Hoping this finds you well as it leaves me well. I am writing to
send you my address. (Then follows an address hopelessly wrong,
and most of which I had to censor). We travel first-class here--in
bullock carts. (The men were put in vans in the train--you have
probably seen pictures of them labelled: Hommes 40, Chevals 8. I
would rather be one of the chevals myself; we had second-class
carriages--the officers). Please send me some fags. The people
here don't speak English. I can't put as many crosses in as I
would like as the officers have to read them.
Much love, &c.
This is not an actual letter, but a similar one to them all.
Interruption. A knock came in "Monsieur il y a un soldat qui vous
demande" "Merci madame est-il dehas" "O oui Monsieur," Merci Madame. I
go and see. B Company Officers' valises have gone astray, &c.
When we were finally in bed and almost asleep comes loud knocking.
Brown puts his head out of the window. "For the love of Heaven, come
and show us our billets." B and D Companies have just arrived a day
later than us and their guide is deficient in common sense. We are
quite old soldiers now and past such excitement; we could billet
ourselves in China if necessary. However, Brown goes to help. To-day
we rose early and breakfasted at 10-0 off bacon and eggs (fried by
me), bread and jam. We have a company orderly officer, and it is my
turn to-day, so I had to get up and put trousers, coat and boots over
my pyjamas and to mount a guard at 8 a.m. and to dress properly
afterwards. We have cold baths out of a hand basin and shave. One is
very particular about shaving and all small details. The men have to
be kept as smart as possible, and it is laid down that shaving is most
important. If left to themselves they soon grow long beards, long hair
and dirty clothes. All the morning we spent in cleaning up. We swept
out the yard. They hardly know themselves now. The farm has never been
so clean before. We built an incinerator to burn all our rubbish; we
organised a Company Store, a cobbler's shop, and we have a qualified
cobbler to do all our repairs. We organised our rations, and collected
remains to make stews for the men. Constructed scrapers for boots
outside each barn to keep them clean. At about 12-0 a.m. the doctor
and C.O. came round with me and inspected our billets and praised them
as the cleanest and best organised in the Battalion.
This afternoon ammunition drill, &c., to smarten the men up. At 4-30 I
mounted our guard. Each lot of billets has its own guard; and we mount
them with all the pomp and ceremony a guard should have, so that our
guard mounting is really as impressive as that at Buckingham Palace,
and it keeps the men smart. Tea time, visitors from other companies;
afterwards the others go shopping. I am cook and mess president of our
little lot, and I give them a housekeeping list of what to purchase.
Then having nothing else to do I sit down and write the largest and
most drivelling letter I have ever written in my life, I call it No.
35. The next ought to be No. 135. Please tell me if it is too long. If
it bores you, censor it and pass it on. I hope it does not; tell me if
it does. Now:--
Cigarettes. Please give someone an order to send me 150 cigarettes a
week. I will send you a cheque for them any time. They may be either
Matinee, Abdulla No. 5 or No. 4. Sullivan, Savoy, Nestor, Pera, or any
similar brand. They might send vain attempts, but please get them to
send them regularly then and I will send a cheque. Letters will be
very welcome. Please give my love to all, and thank May again for her
cigarette case, it is awfully useful and much admired. Please ask her
to excuse a letter. Give Amy my love and thank her for her letter I
received a little time ago. Also, if you could let Auntie Effie see
this bit, or tell her I will try and write, I should be very pleased.
I am very happy, as you may gather, and it is the first real holiday I
have had for 14 months. We have a theory out here similar to Miss
----to wit, that there is no war. We have come to the conclusion that
the whole thing is engineered by Heath Robinson, Horatio Bottomley and
the Archbishop of Canterbury. Heath Robinson because he thinks humour
is decadent, Horatio Bottomley to advertise "John Bull," and the
Archbishop to cause a religious revival. How it is worked is as
follows:--Heath Robinson bought a chateau in Flanders and a Crimean
war gun. Then Churchill and the Kaiser came into the show. They bring
troops up to within 20 miles of Heath Robinson, who fires off his gun
every half hour. The troops are quite happy; if anyone grumbles they
are sent up to the trenches, where George Graves and Sarah Bernhardt
let off crackers. The battalion snipers are put in the opposite trench
and told to snipe the trench opposite them. Occasionally they hit a
man, and then there is a casualty list, and some General gets sent
home in disgrace. Gallipoli is another chateau near here.
If you came out in pith helmets the corporation sand cart spreads sand
in front of you, and you are supposed to be in Egypt. To accomplish
The Great Practical Joke, Troops are trained to exercise their
imagination. They begin by being soldiers in blue, and imaginary
uniforms. Then they do arm drill and imagine they have rifles. Then
they do Brigade operations and have an imaginary enemy, get killed by
imaginary shells, shoot with imaginary rifles, fire imaginary
cartridges out of imaginary guns. In the end there is Heath Robinson
and his gun. I can't venture to read this letter over, and I am afraid
no one else will. But my imagination is now so good that I can almost
imagine my little Mother doing so, if no one else has the courage to
do so.
Well the others have returned and common sense is returning, so I must
shut up.
Good night, little Mother, and much love to all,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
P.S.--I shall soon be home on leave as a lunatic.
11TH SUFFOLKS,
B.E.F., Wednesday, January 12th.