Privately Printed
1915
‘TRUSTY AND WELL BELOVED’
I
It was the Essex Regiment because Oscar happened to be reading history
in Essex when war broke out, and from that moment he just lived ‘to have
a plug at those blighters over the water.’ The nearest barracks called
him and he went no farther, finding his own way at once into the Third
Battalion. His Commission was one of the multitude dated August 15,
1914, but not gazetted for another month, and it was other seven before
Oscar ‘went with his enthusiasm to France.’[1] His last leave was on his
twentieth birthday, and a week later he wrote:[2]
I am waiting to go off any night now—I am longing to go—it _is_
a chance for us chaps, isn’t it? It is the one good thing the
war has done—to give public-school fellows a chance—they are
the one class who are enjoying themselves in this war.
At any rate Oscar enjoyed himself, from the very hour of his departure,
on an April morning as sunny as his smile, in charge of a draft as
delighted as himself. That night they embarked at Southampton, and the
Seine was a river of roses in the morning:
The country on each side of the river is lovely—great woods and
ravines with large old Louis XV châteaux perched high among
them, and then at the foot of the hills pretty little villages,
all looking so much _cleaner_ than our English ones! Then again
in the villages there are all the inhabitants standing outside
their doors waving handkerchiefs and even firing off guns to
welcome us as we speed up-river at well over 20 knots.... One
sporting kid in a village a little way back sang out ‘Are we
downhearted?’ and of course she got back a roar from us ‘No!’
... I have never seen country looking so ripping as this—at
_such_ a time of year too....
I sailed into Southampton yesterday and got my chaps 50 packets
of Peters’ chocolate to keep them going in case we run short
of Rations—which we may very possibly do. It is glorious this
rolling up the Seine to the cheers of the French on both
banks and our own men (of all _kinds_ of Regiments) singing
‘Tipperary’ for all they are worth!
At Rouen he continued to enjoy himself, even when censoring letters
at a five-hour stretch. ‘It is rather fun doing this job up to the
500th letter—then Tommy’s hand-writing and “love messages” get a bit
wearisome!’ But all his life it took a great deal to weary Oscar, and at
Rouen he found a variety of compensations for the ten days he was kept
there with his draft. There were sprees and sight-seeings, now ‘in good
company,’ duly detailed, again on ‘a bit of a “Tourist Stunt,” all on my
only oh’; there was Bon Sécours, followed by ‘a whacking big tea at a
Patisserie in the town’; the Cloche Horlogue (‘the topping big clock half
way along the street of that name which leads to the Cathedral’—itself ‘a
topping one’); also ‘a splendid little Restaurant we have discovered,’
and a certain ‘great dinner’ which ‘started on oysters and finished on
Crème de Menthe,’ not to add ‘a priceless Music Hall—awful _rot_ but very
funny.’ As a last resort there was the Divisional Mess, with its Irish
doctor (‘entertains us a bit!’), its gramophone, its ‘priceless birds’
with single eye-glasses (‘so the whole place twinkles like stars, on a
moonlight night!’) and a friend old or new at every turn.
I told you I had met Jack Power—well, on Thursday we visited
the Cathedral together and climbed the steeple, from the
top of which we got a splendid view of the city. Jack is
mad keen on bells, so we had a good look at the old bell at
the top of the Cathedral. Then yesterday we met again, and
visited the Church of St. Ouen—have you ever seen it? It is a
magnificient church—one of the finest churches which is not a
Cathedral in the world, I should think. Jack Power used to
be a ‘Church-crank’ I remember, so he is an excellent fellow
for this kind of thing! He is only just fit, having been in
hospital for weeks after coming back from the front unfit.
His great new friend was young Willoughby Rooke, like himself an only
son, his own age yet a veteran of Mons, severely wounded in the winter
and now on his way back to the trenches. Somebody had brought them
together as ‘mad fishermen’; but they found they had other enthusiasms
and some friends in common, to one of whom they wrote of each other,
besides themselves exchanging letters at the front. Through them their
respective people made friends in London; and long after the light of
each home had gone out, a film from Oscar’s camera, left behind at Rouen,
produced an excellent likeness of ‘Rookie,’ laughing, with the base camp
for background.[3]
In the meantime Rouen was ‘magnificient’ (as that hard-worked word
_would_ spell itself), but it was not exactly the war, and for all his
gaiety Oscar fretted for the front. ‘Still in Rouen, worse luck!’ would
come first, like the bad news he really deemed it for all concerned:
‘It is pretty sickening for you not knowing _when_ I am going up—but it
will be one of these days.’ ‘It is the absolute edge being kept here
like this!’ ‘All very well this slacking round here ... so long as the
_men_ aren’t sent up ahead of me I don’t mind so much—that would be too
sickening.’ The men—his men—are the child’s children all this time: ‘I
have 109 Essex under me—a fine crowd,’ says one letter; and another,
‘The Essex have the best reputation for good conduct here of the whole
division. They are a very good lot, this draft of mine’; and again,
‘My men are behaving admirably—and the Adjutant told (Capt:) Mullock
yesterday that the Essex gave less trouble than _any other_ Regiment—in
the whole DIVISION, mark you!!’ And for the last time: ‘I haven’t had a
single prisoner to bring before the Adjutant—and we have been here 10
days—a jolly good record—what? The Essex have wrought their Regimental
crest in broken glass on some sand at the end of their lines—it is a
beautiful piece of work—and they got leave to have it photographed
yesterday—I will send you a print if I can get one. This sort of thing
makes them take no end of pride in themselves.’ And the same night ‘an
order came down that every available officer and man should proceed to
the front,’ whereat Oscar exulted with a ‘Hoch! the Kaiser!! “Always
merry and bright!”’ and a final scribble as he entrained in charge of
his Brigade details: ‘This is glorious—my men are so cheery—talk about
the right spirit—they _have_ got it and no mistake!! Marched through
Rouen—2000 of us with bag-pipes playing. Love to you all. Oscar.’
The immediate sequel ‘just about put the asphyxiating lid on’; it was
also ‘the l-i-m-i-t,’ and everything else that Oscar could lay his pen
to; but some foul whiff had caught him by the throat and, within sound
of the firing-line, flung him straight into No. 3 General Hospital,
Le Tréport, with a temperature and ‘throat as thick as camp water and
rasping as a German bayonet.... If only it had been a nice little
“dum-dum” I should have felt on an equal footing with these other poor
chaps—instead of squatting there in the hospital train opposite them as
untouched as a new inner tube!’ It was all the more tantalising because
nobody knew better than Oscar that he was ‘missing no end of a scrap,’ as
he lay between unforeseen sheets, in the hands of ‘topping Sisters’ (God
bless them!) who gave him in spite of everything ‘a fine old time.’
I have just been writing some Rhymes of mine into one of the
Sisters’ books—in return for her lending me some Kipling books!
I get on like a house on fire with these ‘sisters.’ The ‘night
sister’ is my great pal. We have great talks when she comes
round of nights.
It was Rouen over again, without the revels or the sights: nothing for
it but to make the best of several more days’ unwelcome grace. This
Oscar did by sleeping prodigiously while he could, reading and writing
to his heart’s content, and presently exploring the green peace of the
surrounding country. His love of Nature, always intense, was indeed
never more demonstrative than towards the end of this involuntary rest,
when they let him roam as he liked but would not pass him for the front.
The weather was ‘divine’; more than once he took in fresh stores of
sleep ‘under the blue sky and boiling sun’ (the last thing a normal
Oscar would have done by day); finally, he heard of some fishing at
‘a charming little village’ near by, procured cheap tackle and ‘had a
perfectly heavenly time there,’ though not without martial qualms as
to the propriety of the proceeding. Twice or thrice he went, catching
nothing for his sins, till at last ‘the angelic French people insisted
on my taking a trout, which they had caught themselves that morning,
and exhibiting it at the village inn as _my_ catch! They were awfully
tickled.’ He was not, however, the only sinner; at least one C.O. kept
him in countenance (‘the old boy quite keen—had sent to good old Hardy’s
especially for a new rod!!’). Yet ‘it doesn’t look well, and ‘it seems
all wrong,’ and we were not to ‘say anything of this to _other_ people.’
This afternoon [his last] I and a Gordon Highlander took a taxi
down to Criel—where I spent 3 hrs. (glorious) fishing—weather
more heavenly than ever—no fish—but one of the most delightful
afternoons I have ever spent. Oh! it was heavenly down there! I
have got the address for future occasions!!
We had a top-hole drink of cider—real home-made stuff—at the
local inn by the river—then had a big tea on the way back....
This week will be a very happy one to look back on in one way.
It still is—to us.