Nightingale.[5] Himself an O.A., he was in the Modern Sixth about
1900. He was a master at the dear old school from 1907, or
thereabouts. I regarded him as one of my best friends among the
masters. The year I took on the captaincy of the Junior School
"footer," he gave me immense help as master in charge of the
Junior School games. But really cricket was his game; he was a
splendid bat on his day, a useful slow bowler and a fine
fieldsman. He was such an enthusiast for cricket that he would
take any and every chance of playing, no matter whether against
the 1st XI or against the Junior School. In character he was
extremely simple and unaffected--not a great scholar, but a
shrewd thinker with a serviceable knowledge of history and
literature, and a fine taste in reading. Personally he was one of
the kindest of men and so easy to get on with. Though in no sense
a professional soldier, yet from a strong feeling of duty he
joined right at the start as a private in, I believe, the Rifle
Brigade, with whom he served many months in France. He then got a
commission in the 7th Lincolns, with whom he was serving when
killed.
[Footnote 5: Lieutenant F. L. Nightingale. Born, 1881. Killed
in action in France, December 19th, 1915. A master at
Dulwich, 1906-1914. A man of ripe culture and a splendid
cricketer.]
Here was a man who threw up all to take up soldiering, not
because he had the military instinct, but from sheer patriotism
and sense of duty. It was just like him--at school he would
always put himself out to play in a game if a team was a man
short. He was always called "Nighty" by the boys. Can you wonder,
with the example of such a man before me, that I should be
longing to get into the Infantry? Heavens! A man would not be a
man who did not feel as I feel about this matter.
Well, Sir John Simon has resigned. Rather a pity that such a
career should be cut short. Still, at best he was a mere
politician, and to tell you the truth I don't like politicians
much. All the same, I do think Simon did some valuable work as
Home Secretary, and earlier as Attorney-General.
For once the British Government appears to have acted with
vigour--I mean by occupying Salonika and telling the Greeks
politely to "hop it." Result, the Greeks have hopped it. How much
more simple and effective this than to jaw about "the rights of
neutrals," the "sanctity of small nations," etc., etc.! No! take
a strong line in this world, and you're more likely to get what
you want than by cajolery.
_January 26th, 1916._
One day last week I mounted my horse at 2.15 P.M. and rode in a
south-easterly direction. For the first couple of miles things
were as usual--crowds of soldiers about, of course, and lots of
transport on the move. One village I found populated half by
civilians and half by troops. Thereafter the country becomes
barer and grimmer, and the fields for the most part are
uncultivated--in itself a remarkable thing in France. The next
village I came to bore signs of having been shelled, but was
still habitable. Originally it must have been quite a pleasant
little place. Not many of the native inhabitants remained, and
the houses for the most part were filled with Scotsmen and
sappers.
Passing on, with the roar of the guns getting more and more
distinct, we come to a place that leaves no manner of doubt that
there is a war on. There are graves by the roadside, and
shell-holes. Lines of trenches and coils of barbed wire arrest
your attention. Now there comes into view the battered remnant of
what was once a busy mining village. The great slag-heap towers
up on our right hand, its sides scarred and smashed by
shell-fire. Not a house is left standing. There are only
shattered walls and heaps of bricks. Over all hangs that curious
odour one gets at the Front--a sort of combined smell of burning
and decay. A grotesque effect is produced by a signboard hanging
outside a ruined tenement and bearing the words: "Delattre,
Debitant," or, in other words, "Delattre's Inn." On the right a
gunner is standing on what was once a house roof, hacking away at
the beams with a pickaxe; he is getting firewood, no doubt.
Solemnly a general service wagon rolls by, carrying a load of
fuel, and a limber crashes past at a trot. A little single-line
railway from the colliery crosses the road, and even now there
are standing on it two or three trucks, strange to say quite
intact. The machinery at the pit-head is all smashed, bent and
broken. You are impressed with the strange, eerie silence, when
suddenly there is an earth-shaking crash. One of our heavies has
been fired. You hear the shell whirring away on its journey of
destruction, and finally a faint, far-distant crash, perhaps
marking the end of a dozen men, five or ten miles off.
Resuming my journey I reached another village, where the
destruction had been simply terrible, surpassing even that of
Ypres. This village bears a name famous in the annals of British
arms, for it was from here that the Guards charged on that
memorable day, September 25th. I saw a line of old trenches just
behind the village, and rode over to examine them. Perhaps it was
from this very line that our men advanced. I tried to picture to
myself what it must have been like--valour, endurance, turmoil,
destruction, death, a great forward rush by brave men that spent
itself, and fizzled out just on the eve of triumph. Why?
On the left there was a large cemetery. Many of the crosses had
soldiers' caps hung on them, and in one case the man was
evidently a Catholic, for crucifix and image had been taken down
from a post on the roadside and laid on the grave. I tried to
find if there was any trace of the names of two O.A.s who fell in
this battle, Crabbe and Beer, but failed to discover either name.
It was now getting late, so I retraced my steps and cantered
homewards. In this war-scarred region I actually met an old
French farmer driving his horse and trap along the road leading
towards the trenches just as if there was no war raging; and near
the one habitable house of the district small boys were playing
merrily, while their parents were calling them in and scolding
them in shrill voices. In some ruined houses were yet more
Scotsmen, most ubiquitous of peoples. I halted to chat with an
old military policeman who used to be with the 9th Cavalry
Brigade. Then home. A very interesting afternoon's work, which
gave one a real insight into "the conduct and results of war" as
waged in these cynical days.
During another visit I paid to this desolate region there was a
"strafe" of some magnitude on. As I rode I could hear the long
whistling and heavy crump of high explosives that the enemy were
dropping into a village about a mile to the left, and could see
the flame and smoke of the explosion. Our own guns soon began to
chime in. It was quite a cheerful little show, what with the
long-drawn whining of approaching Boche shells, the crash of
explosions, the thud of our guns replying, and the weird,
fluttering noise of our shells going over. Presently the gun duel
became more and more violent. The fearful crashes of our
"heavies," the groans, shrieks and whines of the shells on their
message of death, the tremendous thuds of Boche explosions, and
the whistling hum of shrapnel pieces flying around--all this made
up a pandemonium of noise. My further progress along this road
was barred by a thud amongst some ruined houses about a hundred
yards in front of me, showing that the "strafe" was veering round
to my direction. Deviating from this road I met some old
acquaintances in the Gunners, and had tea with them in their
dug-out, my horse being put up in what in pre-war days had been
somebody's sitting-room. I cantered home at dusk. All this
evening there has been a "hate" on--the sky alive with
gun-flashes and lit up by star-shells, and the air resounding
with bangings and thuddings.
_February 1st, 1916._
Hereabouts we seem now to be doing ten times as much "strafing"
as the Boches. This afternoon I saw at fifty yards' distance some
60-pounders (the old "Long-Toms") being fired. First, there would
come a flash of flame from the muzzle, followed by an
ear-splitting bang. Then the whole gun seemed to hurl itself
bodily forward and slide back into position again. Meanwhile you
could hear the shell tearing its way through the air with the
curious shuddering, or fluttering, noise that shells make in
transit.
Riding north the other day I came to a place where the only
sounds that could be heard were the intermittent crackle of
rifle-fire mingling with the shrill tones of a woman haggling
over the price of bread with an old chap who had driven out with
his pony and cart from an adjacent town to sell his goods. The
roof of the woman's house had mostly vanished and some of the
walls were non-existent, being replaced by sandbags. A notice
proclaimed that there was coffee and milk for sale within. Is it
not extraordinary to encounter this sort of thing right up in the
battle zone? It shows how human nature can adapt itself to the
most uncustomary things. I suppose we should be the same--stick
to the old home so long as there was a brick left standing.
I ran across an O.A., named Tatnell, who holds a commission in
the Motor Machine Gun Corps. He told me he had met lots of O.A.s
out here. Some of the fellows he mentioned are mere boys of
seventeen and eighteen still. One of them, Williams, I remember
last year as a drummer in the Corps. Honestly, the old school has
done splendidly. Every one of the fellows I used to know from the
age of seventeen onwards is serving, and they were all serving
long before there was any talk of Derby schemes.
TO HIS BROTHER.
_February 10th, 1916._
I went into the trenches a few days back--not in the front line,
but as far as Brigade Headquarters, which is a sort of series of
caverns in the ground, and is approached by a long communication
trench. Nothing much was happening; and, anyway, this particular
trench is so deep that there is nothing to be seen save a strip
of sky above your head. In a few places you can get out and stand
on the open ground without much danger. The spectacle is
curious--practically nothing visible to indicate that there is a
war on. No soldiers in sight, only a lot of shell-holes and
barbed wire, and a general sense of desolation, with an
occasional crack of a rifle bullet, the whistle and crash of
Boche shells and the bang of our own guns from just behind.
I suppose that the Army class at Dulwich are hot favourites this
year for the Form Cup, and the Engineers for the Side. Our star
on the Modern Side has, I fear, waned. I shall never forget that
final Side match last year, when, with a team much the weaker on
paper, we (the Modern Side, captained by Paul Jones) snatched a
victory by sheer tactics. It was the best game, or rather, one of
the four best games, I remember--the other three being the
Bedford match in 1913, when A. H. Gilligan shone so brilliantly;
the famous 28-28 draw at Bedford in 1912; and the Haileybury
match of the same year. In every one of these games the football
reached a high standard, and the result was a pretty fair
indication of the run of the play, except perhaps in the second
game, in which it was the personal brilliance of the Gilligans
and Evans that snatched an almost lost game out of the fire.
Great Scott! What wouldn't I give to be starting my school career
again? Make the most of your school days, my son, for you'll
never have such a time again!
_March 2nd, 1916._
A few days ago I went up to see Elias--Captain T. Elias,
son-in-law of Dr. MacNamara, M.P.--and had tea with "C" Company,
1st London Welsh. To my amazement I discovered that Percy
Davies--now Major Davies, son of Mr. David Davies, Mayor of
Swansea, 1917, and editor of the _South Wales Daily Post_--was in
the same village at the time. So I went along to his mess; we
were overjoyed to meet one another. He introduced me to his
messmates, a ripping set of chaps, who included Sir Alfred Mond's
son, and one Parry, whose brother played for Dulwich, inside to
Harold Gilligan, in Evans's year. Amazing coincidences, what? At
the invitation of these fellows I went with them to a concert
they had got up in the village. It was quite the best show of its
kind I have seen out here, and there are lots of concert-parties
in these parts. The Welsh have a gift of music that is peculiar
to them alone. There was some first-rate singing at the concert;
and a private soldier--a Tommy, mark you!--played Liszt's "No. 2
Rhapsody" and Schubert's "Marche Militaire" almost flawlessly.
And the way the audience appreciated it! Then we had some
first-rate comic work--really refined, not cheap and coarse--by a
man whom I am sure I've seen at Llandrindod. Altogether it was a
first-rate show--by miles the most interesting, intellectual,
refined and capable performance I've seen out here.
They have shows of various kinds every night of the week--boxing
contests, trials by jury, concerts, etc. What enterprise and
intelligence our countrymen have! Percy Davies himself looks
after the boxing, and he made quite a telling little speech in
announcing his plans for the coming week. Mond is a good chap,
very jovial, boyish and unsophisticated. In fact, all these
fellows are of the very best, and of outstanding intelligence.
Would that I were with them! I was struck by the remarkable
difference between these officers and the cavalry officers with
whom I am in daily association. Each type is wholly admirable in
its own way, but they have not many characteristics in common.
_April 14th, 1916._
I derive great pleasure and interest from watching the methods of
these French peasants with their horses. It is nothing short of
marvellous. They never groom their horses and never clean the
harness or bits, yet the horses keep fit as fiddles and look
really well too. Their intelligence is extraordinary. Almost
every night I see the old chap, at whose farm I keep my own
horses, come in with four or five horses from ploughing--riding
on one, not in the orthodox fashion, _i.e._, astride, but with
both legs hanging over the horse's near side, something like
ladies' style of riding, but without saddle, braces, or stirrups.
He is leading no fewer than four other horses on one rein--a
remarkable thing in itself. When he gets into his farmyard he
slides off and gives some sort of a weird shout that sounds like
"Ooee-ee-ee!" The moment the horses hear this off they go to the
pond in one corner of the yard and drink their fill.
Meanwhile the farmer has gone into his house. Presently he
reappears at the door and utters something like "Oy-eh!" He may
be fifty yards from his horses and never goes near them, but as
soon as they hear this call they leave the pond and troop off
into their stable, where each horse takes up his own place and
stands still there ready to be tethered. They all know exactly
where to stand, and the old chap unharnesses them, hangs up the
harness for use next day, chucks a few handfuls of oats into the
manger, shoves some hay into the rack, and leaves them for the
night. He never troubles about drying their legs and hoofs after
their immersion in the pond. Probably if you treated one of our
horses in that fashion he would be likely to get a "cracked heel"
and go lame. But these French farm horses never seem to mind in
the least. Well, one lives and learns. Our grooms are vastly
amused at these methods of horse-managing. The baffling thing is
the wonderful health enjoyed by the French horses. It is very
rare for any of them to go lame or sick, or even lose condition
despite their--to us--extraordinary _mode de vivre_.
_April 27th, 1916._
I see that poor Kitter[6] has been killed. It is too horrible;
first Nightingale, now Kittermaster. At Dulwich Kitter was always
looked upon as a prototype of K. of K. He was a very silent man,
who nevertheless took a very real interest in the affairs of the
school, his form, and his "House." He knew a lot about military
tactics, and his chief hobby was the Corps, for which he worked
and slaved in school-time and out. He taught us fellows more
about military discipline and training than you could get from
months of study. He was always having little field-days, extra
drills, and so forth, and while any movements were on he was
always explaining and talking to you, showing why this, and why
that, and so forth. He had a fund of dry humour. One of the best
men at Dulwich, I always thought! Poor chap! Well, well!
[Footnote 6: Captain Arthur N. C. Kittermaster. Born, 1871.
Killed in action in Mesopotamia, April 5th, 1916. A master at
Dulwich, 1896-1915. An accomplished scholar and athlete, who
was C.O. of the Dulwich O.T.C.]
In May, 1916, Paul came home on leave. He spent a very enjoyable week
in London and had the satisfaction of meeting many old College
friends. On 12th May I saw him off by the 8.10 A.M. train from
Victoria. There is a clear picture of him in my mind's eye standing on
the platform before taking his seat in the waiting train, cheerily
greeting this friend and that, conspicuous in the throng of officers
by his massive physique. He looked the incarnation of young manly
vigour, courage and hope, and there was about him a fresh and
fragrant air like the atmosphere of that delicious spring morning. The
future is mercifully veiled from man. Little did either of us think
when saying farewell, clasping hands and gazing lovingly into each
other's eyes, that we would never meet again on this earth.
_May 15th, 1916._
Had a pleasant crossing to France. I dined in an hotel with a
gunner lieutenant, who in civil life was a Professor of
Literature, a charming and cultured man. We discussed some of our
respective pet theories on Art and Life, the Novel and the Drama,
etc., and found many points of agreement.
Well! it was a great leave. There is no countryside to compare
with the English. If you had lived among the flats of Flanders
you would find the tamest English scenery beautiful. Not that we
are situated at present in unbeautiful surroundings. In fact, the
downs about here are very pleasant, and there are many trees in
the valleys; but give me the English countryside. Then there is
London! Dear old London! to me the one town in the world. Our own
home, too, with its happy blend of urban and rural. And then the
old school----! Yes, it was a great leave, there can be no
possible doubt about it. Would that it had been twice as long!
On arrival at our quarters I found my horses very well. They are
looking perfectly beautiful just now, their coats shining, smooth
and glossy like silk. My big one really blazes on a sunny day,
and my cob is not far behind him. I shall have a very busy time
in the next ten days, arranging for a supply of about 30 tons a
week of green fodder to be purchased in weekly instalments in the
neighbouring countryside. All the troops are going to bivouac in
the fields shortly, as they always do this time of the year,
remaining under canvas until September, or even October if the
weather permits.
_May 18th, 1916._
Thanks so much for the "Shakespeare"; it was exactly what I
wanted. I am making a careful study of the Bard's works again,
and with an enthusiasm that has not one whit abated; rather it
has augmented. I only wish it had been possible to see some of
his plays whilst on leave.
What a superman Shakespeare was! The interest of his plays is
absolutely perennial. Perhaps the most extraordinary feature of
his work is the astonishing consistency of the characters in his
_dramatis personae_. His characters invariably behave exactly as
people of that type would and do behave in real life. Thus we
have the illusion that the characters conceived by his mighty
imagination are themselves real. He has hit with marvellous
accuracy on the points in human nature that are common to almost
all ages, and, _mutatis mutandis_, his plays could be staged in
the nineteenth or twentieth century without losing any of their
power.
Men of the type of Hamlet are doubtless rare, yet we all know the
sort of genius who is so much a genius that he is incapable of
action and does nothing but reflect. Hamlet seems meant to show
how vain it is to be merely a philosopher in this world. Hamlet
is always pondering, thinking of the abstract rights and wrongs
of the case. In the result, though he does eventually avenge his
father's murder, his introspection and vacillation have led to
the death of himself and no fewer than three other innocent
persons--Ophelia, Polonius and Laertes. Yet Hamlet was at least
twice as brainy as the rest of them, and he was also a good
sportsman; for instance, he refuses to kill Claudius when he
finds him at a disadvantage--that is, when Claudius is praying.
To me the lesson of the play seems to be this--the only policy
that really works in this world is to "go in and get the goods,"
as the Canadians say. The philosopher usually causes more trouble
than his philosophy is worth. It is the old lesson of the
Girondins and Jacobins over again. No one doubts which of them
had the purer and loftier ideals. Equally no one doubts that the
Girondins, despite all this, were hopelessly outmanoeuvred by the
practical Jacobins, who had not a tithe of their brains.
To change the subject, I have been getting a lot of swimming
lately. At a big cement works in a neighbouring town there is an
enormous pond in a quarry. The water is about 15 feet deep all
round and not at all stagnant, and there is a splendid place for
diving. Yesterday I was down at a neighbouring seaport on
business and got a delightful swim in the sea. A swim means to me
almost as much as a Rugby match. I am going down to the
cement-works pool every day, and whenever possible I shall have a
swim in the sea. The weather just at present is wonderful, the
sunshine simply glorious. Do not imagine that I am neglecting my
work. In fact, I have been tremendously busy buying and arranging
for green fodder for about 2,000 horses at the rate of 4 lbs. per
horse per diem. By to-morrow noon I shall have contracts
concluded to keep the brigade supplied until further orders.
_May 21st, 1916._
Thanks so much for congratulatory messages. It certainly was
gratifying to get the second pip, and a particularly pleasant
coincidence that it should be gazetted on May 18th [his
birthday].
The weather in "this pleasant land of France" remains wonderful.
The sun is really shining. In the height of summer I have never
known more beautiful weather. This, on the whole, is a
picturesque part of France, and everything looks at its best just
now. The lanes and wooded downs here might be in Surrey.
I was seven hours in the saddle yesterday. The General himself
commented the other day on the splendid condition of my horses.
They certainly are looking extraordinarily well.
_May 28th, 1916._
I note that Winston Churchill suggested in the House of Commons
the other day that the Cavalry should be turned into Infantry.
With due respect to him, I think that he is all wrong. Whenever
the "Push" comes, cavalry will be not only desirable, but
absolutely and vitally essential. The day of cavalry charges may
have gone, but I agree with Conan Doyle that "the time will never
come when a brave and a capable man who is mounted will be
useless to his comrades." You might, indeed, mount them in motor
cars, but a man with a horse has three times the freedom and the
scope for scouting and independent action that a man has who is
brought up in a motor and then dumped to shift for himself. I
entirely agree with Churchill, nevertheless, about the large
number of able-bodied men employed behind the fighting-lines. I
only wish I were in the trenches myself, I can tell you. My
rejection for the Infantry was a bitter blow!
Everybody here is grieved at the death in action of Captain
Platt, ---- Hussars, attached Coldstream Guards. I knew him quite
well, and we were great friends. He was a chivalrous gentleman,
and very clever intellectually, quite a bit of a poet in his way.
_June 2nd, 1916._
We are now in bivouacs in a big field. I have rigged up a
first-rate tent, made out of cart-cover, with a sort of enclosed
dressing-room for washing, etc., attached. We've got a fine
mess-tent, 30 feet long by 20 feet wide, made out of
wagon-sheetings. It is not only much more pleasant, but a good
deal cheaper, to live in the open like this.
So Churchill has once again leapt to the fore as a critic of the
Army. Mind, I have a lot of sympathy with some of his arguments,
but in general this last speech seemed to me mere wild and
whirling words. I note that L. G. now appears in the role of
Conciliator-in-General to Ireland. If anyone can settle this
miserable Irish question, he will.
The war drags wearily along on its monotonous course. Are you
reading Conan Doyle's review in the _Strand_ of the early stages
of the war? The style is not so good as John Buchan's, and
perhaps he is inclined to miss the broad issues of the conflict.
But for details, and for pictures of incidents that go to make up
war, Conan Doyle's narrative is very good indeed. The story of
the heroic fight of "L" Battery R.H.A. at Le Cateau, when the
whole battery was wiped out save for an odd man or two, is
admirably told. War was war in those days, not like this
earthworm war that has replaced it. Still, no doubt the trench
phase will not last for ever.
_June 9th, 1916._
The school cricket XI seems to have been doing badly. It was
undoubtedly hard lines to go under by only four runs to Bedford,
but our bad season is only a tribute to the patriotism of the
school, for I can see from the names of the eleven that we have
no one playing over the age of 17. Our system of training the
young idea in cricket is very much inferior to the training for
footer. The consequence is that in Dulwich cricket a young team
is probably destined for disaster, whereas I know from experience
that whenever we've had a young footer team it has had quite as
much success as teams exclusively composed of fellows in their
last year at school.
To speak of bigger matters, it seems to me impossible as yet to
put together any connected story of the Battle of Jutland. The
only facts that seem certain are that both sides lost heavily
(the Boches worse than ours, I expect), and that British
superiority on the seas, and consequently the maintenance of the
blockade, remains _in statu quo antea_. I am quite prepared to
find, when the true facts come out, that it was a deathless story
of heroism on the British part, and that in a fight with a foe
about six times his strength Beatty covered himself with glory.
Lord Kitchener's death was terribly tragic. There ought to be
stringent inquiries as to the ways and means by which the Boches
were enabled to sink H.M.S. _Hampshire_. On the other hand, I can
see that it is possible that the whole thing was a woefully
unfortunate accident. To have one's name coupled with
"Kitchener's Army"--a title alone which should pass K.'s name
down to posterity--is no small honour.
WITH A SUPPLY COLUMN
In June Lieut. Paul Jones, much to his chagrin, was transferred from
the 9th Cavalry Brigade to the Divisional Supply Column. His letters
will show how much he resented this change. (Certain words and
figures omitted from the following letter are the result of excisions
made by the Press Bureau censorship. They do not appear to have been
made on any intelligible principle.)
_June 12th, 1916._
I have been transferred from my old post of Requisitioning
Officer to Supply Officer, Cavalry Division Supply Column. I am
frankly and absolutely fed-up with this change! They tell me it
is promotion. Well, as I told my colonel, promotion of that kind
was not what I wanted. I loved my old job with its facilities for
exercising my French, and its comparative variety. Now I am
dignified with a job whose main element is seeing to the rations
being loaded on to the motor lorries that feed the division. I
have not even a chance of exercising my special faculty--that of
speaking French. I told my colonel I didn't want the job and
beseeched him to leave me with my brigade. He was adamant. My
late General wrote a personal letter to the A.S.C. colonel,
urging in the strongest terms that I should be left with the
brigade. Even to his appeal the only answer vouchsafed was: "The
change is equivalent to a promotion for the officer," and it is
"necessary for the satisfactory rationing of the division." The
colonel told me he was moving me (1) because I was good at
figures--me!; (2) because I was hard-working. They don't seem to
realise that, if what they said was true, I would have been a far
greater asset as a Requisitioning Officer. Oh, it does drive me
wild!
We had a brilliantly successful Divisional Horse Show last
Saturday. It proved a real triumph for the ---- Hussars of our
brigade--to my mind the best cavalry regiment in the Army. They
romped home easy firsts for the cup presented by the G.O.C. to
the regiment that got the greatest number of points in the
competitions. The classes for heavy and light chargers brought
out some magnificent horses. The well-known C.O. of the ----
Hussars was very much in evidence in all these classes. He is a
striking personality. With his hard, shrewd, red face, his
wonderfully thin legs, light-coloured breeches, beautifully-cut
tunic and high hat cocked over his left ear, he looked the
personification of the cavalry officer as we read about him in
novels. It would seem as though these cavalry officers had been
fashioned by nature to sit on a horse. I suppose it is heredity.
Certainly they are all of a type.
An interesting unofficial incident was provided by a man in the
4th Dragoon Guards producing a fine bay horse which he wagered 30
to 1 against any officer riding. It was a real American
buck-jumper. This challenge was enough for the dare-devil
subalterns of the ---- Hussars, and one of them, Beach-Hay, a
splendid horseman, promptly closed with the offer. For twenty
minutes or so he tried to mount, without succeeding; finally he
muffled the horse's head in a cloak and got on his back. Then he
dug his spurs in and set off at a gallop over the wide plain
where the show was being held. All went well for some time until
suddenly, without any warning, the horse put his feet together,
arched his back, and leapt several feet into the air, at the same
time turning to the left sharply. This the horse repeated several
times, up hill, down hill, sideways. How Beach-Hay managed to
keep his seat no one could tell; it was marvellous the way he
stuck on. At last the spirited animal contrived to get the rider
well forward on his neck, and then Hay slipped off and the horse
was away over the plain at full gallop, riderless. He was chased
and caught at last after a long run. Then up stepped a wily old
trooper of the 5th Dragoon Guards who used to be a jockey. He saw
that the horse was now tired out and got on his back without
difficulty, and as the animal by this time was utterly fagged, he
found little trouble in keeping his seat. All the honours,
however, belonged to the young subaltern.
Did you see that wonderful record of R. B. B. Jones[7] of
Dulwich? He shot no fewer than fifteen Boches in a scrap in the
craters on the Vimy Ridge before himself being killed. I remember
him more than well--a short, sturdy fellow, a very good shot, and
an excellent diver and gymnast. He did not go in much for cricket
or for football. Poor chap! Yet such a death, I think, is far
more to be coveted than an ignoble life far from danger and risk.
I often think of those lines of Adam Lindsay Gordon:
No game was ever yet worth a rap for a rational man to play,
Into which no accident, no mishap, could possibly find its way.
[Footnote 7: R. B. B. Jones. Born, 1897. Killed, May 21st,
1916. In the shooting VII, 1913-14; captain of gymnasium,
1914. Lieutenant, Loyal North Lancashires. His heroic bravery
on the Vimy Ridge recognised by bestowal of a posthumous
V.C.]
_June 16th, 1916._
I have had another fit of the blues over this wretched transfer.
Why should it be given to all the fellows I know to be in the
thick of real fighting--a life which anyone should be proud to
live--while to me, aged twenty, standing six feet, about forty
inches round the chest, Rugby footballer, swimmer, fluent French
speaker, and Balliol scholar, it is given to load up rations?
Loathing this Supply work, I have already applied for a transfer
to the Horse Transport Section. Oh! that I had only obeyed the
dictates of my own conscience and enlisted in the H.A.C. at the
start of the war, instead of staying on at school to get a
paltry scholarship which the odds are 10 to 1 on my never being
able to use! What I pray for is a job in which the following
elements are constantly present: (1) hard work; (2) real brain
work, employing, if possible, my knowledge of languages; (3)
constant danger, or, at least, the constant chance of it; (4) if
possible, horses to ride. For such a job I would willingly give
ten years of my life.
_June 22nd, 1916._
I am glad to say that I'm not finding my new job so absolutely
hopeless as I expected. It is in many ways not at all
uninteresting to be attached to a Supply Column. After a long
time with men whose one interest in life is horses, I now find
myself with men who eat, drink, live and breathe motors. My
experience has already taught me that England has a splendid
system of mechanical transport. Our column numbers no fewer than
150 lorries, 6 motor-cars, and 20 motor-bikes, and about 600
personnel, not to speak of a big travelling workshop and two or
three break-down lorries. When you consider that this is merely
the means of supplying one single division, you will faintly
realise what a part mechanical transport plays in this war. There
is no horse-train to a cavalry division, and the lorries deliver
rations direct to the regimental quartermasters, so you stand a
good chance of seeing all the fun if with the M.T. My duty is to
make arrangements for translating the ration figures rendered
daily to me by the Cavalry Brigades into terms of meat, bread,
biscuit, forage, etc., and arrange for these to be loaded at
railhead on to the lorries; then, in company with the M.T.
officer of the day, to take these rations up to the units, at the
same time obtaining the next day's feeding strength from the
Brigade Supply Officers.
This particular M.T. column delivered rations in the front line
trenches back in 1914, and once a portion of it was captured by
the Boches and recaptured by the 18th Hussars.
The M.T. officers are a very efficient lot, and know their job
from A to Z. Among them is Captain Hugh Vivian, a member of the
famous firm of Vivian & Son, of Swansea and Landore, so near to
our ancestral home. He is O.C. to the section of lorries to which
I am attached--a most intellectual man of charming manners, who
has travelled all over Europe and speaks French and German
fluently. He is one of the ablest men I have met in the Army and
I find him one of the best of fellows. He may have to leave us
shortly, because his thorough knowledge of the metal trades has
marked him out to the authorities as a man invaluable for the
production of munitions at home.
You have to be with a Supply Column in order to get some idea of
the vast quantities of food that are sent up daily to the Front.
Never have I seen such quantities--innumerable quarters of meat,
tons of bully, crates of biscuits, and cheese, butter, jam,
sugar, tea galore. When you remember that all this food has been
transported across the Channel, and much of it previously
imported from foreign countries into England, you begin to
comprehend the value of sea-power.
I am told that the Cavalry Brigade have had to fix up a special
interpreter to assist in the requisitioning work since my
departure! "Verbum sat sapienti"! Why the authorities should give
a man nearly a year's training in one job and then shift him to
something else, without reference to his faculties, experience,
or wishes, I simply can't tell. Still, there it is, and we must
assume that they know best.
* * * * *
Early in July began the great battles of the Somme, when our New
Army displayed before an admiring world its magnificent fighting
qualities.
_July 9th, 1916._
Things have been moving "a few" (as the Yanks say) on this front,
haven't they? Let no one, however, delude himself with the belief
that the business can be done in five minutes. Things in general
in this war have a habit of moving slowly; also the enemy is
undoubtedly well defended. Some of his dug-outs are 30 and 40
feet deep, with machine-guns on electric hoists, etc. The wily
Boche has not wasted his time during his twenty odd months on
this front. But what a relief it is to get back to action after
so many months of sitting still!
I have seen numbers of wounded go through the various railheads.
These cases were comparatively light wounds, the serious cases
being removed by motor ambulance. But many of the gallant chaps I
saw seemed in considerable pain. They were sent off in batches as
soon as possible to a seaport, the returning supply trains being
utilised for this purpose. Every one was in an incredible state
of grime. It is the griminess of modern warfare that strikes me
as its most characteristic feature.
For a whole fortnight I have lived, moved and had my being in a
motor-lorry. I found it quite comfortable, though it was not
inside the body of the vehicle that I had my dwelling. You see
the lorries are almost always full of rations ready for delivery;
so I slept in the driver's seat, and found it quite tolerable. It
is just like the driver's seat on a motor-bus; in fact, many of
the lorries are old London General omnibuses converted.
Personally, I never wish for anything better, least of all on
active service. There was a cushion and I had my blanket bag.
What more could a man want?
The Ulster Division did remarkably well in the recent fighting. I
am not surprised, for I saw them training in England, and was
impressed by their toughness--hard-bitten, short, powerfully
built men, who took things very seriously.
I can't tell you with what joy and pride I learnt that Lloyd
George had been made Minister for War! I regard him as the
outstanding personality of the age. Granted that he is sometimes
rash, granted that he does not always master the details of the
problem he is dealing with, granted that he sometimes propounds
schemes before they are ripe; yet against that place (1) his
wonderful personality, (2) his boundless vitality and energy, (3)
his heartfelt sympathy for the downtrodden ones of the world, (4)
his wonderful ideas and ideals, (5) his quickness of
intelligence, (6) his ardent patriotism, (7) his remarkable
powers of oratory, and (8) his almost uncanny gift of seeing into
the future--and you have a man whose superior it would indeed be
hard to find. Nietzsche would have welcomed him as his superman
incarnate! I have never wavered in my admiration for L. G. Even
when he was in hot water over Marconis, I stuck to him. Anyhow,
was there ever a man who was absolutely perfect? Let us, for
Heaven's sake, judge a man on his great points, and not "crab the
goods" by always emphasising his weaknesses. Lloyd George is the
man whom the Germans have more cause to fear than all the rest of
the Cabinet or any of our authorities, civil or military.
_July 17th, 1916._
In that mysterious quarter known as the back of the Front the
motor-lorry is omnipresent, especially at a time like this.
Wherever you go you see motor-lorries carrying food, ammunition,
telegraphic appliances, barbed wire, gas cylinders, clothing,
coal; in short, every sort and kind of article necessary to the
service of an army in the field. Sometimes they are even used to
carry up troops and to bring down wounded. During the Loos push,
for instance, this column was hurriedly requisitioned to take up
a Yorkshire battalion to the Hohenzollern Redoubt.
I was much interested in Kittermaster's last letter published in
_The Alleynian_--a very characteristic bit of writing. There were
very few fellows or masters either who ever got at Kitter's inner
nature. He was always somewhat of a mystery to most people. This
was accentuated by his taciturn temperament, his rather distant
manner, and short, brusque way of speaking. But he certainly was
one of the very best masters I can remember at Dulwich, and of
the Corps he was a wonderful O.C. There have been many tributes
to Kitter, but I scarcely think that people have done full
justice in the obituary notices to Nightingale, the other Dulwich
master who has given his life in the war--a sterling chap if ever
there was one.
So Howard,[8] as well as R. B. B. Jones, now figures in the death
roll! It seems but yesterday that we three were ragging together
in the swimming baths, of which both these chaps were great
habitues.
[Footnote 8: C. C. Howard. Born, 1897. Killed, May 23rd,
1916. Held an exhibition in science at Trinity College,
Cambridge. Lieutenant, Loyal North Lancashires.]
I am very sad, too, at the death of A. W. Fischer.[9] He and I
got our 1st XV colours together in Killick's year, and were the
best of friends throughout his last two years at school. He was a
smallish, active forward of the Irish type, a splendid hard
worker all through the game. He and I never on any occasion got
crocked, and we played in every 1st XV match for two consecutive
seasons, 1912-1914. He was a shrewd fellow, too, and well read,
particularly in the classics. He had a very deep, rich voice, and
used to do well every time in the competition for the Anstie
Memorial Reading Prize. As a soldier he would have been almost
ideal, as he was a rare good leader, and a devil-may-care chap
who feared nothing. It is inexpressibly sad that he should have
been taken away thus. And I haven't even seen him since we parted
at the end of the summer term, 1914, just before this holocaust
started. We shook hands on saying "Good-bye" on the cricket
ground, he proceeding towards the school buildings, and I towards
the pavilion. He was to have gone to Cambridge the ensuing
October, and we had been talking of his chances of a "Blue," and
if we would be able to play against each other in the coming
season. But what use to raise up the vanished ghosts of the past?
It only makes the tragedy more heart-breaking. It is up to us to
see that these lives have not been laid down in vain.
[Footnote 9: A. W. Fischer. Born, 1895. Died of wounds, May
12th, 1916. In the 1st XV, 1912-13-14. Held the Tancred
Studentship for Classics and Science at Caius College,
Cambridge. Lieutenant, Devonshire Regiment.]
_July 25th, 1916._
I was up yesterday in the region where we won ground from the
Germans, seeing to a dump of rations. The chief impression I
brought away with me was one of all-pervading dust. I have
witnessed a few scenes of destruction in my time out here, but
nothing to match a certain village in this area. Vermelles was
bad enough, but this place is even worse. Everything in it has
been razed to the ground. Except for an occasional square foot of
masonry protruding out of the earth, there is nothing to suggest
that there was ever a village here at all. In one old German
trench I saw a cross with the following words written on it:
"Hier liegen zwei Franz. Krieger," which interpreted would be:
"Here lie two French warriors," a tribute by the enemy to two
Frenchmen buried here earlier in the war before we took over this
portion of the line.
Alas! another old pal of mine has been killed, namely W. J.
Henderson,[10] a captain of the Loyal North Lancashires. In the
old days at Dulwich he did well in football. He got into the 2nd
XV under Evans, and frequently played for the 1st XV. He was also
decidedly clever, and won a classical scholarship at Oxford. The
war is taking a frightful toll of the best of our race.
[Footnote 10: Captain W. J. Henderson, M.C. Born, 1895.
Killed in action, July 6th, 1916. A senior classical scholar
at Dulwich. Won a classical scholarship at Corpus Christi
College, Oxford. Joined the Army, September, 1914.]
_July 27th, 1916._
I should like to have your permission to apply for a transfer to
the Royal Field Artillery. The procedure will be quite simple. I
will send in my application to the O.C., who will forward it with
the Medical Officer's health certificate to the higher A.S.C.
authorities; then it will go forward in the usual course. If the
people in charge think my record satisfactory and my eyesight
good enough they will take me. I want to give the authorities a
chance to take or refuse me for a really combatant corps. In this
way, whether refused or accepted, I shall have satisfied my
conscience. After all, the doctor will state on the medical
certificate exactly what my vision is. So there will be no
question of trying to deceive the authorities. They will have
before them all the facts _re_ my record and my eyesight. If they
then refuse me, well and good. I shall accept the inevitable. If
they take me, so much the better. I have had several chats with
the Officer Commanding the Supply Column on the subject, and
explained to him that I was utterly fed up with grocery work.
The scenes I have witnessed during and since this great
attack--the Somme battles--have confirmed my resolution to go
into the fighting line. You who have not seen the horrors of a
modern campaign cannot possibly know the feelings of a young man
who, while the real business of war is going on at his very elbow
(for we are not far from the centre of things), and who is
longing to be in the thick of the fighting, is yet condemned to
look after groceries and do work which a woman could do probably
a great deal better.
Oh! it is awful. And all this, mind you, with the knowledge that
all the chaps one used to know are in the thick of it.
To sum up, I recognise that I have a serious physical defect. I
shall not attempt to conceal it from the authorities; it would be
wrong to do so. But I have also many physical, and I think some
mental, advantages over the average man. Moreover, I am young and
exceptionally strong. I give you my word of honour that in making
my application I shall not conceal the facts about my short
sight. Having lodged my application for transfer, it will be for
the authorities to say whether they will take me or leave me.
Please, please, give your approval to my putting in such an
application. Occasions come to every man when he has to make up
his mind for himself and by himself--as I did about my move to
the Modern side of Dulwich. Was that a failure?
_August 8th, 1916._
I am more thankful than I can say to have your permission to
apply for transfer to the R.F.A. Since I wrote to you a circular
has come from G.H.Q. stating that officers for the artillery are
wanted urgently. They propose to send home two hundred officers a
month till further notice for training at the Artillery School. I
want, if possible, to avoid going home to train. I would like to
go through my training course here, but I fear beggars can't be
choosers, and in the case of a highly technical arm like the
gunners the training may have to be done in England. Everybody
with us is feeling restive; the inaction that prevails is getting
beyond a joke.
As for the A.S.C., I consider that my particular branch of the
service is overstocked. In itself the mere fact of the work not
appealing to me (though I absolutely loathe it) would not be
decisive. It is because I am convinced that I could do better
work in other directions that I am longing for a transfer. Even
the transport side of the A.S.C. I would not object to. It is the
Supply, or grocery, side that I loathe. Had I remained in the
post of Requisitioning Officer, with its variety of work and the
possibility of exercising my linguistic gifts, I would have been
moderately content. But in my heart and soul I have always longed
for the rough-and-tumble of war as for a football match. What I
have seen of the war out here has not frightened me in the least,
but rather made me keener than ever to take part in the fighting.
It is all very well to be an "organiser of victory," but it does
not appeal to me, even if I had the particular type of mind
necessary for success at it. But I am not a good business man,
and the details of business bore me stiff. On the other hand, it
is my passionate desire to share the hardships and dangers of
this war.
It is not only my own desire and my own temperament that
influence me, but the example of others. I pick up my newspaper
to-day, and what do I see? Why, that a fellow that sat in the
same form-room as I did two years back has won the V.C., paying,
it is true, with his life for the honour. But what a glorious
end! I mean, of course, my namesake, Basil Jones, the first
Dulwich V.C., of whose achievement one can scarcely speak without
a lump in the throat. Likewise I see my friend S. H. Killick, to
whom I gave football colours, has been wounded. And think of the
men who have fallen! Men of the stamp of Julian Grenfell, D. O.
Barnett,[11] Rupert Brooke, Roland Philipps, R. G. Garvin, and W.
J. Henderson have not hesitated to give up for their country all
the brilliant gifts of character and intellect with which they
would have enriched England had it not been for the war. The
effect on me is as a trumpet call. All the old Welsh fighting
blood comes surging up in me and makes me say, "Short sight or no
short sight, I _will_ prove my manhood!" If it should be my fate
to get popped off--well, it is we younger men without dependants
whose duty it is to take the risk. You will get some inkling of
my feeling when you read in Garvin's father's article how his
son, when sent off to the Divisional H.Q., lost all his spirits
and begged to be sent back to the old battalion, and how, when he
did get back to it, "his letters recovered their old clear tone."
How well I can understand that!
[Footnote 11: Lieutenant D. O. Barnett, killed in action,
1916, was a distinguished scholar and athlete at St. Paul's
School. His career there presents a striking similarity to
that of Paul Jones at Dulwich. Both won junior and senior
scholarships; both ended their school career by winning a
Balliol scholarship; both shone in athletics; Barnett was
captain of St. Paul's School; Paul Jones was head of the
Modern Side at Dulwich.]
My application for a transfer to the R.F.A. has now gone in. If I
am refused I shall be broken-hearted, but my conscience will be
clear. If I am accepted, it will be the happiest day of my life.
A few words now about some personal experiences. At a certain
village not far from here are a number of Boche prisoners. Every
day they go out to shovel refuse into army wagons, and then
unload these wagons elsewhere on to refuse heaps. It is a daily
occurrence to see a Boche mount up on the box beside the English
driver, and off they go--if the Boche can speak English--chatting
merrily as if there had never been a war. I have even seen Tommy
hand over the reins to his captive, who cheerfully takes them and
drives the wagon to its destination, while the real driver sits
back with folded arms. That will show you how far the British
soldier cultivates the worship of Hate. It is small incidents of
this kind, unofficial and even illegal though they may be, that
make one realise the true secret of Britain's greatness--her
magnanimity and her kindliness.
_August 14th, 1916._
The Dulwich Army List makes very interesting reading, though I
notice some omissions and errors in it. Everyone seems to be
doing something. It is as good a record as that of any other
school or institution of any kind in the country. I have not yet
had any news about my move to the Gunners, but the application
has only been in a comparatively short time, and these things
have to take their course. I know that my application was duly
forwarded and recommended by my C.O. to the Divisional
authorities. I shall be very much surprised if I don't get the
transfer. By Jove! if I only can. You cannot imagine anyone being
so fed up with anything as I am with my present job. Loathing is
not the word for the feeling with which I regard it.
I am reading Burke on the French Revolution. It is brilliant
writing, to be sure, but Burke is too biased and has not complete
knowledge of his subject. You would think from the way he writes
that the "Ancien Regime" was an ideal system of government which
brought to France nothing but prosperity! Had he possessed the
knowledge of Arthur Young, who had examined social and economic
conditions in France with piercing eyes, he would doubtless have
modified his views. Moreover, Burke forgets the maxim he himself
laid down in his speeches on the American Revolution--that large
masses of men do not, as a rule, rebel without some reason for so
doing. It seems to me that Burke's heart and his inborn
prejudices have run away with his head. Though he scoffs at
people who try to work out systems of government on the lines of
idealism, yet his own views are often purely idealistic,
especially on the subject of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, whom
he apparently regarded as a pair of demigods!
The style of the book is splendidly oratorical, sometimes too
much so, but there are passages in it which it would be difficult
to match even in the splendid realm of English prose--for
example, his great panegyric on the State. On England, too, he is
very fine. Many people to-day might do worse than read his
defence of the British Constitution, though I personally disagree
with some points in his argument. One sentence from this passage
might be addressed to our Allies very appropriately
to-day--"Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the
field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of
great cattle reposing beneath the shadow of the British oak chew
the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make
the noise are the only inhabitants of the field."
Unfortunately the British people do bear a strong resemblance to
great cattle, and it requires a Lloyd George to awaken the
sleeping animals and galvanise them into movement.
Recently I got hold of a volume of de Musset. There is some
beautiful verse in it, especially the "Ode to Lamartine," in
which he has a great tribute to Byron.
Could you send me out the programme of the coming Promenade
Concert season? I would give anything to hear Wagner and
Beethoven once more. My allegiance to these giants, as to
Shakespeare and Milton, grows stronger every day. The appalling
tawdry trash that passes for music nowadays, and the degradation
of art and literature which seems to be the feature of the
twentieth century, intensify my loyalty to great musicians and
noble writers. What is the cause of this decadence? There is
surely enough inspiration for genius in this colossal war, when
every day the spirit of man is winning new triumphs and deeds of
extraordinary heroism are being performed.
IN THE SOMME BATTLEFIELD
In August, 1916, Paul Jones was relieved of his uncongenial duties
with the Supply Column and appointed to command an ammunition
working-party located at an advanced railhead in the terrain of the
Somme battles.
_August 21st, 1916._
I am delighted to tell you that I have been temporarily posted to
a job of real interest and responsibility, having been given the
command of a working-party composed of infantry, artillery, and
A.S.C. men, whose function it is to load and unload ammunition at
an important railhead not far from the Front. We are about 150 in
all, and a very happy family. We live in tents and work under the
orders of the Railhead Ordnance authorities. There is a vast
amount of work, and it goes on continuously, at present from 4
A.M. to 9 P.M. daily, and sometimes throughout the night as well.
It is a revelation to see the immense quantities of explosives,
etc., that are sent up. I have nothing further to report about
the R.F.A. transfer, but my C.O. has assured me that if my
application is not successful I shall be able to return shortly
to the Cavalry Brigade in my old capacity as Requisitioning
Officer.
This working ammunition-party of which I am in command is located
in a little town well in the swirl of war, with the guns booming
in the near distance most of the day and night. The "unit under
my command," to put it in official language, lives in a field by
the railhead. We have a pair of first-rate sergeants (R.H.A. and
Infantry) and various very sound A.S.C. n.c.o.s in charge.
Everything goes merrily as a wedding-bell. A gunner officer looks
after the administrative welfare, pay, etc., of the artillerymen,
but the discipline and command of the unit as a whole devolve on
yours truly.
Next door to us across the line there is a concentration camp of
Boche prisoners. They work on the railway all day shovelling
stones in and out of trucks and lorries. To the eternal credit of
England the treatment the prisoners receive, the food supplied to
them, and the conditions under which they live are all of the
very best. They have their being in tents within a barbed wire
enclosure, not too crowded, and have excellent washing facilities
(hot baths once a week), good food and conveniences for its
preparation, including huge camp kettles for cooking--in short,
every comfort possible. The work they do is hard, but no harder
than that many of our own fellows have to do in the normal course
of events. The considerate way in which our prisoners are treated
is a great tribute to British chivalry. An old French soldier,
watching them one day in their camp, said to me: "Vous les
traitez trop bien ces salots." I replied: "Oui, mais c'est comme
ca que l'Angleterre fait la guerre--avec les mains toujours
propres."
I was grieved to hear of the death of Lieutenant Ivor Rees, of
Llanelly. He was a great friend of Arthur and Tom. It is awful,
there is no doubt about it, the sacrifice of these lives cut
short in their prime, but they are not wasted; of that I am
convinced. Besides:
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
Lloyd George's Eisteddfod speech was very stirring. I like that
phrase, "The blinds of Britain are not drawn down." I see the
papers are discussing Ministerial changes. I hope whatever
happens that Lloyd George will remain at the War Office--it is
the place where his personality is wanted. I am reading two
interesting French books: Emile Faguet's "Short History of French
Literature" and Dumas' "Vingt Ans Apres." I wish you would send
me Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason," or one of Hegel's books.
This evening I listened to Beethoven's "Egmont" overture--what a
glorious work it is! Keep your eye for me on any books dealing
with Beethoven or the immortal Richard.
_September 2nd, 1916._
I am still in command of the ammunition working-party, and,
entailing as it does real work and responsibility, am enjoying it
hugely. All our men seem very happy. Their rations and living
conditions are excellent. We have our own canteen, which does a
great trade. It is a bad day if the canteen fails to take 250
francs, although it is open only from 12 to 2 and from 6 to 8 as
per regulations.
We get our stuff from the nearest branch of the Expeditionary
Force canteens, a military unit which does a colossal business at
the back of the Front. It has depots almost as large as those of
the A.S.C. A sergeant-major of the nearest branch of the E.F.C.
tells me that they calculate that at one depot they take more
money in a day than Harrod's Stores do in a week. The place is
chock-a-block from morning to night, and outside there is always
waiting a string of lorries, mess-carts, wagons, limbers, from
all over the place. The part played by the E.F.C. in the war is
by no means unimportant. It is a regular military unit, with
officers, n.c.o.s and men (in khaki, of course), run under the
authority of the War Office and subject to military law. Profits
on sales go to the purchase of fresh stock, and I believe, in
part, to the Military Canteens Fund at the War Office. The whole
thing is run by the Director of Supply and Transport at the W.O.,
and is commanded out here by an A.S.C. major. It is difficult not
to make profits on canteens; even in our comparatively small one,
we constantly find ourselves saddled with more money than is
required, and this although the prices charged to the men are the
lowest possible. One great merit of the canteens is that they
prevent the men from being "rooked" by unscrupulous civilians,
who, I regret to say, are to be found in force in some of these
French towns and villages.
The military canteen movement on its present huge scale has only
been possible to us because of (1) the comparatively high rates
of pay in the British Army; (2) the command of the sea, making
transport from England simple and easy; (3) the inexhaustible
reservoirs of supply and manufacture that exist within the
British Empire. There can be no doubt about it that the path of
the British soldier in this war has been made as easy as it is
possible to make it--an incalculable advantage to a nation that
has had to create a great voluntary Army in a comparatively short
space of time. Whatever faults the military authorities may have
committed in other directions, they have kept steadily in view
the Napoleonic maxim, "An army moves on its stomach."
The Boche prisoners round about here work energetically. They
must, I fancy, be amazed themselves at the manner in which they
are treated--the abundance of food, the entire absence of rancour
on our part, and the general conditions under which they work and
live. Actually, they get their Sunday afternoons off. Some of
them have been given a little plot of land close to the
internment camp, where they are busy gardening in their leisure
time. In the camp they have all sorts of work-tables and tools,
and you often see some of them doing carpentering after their
day's work is done. The prisoners stroll about the camp and its
environs at will, and the men on guard are continually chatting
and joking with them. The ration of the prisoners includes fresh
meat and bread every day, and a supply of tobacco and cigarettes
once a week. It is much to the credit of Britain that her
captives in war should be treated with so much generosity. Don't
let the Government abandon this policy of broad magnanimity
because of the noisy clamour of armchair reprisalists at home. By
the way, these Boche prisoners observe the rules of discipline
even in their captivity, and when British or French officers pass
by they stand respectfully to attention. Most of the prisoners
are big chaps.
If you have not read it, let me recommend to you a book by John
Buchan called "The Thirty-nine Steps." To my mind it is the
cleverest detective story I have read since the exploits of
Sherlock Holmes. It is in a way a sort of enlarged version of an
earlier story by Buchan that appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_
called the "Power House." As in the "Power House," the chief
villain is merely hinted at; he is only fully revealed in the
last page. Throughout the rest of the story he is one of those
genial, cheery old men who are always puffing cigars and drinking
whisky. The incidents take place in England and are connected
with a series of events that precipitated the present war. I
enjoyed the book and admired the ingenuity with which the plot is
worked out. The writing is vigorous and there is no sloppy
sentimentality.
_September 6th, 1916._
Yesterday my working party had orders suddenly to shift its
quarters to a spot farther up the line. Having struck camp we
started off about 2 P.M. in motor char-a-bancs and lorries. After
about two hours' plunging about in roads that were like quagmires
we arrived at our destination, a newly formed railhead, not far
from the battle line. It is situated on a sort of plateau. The
surrounding country is thick with guns. In the past twelve hours
there has been a terrific bombardment, the guns booming
incessantly. Even Loos, which wasn't so bad while it lasted,
pales into insignificance in comparison. At night the sky reminds
one of the Crystal Palace firework show in its palmiest days. It
is a fine place this from the point of view of health, being high
up and open to the fresh air and the sunshine. I am feeling
absolutely splendid both in health and spirits. It is a treat to
be up where things are happening.
_September 12th, 1916._
Pursuant to orders from the Division, I marched my party up to
join another working party that is engaged on duty whose scope
extends as far as the most recently gained ground. We are
quartered along with a lot of cavalry at a point in the area
captured, and are just in front of our big guns. The country all
around is a veritable abomination of desolation. Its surface is
intersected at innumerable points with ditches, in which much
splendid English blood has flowed. Here and there, looking very
forlorn, are stark and blasted stumps that used to be woods.
Above and around the ceaseless voice of the guns fills the air
with its clamour. Steel helmets and gas helmets are the standing
order for us when on duty.
Whom do you think I met this morning to my great delight? No less
a person than Peaker,[12] now an officer of the K.R.R.s. He was
just back from a certain spot in the line, where his lot had
"gone over" with good results. The story of his experiences
occasioned heartburnings to myself as regards the part I've been
playing in the war behind the battle line. He had recently met
Cartwright, G. T. K. Clarke, and the elder Dawson--all old
Alleynians, who have had the privilege of participating in the
"push." On the advice of the Divisional A.A. and Q.M.G., I am
reluctantly leaving over the question of transfer to the R.F.A.
till things get more settled. At present I am away from the
Division, and it is difficult, almost impossible in fact, for me
to arrange the interviews with the Medical and Artillery
authorities that are necessary as a preliminary to transfer.
Still, as I am getting plenty of interesting work at my present
job I don't mind waiting.
[Footnote 12: Captain A. P. Peaker, M.C., of the K.R.R. (son
of Mr. F. Peaker, of the _Morning Post_), who was a
contemporary of Paul Jones's at Dulwich, and won an Oxford
classical exhibition in December, 1914.]
_September 14th, 1916._
Last night I was detailed to go up with a working party engaged
in operations on the very site of the last great battle. The
whole business took place under cover of darkness. After an hour
and a half's trudging, up hill and down dale, we got to the
allotted spot and began our work. The night was alive with
noises--ear-splitting reports of big guns, the shrieks and
whistles of shells in transit, and the rat-tat-tat of
machine-guns. Now and again the darkness would be illuminated by
the glare of star-shells. I think I mentioned to you before the
mournful desolation of this war-scarred countryside--land without
grass, without trees, without houses, nothing more now than a
wilderness, with yawning shell craters innumerable, and here and
there blackened and branchless stumps that used to be trees. We
were near the site of a village famous in the annals of British
arms. A single brick of that village would be worth its weight in
gold as a souvenir. As we worked in the darkness the air was
polluted by a horrible stench, and as soon as one's eyes got
accustomed to the gloom there became visible silent twisted forms
that used to be men. But enough; I dare not tell you of the
ghastly scenes on that historic battlefield; it would give you
nightmare for weeks to come if I did.
Out here one gets into a callous state, in which these things,
while unpleasant, are scarcely noticed in the whirl and confusion
of events. Personally at the time, in traversing this
battlefield, I was slightly horrified at first, but chiefly
conscious only of the frightful odour of mortality. It is on
thinking the thing over in retrospect and with cold blood that
the real sense of horror begins to creep into one's soul. Such
is the so-called "ennobling influence of war"! As I went over
this grim battlefield, with all its tragic sights, I reflected
bitterly on the triumph of twentieth-century civilisation.
Our work occupied us about five hours, and we trekked for home
before dawn. Through the night there was movement and
activity--ration parties, walking wounded, stretcher-bearers,
reliefs, all moving silently in the darkness like so many
phantoms. I have picked up a number of souvenirs from the old
Boche trenches, including a Boche steel helmet, with a shrapnel
hole in the side as big as a crown-piece. Its wearer must have
"gone West" instanter.
_September 21st, 1916._
In the last few days two other officers and myself have been in
charge of working parties. Starting out at 8 A.M., it is our
habit to proceed on foot to places distant anything up to three
and four miles, returning in the late afternoon. Yesterday we got
to our destination about 9 A.M., and found the Boche "crumping"
with fair regularity the vicinity of an apology for a road.
Though little more than a muddy track, and only recently captured
by us, this road is full of traffic most hours of the day. The
"Hun" knows this and acts accordingly. As we were marching gaily
up about 9 A.M. he began a "strafe" of the district with pretty
heavy shells at intervals of a couple of minutes. Suddenly came a
bang about thirty yards in front of us on the road, and he put a
beautiful shot almost under the wheels of a lorry, digging a huge
crater in the road, into which the crumpled-up chassis subsided
with a crash. Fortunately the driver was not there, or for him it
would have been a case of "kingdom come." I was at the head of
our lot, along with my friend Lieutenant Gardner. We considered
what we should do--whether to push straight through to our
destination, which was not two hundred yards away, to wait where
we were, or split up into small parties. We arranged that he
should lead on, while I would wait to see all the column pass and
hurry up stragglers. Gardner had not got farther than fifty yards
when a six-incher came plonk within a few yards of him. Luckily
he and all his lot had time to prostrate themselves, and there
were no casualties. I was gathering the remainder of the party,
when whew! crash! and I felt a terrific detonation at my very
elbow, and for a moment was stunned and deafened. A Boche shell
had pitched not five yards behind me. How I was not blown to
smithereens will always be a marvel to me. As I staggered about
under the shock of the explosion I could feel bits of steel and
earth pattering on my helmet like rain. After the first momentary
shock I was in full possession of my wits, and I quickly realised
that, for the moment at least, I had lost all sense of hearing in
my right ear. But this was a small price to pay for the escape.
Such a miracle would assuredly never happen again. A few hours
later I had regained a good deal of hearing power, but it is not
right yet. Experts, however, tell me that this effect will pass
off in time. A fragment of the shell passed through the right
sleeve of my heavy overcoat. I am glad to say we had no
casualties at all, though the enemy kept on dropping heavy stuff
round about us all day.
Well, cheer-oh! I am keeping as fit as a horse. My appetite, I
regret to say, gets bigger every day.
_September 27th, 1916._
Our working party having finished its duties, I have now been
appointed Requisitioning Officer to the 2nd Cavalry Brigade.
This is much better than that horrible job with the Supply
Column. The war news is splendid, but some glorious men have
"gone West." We are paying a big price for victory. The death of
Raymond Asquith is a great tragedy. A brilliant life
extinguished, one that gave promise of great things. I had a
shock to-day on reading in the paper that my old friend H.
Edkins,[13] who took a Junior Scholarship at Dulwich in the same
year as I did, is reported among the missing. He was an able and
gifted fellow. Do you remember how well he sang at the school
concert in December, 1914? With all my heart I hope he's all
right. I wish you would get for me Professor Moulton's book, "The
Analytic Study of Literature."
[Footnote 13: Lieutenant Harrison Edkins, 1st Surrey Rifles.
Born, July 5th, 1896. Killed, September 15th, 1916. At
Dulwich he was captain of fives; Editor of _The Alleynian_,
1915. In December, 1914, he won the Charles Oldham Classical
Scholarship at Corpus Christi College, Oxford.]
WITH THE 2nd CAVALRY BRIGADE
_October 3rd, 1916._
Here I am a Requisitioning Officer again, this time for another
Cavalry Brigade. I was sorry not to get back to my old comrades.
Still, it is a change to work with new regiments. This Cavalry
Brigade is a famous body of troops. To it belongs the honour of
having been the first lot of Britishers in action in the war.
While I like my duties, I am beginning to feel restive, and am
longing to get back to the real battle zone. What think you of
our new war machines? [Tanks were first employed on September 15,
1916.--_Editor._] I have had many opportunities of studying them
on the move. One would scarcely believe it possible they could
go over ground such as I have seen them comfortably traverse. No
obstacle seems insurmountable to them. They are quaint-looking
things, but, in spite of the Press correspondents, they are no
more like to, or suggestive of, primeval monsters than a cow
resembles a chaff-cutter.
Ireland is an enigma and no mistake. The man who settles the
Irish problem will go down to history. The difficulty would
appear to be to effect any _rapprochement_ of the English and
Irish national points of view, these having been determined by
the different environments of the two races. In national life as
in nature the law of natural selection operates.
I rejoice to say that I've got two horses again, one a big brown
horse, very strong and a hard worker, the other a powerful bay
mare. Neither is particularly good-looking, but I've learnt from
experience that soundness and strength in a horse are more to be
desired than good looks, especially when campaigning. It is
seldom that you can combine all the qualities. Breed and blood
tell in horses. A well-bred horse will outlast a common one,
because it tries harder. What you want is a judicious mixture of
breed and strength. My two horses are pretty well-bred and have
great strength, and always try hard; so I'm pretty well off, I
reckon.
I observe that those blighted Zeppelins have been about England
again. But really the Zepp. is a colossal failure, whether you
regard it from the point of view of doing military injury, or
damage likely in any way to help Germany in the war, such as
impairing the morale of the British people. The best reply to the
Zepps. is being given day and night on the Somme, where hundreds
of thousands of Boches must at present be wishing they had never
been born. I am surprised they have stuck our bombardment as they
have done, but I am bound to say that the Boche is by no means a
coward.
I am at present deeply immersed in Kant's "Critique of Pure
Reason." It is a great work, and not by any means one to be read
in a hurry. Every line is charged full with deep thinking. It
appeals to me intensely. Kant's was a gigantic mind.
_November 3rd, 1916._
Our Cavalry Brigade has been on the move for some time. In these
circumstances I am always busily employed. Every day that we move
I go on with the brigade advance parties, go round the billets
that the troops are going to occupy, and make all arrangements
with the French inhabitants for a plentiful supply of fuel, straw
and forage to be available for the troops when they arrive. The
weather recently has been the reverse of clement. The first
stages of the move were accomplished in pitiless rain, the more
recent ones in weather fairly dry, but bitterly cold. Not that
vicissitudes of weather worry me. I never enjoy life so much as
when I'm fully occupied with hard work like that I am now doing,
which is really useful and responsible.
The question of Ireland remains a perplexing one. We have two
Irishmen in our mess, one a Unionist, the other a Nationalist.
The impression one gets from them at least is the hopelessness of
our being ever able to settle the Irish problem. It is largely,
of course, a question of temperament. The Ulsterman with us is
all for the "strong hand" policy, but I pointed out to him the
absurdity of our adopting Prussian tactics, especially at this
moment. He agreed, but steadfastly maintained that, judging
purely from results, Balfour was the best Chief Secretary Ireland
has ever had. He frankly admitted that Carson made himself liable
to be tried for high treason at the time of the Larne gunrunning.
He also agreed with me that to administer an irritant to a man
recovering from brain fever is a very risky policy. In fact, we
came round to the old conclusion in which, to quote "Rasselas,"
"nothing is concluded." It is a thousand pities that so able,
attractive and intelligent a race as the Irish should have such
an accursedly impossible temperament. It is the unimaginative,
easygoing, supremely practical Englishman who is the ideal
governor in this foolish world, not the hot-headed idealist.
_November 10th, 1916._
I am starting off to-day on rather a big, albeit safe job,
namely, purchasing all the hay and straw in a certain area on
behalf of the Cavalry Division. It is an important commission and
will take me about a week to execute.
We have arrived at another stagnant period in the war. That was a
happy definition of it as "long spells of acute boredom
punctuated by short spells of acute fear."
What brilliant soldiers the French are! It amazes me that they
should be able to "strafe" the Boches so constantly, and at
points where one would least expect them to. The recapture of
Douaumont was, in my opinion, one of the best bits of work in the
war. Of course, the French Army is superbly generalled, and it
has a military tradition second to none in the world. A nation
that can boast of men like Vauban, Turenne, Conde, Soult,
Massena, Ney, and Macdonald (I don't mention Napoleon, because he
was not really a Frenchman at all) has a glorious military
tradition worth living up to.
On the other hand, I cannot withhold praise from the wonderful
organisation of the Boches. The way in which they repeatedly take
the bull by the horns and attack the encircling ring of their
enemies at some new point is extraordinary. Where on earth did
they find men for their Rumanian campaign? There can be no doubt
that they are a very stiff foe to beat, and they are not easily
"rattled" by failures or defeats. But it is undeniable that they
were badly "rattled" on the Somme. British achievements there
enable one to look with great hope to the future, when our full
strength will be in the field. Man for man the German soldier is
no match for the British Tommy.
I was amazed to read in the papers that the Dulwich 1st XV have
been beaten by Merchant Taylors'. If that really happened, then
truly it is a case of "Ichabod," and "The glory is departed from
Israel."
_November 17th, 1916._
I am still detached temporarily from Headquarters, travelling
about in a motor-car for the purpose of securing local supplies
of forage and straw in the area about to be occupied by the
Cavalry Division. It is very interesting work, with a large human
element in it; but one has difficulty in getting these French
farmers and dealers to agree to our prices for their commodities.
Almost always they want much more for them than is prescribed in
our schedule of official prices. Taking note of all refusals to
sell to us, because our prices are too low, I have to-day applied
for permission to requisition the goods in these cases--that is,
to take the stuff over compulsorily, handing to the owner a note
entitling him to draw so much money from the British Requisition
Office, the amount being settled by us and not by the farmer or
dealer. That is the way the French Military authorities do
things. They, of course, are dealing with their own people. It is
different with us, and French farmers and peasants think they are
entitled to exact all they can from the English. The French
authorities, acting through their A.S.C. or the local mayors,
periodically call on the communes to supply them with so much
forage, straw and other commodities. These quantities have to be
supplied _nolens volens_ and at prices fixed by the French Army.
I can see ourselves being forced reluctantly to adopt the same
procedure, at least in some cases, though it is much more
pleasant for both parties when we can buy amicably and pay cash
on the spot.
A number of the farmers with whom I had to deal recently are
"permissionaires"--they get pretty regular leave in the French
Army. The peasant stock of the North of France has a knack of
producing good fighting men--they are an unromantic race, but
amazingly industrious, shrewd, and very tough.
My car-driver is a Welshman from Pontypridd. He is one of the
best drivers I've struck out here and a first-rate fellow to
boot. He has played a lot of Rugby, having turned out several
times on the wing for Cardiff. He is quite young, not much older
than myself. Like most Welshmen, he has literary tastes, and has
a real gift for reciting poetry.
_The Alleynian_ duly to hand. Its monthly War record for the old
school makes splendid, albeit mournful reading. How poignant to
read the record in dates of Edkins's life: "Born, 1896; left
school, September, 1915; killed in action, 1916." Judging from
the official account, Frank Hillier[14] must have done great work
in earning the Military Cross. I see also that K. R. Potter has
got the M.C. He is one of the most brilliant men Dulwich has
produced. He was one of the two men to win a Balliol Scholarship
in Classics in the second of those historic two years when we got
two in each year--a record equalled by few schools and beaten by
none. J. S. Mann, who took a Balliol Scholarship at the same
time as Potter, has been wounded in the trenches.
[Footnote 14: Lieutenant F. N. Hillier, M.C., R.F.A., son of
Mr. F. J. Hillier, of the _Daily News_. Educated at Dulwich.]
Deep was my grief to read of the death in action of R. F.
Mackinnon,[15] M.C., one of the finest forwards and captains who
has ever worn the blue-and-black jersey. He was captain of the
first fifteen in my first year at the school, 1908-9, in which we
had a pack of forwards of strong physique and whole-hearted
courage. Arthur Gilligan, who was in the same battalion as
Mackinnon, told me he was absolutely without fear, and was
continually working up little "strafes" of the Boches on his own.
[Footnote 15: Lieutenant Ronald F. Mackinnon, M.C. Born,
October 23rd, 1889. Killed, October 21st, 1916. Was in the
Dulwich 1st XV for three seasons, and captain of football
1908-9; a member of the gymnasium XVI in 1907-8, and won the
Swimming Challenge Shield in 1908.]
_November 22nd, 1916._
I have been up to the neck in work, having temporarily to do what
is really three men's work--Brigade Supply Officer, Brigade
Requisitioning Officer, and Divisional Forage Purchasing
Officer--the last a newly-created post under the direction of the
Corps H.Q. It is no joke personally arranging the payments for
all the forage in an area fifteen square miles by ten. To-day I
found it impossible to continue and do the work efficiently
without assistance. It is not so much the getting the forage as
the amount of accounting that is involved. I fear I am a poor
accountant at best, and the figuring involved in the new scheme
(there are five enormous Army forms to fill up weekly, in
addition to the ordinary business side of the transactions) has
been taxing my energies and has taken up my time long after
working hours. Major Knox, Senior Supply Officer of the Division
(an old Dulwich man, at one time the Oxford Cricket Captain, and
a splendid fellow to boot), spent about six hours to-day with me
in completely checking our available resources. The fact is that
the hay ration from England has been very considerably reduced
for some reason, and we have to make up the deficiency out here,
permission having been obtained from the French authorities to
purchase and requisition in various Army areas. This permission
was for a long time withheld, as the French wanted the local
supplies for their own troops.
I am finding the War a boring business; the glamour has decidedly
worn off. Oh, if we could but get through the Boche lines! As
things are at present, there is no thrill and not much scope for
initiative. It is just a sordid affair of mud, shell-holes,
corpses, grime and filth. Even in billets the thing remains
intensely dull and uninspiring. One just lives, eats, drinks,
sleeps, and all apparently to no purpose. The monotony is
excessive. My chief function in life seems to be the filling up
of endless Army forms. I thoroughly sympathise with the recent
protest from military men in the _Spectator_ about the "Military
Babu," who is occupying an ever larger and larger place in the
life of the Army. There will be a revolt one of these days
against the fatuity of this eternal filling up of forms for no
conceivable purpose.
It is not only myself, but many of my comrades who are bored by
the War. To my mind there are only four really interesting
branches in the Army: (1) Flying Corps; (2) Heavy Artillery; (3)
Tanks, and (4) Intelligence. It must be intense reaction against
the drab monotony of life at the Front that is responsible for
the outbreak of frivolity that is said to have been the leading
characteristic of life in London and elsewhere of late. The
Englishman doesn't like thinking; if he did, he would not be the
splendid fighting man that he is.
In literature taste had gone to the dogs long before the War, and
it seems to me that the War has hastened it on its downward path.
It does seem to me a tragic pity that no great and inspiring work
has sprung to birth in England from the contemplation of what the
men of British race have achieved in this War, enduring such
depressing conditions with so much fortitude and doing such
glorious deeds whenever there is a chance for action.
_November 29th, 1916._
More boredom and an incredible amount of figuring, until I loathe
the very sight of pencil and paper. Thanks for parcels. Everyone
is so kind that it afflicts me with a sense of shame. Not that
any amount of gifts is too lavish for the brave men in the
trenches, but for "peace soldiers," like yours truly, it is very
different. I am at present living in a beautiful chateau at a
perfectly safe distance from the Front, in very pleasant country,
with a motor-car and two horses at my disposal and every
conceivable luxury. And then one is asked about the hardships
that one endures! It really is too absurd. I am by no means the
only one who feels like this, but I do think it is worse for a
Celtic temperament than for an Anglo-Saxon one.
At last there seems to be a chance of escape from this luxurious
life, for a circular has just come to hand from the O.C., A.S.C.,
of the Division, intimating that a number of transfers per month
from the A.S.C. to really fighting units has been sanctioned by
the War Office, together with a form to be filled up by officers
desiring to transfer. Of course, I am putting my name down. I am
deliberating whether to go for Infantry, Artillery, or
Machine-Gun Corps.
_December 8th, 1916._
I was medically examined yesterday, and passed fit for general
service. To-day I filled in the application form, applying for
(1) Infantry, (2) M.G.C., (3) Royal Artillery. You will doubtless
want my reasons for this step. (1) It is obvious that they need
Infantry officers most. It is, therefore, clearly the duty of
every fit officer to offer his services for the Infantry. I have
been passed fit by an entirely impartial medical officer, after a
searching medical examination; therefore it is my duty to go. (2)
From the personal point of view I have long been most
dissatisfied with the part I am playing in the War, and I jump at
the chance of a transfer.
I don't pretend to be doing the "young hero" stunt. I am not out
for glory. I have probably seen far more of the War as it really
is than any other A.S.C. officer in the Division. I know the War
for the dull, sordid, murderous thing that it is. I don't expect
for a minute to enjoy the trenches. But anything is better than
this horrible inaction when all the chaps one knows are
undergoing frightful hardships and dangers. For a long time the
argument of physical incapacity weighed with me. I was forced to
admit that if, on account of defective eyesight, I was not sound
for Infantry work, it was better that I should stick to a job for
which I was fit than do badly one for which I was not fit. But I
have now been passed fit for general service, and this being so I
would be a craven to hold back from the fighting-line.
If we are to win this War it will only be through gigantic
efforts and great sacrifices. It is the chief virtue of the
public-school system that it teaches one to make sacrifices
willingly for the sake of _esprit de corps_. Well, clearly, if
the public-school men hold back, the others will not follow.
Germany at present [the Germans had recently overrun Rumania] is
in the best situation--speaking politically--she has been in
since those dramatic days of the advance on Paris. The British
effort is only just beginning to bear fruit, and we are called on
to strain every nerve in our national body to counteract the
superb organisation of the Boches. That can only be done by
getting the right man in the right job. Men with special
qualifications must be given the chance to exercise them. All
A.S.C. officers should be business men; they could perfectly well
also be men over military age, as the work demands none of the
qualifications of youth. For a young chap like myself, without
any special qualification or training, but full of keenness, with
good physique and just out of a public school, the trenches are
emphatically the place.
Well, anyway, there it is. My application is in, and I am now
just waiting for G.H.Q. to accept me for the Infantry. I should
not be surprised if I am back home at Christmas in order to
train. An excellent recommendation from my C.O. accompanied my
transfer papers. I also had a satisfactory interview with the
Major-General commanding the Division, who, I believe, added his
own recommendation.
_December 20th, 1916._
I can't tell you how relieved I was to get the Pater's last
letter, and to feel that we see the matter in the same light. It
lifted a weight from my mind, as I will frankly admit that I was
much worried, torn one way by my conscience and another by the
fear that my action would cause displeasure and grief at home.
Now, with the Pater's letter in my possession, I can go ahead
with a light heart. There can be absolutely no question that I've
done the right thing. It is a mere coincidence that my personal
feelings have long tended in the same direction. I saw the path
of duty before me absolutely clear. Up to date I have never "let
you down," and I don't think I shall do so this time.
By the way, in my transfer papers, I have expressly stipulated
for a temporary commission, as I have no idea at all of becoming
a Regular.
_January 1st, 1917._
Hearty wishes for a happy New Year, wishes which always seem to
me more serious than the greetings that pass at Christmas time.
With most people Christmas is a purely festive season, but with
the end of the old year comes the necessity of looking forward to
a new period--perhaps to be joyful, perhaps otherwise; anyway, a
period on which it is necessary to enter as far as possible with
confidence. From the general point of view that is not an easy
matter as things stand. I am bound to say I am getting
pessimistic about the War. The chief trouble is the total lack of
action that characterises it. This grovelling in ditches is a
rotten, foolish business in many ways--though to me sitting in
comfort and safety behind the lines is a great deal worse.
We passed a pleasant Christmas. I had dinner and tea with the men
of the Brigade Headquarters--the former one of the most pleasant
functions I have ever attended. I much prefer a ceremony of this
kind along with Demos to the "Tedious pomp ... and grooms
besmeared with gold" that Milton denounces so scathingly.
I am sorry the Dulwich 1st XV didn't have a very good season. To
judge from the photos in the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic_,
the forwards don't know how to pack. One of the "scrum"
photographs is one of the best illustrations of how not to pack
that I have ever struck. It seems to me that there has been a
lack of training. But what I do remark with joy is the care that
has been taken with the games. All will be well with the school
if the games are keen.
I have just been reading the first book that I've found that
absolutely gets the atmosphere of the Western Front--namely, "The
Red Horizon," by Patrick McGill, the navvy poet. It really is
great. He doesn't spare the horror of the thing one iota, but it
"gets one right." "Sapper" has a good picture of the fighting
man, but a very bad one of the Front. McGill has got a pretty
good one of the man and a superb one of the Front. He describes
to a "T" one's sensations under shell-fire.
_January 11th, 1917._
Congratulate me! I am, as I have every reason to believe, on the
verge of the most stupendous good fortune that has ever yet come
my way. Last night I got a wire ordering me to present myself at
Headquarters, Heavy M.G.C., for interview with the
Colonel-in-charge. Well, I went up for my interview this morning,
and was tested for vision by the Colonel with my glasses on.
Finally he told me that he was going to recommend me for the
Tanks, which means that the thing is as good as settled. I had
not dared to hope for such luck, owing to the fact of my not
having any special qualification. However, my usual marvellous
good fortune seems not to have deserted me. It means just this,
that I am going to be a member of the most modern and most
interesting branch of the service. So great is my delight that I
scarcely know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. The
transfer will, I fear, prevent my coming home on leave for a
time. Anyway, it's more than possible that I shall come back to
England to train. I hope not, for despite my earnest
desire--more than you can ever guess--to see you all again, I
think it is far better to remain on active service, if possible,
when on duty.
I've been pretty busy with my brigade work recently, though to
nothing like the degree of November and the first fortnight of
December. One meets strange types of humanity on this sort of
duty. You can divide the countryfolk round these parts into three
lots: (_a_) The farmers--on the whole honest, but decidedly
avaricious; the French farmer's one fear in life is that his
neighbour across the way is being paid at a higher price than he
himself. (_b_) The average merchant, who is on the lookout for
making a bit in all sorts of illegal ways, such as cheating us by
underweight. (_c_) The honest middlemen, who, I regret to say,
are few and far between. As far as possible we always try to deal
with the farmers direct, as they are fairly honest, though very
obstinate. An honest middleman is very useful, but there are not
many of him. Business difficulties are increased by the
extraordinary accent in which the country people hereabouts talk.
Sometimes even French interpreters find themselves at a loss. I
am getting into it famously, and can even speak with the local
accent myself, to a certain extent.
Did you see that my old colleague, E. C. Cartwright, has got the
M.C.? His reports of 1st XV matches in Evans's year were the
feature of _The Alleynian_, as were poor Edkins's reports in the
year of my own captaincy. Also J. P. Jordan, another O.A., well
known to me, has won the M.C.
I am delighted that the Old Man (Mr. A. H. Gilkes) has received
the living of St. Mary Magdalene at Oxford. He could, I am sure,
have never had an appointment more to his tastes--barring,
indeed, his mastership at his beloved Dulwich. As a headmaster
he was a gigantic character; of that there can be no doubt
whatever.
_January 28th, 1917._
No news yet of my application for transfer. But people "in the
know" tell me that it is only a question of time. The document
having been approved and recommended by all the necessary
authorities is, I presume, now wandering through the multifarious
ramifications of the maze of Army offices, but I am told it will
soon filter down. One thing that pleases me is an assurance that
the A.S.C. authorities, whatever may have happened in the past,
are not this time blocking my transfer. From your knowledge of my
weaknesses, you will no doubt have guessed that I'm on pins these
days--the period of waiting for the result of an exam., even if
you think you've passed, is always a trying one. It is especially
so for me on account of my absurdly impatient temperament. I fear
that leave is out of the question till the transfer is settled
one way or the other.
The cold weather now prevalent must add yet a fresh discomfort to
those that are being endured by our men in the trenches. I cannot
recollect a cold spell of such severity continuing for so long a
time. We had a heavy snowfall a fortnight back, and since then
there has been incessant and exceptionally hard frost. The roads
in places are wellnigh impassable owing to frozen snow. Going
down one steep hill to-day in our motor-car we all but turned
completely over, as at a curve in the road the car-wheels,
instead of answering to the steering gear, skidded on the frozen
surface, and the car swung completely round on its axis,
finishing by facing the opposite way to that in which we were
travelling. Where the roads are not very slippery they are as
hard as iron. A curious result is that you have a thick dust
raised over a snow-covered landscape and in bitterly cold
weather!
I was much interested in the Balliol College pamphlet and the
Master's accompanying letter. Balliol appears to have done even
more than its part in the War. Did you see that the Brakenbury
Scholarship in History for 1916 was taken by a chap from Gresham
School, Holt? I often wonder whether I shall ever go up to
Oxford. Almost needless to say, to go there would be the crowning
joy of my life, but I cannot help thinking that circumstances
will render it impossible. Still, we will hope for the best. One
thing I mean to do after the War is to learn Russian thoroughly
and to visit Russia. I am not at all sure that travelling is not
the best of all Universities. The great disadvantage of a
'Varsity is the insularity of mind which it is apt to breed. Its
rigid observance of ancient customs, its cult of "form," the fact
that it is the almost exclusive monopoly of the rich, the
aristocracy and the upper middle-class; above all, its contempt
for the learning of modern times and studied disregard of modern
languages--all these features help to make the 'Varsity as
insular as the most insular of all English national institutions.
On the other hand, by its genuine intellectuality, by its cult of
the beautiful and the abstract, by its scorn of the sordid
business side of modern civilisation, by its enthusiasm for
athletics and by its traditions of duty and of patriotism, the
'Varsity remains, to my mind, one of the most healthful
influences in modern British life.
Talking of English insularity, it is curious to note how the
Englishman makes his progress abroad. He is so insular that
instead of learning the language and adopting the customs of the
country he is in, he makes the indigenous population adopt his!
He does not, for example, know much French, but he has evolved a
sort of patois--much nearer English than French--that enables the
inhabitants to understand him and comprehend what he wants.
I have recently been reading another of John Buchan's, called
"Greenmantle." If you haven't read it, get it. It is just as good
as Buchan's other books, rich in mystery and scintillating with
adventure. It deals with this War and the experiences of Richard
Hannay (whom you will recollect as the hero of the "Thirty-nine
Steps," and who has since become a Major and got wounded at Loos)
in his efforts, eventually crowned with success, to crush a
German plot--this plot being the working up of a "Jehad," or Holy
War among the Mohammedans, and so provoking a rising of Islam
against the British. A thoroughly live story, told with great
spirit.
I have also read H. G. Wells's war novel, "Mr. Britling Sees It
Through." It is undeniably clever, though not to my mind up to
the level of Wells's very best. It rather gives the impression in
parts of having been written by the mile and then lengths cut off
as required. He has one very good touch, the realisation of the
impersonal and indiscriminate nature of the War: it claims as
victims both Mr. Britling's own son and the young German who had
been living with them before the War. The book concludes with a
letter from Britling to the German boy's father, attempting to
find some way out of the blackness. As usual with Wells, the best
feature of the novel is the way in which he expresses the point
of view of the average man. He has the trick of recording
reflections in a sort of staccato style, with gaps here and
there--just the way that one does think. There is some rot in the
book, but on the whole it is very good and well worth reading.
Recently I have been attending a Veterinary Course--lectures and
practical demonstration; most fascinating it is, I can assure
you.
WITH THE TANK CORPS
On February 13, 1917, Paul Jones joined the M.G.C.H.B., in other words
the Tank Corps. His joy at this transfer was unbounded. Nothing could
be in sharper contrast than the letters he wrote after joining the
Tank Corps and those penned during the preceding three months, when
the enforced inactivity of the cavalry and the nature of his own
routine work preyed on his spirits and made him exclaim with Ulysses:
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use,
As though to breathe were Life!
_February 13th, 1917._
When I came in from my morning's work yesterday what should I
find but a telegram instructing me to report at the earliest
possible moment to Headquarters, Heavy M.G.C., for duty on
transfer! These things usually come with a rush after one has
been kept waiting a long time in suspense. I spent the rest of
the day in bringing my accounts and papers up to date, and this
morning came across in the motor to my destination. Is it not
splendid? My luck has never yet failed to stand me in good stead.
I won't deny, nevertheless, that it was a severe wrench parting
from the old Cavalry Division after twenty months of service with
it. I had formed many friendships there, among both officers and
men, and it cost me many a pang to bid them good-bye. All
partings from old associations are hard to bear even when the
parting leads up, as in my case, to the fulfilment of one's
greatest ambition. My delight knows no bounds at my new
appointment. I really am asking myself whether I am awake or not.
It almost seems too good to be true.
I am writing this letter in my new mess which is in a Neissen
hut. For the present I remain Lieutenant A.S.C.--till the period
of probation is past. But that's no matter, for the acme of my
military ambitions is now attained. My new messmates are almost
all ex-infantry men, many of whom, most in fact, are here
learning their new job. Strangely enough, I am the third Senior
Lieutenant in the company, and in point of active service, with
my twenty months in France, I stand well in front of almost all
of them. The O.C. of the company, stroke of good luck for me, is
an old Hussar officer and ex-member of the Cavalry Brigade which
I have just quitted. It was a joy to meet him again. I was able
to give him a lot of news about his old pals.
All the fellows in the new mess are amazed that I have been
without leave since the beginning of May, 1916. I must not set my
leave before my work, however. I have already started my new
labours. Altogether I am in luck all round. I verily believe I am
the luckiest man in the B.E.F. to-day. Congratulate me! You will
be interested to know that an old Dulwich boy, Ambrose, to whom I
gave 2nd XV Colours in my year of football captaincy, is in the
same battalion, but I have not met him yet.