I bought this little ‘souvenir’ in the town here yesterday and one for
G.M.
* * * * *
Not a word about the bombing to his mother, who was away from home, and
not to be alarmed if Oscar could help it. At Masongill, moreover, she was
in his oldest and very dearest haunts; and in billets he had time to join
her there in spirit as he describes. The trenches may well have seemed
the farther cry, that summer Sunday evening in the farm-house garden,
with the ‘glorious lot of letters and parcels’ hot from home. Yet his
bombing adventure was on his mind; he feared he had made too much of it,
and he now went vigorously to the other extreme, incidentally assuring
me that he was ‘as timorous as a cat,’ and closing the subject in a
characteristic letter to us both.
(60)
June 29th, ’15. 7.30 P.M.
MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—I gather that by the time this reaches you
[you] will both be at No: 7 again. I got Land & Water and a letter from
Masongill today.—Now _don’t_ get excited at what I described to you the
other day—those little parties for bomb-throwing are constantly sent out
by every Company—there is not an officer practically here who hasn’t
been out on one. I must have given you to understand that it was an
exceptional enterprise. Not a bit of it—it was a jolly interesting one
for the first time over—but as regards danger I may as well say that
there is much more of that to be met with every day that we are shelled
to any extent than there is in going up, so to speak, to a man’s front
door bell—pulling it—and running off again—as we used to do in Pitt
St:! I want you to realize that the ‘nearer you are to the enemy here
the safer it is’—this sounds paradoxical—but anyone will tell you that
it’s true. I don’t give you long descriptions of being under shell-fire,
but believe me I would rather _live_ 20 yards in the open in front of
the Bosches than experience such a bombardment, say, as we had on the
24th May. This bombing lends itself to picturesque descriptions and
all that, but it is merely the thrill of being, as you say, on another
man’s doorstep which counts. If the risk were any greater than sitting
in the trench with bullets flying round you can be sure we should never
be allowed to go out at all—as the C.O. wants every officer he has
got—and the _effect_ on the Germans of these local scraps is merely a
moral one—makes them more careful and shows them that we still have our
initiative—so much talked of. Very seldom do we actually attempt to
destroy a certain position—machine-gun emplacement for instance—as the
artillery (when they’re awake) do that for us. Well, enough for that—but
please bear in mind that I’m _jolly_ careful about myself—recklessness
is not encouraged out here, and a fellow is merely considered a fool,
as fool he jolly well is, if he doesn’t keep himself safe for his job,
which—after all is said and done—is not to provide a shooting range but
to look after his men. Amen! Here endeth the _first_ lesson!
Nothing doing today—a good deal of artillery activity though—my word
these Bosches do waste their shells—I really don’t think they intend in
Germany to carry this war on another winter—esp: when they are on such an
excellent footing for diplomatic moves as now—with Russia well fenced in
derrière Lemberg—but will we let ’em come to any terms whatever—that’s
the question—I don’t think we shall ever be such _dolts_—do you? This
morning I was just going to have a shave and brush-up when Jones appeared
and Gen: Anley a little later—not much to say—the former—and when the
Tin-hat came to view I slid down a communication trench—not my place
among the High and Almighty! Since then I have had my spring cleaning
and a good look at the front line trenches with those very excellent
glasses of Uncle C’s. It’s funny the way they start shelling here.
All is quiet—then suddenly some wretched little spit-fire sends a few
‘Very little Willies’ over their trenches. A few mins: elapse then come
some Hairy Maries—intended for the officious little offender—which
generally plop round the reserve trenches sending up a ‘bush’ of black
acrid smoke. Then the wily dogs send in a few ‘Whiz-bangs’ (so called
since they burst before they even seem to leave the muzzle) which
make our fellows wild—then the Germans get properly into their stride
and—boom-boom-splosh-splosh is the order of the next few moments—being
answered by our fellows with sickening little shrapnels which would
hardly knock a sandbag over—You will see from this that Fritz has his own
way here _at present_—but that is merely because we are saving our high
explosive for when it is really needed—in a show.—All the same it makes
one wild with rage. When we _do_ get going of course ‘it ain’t no jam for
Tommy—but it’s kites and crows for him!’ (and heaps of ’em too!).
Well—my anxious ones—I laid it on a bit thick in my last long
effort—believe me it is possible for AOH to exaggerate!
Much love—Tinned Fruit and all your food just _the thing_! (_Watch_ ready
yet?)