CHAPTER XII

PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS

_Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,

Not light them for themselves._

SHAKESPEARE: "MEASURE FOR MEASURE."

_Man he loved

As man; and, to the mean and the obscure

And all the homely in their homely works,

Transferred a courtesy which had no air

Of condescension....

A kind of radiant joy

Diffused around him._

WORDSWORTH: "THE PRELUDE."

Paul Jones was a prodigious worker. What he accomplished in his brief

life is proof that he did not waste his time. He had an abnormal

capacity for prolonged exertion, whether at work or at play. Such was

the vigour of his physical frame that he was usually fresh even at the

end of a hard-fought game of football. In fact, he hardly knew what

physical fatigue was; and only once, when he was suffering from a

chill, and had to sit for his senior scholarship examination, do I

recollect his exhibiting any sign of mental fag. He found rest in

change of employment. Athletic exercises were a natural antidote to

his strenuous intellectual work; and music lifted him into the region

of pure emotion and soothed his soul with the concord of sweet sounds.

[Illustration: Paul Jones in his 19th Year.]

Though he had read widely and reflected much on human life and

destiny, he wore his culture as lightly as a flower. Even after he had

left college, he retained the sunny outlook, the gladsomeness and the

bloom of boyhood. Wherever he went he carried with him an

atmosphere of joy. Fresh ingenuousness and glowing enthusiasm were

part of his charm. There was a rich vein of the romantic in his

character, but the cast of his mind was philosophical. He had no

patience with superficiality masquerading as wisdom, and was quick to

detect a fallacy in reasoning. A shining trait in him was

truthfulness. He would never compromise or palter with the truth,

either by way of suppression, or exaggeration, or casuistical

refinement. What Carlyle said of John Sterling applied with remarkable

exactitude to Paul Jones: "True above all one may call him; a man of

perfect veracity in thought, word and deed; there was no guile or

baseness anywhere found in him. Transparent as crystal, he could not

hide anything sinister if such there had been to hide."

Affectations in speech or manner, and what schoolboys call "side" or

"swank," he abhorred. His free-ranging mind loved to explore and

inquire, and he would not be hindered from questionings by the weight of

any convention, or the force of any authority. He obeyed Emerson's

maxim: "Speak as you think; be what you are." From the vice of envy he

was entirely free. His generous spirit loved to praise others, and he

was rather prone to self-depreciation. A lenient judge of the actions of

other individuals, he was a stern and exacting critic of his own. He had

a lofty sense of his personal duty and responsibility; and if ever, or

in anything, he fell short of his self-prescribed standard he would, so

to say, whip himself with cords. From his boyhood he was distinguished

by an extreme conscientiousness. "His chastity of honour felt a stain

like a wound." To him conscience was to be reverenced and obeyed as

"God's most intimate presence in the soul, and His most perfect image in

the world." He had a passionate hatred of injustice, and the very

thought of cruelty to human beings or to dumb animals made him aflame

with anger. A master or a games captain who allowed himself to be

influenced by favouritism he despised. Naturally quick-tempered and

impatient, he tried hard to curb these propensities, not always with

success; but if he had wounded or wronged anybody, he was eager to

atone. Quiet and self-contained in strange company, he was joyous and

witty among kindred souls. His manners were cordial and considerate.

Servants--how he hated the name!--adored him, and he was always at ease

among the working-classes. He was essentially a man's man. To women his

attitude was reverential, but he was shy and embarrassed in young

feminine society. He used to say apologetically, "I have no small talk,"

and from the vacuity of the average drawing-room chatter he would

silently steal away.

For religious dogmas he cared nothing, but he bowed in reverent homage

before the Christ. From some marginal notes he has made on Froude's

essay on Newman's "Grammar of Assent," I take these quotations: "After

all, what matter what our dogmas if we really follow the example of

great teachers like Christ, who had nothing to do with creeds or

ritual?" "Every man should be his own priest." The Sermon on the Mount

was his religion. One of his favourite Scriptural texts was the

familiar one from the Epistle of St. James (i, 27): "Pure religion and

undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless

and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the

world."

Froude in one of his essays writes of the necessity for a campaign

against administrative incapacity, against swindling and cheating,

against drunkenness and uncleanliness, against hunger, squalor and

misery. "Hear, hear," is Paul's comment; "this should be England's

war." His tastes were extremely simple. He disliked luxurious modes

of living, and really enjoyed roughing it. During his twenty-seven

months in the Army he never uttered a complaint as to the conditions;

discomfort and hardship seemed only to heighten his cheerfulness. He

was a non-smoker, and virtually a teetotaller, but in France, when

pure drinking water was unobtainable, he used to take wine at dinner.

Though he set no store on money, he was so frugal in habit and spent

so little on himself that he always had money at his command. Giving

was a joy to him. Blest with perfect health, he was not absent from

duty through indisposition for a single day in his two years'

campaigning.

Paul had in eminent degree the gift of personality. There was

something magnetic about him, and in any company he compelled

attention. His whole being conveyed an impression of exuberant energy.

Strength of will, serenity and good temper were expressed in his

countenance. Wherever he went he attracted responsibility to himself.

Sometimes the burden assigned to him was uncongenial; none the less,

he would shoulder it manfully.

Except for the defect of short sight he was a splendid example of the

_mens sana in corpore sano_. On one occasion, in 1911, returning from

a visit to Canterbury Cathedral, we had as fellow-passenger in the

train a medical practitioner of the old school with whom my wife and I

had an agreeable conversation. I noted that from time to time he was

closely observing Paul, then a boy of fifteen. Presently he asked him

to stand up, passed his hands over his back and shoulders, tapped his

chest, and noted his big bare knees. "Heavens!" exclaimed the old

doctor, "what a magnificent boy! He will grow to be a glorious man. I

have never seen such physique or such vitality." This expert opinion

was borne out by our son's physical growth in the next three years.

Athletic exercises assisted in the development of a physique that was

naturally strong. In his nineteenth year he was six feet in height,

and measured thirty-nine inches round the chest. He had exceptionally

broad shoulders. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh weighed on the

sinewy, supple frame. There was about him the fragrance, radiant

vitality and ease of poise that are characteristic of the athlete in

the pink of condition.

Though moulded on a big scale, he was very alert in movement, and had

an easy swinging carriage. The head was large, hair rich and abundant,

complexion fair, the face round and full, forehead high and spacious,

cheeks ruddy with the glow of health, the mouth firm and kind,

revealing when he smiled a perfect set of teeth; the aspect bold and

noble; grey eyes shone like stars behind his gold-rimmed glasses. A

smile of enchanting sweetness often played about the strong, handsome

face. His voice had a caressing note; his laugh was loud, hearty and

musical. Thanks to his abounding health, neither appetite nor sleep

ever failed him. He had only to place his head on the pillow and sleep

came to him on the instant, and he would not stir for eight or nine

hours. As an infant he often slept twenty hours a day. This precious

gift of sleep remained with him to the end; and in a letter to me in

June, 1917, he humorously remarked that though not far away at the

time, he slept undisturbed by the earth-rending explosion that

preceded our capture of the Messines Ridge. His outstanding

characteristic was massiveness--he was massive in physique, in

intellect, in character. He had the ingenuous simplicity that is often

associated with a big physical frame. In him a modest, unpretending

nature was linked to a great soul. In judgment he was very sagacious,

and for all his idealism there was a shrewd practical side to him. A

boyish zest remained to the last one of his principal characteristics.

In the winter of 1916 we moved into a new house which my wife planned

with special regard to the tastes of our two boys. Alas for these fond

plannings! Paul never saw our new home, never worked in the pleasant

library arranged specially for him, never entered the cosy little room

garnished with his athletic trophies and adorned with those engravings

of Beethoven and Wagner which he so much loved. His last visit home

was in May, 1916. He declined leave at the end of 1916 from a fear

that if he took it he might lose the opportunity of transferring from

the A.S.C. The same spirit of devotion made him, when he was appointed

to the Tank Corps, elect to be trained in France, instead of coming to

England. I think that at last he almost dreaded taking leave lest a

visit home might weaken his resolve to walk the sacrificial road. It

was only after his death that we learnt from his brother officers in

the 2nd Cavalry Brigade that he had often told them he was convinced

he would not survive the War. That conviction seemed only to

strengthen his determination to get into the fighting-line. A voice

within told him his place was in the heart of the combat and he obeyed

its monition with joyful alacrity. From the time he joined the Tank

Corps a sort of divine content filled his soul.

Paul found and gave great happiness in his own home. Never moody or

despondent, his sunny disposition made him like a glory in the house.

He enjoyed nothing better than a frolic with his younger brother, of

whom he was devotedly fond. A racy and witty talker, he loved an

argument. Many a verbal joust he and I had together. Our views did not

always concur. We differed in opinion on many matters, including our

estimates of eminent men, alive and dead. For example, my son did not

share my contempt for Rousseau; nor could I share his admiration for

Frederick the Great and Napoleon, those ruffians of genius who wrought

so much evil in the world. Paul, however, adored men of action, and he

forgot the crimes and moral defects of Napoleon and Frederick in

contemplating the splendour of their achievements. Austere though his

own morals were, he nevertheless held that a man capable of great

service to the State ought not to be debarred from performing it by

his religious opinions or the lack of them, or by the nature of his

private life. He felt that you must take genius on its own terms.

What Paul was to his mother and to me I dare not write. Let it suffice

to say that no parents were ever blessed with a richer treasure. His

love for us flowed through the channel of his being like a river

singing on its way. How proud we were of his nobility of soul, his

heroic temper, his many triumphs! Young as he was we found in him a

firm stay and a sure support, and we felt ourselves more secure in

life under the shelter of his strong and radiant personality. We had

cherished high, and I hope not unworthy, hopes of his future--hopes

which, but for the War, would assuredly have been fulfilled. He had

not settled in his mind what profession he would adopt. Law attracted

him once, then repelled him; and I strongly dissuaded him from

Journalism. Politics had a fascination for him, but in no

circumstances would he have become a professional politician, and he

had resolved to earn an income independently. I am inclined to think

that eventually he would have become a professor and a writer of

history. Though it was a quality of his nature to do thoroughly

whatever he put his hand to, he was not ambitious in the ordinary

sense. He had no lust either for riches or fame. Duty, Honour,

Service--these were his watchwords. His desire was to make his life

worthy and gracious, and to use it in the service of humanity. That

ideal he realised. If he had lived to old age he could not have made a

greater thing of his life. Out of the warp and woof given to him by

the Creator he has woven a noble and beautiful pattern. Words cannot

express what his loss means to us. God alone knows the desolation of

our hearts. But Paul has left us glorious and inspiring memories and

we know he has gone to his reward. We feel, too, that though absent

from us in the body, he is with us in the spirit. His mother and I,

after the first stunning effect of our grief was passing, compared

notes about our inner experiences, and we found that the image of our

beloved son in our eyes was the same: Paul looking divinely happy,

standing before us with that enchanting smile we knew so well, and

cheerily enjoining us to "Carry on; carry on!"

Our love involves the love before;

Our love is vaster passion now;

Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou,

We seem to love thee more and more.

Far off thou art, but ever nigh;

We have thee still and we rejoice;

We prosper, circled with thy voice;

We shall not lose thee tho' we die.

A few weeks after Paul was killed I opened a volume of Froude's "Short

Studies." Our son's early death lends significance and pathos to

passages he has marked in this book. Froude, in the essay on

"England's Forgotten Worthies," speaking of honoured old

age--"beautiful as the slow-dropping mellow autumn of a rich glorious

summer"--says: "It is beautiful, but not the most beautiful." Then

comes the following sentence which Paul has heavily underscored:

There is another life, hard, rough, and thorny, trodden with

bleeding feet and aching brow; the life of which the Cross is the

symbol; a battle which no peace follows this side of the grave;

which the grave gapes to finish before the victory is won;

and--strange that it should be so--this is the highest life of

man.

Our son has written on the margin, "The best kind of life that of

constant struggle." Froude goes on to refer to the work in the

sixteenth century of the servants of England, whose life was a long

battle, either with the elements or with men, and who passed away

content when God had nothing more to bid them do. The following

passages are again underlined:

They did not complain, and why should we complain for them?... An

honourable death had no terrors for them.

"Seeing," in Humphrey Gilbert's own brave words, "that death is

inevitable and the fame of virtue is immortal, wherefore in this

behalf _mutare vel timere sperno_."

Paul's marginal note to this is, "Compare Browning's 'Prospice.'" I

turn to "Prospice" and I read:

For the journey is done and the summit attained,

And the barriers fall,

Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,

The reward of it all.

I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more,

The best and the last!

I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,

And bade me creep past.

No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers

The heroes of old,

Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears

Of pain, darkness and cold.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And with God be the rest!

PART II

WAR LETTERS

[Illustration: Paul as a Subaltern in the A.S.C.

(From a Photograph by his Brother)]

AT A HOME PORT

From April 15, 1915, to July 26 in the same year Second Lieutenant H.

P. M. Jones was employed at a home port which was, and is, one of the

principal centres of supply for the British Expeditionary Force. He

was glad of the opportunity of obtaining an insight into the methods

of supplying the British Army in the field, and was impressed with the

thoroughness, efficiency, and businesslike promptitude of the Army

Service Corps. He took the earliest chance of quitting this routine

work and applying for service abroad.

_May 15th_, 1915.

You London folk seem to have been having high times with the

enemy aliens. It is quite startling and quite pleasant to see

English people roused to do things at last. I see from the photos

in the papers that the rioting was done for a great part by men

of fighting age who ought to be in the Army. It stands to reason

that it is always the dregs of the population who show their

patriotism by this sort of behaviour. Still, it is refreshing to

see someone taking some sort of action. Everybody here is cursing

the Government for its remissness with regard to Germans and

Austrians resident in this country. There are exceptions, such as

Germans who have absorbed the British spirit, but, generally

speaking, Germans, even if naturalised, must retain their

patriotic feelings towards their Fatherland, and the patriotic

German is, of course, England's enemy. Therefore he will try his

best to do us all the harm he can.

Personally I think we ought to take stern action in regard to the

internment of all Germans in this country. My argument is not

based on trivial ideas of retaliation or punishment, but it is

based on facts such as the following: (_a_) I am a Britisher,

Britain is fighting; so I fight for Britain and wish to see her

everywhere victorious: (_b_) In Nature the strongest survive and

the weaker go to the wall, and in this war Britain must prove

herself either the stronger or the weaker: (_c_) Our policy must

be guided by the idea of proving ourselves the stronger in deeds,

not words--not by talk of justice or right, because invariable

universal abstract standards of justice and right never existed,

and never will exist, in this world. The ideal never was anything

but a dream--that is why the poet can never be a politician, and

vice versa. We must not let sentimental considerations stand

between us and victory. Sounds just like a German talking,

doesn't it? Yes, I do agree with the German point of view--except

as regards frightfulness, which is really folly and does not

achieve its end--but I transfer the point of view to England. Why

should England allow any rival to stand in her way? In any case,

are we not the world's greatest political people and the best

colonisers? Leave the realms of Art to the other nations if you

like--England never will be artistic, I fear--but Art is not

politics. Politics--I mean primarily foreign policy--signifies

the adaptation of a nation to environment of time, place and

circumstance, and it is that which is the ruling fact of life.

I am now quite converted to the doctrine of facts. Though

passionately idealistic in many respects, I realise that the

_Facts_ of life are in cruel but deadly opposition to the

_Ideals_ of life, and that while the Ideal remains a dream the

cruel Fact remains the reality.

This pseudo-philosophy arises from my having read Arnold

Bennett's article in to-day's _Daily News_, and also from a

perusal of Hudson's "Herbert Spencer." Bennett is just an

idealist, but in dealing with those cruel realities of which I

have spoken, he seems to me a child. Any attempt to dissociate

the acts of the German Government from the views of the German

people--in other words to assume that a great part of the latter

want peace--is absurd. Look at France in 1870. When the Second

Empire was overthrown and the Third Republic set up in its place,

did the Republicans seek peace? No, they proceeded to prosecute

the war to the utmost and tried to drive the invader off the soil

of France. And even if in this war a succession of defeats should

overthrow the German Kaiser and his Government, do you think the

Germans would submit forthwith, and throw themselves on the mercy

of the Allies? No, they will fight to the last man, woman and

child to prevent the Rhine being crossed. So we should realise

that, for our own safety's sake, we must reduce the German

military forces to a position of helplessness--in fact, utterly

destroy them, if we are to have any settlement. It is Germany or

ourselves; and till one or the other is up or down, the war will

go on.

To crush the Germans we must put every ounce into the struggle.

Are we doing so? I cannot think it when I see Parliament taking

such a disgraceful line on the question of drink. Small wonder

that Lloyd George exclaims, "What an ignoble spectacle the House

of Commons presents now!" I had thought the British Parliament to

be a great and potent institution. Now I think it is a

convocation of old apple women. What we want is a Cromwell or a

Napoleon to knock together the heads of political parties and

declare, "No more drink." What will history say when it is

recorded that in the midst of this great struggle the British

people refused to give up the drink that was poisoning their

lives and hindering the work of the nation, and that the

influence of a few brewers and capitalists was sufficient to

prevent any serious reform being passed in that House which is

supposed to be the people's representative?

As for the recent anti-German riots, they seem to me to have been

organised by those slack loafing elements of the population who

lounge about refusing to enlist. Still, I suppose this is a

necessary product of our type of national civilisation. Yet that

system--the English or insular, I call it--has done, as it will

do, marvels. So perhaps all is for the best, but I am grieved

beyond measure at the collapse of L. G.'s scheme for drastic

treatment of the drink evil. He at least is a man.

Do you realise what a fine part amateur sportsmen are playing in

this war? I really doubt if there will be many great athletes

left if things go on as they are doing. On the same day I read

that Poulton-Palmer and R. A. Lloyd are gone. Only last year, I

remember seeing those two as Captains of England and Ireland

respectively, shaking hands with each other and with the King at

the great Rugby Football match at Twickenham. I see news is to

hand also of the death in action of A. F. Wilding, a great

athlete who neither drank nor smoked. So in three days we have

lost the most brilliant and versatile centre three-quarter in

Poulton, the cleverest drop-kick in the world in Lloyd, and the

world's champion tennis-player in Wilding!

_June 6th, 1915._

Lloyd George in his two last speeches has said more than anyone

else during the war. He is an extraordinary man, and at his

greatest when rallying the workers. I see that the Tory Press is

enthusiastic about him, and also about Winston Churchill's speech

of yesterday. L. G.'s remark that "conscription is not

undemocratic" has set a new train of thought stirring in this

country. Up to now, in the view of the average Englishman,

democracy and conscription had been set at opposite poles.

Personally I am not exactly a democrat, an aristocrat, a

monarchist, a socialist, or a constitutionalist, but a sort of

combination of them all, and a firm believer in the Will to Power

and in the Strong Man. But the point is that England certainly

inclines to democracy--meaning by democracy _laissez-faire_.

Hence what is needed in a crisis like this is to bring into

operation a system which, while partaking of a democratic nature,

and so not being repugnant to the national type (as developed by

geography, circumstance and history) may yet bring into play the

advantages of military training and national organisation. If you

can persuade the stolid Englishman to adopt a sort of

semi-voluntary military system, which is voluntary or appears so

to him, yet puts him under discipline, well then you have an

ideal system for England to win this war by. Of course, there is

an alternative scheme, namely, for some man of outstanding

personality to come along and say, "Look here, I am master, and

by my force of character I will compel you to bow to a system

which I know to be good for you and which will in the end benefit

you." Lloyd George might be even such a man--a Caesar, a

Charlemagne, a Cromwell, or a Napoleon.

But I confess that this amazing English race is hard to bend,

even when a man of outstanding personality arises. Did not Oliver

himself--a superman if ever there was one--fail in his efforts to

make better those whom he ruled? Still, as Goethe says,

"Personality makes the man," and perhaps even in England a great

man might force our stubborn nation to his will. But I confess I

doubt it. Besides, I fear the system would break down as soon as

the immediate need for it had vanished. We must have regard to

the evolution of our type of race-species when trying to frame

measures for its advance to victory over another type of

race-species, for the simple reason that, if we do not, the

system we are trying to set up will remain in the air, and never

come to anything until the people have become sufficiently

educated in our way of thinking to accept such a scheme. It seems

to me that you could never make a British Army on a German model,

or a German Army on a British model, because of the difference

between the types of the two nations--the only exception being

where you have a superman with a wonderful mind and personality

to plan the pattern and enforce its adoption.

Our problem in England is to organise the very individualistic

British race without letting them imagine that they are being

organised. This sounds like the problem about the irresistible

force up against the insurmountable obstacle. But seriously if

you have followed my train of thought you will agree with me that

what is wanted is to frame a system of military service and

national organisation which yet conforms to the national

predilection in favour of _laissez-faire_. This would not be so

difficult if there were two or three centuries to do it in; the

difficulty is that we must do it at once. Perhaps it is

impossible; perhaps the influence of our insular environment will

be too strong ever to allow a general military system to grow up

here--I don't know, but I hope not. Anyway, it is Lloyd George to

whom we look to turn the wheels, because he has personality and

that almost uncanny Celtic gift of seeing into the future.

Is it not clear that the Germans have developed to the full a

system of organisation in harmony with their national character?

Geography has rendered necessary to them a certain type of

national policy, and I consider their methods were the only

possible ones for them, though they badly needed a clever

diplomatist to deceive Europe in these latter years. Now

Bismarck, if he had lived until to-day, would probably have

secured for Germany a leading place, not by directly fighting

England--who is, of course, the natural rival of Germany--the old

story of the first and the second boy in the class--but by

embroiling her at some suitable moment with other Powers. Then,

when all would have been weakened by the war, Germany would step

in and take the spoils. Fortunately for us the Prussian is a

thoroughly bad diplomatist; and he has preferred open force to

policy. Last year the Germans really played their cards

astoundingly badly. Did we? Well, in one sense, yes, in that we

failed to have a force ready to give the Germans a swift blow as

soon as they ventured on an invasion of Belgium. On the other

hand, no, because Edward Grey, acting openly, and in accordance

with British traditions, yet succeeded by some extraordinary

means in duping our enemies and making them rush into a war never

expecting that we would participate in it. By accident Grey

blundered into a marvellous stroke of diplomacy. Of course, we

know that all his actions were governed by an honest desire to

preserve peace, but the facts show that he really deceived the

Germans more than Machiavelli would have done. (The Prussian, in

the average, is very prone to misunderstand his enemy.) The

Germans thought we would not come in; we did come in, just when

they were not expecting it; in effect, that was a master-stroke.

Where we failed was that we were not ourselves ready with an

adequate force. Though we strangled German commerce at sea and

helped to save France, we were deficient in many elements of an

army, and are still woefully so. That is the natural result of

insularity.

Now if through the folly of Ministers we lose this great chance

of settling with our rival, we shall be cutting our own throats.

You see, I have led you, by a devious path, back to the old

problem--the necessity for organising England to win this war and

to establish her national type as supreme. We must take any and

every step necessary to set this great nation of ours even higher

than it stands now. Some nation must be political leader of the

international polity; why not England, whose extraordinary

colonising and governing ability is so well known? I am tired to

death of talk about "crushing militarism" and of wild dreams of

"a union of small States." If you want to see the latter process

in operation, look at the normal state of the Balkans! States may

have all the "rights" in the world, but if they are not strong

enough in a political and military sense, they will never be able

to maintain them. Since England--great and wise nation that she

is!--has the sense to use her power benignantly, what harm would

there be if she were to assert it over weaker national organisms,

as man has done over the beasts? This would certainly not be

possible without repeated wars. Subject nations may be treated as

easily and as freely as you like when under our sway, but they

must be conquered first, and we must keep our power over them

even though it is hidden.

But I am dreaming myself now, for there is nothing eternal in

Nature except conflict and change; and as our Empire grew, so, I

fear, it must some day decay. Evolution is no respecter of

persons. Anyway it is our duty to postpone that day of decline as

long as we can. In my view England's claims are above all others.

Our Allies are just so much use to us as we can make of them.

They, too, have their national ambitions and interests, and, of

course, if these clashed with ours, they would go off on their

own. I blame them not at all. It is as well, however, to be

prepared for contingencies. For example, four or five sparrows

will combine to attack a larger bird which has a piece of bread.

As soon as they get the bread the sparrows themselves begin to

squabble for its possession; and perhaps two or three will set on

the one that has hold of it and force him to give it up. Such is

Nature--a theatre of vast, unceasing conflict. Men and nations

all come under the great immutable law.

_July 19th, 1915._

This coal strike in South Wales is a baffling business. As usual,

English lack of system is to blame. The Government ought to have

taken over all the mines, as they did the railways, right at the

start of the war. But _laissez-faire_ said "No." Now see the

result. Undoubtedly men, employers and Government are all to

blame--the Government for not organising the system and failing

to stop the increased profits of the owners due to the rise in

prices; the owners for taking those profits and making all sorts

of unkept promises during the past year about meeting the men to

discuss what should be done with war profits; and the men because

they are imperilling the whole fate of the Navy for the sake of a

few more pence a day, and for failing to show that generosity of

spirit which they ought to exhibit in a national crisis like

this. What gives the lie to those critics who denounce the

unpatriotic conduct of the miners is the astounding proportion of

recruits from the affected areas, and the fact that thousands of

strikers have sons, brothers and other relatives in the trenches.

The whole thing is almost a judgment on English haphazard

methods, though I know those methods are only the product of our

insular position. After all, we fought Napoleon with almost a

revolution going on in Ireland. And do you remember the Six Acts?

So history repeats itself.

The Germans are still astounding the world. This move on Russia

will, I think, be ranked by military historians in the future as

one of the most immense things in the story of the war--a

parallel, but on a far larger scale, with the French and our own

advance from the Marne to the Aisne. Unfortunately, I am afraid

the Germans will be more successful than we were on that

occasion--for we only drove them back 20 or 30 miles, but the

Germans now seem to be menacing two great cities, half a dozen

first-class fortresses, and four vital railway lines. There is no

doubt that they, at least, are not playing at war. And to think

that it should be Wales that may be half-crippling the Navy when

we are matched with such a foe! If the Navy fails, then Heaven

help us! I don't think we can lose even now, but I doubt now if

Germany can lose. It may be 1793-1815 over again!

Don't imagine that economics end war. Nations can easily do

without trade if they will. To win a war, in ninety-nine cases

out of a hundred, you have to beat the enemy's forces decisively

in the field and put large bodies of his troops permanently out

of action, or capture important tracts of territory such as corn

land or mining districts, without which he cannot wage the war.

Nothing has done us more harm than all this talk about

"attrition." People say, "Oh, it's all right, we can strangle

Germany by means of our Navy, and only time is wanted." As a

matter of fact, Germany is so well prepared by environment,

history, and her own endeavours for such a war that were Berlin

itself in our hands, I would not like to say we should have won.

Berlin has in the past been entered by the enemy, and yet the

Germans have defeated their foes. Look at Frederick the Great--he

won his wars with half his own country in the enemy's hands. Make

no mistake, we shall have to cut the German Army to pieces if we

are to win. And we shall not succeed, at least not for any

practical purpose, unless we put every man into his right place

to win the war. We want the shell-makers at home, the soldiers in

the field, the mere politician on the scrap-heap, and capable men

at the head of affairs. There must be no more of this muddling

War Office policy, no more of this defective control of vital

industries and these scandalous deficiencies in equipment.

WITH THE 9th CAVALRY BRIGADE

On July 27, 1915, Paul Jones left Waterloo Station for service abroad.

Shortly after his arrival in France he was ordered to proceed to the

Headquarters of the 9th Cavalry Brigade (1st Cavalry Division), having

been appointed Requisitioning Officer to the Brigade. His thorough

knowledge of French was the determining factor in securing him this

appointment, a very responsible one for a youth of 19.

_August 5th, 1915._

At length a chance to write a letter home. I seem to have been

travelling for weeks, and I had no time for anything but hasty

postcards. My address may not convey much geographically, but I

will take the risk of saying that I am very far up country,

and--which of course pleases me immensely--not many miles from

the real Front. My work involves a great deal of French

conversation and much riding and motoring. I am, in fact, a

Requisitioning Officer, a title which almost explains itself.

The journey up from the base seemed absolutely endless, but was

never lacking in interest, so much was there to see. The glorious

spirits of our men would be a lesson to the Jeremiahs at home.

Never had I expected, never could I believe possible, that such a

wonderfully jovial spirit could prevail among men going to

certain danger and hardship and possible death. I saw a lot of

Welshmen on the way, and wherever one met them they were singing

in those gloriously rich Welsh voices.

How kind-hearted our soldiers are I realised on my journey up.

Frequently alongside the railway line were groups of French

kiddies shouting, "Souvenirs!" "Souvenirs!" In response our

fellows were chucking out to them from the train all sorts of

things, bully beef, bread, biscuits, etc., and laughing and

chatting at the windows. What a diversity of tongues and accents

among our soldiers! Cockney, Lancashire, Scotch, Welsh and West

Country were easily recognisable. For cheerfulness and kindness

you will never match the British Tommy.

I don't see so very much difference between the new and the old

France, except for the greater number of uniforms; the same gay

old cafe-life goes on as always.

Only four out of the fifteen A.S.C. officers who left London on

Monday last came up-country, and I was one of the four. Eureka!

also Banzai! There ought to be a chance of some excitement,

anyhow. I am in glorious health and spirits and feel very pleased

with life. Isn't it fine that my desire to be really close to the

thick of things should be so fully gratified? Tell Hal I had two

delightful swims at the base.

_August 9th, 1915._

My mare is temporarily _hors de combat_ with a cut on the hock.

This is a nuisance, as I have now to rely on the hospitality of

other officers in lending me either their horses or their

motor-cars, or, alternatively, go about on a push-bike when I

have to travel far afield, which happens almost daily. Before the

week is out I am expecting to go right up into the firing-line.

One is astounded at the off-hand manner in which officers who

have been in the trenches take the most hair-raising adventures.

An artillery officer was telling us to-day with the utmost

sang-froid of the difficulty he and his comrades had in eating

their dinner when poison-gas was blowing about. The gas made

their eyes water to such a degree that everybody at the mess

seemed to be weeping bitterly. He also told us that for a long

time they had had no need of reveille, as the Boches had a habit

of dropping a Jack Johnson near by every morning at 6.15

punctually. In the short time I have been out here I have been

struck with the glorious English coolness and the steadfast

refusal to get flurried that marks all our tribe.

In our relations with the inhabitants of the countryside we show

consideration and strict honesty. Every bit of damage done is

compensated, every blade of grass is paid for, although

necessarily we have first to investigate the validity of claims

for damage. The whole thing is very characteristic of British

integrity. I am going very strong and gradually getting the hang

of my work, which is decidedly interesting.

We had a remarkable concert the other night. The whole

thing--stage, paints, wigs, orchestra, curtains, scenery,

everything--was got up by the 1st Cavalry Division Supply Column,

and most of the performers were A.S.C. men. The most popular

vocalist turned up on his own, however, viz. Captain the Maclean,

of Lochbuie (of the 19th Hussars), who is quite an artist in his

way. This gay, debonair Scotsman is simply worshipped by the men.

One of the latter (himself holding the D.C.M. and the French

Medaille Militaire for conspicuous bravery at Landrecies) told me

Maclean was the bravest man he had ever seen; he is always at the

head of a rush whether on horseback or on foot, and invariably

goes into action with a hunting-crop.

A French Territorial Infantry Regiment marched into the town

yesterday. They all wore the new grey uniform that is superseding

the red trousers and blue tunics of the old days. Quite an

interesting spectacle! But for sheer beauty you should see our

cavalry on the move. A wonderful sight, I assure you, even

without all the gay accoutrements of the Military Tournament. In

fact, to my mind, the field-dress makes the affair even more

impressive. The horses are simply beauties, and every one of them

is in perfect condition.

I have met an old Bedfordian among the cavalry. We have had many

a chat comparing notes as to the past, especially in regard to

the fierce-fought struggles of old between Bedford and the

Blue-and-Blacks. We hope to get some sort of Rugger up when the

winter comes, though of course a very great proportion of the

cavalry officers are men from Eton, Harrow, Winchester and other

schools where, I regret to say, the game of games is not played!

They will have to be taught.

_August 13th, 1915._

A lot of cavalry men are up trench-digging and I have had my

first experience of being up really close to the firing-line. It

doesn't take one long to get from here to the thick of things,

and we were soon apprised of the fact by heavy and ponderous

crashes. Just above us a British aeroplane was winging its flight

towards the German lines. Presently one saw small flashes of

flame in the air all around it, followed by curious little puffs

of smoke; then came the sound of exploding shells; you know that

light travels faster than sound. The Boches were potting at the

'plane. However, the British airman was easily able to clear

away. After this, a Taube came in our direction and our artillery

was having pots at it. Pursued by two British 'planes the Taube

turned tail and skedaddled, passing exactly over our car. I

wonder it didn't buzz a bomb at us, for the road was crowded with

cars, lorries, waggons, and columns of marching soldiers. But it

didn't, and went off as fast as it could lick.

We soon reached a village which, during the previous day, had

been subjected to a mild bombardment. The results even of a few

shells were staggering. A large number of the houses and the

village church were shattered into atoms; nothing left but heaps

of bricks, with here and there a wall standing amid the debris.

To me it was a remarkable spectacle, though my companions assured

me that this village was in a positively palatial condition

compared to other places farther up. Just as we reached the

troops we were destined for, an appalling crash rent the air, and

went echoing away like a peal of thunder. It was the British

heavy artillery at work, though we couldn't see any batteries.

Meanwhile the Boches were aiming at our aeroplanes which were

flying above us continually. Amid all this our fellows were quite

unmoved, and an exciting game of Soccer was in progress, every

successful effort being cheered to the echo by the soldier

spectators. And that, mind, though only last night the Boches put

twenty-eight of our men out of action not far from this very

spot, landing three shells on top of them at midnight, killing

one and wounding twenty-seven others, not to mention several

horses.

Our route now lay along a road roughly parallel to the

firing-lines, and only a few miles behind them. We passed several

camps, where all sorts of regiments were quartered. Then we came

to quite a big town, which was packed with lorries and field

ambulances, and with columns of British soldiers, always

cheerful, though in many cases much fatigued. Finally we came

back to our quarters. To me the whole experience was most

interesting and exciting, and I am eagerly looking forward to a

repetition of it. Next time I shall go right up to the real

centre of things. It is great to be so near the scrapping, and I

only hope a chance of real fighting does come my way. Anyhow, I

am ready to do my duty, whatever it may be.

Well, the Germans have got that Petrograd-Warsaw railway.

Apparently some people anticipate an advance on Petrograd itself.

The war is assuming a phase very like that of the Napoleonic

struggles. I hope 1812 repeats itself, but candidly I don't think

that the Boches will put their heads into the lion's mouth by

risking an advance into Russia with winter coming on.

TO HIS BROTHER

_August 18th, 1915._

I am very busy, but my work is becoming more and more

interesting, and I am about in the open air almost all the time.

To-day I have had a twenty-mile horse-ride. My little mare ran

like clockwork. She is a gem of a horse. I am hoping also to get

some motor driving. There is no speed limit here. Talk about

express trains! No; Rugby football is not much appreciated by the

9th Brigade. Cavalry officers swear by polo. To see them play a

polo match is a sheer delight, for they are the best horsemen in

the world.

Many men of our Cavalry Division are at present employed in

making a reserve line of trenches some distance behind the real

article. Our own brigade is digging vigorously in the grounds of

a fine old chateau. The Supply Officer and I, as his understudy,

go up continually in a car conveying special supplies and to do

various other duties. The chateau grounds are well within enemy

gun range, and most of the neighbouring buildings have been blown

to atoms. Yesterday the first news that greeted us from the

trench-diggers was that they had been bombarded that morning by

gas shells, among other pleasant surprises. While we were

pursuing our duties I heard a boom, followed by a long, sighing

screech, then a violent crash about fifty yards off. It was a

German shell. Another and yet another followed. Suddenly an

R.A.M.C. man came running up to fetch a stretcher--someone had

been knocked out. As the nearest man at hand I joined him in

carrying the stretcher, and we doubled our fastest for the trees

where the first shot had pitched. We found that an R.A.M.C. man

had been struck above the ankle by a piece of shrapnel. The wound

was small, but deep and ugly, and the leg was broken. The poor

chap was in terrible pain. We conveyed him as carefully as we

could to the field ambulance. There had been other casualties

hereabouts in the morning.

More and more shells, and then a lull. After this exhibition of

afternoon hate, we took tea with some officers of the 15th

Hussars in a tent in the chateau grounds. It was a delicious

meal, and was not interrupted, though enemy shells from time to

time shot over our heads and exploded some distance away in the

woods behind. The ineffectiveness of the enemy shelling was

greeted every time there was an explosion by cat-calls, shouts

and whistling on the part of our imperturbable soldiers. Then the

enemy diverted his guns to a village through which our return

road ran. On our approaching this place we found our way barred

by military policemen, who informed us the traffic was

temporarily held up, and that we would have to seek our

destination by another and a more devious route. Looking back,

one is amused at the nonchalance of this tea in the open with the

Hussar officers, while German missiles were shooting over our

heads and crashing to earth a couple of hundred yards away. Had

the enemy shortened the range we should all have gone up among

the little birds.

Did you see that splendid joke in _Punch_--an old man talking to

a very badly wounded Irish soldier swathed in bandages from head

to foot? The former says, "This is a terrible war, isn't it, my

man?" Pat replies, "Yes, sorr, it is that; a rale tirrible war.

But faith! 'tis better than no war at all." Capital, and so

deliciously Irish!

_August 23rd, 1915._

Excessively busy days these--out sometimes from nine in the

morning till about ten at night, often missing meals perforce. A

few days back I was in the city whose name practically sums up

the character of British fighting--Ypres. Never have I seen such

a picture of desolation. Not a house standing; only skeletons of

buildings, shattered walls, and gaping window openings, from

which all vestige of glass has long since disappeared. The Church

and the Cloth Hall are simply piles of debris. To walk along the

streets is like a kind of nightmare, even when the Boches are not

indulging in a spell of hate against the place. Talk of

Pompeii--why, this puts it quite among the "also-rans." What a

pathetic spectacle to see a whole city in ruins! Stupefaction and

sadness at the wholesale destruction is my impression of this

melancholy ruin of an historic town.

Having seen my rations delivered to our regiments, I and my

companions (two Hussar officers) visited a battery of 5-inch

howitzers at work not far off, through the medium of a friendly

Artillery officer. Their headquarters have been amazingly lucky

in not being hit up to date. They told us that there was going to

be great "strafing" that night, that the Boches were very good

gunners, but that they and the French sometimes became

quarrelsome and loosed off at each other like fury for a short

time, both sides doing very little real damage. As we were

chatting a long whistle-blast betokened the presence of a Taube,

and our companions quickly dragged us out of sight into a

dug-out, lest the enemy airman should spot men about and send

back the range. You must understand that the guns are so

concealed that it is almost impossible to see them even when you

know where they are located. After the aerial visitor cleared

off, we had a great tea, with all the ground about us shaking to

the reverberation of the battery discharges. Presently a

long-drawn-out screech in the distance, and a fearful crash in

the middle distance. "That's Percy again!" said the Artillery

officer. We found that "Percy" is the name for a German

17-incher, which frequently drops shells ten miles behind our

lines. The smallest crater made by his shells would accommodate a

locomotive engine with ease. "Percy" is no doubt "some gun," as

the Yankees would say. It was a curious sensation to walk about

the fields with shells from both sides flying over one's head.

Some gas shells had been discharged that day, and the air in

places was quite heavy with the odour of them--not unpleasant to

smell, but most mephitic, and apt to make your eyes water.

Whom do you think I met on the main road up to-day? None other

than Reggie Lloyd, who was one of my best pals at Dulwich. Our

car was moving very fast and overtook his. I stopped and jumped

out, and we exchanged a firm handshake and a few words before we

had to be moving on again "in the cause of duty." He is a second

lieutenant in the R.E., and looked thundering fit. To-day I saw

him again. On this occasion he was moving about fifty miles an

hour on a motor-bike, and we only had time for a hand-wave as

we passed. What a thrill to meet an old pal like that out here in

the fire zone!

_August 28th, 1915._

To go up the road from here to the firing-line is a great

experience. You see, as you pass along, all the multifarious

items of army organisation--long lines of lorries, horsed-wagons,

limbers, guns, columns of marching men, motor-cars by the score,

French soldiers, British soldiers, aeroplanes spinning merrily

overhead--truly a wonderful spectacle. You have no conception of

the abominable state of the main roads out here. The _pave_ road,

peculiar to these parts, is always a bone-shaker at the best of

times, but now, after the passage of so much heavy traffic, it is

simply appalling. A curious feature is the extraordinary

straightness of the main roads, down which you can literally see

for miles. The by-roads, on the other hand, seem to abound in

right-angled turns, and it is not an easy matter to drive a car

along at any considerable rate of speed.

My knowledge of French has come in very useful indeed, but for

these outlying country districts a knowledge of Flemish would be

even more valuable. Many persons about here speak not one word of

French, and Flemish is almost always used by the people _en

famille_. It is a kind of mixture of low German and middle

English. I can usually get at people's meanings, and even make

them understand mine, by a jargon embracing sometimes words from

Chaucer and sometimes a little German. Listening to the language

when spoken one is reminded of rather nasal Welsh. There is a

distinct resemblance between the general sound of Welsh and

Flemish in conversation.

These parts constitute one of the most Catholic districts in

Europe; the people are quite as devout as those of the south of

Ireland. Wherever you go on the roads you are confronted with

shrines--little structures with an altar, holy images, etc., that

can be seen through a glass window barred across with slender

pieces of iron. Above the door is an admonition urging the

passer-by to stop and say an "Ave" or a "Pater." All the

dedications to saints and the Virgin are in Latin. For example,

this is a very common heading for a shrine, "_Ave, Maria, gratiae

plena._" I have also seen shrines dedicated to some of those old

chaps that Dad is so interested in--Antony of Padua, Francis of

Assisi, etc. All over the place you meet, stuck in boxes with

glass fronts and mounted on poles, tiny waxen images of various

saints, or Christ on the Cross, the Virgin Mary, etc., etc. When

a native comes to one of these shrines or images, he pulls off

his hat, crosses himself, repeats a prayer, and passes on,

probably confident that his sins are forgiven. Everybody goes to

Mass at the church of his commune at seven o'clock each morning,

and often in the evening as well--on Sunday about three times.

Church spires are about the only landmarks in this very flat and

rather uninteresting country. The towers vary between the square

and the spire. The church itself is always large and quite

imposing. You don't see churches of anything like the same size

in English villages of corresponding population. A common sight

as you ride along these roads is to see the cure, dressed in a

long black surtout and a huge wide-brimmed hat just like "Don

Bartola," the music-master in the opera of _Il Barbiere de

Siviglia_. The cure gravely salutes you as you pass by, "Bon

jour, mon ami!"

I am billeted with very decent folk, extremely devout Catholics.

The old man is the secretary to the Mayor. He spends his spare

time learning English, and can read an English newspaper quite

well. My room is of the kind I like--plain, with two huge windows

opening like folding-doors, and only a tiny carpet to attract the

dust; the rest clean, bare boards. In the room are two waxen

images, one of the Virgin and Child, and one of Christ carrying a

child in His arms; also a waxen model in a case of glass of the

Virgin and Child, besides no fewer than three crucifixes. This is

only characteristic of the whole village: every room I've seen

hereabouts seems crowded with images. There are lots of these

images, chipped and smashed, lying about the streets of Ypres. I

suppose where you are at present [Scotland] everybody is a

Presbyterian and very much against all ritual. There is at least

this resemblance between Scot and Flemish: they both call the

church "kirk" or "kerque." It is rather amusing to think that,

according to the ideas of some English Churchmen, both Scottish

Presbyterian and Flemish Catholic are lost for ever; while the

Baptist of Llanelly is equally convinced that all three of them

are; and each imagines the other to be hopelessly wrong. The war

has this advantage: that it cuts athwart of all such ridiculous

distinctions--for have we not among the Allies English Churchmen

and Nonconformists, Catholics, Mohammedans, Hindus and secular

Frenchmen, all fighting on the one side against another side

which includes Catholics, Protestants and Mohammedans? I say what

matter what a man believes if he does his duty?

The last two or three days I have spent in more or less local

work, meaning by that districts within about ten miles of

headquarters. I have been in the saddle all day, from 9 _A.M._ to

7 _P.M._, the only interval being for lunch. Riding is glorious

sport. I don't think I shall ever be able to live without a horse

in the future. I have been using here one of my own mares, and

a fine charger belonging to a 9th Lancer employed at H.Q. (you

remember it was this regiment that made the famous charge at Le

Cateau back in October). It is a glorious steed this, full of

"devil," and a bit bad-tempered. My own big mare is a rather

quiet horse, very good at trotting long distances; my other one

is smaller but more fiery. I prefer to ride whenever possible a

horse that really takes some managing.

_September 8th, 1915._

I am glad you are invigorated and pleased with your trip to the

land of Burns and Harry Lauder. The Scottish Highlands are the

exact opposite of these flat plains. Never in my life have I seen

a district so absolutely level as this. There are but three hills

in these parts, and these are the only landmarks for miles and

miles. Otherwise every road is like every other, every field and

every clump of trees the same. The roads are all either dead

straight or, in the case of side roads, full of right-angle

bends. There is nothing of that sinuous curving which

characterises English country roads. As you get nearer the

firing-line the roads become worse owing to the passage of Army

traffic, till finally they end up in mere broad tracks full of

holes and humps. When the weather is bad the mud is

appalling--even the Dulwich footer-ground variety comes a bad

second--added to which there is, in the case of main roads, the

nuisance of a most unlevel _pave_, which, it is true, keeps free

from mud, but to travel along which in a motor-car is torture.

The way the Army lorries go bumping along--many of them old

motor-buses with the top parts discarded--is stupendous. It is a

strange sight occasionally to see approaching you a real

motor-bus, painted grey and full of Tommies. I almost stopped

one the other day, near the fire zone, and asked to be taken to

Oxford Circus; it all seemed so familiar.

The news from Russia isn't very inspiriting. It looks as if Riga

and Rovno will follow in the wake of Warsaw and Novo-Georgievsk.

Not that the mere capture of a town means anything in itself, but

the Boches must be getting a store of ammunition and guns through

their successes. Still, it might be that 1812 would repeat

itself, though I fear the Germans have studied history too well

to fall into the pit that destroyed Napoleon. _Nous verrons._

I went down the other day to an advanced Field Supply Depot. I

often think of the steady flow of goods across the Channel from

the home port where I began my Army experience, and the vastness

of the silent work behind the scenes that is needed to keep the

Army going. You would be amazed to find how little is known even

in the A.S.C. itself of that which I have been privileged to see.

It has a spice of romance about it, this moving of vast stores

from England to the trenches. Out here one gets fresh bread and

meat regularly. There are also ample supplies of preserved meat.

As for "bully" beef, it is rare good stuff, and I am by no means

averse from the hard Army biscuit.

It is the chief part of my duties to make local purchases or

requisitions of goods as they are needed. Local resources are

always used to the utmost, though G.H.Q. is careful to insist on

all goods being duly paid for, or an official requisition-note

being handed to the seller. You will realise that in this sort of

work I get a lot of practice in French. The French spoken in

these parts is very thick, quite different from the metallic

French of Paris.

I am told that when we are moving in the field, cavalry go twice

as fast as any other branch of the Service. When we begin to

move, my job will be really most exciting and interesting, as I

shall have to be right on ahead with a store of supplies, bought,

requisitioned, or obtained somehow, to keep things going till the

ordinary service of lorries and horsed wagons adapts itself to

the new conditions. Whatever happens I hope to see some sport.

I get on excellently with the cavalry officers. They have a

bright charm of their own and are absolutely fearless. Most of

them are descendants of the old English and Scottish chivalry.

They are intensely Conservative in opinion, not over

intellectual, but men with fine traditions and noble instincts.

They have a passion for horses and all things equine.

_September 16th, 1915._

So you have had an experience of the Zepps. I am glad London bore

it philosophically. I never imagined that it would be possible

seriously to perturb the people of England by this species of

frightfulness. As Dad puts it, "Curiosity quite mastered every

sense of fear," but if the Zepps. are to continue paying visits

to our suburb, you may have to evacuate 198 and dig yourselves in

in the garden with communicating trenches leading from your

dug-outs to Croxted Road and Herne Hill.

It is splendid how our fellows keep rolling up to fight, for,

believe me, the war is no joke out here. Very few people who have

been out think it's all a death-or-glory sort of business. On the

contrary, it is a steady and persistent strain, a strain under

which the strongest nerves are apt to give way after a time--I am

talking, of course, of the trenches. When the cavalry go into

action as cavalry, they are bound to suffer fearfully, being so

exposed, but there's no doubt that they will do their job, and

put a still greater number of the Boches out of action. This is a

war in which there is nothing picturesque or romantic. It takes

all the cheerfulness of the British Tommy to overmaster the

grinding strain of trench warfare, though as man is by nature a

fighter, he presently begins to throw off the trammels of

civilisation and live _a la naturelle_. The British soldier has

done marvels in this war. Nothing but his irrepressible spirits

and lion-hearted courage would have held up this great host of

Boches armed with new and strange implements of war and with

every weapon known to science.

_September 18th, 1915._

In an interval of relaxation, our division gave a Horse Show

to-day. To these cavalrymen, horses are as meat and drink, almost

the one topic of their conversation, at once their delight and

their business. A lot of notabilities from various places in

France came up to see the Show. It was the most magnificent

display of horseflesh I have ever seen. It was held in a large

open field. The programme included competitions for officers' and

troopers' horses (light and heavy), driving for the limbers of

the regiment, work by machine-gun sections, races, jumping,

turn-out of A.S.C. wagons, and what-not. A wonderful display was

that of the officers' chargers, in which the long line of

competitors rode, trotted and galloped past the General who was

judging. Some of the men's horses were also very good, and really

ran the officers' chargers close for merit. The first three

prize-winners would be worth a clear L450 apiece. To describe the

efficiency of the wagon-driving, the smartness of their turn-out,

the quickness and neatness of all their manoeuvres, is beyond me.

There was no lance or sword play. The whole business had been

arranged to see that everything was as efficient as possible, and

to promote a spirit of healthy rivalry among the different

regiments. It was an extraordinary spectacle, not fifteen miles

from the firing-line, with the big guns booming in one's ears the

whole time--very characteristic of the Englishman's love of sport

and its value to the nation. This is one of the things that the

Boches never can, or will be able to, understand. They cannot

realise how these "mad English" can forget the War when in the

middle of it, and when any minute their "sport" might be

interrupted by a "Jack Johnson." I was with our Brigade

Veterinary Officer, who, of course, is an equine expert. It was a

treat to hear him telling off the points of the magnificent

chargers passing in front of us, pawing the ground and snorting,

full of dash and fire. To me the whole affair had a profound

interest. I have never enjoyed myself more, and really its

psychological significance was immense.

On the morning of 25th September, 1915, the 1st and 4th Corps of the

British Army delivered an attack on the enemy line between La Bassee

Canal on the north and a point opposite the village of Grenay on the

south. There were subsidiary simultaneous attacks east of Ypres by the

5th Corps, and north of the La Bassee Canal by the 3rd and the Indian

Corps. Our main attack was made in co-operation with the French

offensive on our right. The British Cavalry Corps was posted in the

neighbourhood of St. Pol and Bailleul-les-Pernes, in readiness to

co-operate with the French Cavalry in pushing home any success which

might be attained by the combined offensive.

_September 23rd, 1915._

I am about to leave on an official mission, the nature of which I

cannot disclose to you for the time being. My kit has had to be

sent away, and I am only equipped with things I can carry about

me or in my saddle-wallets on the horses. Revolver, haversack,

official books, map-case and respirator are slung about my body.

It is fine to be independent of trunks. Last night I bivouacked

in a field, and one day I was quartered in a mining village which

before the war must have been a busy place. It reminded me very

much of the outskirts of Llanelly. I am feeling better in health

and spirits than ever before.

An article by a Liberal M.P. that appeared recently in the _Daily

Chronicle_ annoyed me very much. Previously I had imagined the

writer to be rather a sportsman and a game fighter; but his

insulting references in this article to the "good fellows" in the

trenches, who are "excellent in their time and place," etc.,

simply set my teeth on edge. I know full well that the type of

thing that he calls "a voice from the trenches" is only an

exploitation of sensational newspapers, as Tommy never by any

chance in my experience of him talks of subjects like

conscription. But the sheer cruelty of this M.P.'s patronising

talk of the men who are dying by thousands to keep him and his

kind safe at home absolutely surpasses everything. The suggestion

that the man at the Front knows less of how to run wars than

M.P.s who have, in all probability, never seen a drop of blood

shed or a gun fired in anger in their lives, is, on the face of

it, ludicrous. We have heard a lot about the Army not interfering

in politics. Well and good; but let the politicians cease to

meddle with military affairs, unless, of course, it is manifest

that the most sacred civil rights of the people are being

sacrificed to a caucus of officers, like those who tried to hold

up the Home Rule Bill.

To-day a big detachment of German prisoners was brought into the

village. They were well dressed and equipped, and in reasonably

good spirits.

_October 3rd, 1915._

Life continues to use me well, though in the last week or two I

have been all-ends up with work. I have usually managed to keep

fairly dry, but the weather is awful, and despite mackintoshes

and greatcoats galore, I have been absolutely soaked on more than

one occasion, especially one night about four days back, when I

had to sleep in the open on a heath in pouring rain, and with a

bitter wind blowing. However, one thinks but little of that sort

of thing when campaigning, and I have never been better in

health.

I wish I could describe to you some of the scenes I witnessed

during the past week, above all, on that never-to-be-forgotten

day before the great attack was made. We found ourselves moving

along the same road as the Guards--Grenadiers, Scots, and

Welsh--who were going up to the attack (the Welsh Guards had

never been in action before, having only recently been

constituted, but I hear they did great things). Never had I seen

such a sight as that evening before the attack. On one side of

the road our cavalry, on the other the Guardsmen, all moving

forward to the accompaniment of the sound of guns booming

sullenly ahead. We halted for a time beside a detachment of Life

Guards, among whom I recognised an old Alleynian named Kemp, whom

I had not seen since last October. We had a few minutes' pleasant

conversation before passing on with our respective columns.

A day or two ago I was to have gone right up to the battlefield

with supplies, but a sudden change in orders made it impossible.

However, a number of our lot were up there. They tell me it was a

fearful scene--the ground littered with corpses, and all the

debris of a battlefield scattered around. I was bitterly

disappointed at not getting right up, but duty is duty, and I

had orders to do other things. We all hope that the day of the

great move forward has now begun to dawn, but there's no doubt it

will be a devil of a job, as the Boches are fighting like hell to

regain the lost ground. All yesterday, last night and this

morning the guns have been rumbling away with more than usual

vigour.

One day last week I visited a soldiers' cemetery; it was chiefly

used for men who have died of wounds at a casualty clearing

station near by. A most mournful and yet most impressive

spectacle it was. As I returned I saw long strings of ambulances

coming down from the Front--a sight that spoke eloquently of the

toll that this war is taking of our best. I note you say that the

new Welsh Division will be going out presently, either to France

or to the Dardanelles. I hope that they will prove worthy of the

great name that the Welsh have made for themselves in this war.

Yesterday I chatted with a Welshman from Pontypridd, a Regular in

the First South Wales Borderers. He had been out here right from

the very start, had been twice wounded, and, except for one

convalescent period of a fortnight, had had no leave at all.

Chris Fowkes, who was wounded some time back, was in the same

company as this sturdy Welshman.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fowkes was a contemporary of Paul's at Dulwich.]

_October 6th, 1915._

The general impression here now is that the advance is proving a

very tough proposition. The casualty list is of colossal

dimensions. All the signs point to a long war.

A French interpreter is attached to each battalion of British

infantry, or regiment of cavalry, with a liaison officer, or

interpreter officer, attached to each brigade in addition.

Personally, I have never found any need for an interpreter's

services. I am able to make almost any of my requirements

comprehensible to the inhabitants, and I think I may describe

myself as being really fluent in French by this time. It is

perfectly amazing how few of our people can talk any other

language than their own.

That was a piquant incident at the College as described by Hal. A

little dash of unconventionality like that is wanted in Dulwich

and in all Public Schools. They, like other national

institutions, are terribly prone to get into a groove. Though

that groove be a good one, yet an occasional lift out of it can

do no harm. But there's no doubt about it that, conservative

though they may be, our Public Schools have done marvellously in

this war. The system has proved its value ten thousand times

over, and never so much as on these gory plains of Flanders and

the hilly crags of Gallipoli. Of late the officer casualties have

been fearful, and most of them these days seem to be killed, not

wounded.

So Bulgaria seems determined to come in against us. If this means

that Roumania and Greece join us, I don't see why the Germans

should be so keen on enlisting the Bulgars on their side. Funny,

isn't it, how all Europe is falling into the whirlpool of war?

Every one of the little States finds that the war is a chance for

it to get something out of someone else--hence its decision to

join in. I hope our Government won't go sending big forces out to

Albania or Salonika, or such places, unless and until they are

sure it would be to England's benefit. For the life of me, I

can't see why we should carry these footling little nations on

our shoulders. All they do is to turn on you as soon as your back

is turned, as _vide_ the Bulgars themselves. The end of it all is

that everyone is scrapping against someone else for some selfish

aim, and the main object and high ideals for which we entered

the war are wholly forgotten.

I cannot describe to you the muddy conditions out here. Mud lies

inches thick on the roads, and is kept damp and slimy by the

continual passage of limbers, horses, guns, wagons and

lorries--the final result being a veritable swamp. The other day

a man of the 19th Hussars was watering two horses when he got

himself and the two animals hopelessly bogged beside the pond in

a swamp which he mistook for dry ground. Eventually we tugged him

and the two horses out with ropes. They were all soaked with

slime and mud from head to foot. As for the infantrymen, when

they come out of the trenches, they are caked in mud all over. In

these parts mud is the great feature of the war.

_October 11th, 1915._

I continue to be very busy. You must understand that it is my job

to supplement the ordinary supplies that come up on the Supply

Column from the railway with supplies obtained locally. These

latter are frequently as essential as the former. Especially is

this the case with cavalry, who are naturally apt, when moving,

to get separated from their supplies, owing to the rapidity of

their progress. Then comes the Requisitioning Officer's real

task. That is not to say that this is the only case in which he

has to work. On the contrary, the work is absolutely continuous.

The men always want all sorts of things that the Supply Column

does not provide, and it is up to me to get those things, and

what is more, in most cases, to transport them also. I am in

charge of a number of wagons, limbers, etc., to carry out this

latter job, and I am responsible for the care and transport of

the ordinary supplies for our Brigade Headquarters after they

leave the Supply Column. I have also to do the following jobs:

(1) Distribute pay to the large number of A.S.C. men attached to

Headquarters; (2) when we are in billets, to see to the billeting

arrangements for the brigade, and adjust the relations between

the troops and whatever inhabitants there may be.

You must not imagine that there are no inhabitants in these

districts. On the contrary, it is my experience that people cling

to their homes and lead their ordinary lives right up into the

fire zone. Our authorities take the greatest care not to offend

the inhabitants. Let me give you an illustration. Recently we

were at a small village, now quite blown to atoms, and considered

a hot spot even out here, and which really has no inhabitants.

Well, on the occasion of entrenching operations our chaps found

it necessary to take some doors from ruined houses. They wanted

the timber for planks for trench supports and dug-outs. Though

all the inhabitants had fled or been killed long before, and the

village was little better than a dust-heap, yet a solemn and

portentous court of inquiry was held on those doors: were we

justified in taking them, and should payment be made for them to

the old inhabitants or their representatives? Eventually it was

decided that, as the doors were taken to help to make trenches,

they might be considered as destroyed by a _fait de guerre_,

which, I believe, corresponds to an "act of God" in the civil

courts, and payment ought not therefore to be made for the doors.

It was, however, pointed out that if the said doors had been used

to make a road, not a trench, they would not be _faits de

guerre_, and in such case payment would have had to be made to

the Mayor of the destroyed commune!

"Business as usual" is the motto they try to live up to

throughout these parts, and every effort is made to persuade

people that the war is only a sort of accident. Money remains

money, and there are people selling and buying right up to

places where many lives are lost every day. The position is

really almost that described in a _Bystander_ cartoon, depicting

a peasant standing above a line of our trenches amid a hell of

shot and bursting shrapnel, and saying, "Messieurs, I am

desolated to trouble you, but I must request you to fight in my

other field, as I plough this one to-day." By the way, _The

Bystander_ has succeeded, as no other paper save perhaps _Punch_

has done, in catching the atmosphere that exists out here.

I assure you that just behind the firing-line people are minting

money out of our occupation. Not only do they get paid regularly

if British troops are billeted on them, but they can name their

own prices for milk, beer, eggs, etc., and all those other things

that Tommy is anxious for, and for which he can afford to pay. He

is, I think, paid three times as much as either the French or the

Boche soldiers. True, I have met some pitiful cases of

refugeeism, but to a very large number of people in Northern

France the war is nothing but somewhat of a nuisance. Of course,

where they do feel it is in their own terrible casualty lists. I

have known family after family in the little villages who have

lost one or two sons. In many communes one finds that the Mayor

has been killed while serving at the front, and a deputy acts in

his stead. The Mayor of the place where we are now stationed has

three sons fighting, one at Verdun. I had an agreeable chat a few

days back with the local schoolmaster, who was home on short

leave from the trenches.

It is curious that only _The Bystander_ and _Punch_ should have

succeeded in catching the atmosphere of "Somewhere in France."

Many of the war correspondents, brilliantly though they write,

have missed it altogether. John Buchan is not so bad, when he

writes soberly, but he will let his imagination run away with

him. Talking of writers, what a delightful thing was that article

of Zangwill's in the _Daily Chronicle_ on "The Perils of Walking

in War-time"! Its brilliant satire, firm grasp of facts, lively

humour and racy style quite took my fancy.

I have had some interesting chats with some of the old soldiers

in our division about Mons, the Marne and the Aisne, and all

"those brave days of old." One chap, now acting as a clerk at

Headquarters, wears the ribbons of the D.C.M. and French Medaille

Militaire for swimming a river (on the retreat from Mons) amid a

tempest of shot and shell, and giving warning to a party of our

people on the other side who were in the greatest danger of being

surrounded--and quite oblivious of the fact--by the Boches who

had forced the passage of a bridge some way off. This brave

fellow led his menaced comrades to another bridge, and so enabled

them all to get clear.

The Supply Officer of one of our brigades is F. P. Knox, a

Dulwich man, who captained the old school at cricket back in 1895

or so and I believe led Oxford to victory after that. His brother

you may know--N. A. Knox, the famous fast bowler.

I was horrified to see in a recent casualty list among the killed

the name of Second Lieutenant H. O. Beer. I remember him as a

rather clever, quiet, inoffensive, distinctly popular fellow in

Doulton's House. He left at the end of July, 1914, without

getting any colours, but after doing quite well in all games. He

won a Junior Scholarship, but failed to get a Senior. He was made

a School Prefect in September, 1913, and you will see him in the

very middle of the back row of the photo of the Prefects that we

have--a markedly good-looking fellow, with light hair brushed

across his forehead. What a wealth of tragedy and yet also of

honour is expressed in the last line of his obituary notice in

_The Times_--"He fell leading his platoon, aged twenty years."

Only yesterday, as it were, we were at school together--I

remember handing him off with great vigour on the football

field--and now! It was just the same with poor Reynolds[2] and

Bray.[3] But I mustn't go on in this strain.

[Footnote 2: James Reynolds, head of the Modern Side for two

years. The first Dulwich boy to take the London B.A. degree

while still at school. Born, 1893. Killed in action in

Belgium, May 2nd, 1915, while serving with the London Rifle

Brigade.]

[Footnote 3: Frederick W. Bray, only son of Mr. W. Bray, West

Norwood. One of the keenest members of the O.A.F.C. Quitting

his engineering studies, he joined the 1st Surrey Rifles at

the outbreak of war. Born, August 26th, 1895. Killed, May

25th, 1915.]

_October 15th, 1915._

The Balkan business is a startling knockout for those enthusiasts

who see in the development of small States salvation for the

world! If people would only accept the fact that this is a

material world they would not be surprised at the situation.

Myself, I consider that our diplomacy has failed, probably

because it did not offer tempting enough bribes to Bulgaria and

Greece. No matter; what is the fate of a few tuppenny-ha'penny

Balkan States, who have never done a thing worth doing, beside

that of the British Empire! Why should we always play the

philanthropic idiot towards all these wretched little nations? As

if any of them--or anyone else, for that matter, in international

politics--knows the meaning of the word gratitude! However

righteous our policy may have been, it doesn't seem to have

worked in South-East Europe, and the Boches appear to have got

home first there. I don't think it is so much a triumph for their

diplomacy as a judgment on the blundering stupidity of ours. But

when all's said and done, the alliance or hostility of a few

Bulgars, Greeks or Roumanians doesn't count for so much, anyhow.

"Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock

them. Naught shall make us rue, if England to herself do rest but

true."

Have you seen the obituary notices of Captain Osmond Williams,[4]

of the Welsh Guards? His funeral took place not half a mile from

the spot where we were at the time. The 19th Hussars was once his

old regiment, and as he was simply idolised by the men, crowds of

them went to the burial. He had a most romantic career--a career

that might have stepped out of the pages of Scott or Dumas.

[Footnote 4: Son of Sir Osmond Williams, Bart., formerly M.P.

for Montgomeryshire. Served in the South African War, and in

his day was regarded as the most brilliant cavalry subaltern

in the British Army. A severe accident in the hunting-field

compelled him to leave the Army. When war broke out in 1914

he offered his services to the War Office, but was rejected

because physically unfit. He then enlisted as a private

soldier, and by repeated acts of gallantry in the field won

his captaincy.]

Yesterday I played Soccer for Headquarters against the 15th

Hussars. We beat them 2 to 1. However, I can't work up any

enthusiasm for Soccer. Oh! for a real game of Rugger. Still, the

Tommies--the English ones, at least--think Soccer the only game,

so one must cut one's cloth to one's opportunities. It is

something to get a game of any sort out here. Is the October

number of _The Alleynian_ out yet? I hope they keep their war

list up to date. Our Roll of Honour is as good as anybody's, and

should be carefully attended to.

_October 20th, 1915._

Whom do you think I met the other day leading a column of motor

lorries up to our brigade H.Q.? No less a person than G. P. S.

Clark, the centre three-quarter who scored that wonderful try

against Haileybury in my first year in the team--running and

feinting his way through right from his own line. He is a motor

expert, and has been gazetted to the M.T. branch of the A.S.C.

Is there any chance of my getting the post of A.D.C. to a Welsh

brigadier? If the Welsh division is due out presently it would be

rather a good job. But if it involved my coming back to England

for any length of time I wouldn't take it. I am perfectly

satisfied with my present work, but still would very much like to

become a real combatant. Against the defect of short sight I can

put the following points:

(a) Three months of Active Service, almost invariably in the

neighbourhood of the firing-line; on several occasions right up

in it.

(b) I have always been attached to the Headquarters of a Cavalry

Brigade, have been in the closest contact with the Brigade

Staff, and have taken my orders from the Staff Captain direct--a

very large proportion of those orders about real Staff work.

(c) I have now a real linguistic fluency in French; pretty

useful German also.

(d) I have been acting under the supervision of a Supply

Officer, whose work I do when he is away, and I know the system

of transport and supply backwards.

(e) I have a thorough knowledge of how to make up supplies by

requisition and purchase on the countryside.

(f) On the march I move at the head of the limbers which form

the Cavalry Divisional train, and am second in command of them

all, so I know something about that branch of work, too.

(g) I am quite a useful horseman.

You may say on reading the above list of virtues that a glass

case is the right place for me, but I know to the full that if

one wants one of these "knutty" jobs one has to represent oneself

as a sort of little tin god. Now don't imagine that I am

dissatisfied with my present job. I am more than pleased with it;

still I am very keen to become a fighting soldier.

_October 25th, 1915._

My present quarters are in a mill. I have a fine large room, also

first-rate stabling for my horses. Brigade Headquarters are in

one of those magnificent chateaux that are dotted over this part

of France. A gorgeous place it must have been in time of peace,

and so it is now except that it is beginning to show signs of

war-wear and constant use.

I am very bucked with life. All that we would like now would be a

stupendous advance. This nibbling policy is all very well, but it

doesn't suit cavalry.

My horses have just been clipped. It is the customary thing at

this time of year, as horses' coats get very thick, and in

consequence they sweat heavily when on the march. The effect of

clipping is curious in the extreme, as the animal no longer

appears of its original colour, but of the colour of its skin,

i.e., mouse-grey. My mare was originally chestnut; now she is a

dark grey. Horses are much happier with their thick coats off.

The hair will have grown again in a couple of weeks, but it won't

be thick for some time. My mare is a grand horse for steady,

continuous work, also quite a good galloper. I had a gallop for

two furlongs or so the other day with the Staff Captain and the

A.D.C., each mounted on a crack cavalry charger. My mare came in

with the first of them, and had more left in her at the end than

either of the others.

There is no greater mistake than to suppose that the function of

the horse has vanished in modern war. On the contrary, even in

the transport, horses are quite as much used as motors. Horse

transport is not confined to roads, and can pass much more easily

than motor vehicles over rough ground. When you get up near the

front, where the roads are badly cut up, horse transport is not

only desirable but essential. Of course, the motor is absolutely

invaluable for speedy transport. But on the whole one can say

that, except for motor-buses, which sometimes take the men right

up close to the trenches, and except for the ammunition park--a

collection of powerful and very speedy lorries loaded up with

munitions, which has always to be in readiness to dash up to the

front in view of an emergency--except in these cases, it is safe

to say that motor transport ends some miles from the actual

fighting-line, and all the remaining transport is horsed. True,

motor-cars containing Generals on inspection, Supply officers,

etc., go all over the place, often right up behind the

firing-line. Also there are the motor machine-gun cars, and the

armoured cars, which are fighting units proper. But don't for

goodness' sake imagine that the horse is done with in modern war

because of the advent of the motor.

What the motor has done is to alter the whole face of things

because of the extraordinary rapidity with which it enables you

to fling troops or supplies up to the Front or transport them

from point to point. But for the effective use of motor vehicles

you need pretty good roads. You will remember how in the earlier

months of the War, ourselves, the Germans and the French effected

big troop movements simply by motor transport. You will recall

the occasion on which the French flung a force across the suburbs

of Paris and attacked the Boches on the right, thus beginning the

movement known as the Battle of the Marne. Then there was the

occasion when Hindenburg attacked the Russians in October, 1914,

feinting at their left and striking at their right at Tannenberg

with a force of armoured cars, cavalry, and infantry conveyed in

motors. Neither of these movements could have been achieved

before the advent of motor transport. As this war progresses, the

need for really capable and cool-headed motor drivers will

steadily increase. But it will be none the less invaluable to

know how to manage a horse--whether to ride it, drive a wagon, or

ride-and-drive in a limber. One of our limber horses is a grey

captured from the Germans last year. He is a very good worker and

doesn't seem to mind being a prisoner in the least.

I must tell you of a funny incident. That night when we were

sleeping on the heath, which I referred to in a previous letter

(p. 149), our Medical Officer was awakened at 2 A.M. by a frantic

signaller, that is, one of the R.E. motor-cycle dispatch riders.

It was pouring rain at the time and bitterly cold. The signaller

solemnly handed the M.O. an envelope marked "Urgent and Special."

The M.O. opened it, his mind full of visions of men mortally

stricken awaiting immediate attention and of other tragic things.

Judge his astonishment when he found inside the following note

from his O.C.: "Kindly render your monthly inoculation return to

Headquarters before the end of the week." What the M.O. said is

unprintable, as this return had already been sent in, and, in any

case, is just a formality of no importance to anybody.

My affection for the British soldier deepens the more I know of

him. To a student of human nature it is an everlasting joy to get

Tommy to tell you his experiences in his own inimitable language,

interspersed with all sorts of gory adjectives. It is so

different from and better than the sort of thing you read in the

Society papers. Human nature as it really is comes out strongly

in these splendid men at the Front. A talk with Tommy is of

intense interest to a chap as keen as I am on psychology.

_November 5th, 1915._

Still much occupied; out almost all day and every day, either on

horseback or in a motor. Much interest has been displayed in

these parts in the visit of the King. I have passed the chateau

where he is staying almost every day this past week.

The district where we are now quartered is filled with refugees,

among them some orphans from Loos. Some people about here have

been terribly hit by the war, but some are reaping enormous

profits out of it. Such is the caprice of fortune. All over this

neighbourhood you see the names of Life Guards, Royal Horse

Guards, Grenadiers, etc., carved on doors and panels. We are

close to a large town which is an important point in the scheme

of things.

Events seem to be taking a remarkable turn. Who, at the start of

the war, would have thought that we would have been able to land

a military force in the Balkan Peninsula? It is really a

remarkable position all round. Asquith's speech was frank if

nothing else. There appears to have been discord in the Cabinet,

so now we are about to have something like a "Committee of Public

Safety." Marvellous race, the English! Lord Derby seems to be an

outstanding personality just now. Have you noticed how each month

of the war is marked by some new phase of public opinion?

Optimism, pessimism, spies, Zeppelins, economy, pink forms,

voluntaryism, conscription, munitions--each of these has been for

a time the centre of public interest, and each has swiftly fallen

from its pedestal to be replaced by some other phase. Curiously

enough, the talk at home has not been influenced in any direct

way by the real progress of the war, but by the effect on the

popular imagination of trivial incidents, magnified out of all

proportion by sensational journals. The war goes on,

nevertheless, showing that the great British spirit is something

far too strong and deep to be really influenced by the caprices

of public opinion.

It is amusing to see how the views of certain newspapers vary

from month to month, and even more diverting to observe how all

the amateur strategists claim that they had really predicted

every phase of the military operations. Believe me, however, the

war has been and is quite different from any ideas entertained in

regard to it in the early weeks and months. It is a blend of

grotesque incongruities that would be humorous were not one side

of them so tragic and terrible. No one here seems to know

anything definite about what is going on. One has considerable

local knowledge but very little general information. Probably the

latter is impossible to get in this sort of mix-up--the scale on

which the war is being waged is so vast.

You will see roughly from Sir John French's latest dispatch the

part played by the cavalry in the advance of 25th September-5th

October. You will not, of course, be able to glean much of what

actually happened, but I can tell you we had a most interesting

time.

How tiresome is the tosh written in the papers and spoken in

Parliament about the war! One wonders if it would not be a good

plan to shut up Parliament for a time, though I suppose it is a

good thing to have a place where men can vent their foolish

thoughts. But I am thoroughly weary of "Statements by the Prime

Minister" which state nothing, and of mere denunciations by Sir

Arthur Markham and Sir Edward Carson; also of the shrieking of

the Yellow Press, the wishy-washiness of the Liberal Press and

the _Spectator_, the impenetrable Conservatism of the _Morning

Post_, and the noisy sensationalism of the Bottomley--Austin

Harrison crew. Thank goodness the strong broad stream of British

spirit runs deeper and is much purer than would appear from this

froth and scum on the surface.

Recently it has been a period of Catholic festivals about here.

Some days there have been processions and bell-ringing from morn

to eve. The other day was the Fete des Morts, and lately there

was the French All Saints' Day. It is a singular sensation to

hear the chime of church bells blending with the thudding of the

guns.

_November 18th, 1915._

Yesterday I rode twenty-five miles. A delightful experience it

was, too;--in crisp winter weather and with the surrounding

country covered with snow. It has become very cold of late, but I

am fond of cold weather, especially when it keeps dry. Assigned

some special work by the Staff Captain, I had permission to move

when and how I liked, instead of accompanying the Column as I

usually do. The result was that I was able to join up with the

Veterinary section attached to the brigade. We moved at our own

pace, resting our horses where we wanted to and giving them a

good drink and feed _en route_, instead of jogging on

monotonously with the Column. Our horses were thoroughly fit and

full of life when we reached our destination, and good for

another twenty-five miles if necessary. You would not believe how

much horses benefit from care and attention as to food and rest.

The time you lose in watering, resting and feeding, you can

always more than make up through the consequent freshness of

your animals. Obviously, when speed is absolutely vital, you

can't choose your time to rest the horses. For example: on those

never-to-be-forgotten days, 23-26 September last, we used to move

at a rapid trot for hours on end--for the expectation then was

that the Boche line might be broken. This latest "trek" had not

the urgency or the wild excitement of that, and we were able to

take our own time.

I had a ripping game of Rugger a few days back, playing for the

19th Hussars against the Bedford Yeomanry. The latter, who

included some old Bedford School boys, beat us, though only by

one point. I played forward in the first half of the game, and

scrum-half in the second. It _was_ a treat to handle a Rugby ball

again!

Things are becoming rather mixed in English politics, what with

Asquith's contradictory statements about conscription, Carson

resigning and Winston flinging up politics for the Army. His

resignation is creditable to Winston, and at a moment like this

he would naturally want to do his bit at the Front. Everybody in

the cavalry that I have spoken to considers him a good sportsman.

Myself, I regard Churchill as a man with a real touch of genius.

The Haldane controversy seems to have started afresh. How

terrible is the ingratitude of the masses! If Haldane had done no

more than create the Territorials and the Officers' Training

Corps he would have had an everlasting claim to fame; but when

one considers also his creation of the General Staff, and his

arrangements for mobilising, equipping, transporting and

supplying the B.E.F.--well, one begins to realise that the man is

a Colossus. And yet the wretched Jingoes continue to bespatter

him with mud, and I suppose the nation in the mass regards him as

a species of highly-educated spy! But perhaps the majority of

the people have never heard of him--Charlie Chaplin is a far more

living personality to most of them, I make no doubt.

I referred in a recent letter (p. 162), to the fluctuating phases

of opinion in England in regard to the war. A new phase would

appear now to have arisen and taken the place of the Lord Derby

boom. This new phase is one of criticism of past military and

naval operations--Neuve Chapelle, Loos, Suvla Bay, the Narrows,

Antwerp, etc. etc., all of which are being discussed with equal

zest and ignorance. Mark my words, there will soon be a new phase

or an old one will recur.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_November 23rd, 1915._

I am so sorry Dulwich got done down by Bedford. Of all our

matches, that is the one we are most keen on winning. Still, we

can't expect to win always, and we have not lost to Bedford for

three years till now. I had perhaps the unique experience of

being in a team which never lost a Bedford match. In 1912-13,

when I got my colours, we drew 28 points all; in 1913-14 we won,

16 to 15; and last year, 32 to 16. Well, I would have given

anything for the School to have got home a fourth time against

old Bedford, but it was not to be.

The sudden drop in temperature during the last fortnight has

affected most people here. I have escaped without any sort of

cold, though nine-tenths of the officers and men have been down

with chills.

My mare has developed a devil of a temper of late, and bites and

kicks like anything--a sign of exuberant vigour. Fortunately she

gets on well with my other horse, and they don't "strafe" each

other in the stable. To get horses in the same stable on good

terms with each other is largely a question of feeding them at

the same time. My second horse, which my servant rides when we

are on the move, is a jolly little chestnut, very strong and

hardy, with a magnificent long tail. I ride him and the mare on

alternate days. Horses are ridiculous creatures. They will eat

all sorts of things, even wood, mud, and pieces of coal, as if

from sheer cussedness. It can't be because they are hungry, as

they get plenty to eat in the way of oats, hay, dry clover, etc.

Sometimes, as if from devilment, they will roll in the mud a few

minutes after they have been nicely groomed. Some of our

regiments have a lot of mules, which are given to fearful

brayings--a sound which is a cross between a horse's whinny, a

donkey's hee-haw and an elephant's trumpeting. Mules bite and

kick each other continually, but they will do any amount of work

when so inclined.

_November 29th, 1915._

I see that the Welshmen are coming out. May they strafe the

Boches to the wide! I hope the Cymry will prove themselves worthy

successors to Owain Glyndwr and all the other grand old chiefs

who have given us such a name in arms. Times have changed, and

to-day, instead of smiting your foe with a club or a sword, you

"strafe" him with gas-shells and machine-guns. The old way was

the best, but the natural instinct of all things animate to fight

remains, as it always will remain.

We have received some of _The Times'_ broad-sheets. I don't

exactly know whether they are good or not. It is undoubtedly a

benefit to have "bits" from great writers to skim over when you

haven't the time, or the inclination, to wade through a volume.

On the other hand, it is intensely aggravating to experience the

feeling of incompleteness that naturally results from having your

reading suddenly cut off.

_December 3rd, 1915._

The other day I was ordered to visit a certain battery in the

firing-line. No one had a ghost of an idea as to their present

location, but I discovered where their supplies were being drawn

from--a spot two miles from the line, which was being "strafed"

daily. Off I went to this place in my car, but nobody there knew

a thing about the people I wanted, so I had to go up to the

railway station and crave the loan of a telephone. After a great

deal of bother I got on to some genial soul who knew where the

Brigade Headquarters were of the lot I was after. He told me

where they had gone to, but whether they were still there or not

he didn't know. Anyhow, it was a clue. So, like Pillingshot (in

P. G.'s story), I worked on it.

After consulting my maps, and chatting with dozens of military

police, interpreters, etc., I took my car forward by a certain

road. By this time it was pitch dark, except for star shells and

gun flashes. The road was crammed with traffic. We took a wrong

turning, and eventually found ourselves on an apology for a road

that ended in a swamp full of shell-holes, and had to retrace our

steps gingerly. After blundering about in the dark for some time

we struck the village we were looking for, a hopeless sort of

place crammed with Scotsmen, all exceedingly grimy, but gay and

cheerful. In one house the men were waltzing to the strains of a

mouth-organ, though the boom of the guns was shaking the house

every second or so.

Having reached the Headquarters I was in quest of, I ascertained

from them that the battery with which I had business to do was

now at a spot two miles away down a main road which was the scene

of such desperate fighting not long back. The O.C. strongly

advised me not to take the car down there, as if I did "it was

likely that the car would stop some pieces of metal." There was

nothing for it but to walk down the road leading to the recently

captured village. It was very dark, but star-shells, with their

weird green light, would illuminate the countryside every five

minutes or so. In the darkness one could vaguely discern the

shape of the first-line transport wagons taking up rations to the

trenches, and small columns of silently marching men, and now and

then a motor lorry belonging to some ammunition park. Presently,

after what seemed an interminable walk, I found the battery, who

themselves had only just arrived, and executed my job in a

half-ruined house. To get back to my car I borrowed a horse and

rode part of the way with a number of led horses, which, having

brought up the guns, were going back to the wagon line.

On getting to my car I decided that my best road to return would

be to go straight along into a certain large town, instead of the

route we'd come by. As we spun along a voice from the darkness

hailed us: "Have you room for an officer?" We at once pulled up

and told him to jump in. Poor devil! he was almost in a state of

collapse and talked wildly. He had been six months in the

trenches, and had just come out of them in a half-hysterical

state. I had to speak to him pretty firmly before he could pull

himself together. We took him to his destination, and he was most

grateful for the lift.

It was an uncanny experience, this wandering about in the

darkness in desolate regions a few hundred yards from the

trenches. In this grim struggle there is none of the glory and

pomp of war as exhibited in the days of old, when rival armies

met amid the blare of trumpets and the waving of standards. The

pageantry of war is gone. We have now war in all its fierceness,

grime and cold-bloodedness without any picturesque glamour or

romance. Can you wonder that in such conditions civilised human

nature out here swiftly changes and is replaced by elemental

savagery?

In December, 1915, Paul Jones had short leave, and spent six days at

home. He took advantage of the opportunity to have a game of football

on the familiar arena in Dulwich, playing for the Old Alleynians

against the College 1st XV.

_December 21st, 1915._

All well after a pleasant crossing. The blundering authorities

kept us and three other leave trains six hours in ---- station,

no one being allowed to leave the platform! We eventually reached

---- at 7 P.M. The two first men I met on the boat were old

Dulwich boys, W. J. Barnard and Bobby Dicke. Barnard is a

field-gunner, and Dicke is in the 1st Royal Fusiliers. I also met

another O.A., named Corsan, who is captain in Barnard's battery.

How well I remember ragging with him in choir practices! We had a

thrilling chat over old times. Both Barnard and Corsan went

through the Battle of Loos. On reaching France we found there was

no means of getting to our respective destinations until next

morning, so we all dined together with a couple of other subs.,

one in the K.R.R.s, a mere boy in appearance but a veteran in

experience. How delightful to meet old pals, and what splendid

fellows these old public-school men are!

Everything is very festive about here just now. Officers and men

are making ready to pass Christmas in the old-fashioned way.

_December 28th, 1915._

We had a very jolly Christmas. The revellings have, in fact, only

just begun to subside. Our Brigade Major spent his Christmas in

the trenches along with his brother, a V.C. In that part of the

line there was a truce for a quarter of an hour on Christmas Day,

and a number of Englishmen and Germans jumped out and started

talking together. A German gave one of our men a Christmas tree

about two feet high as a souvenir. It is of the usual variety,

covered with tinsel and adorned with glass balls.

_January 4th, 1916._