left. Still, don’t you think that I’m going west, I have an instinct that I
shall last to the end.
I think I mentioned the pathetic note of the mess cook, which I found awaiting
me one morning on the breakfast table: “I kan’t cock without stuf to cock
with.” The history of our experiments in cooks would make a novel in itself.
The man before the pathetic beggar was a miner in peace times; as a cook his
meals were like charges of dynamite—they blasted our insides. The worst of
them was that they were so deceptive, they looked innocent enough till it was
too late to refuse them. You may lay it down as final that all cooks are the
dirtiest men in any unit. The gentleman who couldn’t “cock” earned for himself
the title of the “World’s Champion Long Distance Dirt Accumulator.” I was
present when the O.C. discharged him. He sent for the man, and was stooping
forward, doing up his boot, when he entered. The man looked like the wrath of
God—as though he had been embracing all the denizens of Hell. Without looking
up the O.C. commenced, “Where did you learn to prepare all these tasty meals
you’ve been serving us?”
“I kan’t cock without——”
“I know you can’t cock,” said the O.C. tartly; “you can’t even keep yourself
clean. All you know how to do is to waste good food. I’m sending you down to
the wagon-lines, and if you’re not washed by guard-mounting, I’ve given orders
to have you thrown into the horse-trough.”
Exit the “cock.”
Your letters mean so much to me. I feel that my returns are totally
inadequate. Good-bye; some great news has come in and the major wants to
discuss it.
LXVI
France July 30,1918
I’m writing to you to-day, because I may be out of touch for a few days, as it
looks as though I was going to get my desire—the thing I came back for. Any
time if my letters stop temporarily, don’t get nervous. Such things happen
when one is on active service.
It’s about two years to-day since I landed in England for the first time in
khaki; since then how one has changed! I can scarcely recognise myself at all.
It’s difficult to believe that I’m the same person. Without exaggeration, the
world has become to me a much jollier place because of this martial
experience. I don’t know how it is with you, but my heart has grown wings. One
has changed in so many ways—the things that once caused panic, he now
welcomes. Nothing gives us more joy than the news that we’re to be shoved into
a great offensive. It’s for each of us as though we had been invited to our
own wedding. Danger, which we used to dodge, now allures us.
I read a very true article the other day on the things which we have lost
through the war. We have lost our youth, many of us. We have foregone so many
glorious springs—all the seasons have sunk their tones into the sombre
brown-grey mud of the past four years. We have lost all our festivals of
affection and emotion. Sundays, Christmases, Easters—they are all the same as
other days—so many hours useful only for the further killing of men. “You will
say,” writes my author, “that the war, after all, will not last for ever, and
that the man and woman of average longevity will live through
threescore-and-ten years of God’s wonderful springs. That to a very minor
extent is true. The war will not last for ever; but the memory of it, the
suffering of it, the incalculable waste of it, will last for all that remains
of our lives—which is 'for ever,’ after all, so far as you and I are
concerned.” He goes on to say that there are years and years—but the years in
which a man and woman may know that they are alive are few—the years of love
and of beauty.
I agree with all this writer says; his words voice an ache that is always in
our hearts. But he forgets—life, love, youth and even beauty are not
everything. The animals have them. What we have gained is a new standard of
worth, which we have won at the expense of our bodies. To me that outweighs
all that we have lost. I spoke to you in a previous letter of the divine
discontent which goads us on, so that when we have attained a standard of
which we never thought ourselves capable, we envy a new and nobler goal, and
commence to race towards it. In one of Q.’. books I came across a verse which
expresses this exactly:
“Oh that I were where I would be!
Then would I be where I am not.
But where I am there I must be;
And where I would be, I can not.”
Discontented, ungrateful creatures we are! And yet there is nobility in our discontent.
By the way, over the doorway of my O.P. is chalked this sound advice—“Do unto
Fritzie as he doth unto you. But do it first.”
LXVII
France
August 13, 1918
I haven’t seen a paper for nearly a fortnight, so don’t know what news of the
Front has been published and can risk telling you nothing. Suffice it to say
that I’m having the most choice experience that I’ve had since I took up
soldiering. We are winged persons—the body is nothing; to use Homer’s phrase,
“our souls rush out before us.” This is the top-notch of life; there was
nothing like it before in all the ages. We triumph; we each individually
contribute to the triumph, and, though our bodies are tired, our hearts are
elated. We’ll win the war for you and bring peace back; even the most dreary
pessimist must believe that now.
I try to keep notes of the tremendous tragedies and glories which I witness
hour by hour, so that one day I can paint the picture for you as it happened.
All day I am reminded of that motto of the Gesta Romanorum, “What I spent, I
had; what I saved, I lost; what I gave, I have.” So many men have given in
this war—given in the sense of giving all. I think it must be true of them
wherever they are now, that they have in proportion to their sacrifice. It
should be written on the white crosses above all our soldiers, “What He Gave,
He Has.” What we are trying to give is heaven to the world; it is just that
those who fall should receive heaven in return.
LXVIII
France
August 14, 1918
I am writing to you in a lull—I may not have another opportunity for days. In
a battle one has no transport for conveying letters—only for ammunition,
wounded, and supplies. I’m stunningly well and bronzed. The weather is royal
and tropical and, best of all, the Hun’s tail is down while ours is pointing
heavenwards. One of my gunners was complaining this morning that it was “a
hell of a war.” It was the smell of dead cavalry horses that nauseated him.
Another gunner cheered him up, “Where’s the use of complaining, Bill? It’s the
only war we have.” That’s the spirit of our men. It may be a hell of a war,
but it’s the only one we have, so we may as well grin and make the best of it.
In the past few days I have seen more than in all my former experience. I can
visualize Waterloo now—and the last trump: the hosts of death deploying before
my eyes. That one still walks the earth seems wonderful. God is very lenient.
But there is nothing to fear in death—only the thing that is left is
horrible—and how horrible! But the things that are left are not us—we have
pushed onwards to God.
LXIX
France August 15, 1918
I keep on dropping you little notes to let you know that everything is all
right with me. It makes me very happy to hear from you; it always does, but
more so than ever nowadays.
You remember R.? A few days ago he was killed. He was just ahead of me, riding
up the road. I did not see his face, but recognized his square-set figure and
divisional patches. He’s not had much of a run for his money, poor chap. It
was his first show, but he died game.
How much longer have we got to go? It’s like a long, long walk, with no
milestones, towards an unknown destination. If we only knew how much farther
our goal lay, it would be easier. I dreamed last night of Kootenay, all green
and cool and somnolent. It was rest, rest, rest. One gazed through the
apple-trees to the quiet lake and felt happy in the too much beauty. But
please don’t worry about me.
LXX
France
August 17, 1918
I’m in the support trenches to-night carrying on with the infantry. This is my
third day and I am relieved to-morrow. Yesterday I had a gorgeous spree which
I will tell you about some day. I was out in front of our infantry in an
attack, scouting for the enemy. This war may be boring at times, but its great
moments hold thrills which you could find nowhere else. It may sound mad, but
it’s extraordinary fun to be chased by enemy machine-gun bullets. I’ve
recently had fun of every kind.
Once again death is a familiar sight—tired bodies lying in the August
sunshine. In places where men once were, birds are the only inhabitants
remaining.
In this hole in the ground where I am sitting I found a copy of the New York
Times for 30th June, with the first advertisement of Out to Win. Less than
thirty hours ago the Hun was sitting here and making himself quite
comfortable. I wonder if he was the owner of the New York Times.
I was relieved last night, and had a difficult walk back to the battery. There
were several letters from you all awaiting me. How tired I was you may judge
when I tell you that I fell asleep without reading them. For the first time in
a fortnight I had my breeches off last night. Up forward one got drenched with
sweat by day and lay sodden and itchy on the damp ground by night. But don’t
think we weren’t cheerful—we were immensely happy. There’s no game in the
world like pushing back the Hun. I had another example of how we treat our
prisoners. A young officer came in captive while I was shaving. “How long
before we win?” I asked him. “We are going to vin,” he replied. “If not, vhy
because?” Our Tommies started kidding him. “Say, beau, you don’t look much
like winning now.” And then they offered him water and food, although we were
short ourselves and his whole deportment was insolent.
During an attack, while I was within 200 yards of the advanced post and pinned
under a barrage, a Canadian Tommy wormed his way towards me. “Say, sir, are
you hungry? Have some maple sugar and cake?” Was I hungry! He had received a
parcel from Canada the night before which he had taken with him into the
attack. There, amongst whizz-bangs and exploding five-nines, we feasted
together, washing it all down with water from the bottle of a neighbouring
dead Hun.
You can’t beat chaps who joke, think of home, go forward, and find time to
love their enemies under shell-fire. They’re extraordinary and as normal as
the air.
LXXI
France August 20, 1918
To-day I have spent some time in composing recommendations for decorations for
two of my signallers who were with me in my latest show. One of the lucky
fellows came straight out of the death and racket to find his Blighty
leave-warrant waiting for him. Not that I really envy him, for I wouldn’t
leave the Front at this moment if there were twenty leave-warrants offered to
me. I suppose I’m a little mad about the war.
I’m still very tired from my last adventure and am limping about with very
sore feet—but I’m very happy. I begin to feel that we’re drawing to the end of
the war. The Hun knows now that the jig is up. He was going to have defeated
us this summer while the Americans were still preparing—instead of that we’re
pushing him back. I don’t think he will gain another square yard of France.
From now on he must go back and back.