All the actual warfare he had seen as yet was a shower of shell (‘coming
in one after the other, like cocoa-nuts on Epsom Race Course’) in a
certain market-place at the end of April. Three weeks later he found the
same thing happening at the same place, and put it in his letter with the
same gusto:
What Ho! They are starting their evening’s shelling of —— just
behind us. Their 15-in. come with a noise just like an express
train—and they start on us every evening this way about 7 P.M.,
just by way of a little diversion after the day’s labours!
‘Boom /r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z/ _splosh!_’—there they go. And all
this goes on whilst the birds sing, cows moo—pigs grunt—and
all the other ‘beasties’ of a farm-yard perform—that is the
striking feature of it all, to me anyway.
The battalion was in billets after a very strenuous time. ‘Nearly all
the old crowd of officers are away wounded or worse,’ as Oscar put it.
His captain, his platoon sergeant, and his servant had all been severely
wounded; a second-lieutenant of his own standing had succeeded to the
command of B Company, and Oscar realised what he had missed. ‘Oh! how I
wish I had been in that scrap!’ he wrote, but added: ‘Tomorrow I shall
have my “blooding—”’ and at the thought: ‘I’m as happy as a lark and a
humming-bird rolled in one.’
* * * * *
Nearly all the rest is in the following letters and bits of letters, most
of them written in the trenches under fire, those to us being numbered in
the order of their arrival from the time he left.
(23)
The Trenches, 2/Essex Reg.
1.30 P.M. May 23, ’15. Sunday.
MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Well—here we are in the trenches—half-made and
generally in a rotten condition. The Regiment that was here before us
seems to have done nothing at all, except leave a mess of jam-pots etc.
We marched up here last night during a violent thunderstorm—I’ve never
experienced one like it—pouring rain and fork-lightning which lit up the
whole front. My word, but I’ve been ’ blooded’ alright! There was a lot
of confusion in the trenches which resulted in the Germans waking us up
a bit. We—that is me and my Platoon—are at present in the 2ᵈ line of
trenches supporting another Coy in the 1st line. The distance between
us is about 250-300 yards—and then another 400 to the German line.
During the night one could walk about in comparative safety outside the
trenches—but it was exciting work—as I had to supply the Coy: in front
with barb-wire and sandbags—1300 sand-bags—under a cross-fire from those
wretched snipers whom they employ so much. There is an old ‘Estaminet’
up in front (200 yards off), to which we have to get up these things.
There we leave them to be called for by the others. The Germans have a
nasty trick of sending up coloured lights—very brilliant—which reveal our
whole position. When we got up there! at 1 A.M. this morning—I and 6 or
7 men—they got a bead on us, and as they have a perfect range drawn on
the Estaminet things were lively. I may now be more cheerful and say we
have had no one touched as yet—but these men are magnificient—they don’t
care a —— for shells or anything—they scuttled about like rabbits all
night—digging bomb-proof shelters etc. But those infernal lights gave
the whole position away more than once. Of course, sleep is out of the
question in this sort of game—but I feel as fit as anything—though I have
never had such a trying ½ hr in my life as just before lunch-time when
some asses on the left of the platoon showed themselves and one of their
guns got at us—My aunt! but I was in a funk! How they never actually hit
us I can’t imagine. Shrapnel in front and behind—but no one was hit. The
worst of these shells is that you hear the beastly things coming directly
after they leave the gun—_whistling_ like a train (Our own are doing so
at this moment over our heads)—so the betting is then—where is it going
to land! I am absolutely cut off from the other Companies as there is
no telephone here—so have to work entirely on my own—and have a look
round directly it becomes dark.——and the other two platoons seem to have
vanished off the face of the earth—I suppose they are somewhere. I hope
so.[4]
Yesterday we marched off at 9.30 A.M. and went to Divisional H.Q’s where
we remained until it was time to move off in here at dark. Div: H.Q’s are
situated in a glorious old château (which has escaped injury altogether)
in a park which looks perfect in this month and in this weather.
6 P.M. now—they are shelling Ypres right over our heads—we call these
15-in. shells the ‘Wipers expresses’—‘Here comes the 6 P.M. express’ with
a hum like an engine exactly.
There is a farm house—quite demolished—just at the end of my trench and
one has to run the gauntlet to get there across the road and get bricks,
wood etc: for the trench. You may say ‘where am I sitting writing this?’
Well, I am in an improvised ‘dug out’ 6 ft. long by 2 ft. broad—covered
over with corrugated-iron. Very muddy and all that—but still a shelter.
All night I am working at digging the trenches and ‘dug outs’—seeing to
the barbed-wire in front of us—and getting provisions from the H.Q’s
behind our line. In fact we get everything ready at night—either for an
attack in the morning or protection from shell and rifle fire during the
day. We get more shelled in the 2nd line than the 1st—so that we should
not send help up to the 1st line.
Of course, in case the 1st line of trenches are stormed or ‘gassed,’ I
act entirely on my own in sending up assistance to them. There is no
evidence of their having a heavy time in front at present though. We have
an infernal sniper who has got behind our lines and is firing down the
trench from one end—we shall have to fix him somehow, I’m thinking.
It is a perfectly heavenly evening—birds singing and country looking
pretty in spite of the ruins with which it is dotted. The whole thing
seems more absurd and unreal than ever to me now that I am in the thick
of it. To think that this terrific din is going on incessantly down 400
miles of line is extraordinary.
My word—my dear Mummy—you should see me _now_—my coat and breeches!!
After splashing about on all fours round the country-side last night I am
some sight! The left knee of my bags is ripped across and I am _coated_
with clay. Once we get these trenches fixed up—with dug-outs etc: the
shelling won’t be so bad and we shall be a good deal more comfortable.
Well, my dears, I am longing for a letter—but am as happy as a
lark—because I know that although this is hard to stick at first—there
are millions of others sticking it too—and I can only liken it to
‘putting your left leg to the ball’ at cricket, as W. H. C. used to say.
Write as much as possible—Love to all.
Ever yr own loving son,