Your letters have been so splendidly regular that I'm afraid a gap of
three weeks may mean you've been ill: but I can't be surprised at
anyone at home breaking down under the constant strain of nearness and
frequent news. Mesopotamia and a bi-weekly Reuter are certainly
efficient sedatives; and the most harrowing crisis of the Russian
armies is only rescued from the commonplace by its unintelligibility.
Even the heart-breaking casualties, reaching us five weeks old, have
nothing like the stab they have in England.
Life here requires a Jane Austen to record it. Our interests are
focussed on the most ridiculous subjects. Recently they took an
ecclesiastical turn, which I think should be reported to you. The
station was left "spiritually" in charge of a Y.M.C.A. deacon for a
fortnight: and discussion waxed hot in the Mess as to what a Deacon
was. The prevailing opinion was that he "was in the Church," but not
"consecrated"; so far Lay instinct was sound, if a little vague. Then
our Scotch Quartermaster laid it down that a Deacon was as good as a
Parson in that he could wear a surplice, but inferior to a parson in
that he couldn't marry you. But the crux which had most practical
interest for us was whether he could bury us. It was finally decided
that he could: but fortunately in actual fact his functions were
confined to organising a football tournament and exhibiting a cinema
film.
He was succeeded by a priest from the notorious diocese of Bombay: who
proceeded to shift the table which does duty for altar to the E. side
of the R.A.T.A. room and furnish the neighbourhood of it into a faint
resemblance to a Church. But what has roused most speculation is the
"green thing he wears over his surplice for the early service and
takes off before Parade service." I suggested that it was a precaution
against these chilly mornings.
Gibbon has more to say about these parts than I thought: and I find he
alludes to them off and on right down to 1453, so if you haven't been
able to find a suitable book, I can carry on with that philosopher's
epitome.
A large draft has just reached us from India, 11 officers and 319
men. They are partly returned invalids, but mainly 2/4th from Quetta.
We shall now be a fairly respectable strength.
Cold weather conditions are almost established now. It is only over
80° for a few hours each day, and between 8 p.m. and 9 a.m. I wear a
greatcoat. A senior captain having arrived with the draft has taken
over "A" Coy. and I remain as second in command. There is singularly
little to do at present--about one hour per day.
I wonder if you know any of the officers in this push. There is Chitty
of Balliol, a contemporary of Luly's: and one Elton among the
newly-joined, said to be a double first.
They have made me censor of civil telegrams.
I see no prospect of peace for a year yet, and not much of our leaving
this country till well after peace. I used to think I wasn't easily
bored: but it is hard to keep a fresh and lively interest in this
flattest and emptiest of countries.
_P.S. Tuesday_.--The mail is in for once before the outward mail goes,
and it brings yours of 1.10.15. What you report about Charles Lister
is exactly what I should have expected. It is an element in all the
best lives that their owners are reckless about throwing them away;
but it's a little consolation to know that he didn't succeed exactly.
Most of my new letters are rather gloomy about the French offensive.
We used gas and we're held up: and we're being diddled all round by
kings in the Balkans.
Elton, by the way, was up at Balliol, a scholar 1911--and knows you,
though whether individually or collectively I know not.
Also one Pirie of Exeter has come with the draft.
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