I dedicate this little volume to you in memory of your father, who, as
you know, fell on March 12th, 1915, in the Battle of Neuve Chapelle.
These Letters, which were written to me from France during the first
winter of the World War, do not in any way pretend to literary
attainment; they are just the simple letters of a soldier recording as
a diary the daily doings of his regiment at the front.
Often were they penned under great difficulties, and many a time under
a rain of fire. The accounts of the awful loss of life and the
discomforts experienced, both by officers and men unused to such
severe climatic conditions, are sometimes heart-rending, and they make
the reading sad.
Touches, however, of his natural cheerfulness relieve the greyness of
the situation, and at times one can almost hear the lightheartedness
of a schoolboy speaking.
Your father cared for his regiment as a father cares for his child,
and was beloved by it. He obtained his commission in 1885 at 18 years
of age, and was, curiously enough, the last officer to enter the
British Army with the rank of a full Lieutenant. Had he lived till the
following September, he would have been 30 years in the Royal Irish
Rifles.
A short sketch of his life and military career is given in this book,
and reference is made to the pleasure he took in being chosen to write
the History of his Regiment, completed in 1914. He was also devoted to
all kinds of sport as a pastime; but I will not write of these things;
rather would I speak of his great wish to win fresh laurels for his
regiment, and of how proud he was when, after the long, dreary winter
in the trenches, the Royal Irish Rifles were the first to enter the
village of Neuve Chapelle. But above all would I counsel you to follow
his example in his faithful attention to duty, fulfilling the French
proverb, "Faites ce que doit advienne que pourra."
He died as a true soldier, leading his men, and what better death
could be desired? He now lies in the British military cemetery of Pont
du Hem, midway between Neuve Chapelle and Estaires, not far from
Bethune in Northern France, and a little wooden cross marks the spot.