I am sick } {and am going on well.
wounded} {and hope to be discharged soon.
I have received your {letter, dated ...
{telegram, "
{parcel, "
Letter follows at first opportunity.
I have received no letter from you {lately.
{for a long time._
(The gentleman who designed this postcard must have been a descendant
of Sydney Smith. You remember that great man's criticism of the Books
of Euclid? He preferred the Second Book, on the ground that it was
more "impassioned" than the others!)
All the sender of this impassioned missive has to do is to delete such
clauses as strike him as untruthful or over-demonstrative, and sign
his name. He is not allowed to add any comments of his own. On this
occasion, however, one indignant gentleman has pencilled the ironical
phrase, "I don't think!" opposite the line which acknowledges the
receipt of a parcel. Bobby lays this aside, to be returned to the
sender.
Then come some French picture post-cards. Most of these present
soldiers--soldiers posing, soldiers exchanging international
handgrips, soldiers grouped round a massive and _décolletée_ lady in
flowing robes, and declaring that _La patrie sera libre!_ Underneath
this last, Private Ogg has written: "Dear Lizzie,--I hope this finds
you well as it leaves me so. I send you a French p.c. The writing
means long live the Queen of France."
The next heap consists of letters in official-looking green envelopes.
These are already sealed up, and the sender has signed the following
attestation, printed on the flap: _I certify on my honour that the
contents of this envelope refer to nothing but private and family
matters._ Setting aside a rather bulky epistle addressed to The Editor
of a popular London weekly, which advertises a circulation of over a
million copies--a singularly unsuitable recipient for correspondence
of a private and family nature--Bobby turns to the third heap, and
sets to work upon his daily task of detecting items of information,
"which if intercepted or published might prove of value to the enemy."
It is not a pleasant task to pry into another person's correspondence,
but Bobby's scruples are considerably abated by the consciousness that
on this occasion he is doing so with the writer's full knowledge.
Consequently it is a clear case of _caveat scriptor_. Not that Bobby's
flock show any embarrassment at the prospect of his scrutiny. Most of
them write with the utmost frankness, whether they are conducting a
love affair, or are involved in a domestic broil of the most personal
nature. In fact, they seem rather to enjoy having an official
audience. Others cheerfully avail themselves of this opportunity of
conveying advice or reproof to those above them, by means of what the
Royal Artillery call "indirect fire." Private Dunshie remarks: "We
have been getting no pay these three weeks, but I doubt the officer
will know what has become of the money." It is the firm conviction
of every private soldier in "K(1)" that all fines and deductions go
straight into the pocket of the officer who levies them. Private Hogg,
always an optimist, opines: "The officers should know better how to
treat us now, for they all get a read of our letters."
But, as recorded above, the outstanding feature of this correspondence
is an engaging frankness. For instance, Private Cosh, who under an
undemonstrative, not to say wooden, exterior evidently conceals a
heart as inflammable as flannelette, is conducting single-handed no
less than four parallel love affairs. One lady resides in his native
Coatbridge, the second is in service in South Kensington, the third
serves in a shop in Kelvinside, and the fourth moth appears to have
been attracted to this most unlikely candle during our sojourn in
winter billets in Hampshire. Cosh writes to them all most ardently
every week--sometimes oftener--and Bobby Little, as he ploughs wearily
through repeated demands for photographs, and touching protestations
of lifelong affection, curses the verbose and susceptible youth with
all his heart.
But this mail brings him a gleam of comfort.
_So you tell me, Chrissie_, writes Cosh to the lady in South
Kensington, _that you are engaged to be married on a milkman_....
("Thank heaven!" murmurs Bobby piously.)
_No, no, Chrissie, you need not trouble yourself. It is nothing to
me_.
("He's as sick as muck!" comments Bobby.)
_All I did before was in friendship's name_.
("Liar!")
Bobby, thankfully realising that his daily labours will be materially
lightened by the withdrawal of the fickle Chrissie from the postal
arena, ploughs steadily through the letters. Most of them begin in
accordance with some approved formula, such as--
_It is with the greatest of pleasure that I take up my pen_--
It is invariably a pencil, and a blunt one at that.
Crosses are ubiquitous, and the flap of the envelope usually bears the
mystic formula, S.W.A.K. This apparently means "Sealed with a kiss,"
which, considering that the sealing is done not by the writer but by
the Censor, seems to take a good deal for granted.
Most of the letters acknowledge the receipt of a "parcle"; many give a
guarded summary of the military situation.
_We are not allowed to tell you about the War, but I may say that we
are now in the trenches. We are all in the pink, and not many of the
boys has gotten a dose of lead-poisoning yet._
It is a pity that the names of places have to be left blank. Otherwise
we should get some fine phonetic spelling. Our pronunciation is
founded on no pedantic rules. Armentières is Armentears, Busnes is
Business, Bailleul is Booloo, and Vieille Chapelle is Veal Chapel.
The chief difficulty of the writers appears to be to round off their
letters gracefully. _Having no more to say, I will now draw to a
close_, is the accepted formula. Private Burke, never a tactician,
concludes a most ardent love-letter thus: "_Well, Kate, I will now
close, as I have to write to another of the girls_."
But to Private Mucklewame literary composition presents no
difficulties. Here is a single example of his terse and masterly
style:--
_Dere wife, if you could make the next postal order a trifle stronger,
I might get getting an egg to my tea.--Your loving husband_, JAS.
MUCKLEWAME, _No_. 74077.
But there are features of this multifarious correspondence over which
one has no inclination to smile. There are wistful references to old
days; tender inquiries after bairns and weans; assurances to anxious
wives and mothers that the dangers of modern warfare are merely
nominal. There is an almost entire absence of boasting or lying, and
very little complaining. There is a general and obvious desire to
allay anxiety. We are all "fine"; we are all "in the pink." "This is a
grand life."
Listen to Lance-Corporal M'Snape: _Well, mother, I got your parcel,
and the things was most welcome; but you must not send any more. I
seen a shilling stamp on the parcel: that is too much for you to
afford_. How many officers take the trouble to examine the stamp on
their parcels?
And there is a wealth of homely sentiment and honest affection which
holds up its head without shame even in the presence of the Censor.
One rather pathetic screed, beginning: _Well, wife, I doubt this will
be a poor letter, for I canna get one of they green envelopes to-day,
but I'll try my best_--Bobby Little sealed and signed without further
scrutiny.
V
One more picture, to close the record of our trivial round.
It is a dark, moist, and most unpleasant dawn. Captain Blaikie stands
leaning against a traverse in the fire-trench, superintending
the return of a party from picket duty. They file in, sleepy and
dishevelled, through an archway in the parapet, on their way to
dug-outs and repose. The last man in the procession is Bobby Little,
who has been in charge all night.
Our line here makes a sharp bend round the corner of an orchard, and
for security's sake a second trench has been cut behind, making, as
it were, the cross-bar of a capital A. The apex of the A is no health
resort. Brother Bosche, as already explained, is only fifty yards
away, and his trench-mortars make excellent practice with the parapet.
So the Orchard Trench is only occupied at night, and the alternative
route, which is well constructed and comparatively safe, is used by
all careful persons who desire to proceed from one arm of the A to the
other.
The present party are the night picket, thankfully relinquishing their
vigil round the apex.
Bobby Little remained to bid his company-commander good-morning at the
junction of the two trenches.
"Any casualties?" An invariable question at this spot.
"No, sir. We were lucky. There was a lot of sniping."
"It's a rum profession," mused Captain Blaikie, who was in a wakeful
mood.
"In what way, sir?" inquired the sleepy but respectful Bobby.
"Well"--Captain Blaikie began to fill his pipe--"who takes about
nine-tenths of the risk, and does practically all the hard work in the
Army? The private and the subaltern--you and your picket, in fact.
Now, here is the problem which has puzzled me ever since I joined
the Army, and I've had nineteen years' service. The farther away you
remove the British soldier from the risk of personal injury, the
higher you pay him. Out here, a private of the line gets about a
shilling a day. For that he digs, saps, marches, and fights like a
hero. The motor-transport driver gets six shillings a day, no danger,
and lives like a fighting cock. The Army Service Corps drive about in
motors, pinch our rations, and draw princely incomes. Staff Officers
are compensated for their comparative security by extra cash, and
first chop at the war medals. Now--why?"
"I dare say they would sooner be here, in the trenches, with us," was
Bobby's characteristic reply.
Blaikie lit his pipe--it was almost broad daylight now--and
considered.
"Yes," he agreed--"perhaps. Still, my son, I can't say I have ever
noticed Staff Officers crowding into the trenches (as they have a
perfect right to do) at four o'clock in the morning. And I can't say I
altogether blame them. In fact, if ever I do meet one performing such
a feat, I shall say: 'There goes a sahib--and a soldier!' and I shall
take off my hat to him."
"Well, get ready now," said Bobby. "Look!"
They were still standing at the trench junction. Two figures, in the
uniform of the Staff, were visible in Orchard Trench, working their
way down from the apex--picking their steps amid the tumbled sandbags,
and stooping low to avoid gaps in the ruined parapet. The sun was just
rising behind the German trenches. One of the officers was burly and
middle-aged; he did not appear to enjoy bending double. His companion
was slight, fair-haired, and looked incredibly young. Once or twice he
glanced over his shoulder, and smiled encouragingly at his senior.
The pair emerged through the archway into the main trench, and
straightened their backs with obvious relief. The younger officer--he
was a lieutenant--noticed Captain Blaikie, saluted him gravely, and
turned to follow his companion.
Captain Blaikie did not take his hat off, as he had promised. Instead,
he stood suddenly to attention, and saluted in return, keeping his
hand uplifted until the slim, childish figure had disappeared round
the corner of a traverse.
It was the Prince of Wales.