TO HIS BROTHER.

_February 17th, 1917._

I am getting on splendidly. I can't tell you how bucked I am with

life. It was my third shot to get out of the "great Department,"

and not only did I succeed in this, but I have obtained that

which I had most desired. I had really hardly dared to hope that

I should succeed in getting into the Tank Corps. There are a lot

of Rugger men among the officers here, including an O.A.,

Ambrose, who was one of the best of the 2nd XV forwards in 1914.

In our company is a splendid fellow called Hedderwick, who played

for Loretto and was tried for Cambridge; and a man called

Saillard, who was the Haileybury full-back in that match when

they beat us at Haileybury by 32 to 12 in Evans's year. You may

recollect Saillard getting laid out in the second half,

Haileybury continuing without a full-back--with very sound

judgment as it turned out, for this enabled them to play us off

our legs in the scrum and control the game with eight forwards to

seven, and we never got the ball to give to our eight outsides.

To sum up, I am in most congenial society and enjoying life

hugely.

Naturally, I am working pretty hard, learning my new job. I am

determined to make good at it, and I have the conviction that,

with hard work and concentration, a man with education behind him

can succeed in pretty well anything that he likes. Leave may come

in the near future, provided the authorities consider I have made

sufficient progress in my new studies; but I have a lot to learn,

and it is not my desire to go on leave before I have mastered at

least the elements of my new job--very much the reverse, in fact.

_February 20th, 1917._

Am having a grand time--up to my eyes in oil, grease and mud from

8 A.M. to 5 P.M. I am finding my old hobby of engineering of the

greatest value, and my enthusiasm for seeing "the wheels go

round" has returned in all its old force. Even the gas-engine and

dynamo of famous (or infamous) memory are proving most

serviceable to me through the experience I acquired with

them--demonstrating again how useful the most _recherche_ of

ideas, occupations or hobbies may become. No knowledge is to be

despised.

The only fly in the ointment is that an exam. is due for me in a

week's time or so--as you know, impending exams. fill me with

terror. I have such an accursedly active imagination that I find

it impossible to banish from my head the thought, "What if I

fail?" I've always been afflicted with this, though I am bound to

say that when it came to the point it did not, as far as might be

judged by results, affect my actual performances. But I am,

nevertheless, in a chronic state of what the B.E.F. calls "wind

up" on account of this exam. I am so eager to do well that the

mere thought of failing is abhorrent. I am inclined to ascribe

these feelings at bottom to egotism.

There is quite a number of South Welshmen in our lot out here,

including some men from Llanelly. There are also a lot of

Scotsmen among the officers, fellows of broad speech and dry

humour to whom I am much drawn.

You haven't hit on a book on some musical subject for me, have

you? I would much like a work dealing with Wagner or Beethoven.

It is music that I miss more than anything in the intellectual

line. Shall we ever hear the "Ring" again, I wonder? Anyway, it

was one of the supreme experiences of my life to have heard it

conducted by Nikisch. I regard the "Ring" as one of the world's

artistic masterpieces. It is conceived on a scale of unparalleled

grandeur, and must be thought of as an organised whole.

I miss the "Proms" and the Sunday Concerts, too--both have done a

real national service in popularising the greatest music.

_February 28th, 1917._

In the language of Tommy, I am "in the pink" and getting on

first-rate. Am delighted to say I passed well in that

examination, being marked "very good indeed." I got more than 90

per cent. of marks. I never dared to hope for such success. It

would be absurd to deny that I am hugely bucked at the result,

but I had had a pretty strenuous training for the exam. I am

still engaged in learning, but now in a different department,

though of equal interest, and I am glad to say that no

examination is involved this time.

Last Sunday we had a real first-rate game of Rugger--not very

scientific as far as passing and outside play were concerned, but

a great struggle forward. My own side had a couple of splendid

Scottish forwards against it, and I had a great deal of defence

to do, falling on the ball, etc. The final was 6-3 against us,

but one glaring offside try was allowed to our

opponents--accidentally, of course, as the referee's view was

unfortunately obstructed at the time. It was a grand game to play

in, though I was not in the best of training--one's first game

for fourteen months is usually apt to be a bit of a strain, and I

hadn't played since I turned out for the O.A.'s at Dulwich in

December, 1915. It was simply great, worth living years for, to

touch a Rugger ball again.

_March 17th, 1917._

These days for me are crammed full of work, 8.30 A.M. to 6 or 7

P.M. as a general rule. I am enjoying life hugely, however. To me

hard work has always been preferable to slack times, and I like

going at high pressure. Besides, this is such a grand job that

the work is a sheer pleasure. By Jove! if you only knew how much

happier I am these days than in any period during the twenty odd

months I had spent previously playing at soldiers in the "Grub

Department." It amazes me that I could have been so long

contented with work like that of the A.S.C. Well, anyway, those

days are over and done with, and a new and brighter era has been

ushered in. As a rule, I am now almost always in an incredible

state of grease and oil and grime, which, remembering my old

propensities, you will know delights me. The old gas-engine at

home was nothing to it. I have had to set aside a special suit

for daily use, as even with overalls on there is not sufficient

protection against grease, oil, petrol and mud. I cannot tell you

how supremely happy I am in my work.

Ambrose returned to his company from a course of instruction last

week, and he came across immediately to see me. We discussed old

times and old friends with great gusto. There are two other

Dulwich men in the battalion whom I never knew well, as they were

fairly senior fellows when I was only a kid, though I distinctly

remember both. Their names are Trimingham and Sewell. They were

in what was in those days Treadgold's House.

I am sending back by the same post a pair of spectacles which got

broken recently. Will you please get them repaired? I still have

four sound pairs, but I always like to keep up the set of five

with which I started in the War.

The breaking of the great frost created appalling conditions on

this countryside, which for some time was an absolute quagmire.

Even now things are pretty bad, though the weather improves

daily.

_March 20th, 1917._

Well, the Boche has retreated on the Somme, as most people

anticipated he would, though few imagined he would make such a

considerable withdrawal. He is a cute customer, of that there is

no doubt. He never does a thing without having a reason. Yet

there have been occasions in the War when he has entirely

misjudged the situation. Take Ypres and Verdun for example. This

retirement on the Somme is clever, though it may tell on the

morale of his men. On the other hand, the Boche relies, and

always has relied, much more on discipline than on morale for

keeping his army together. He has never developed _esprit de

corps_ as it has been developed in our army, or the French, but

there's no denying that his discipline is something pretty

considerable. That discipline, as far as can be gauged, has as

its foundation a very efficient system of N.C.O.'s. His officers

are intelligent, but nothing to write home about, but his

N.C.O.'s are unquestionably very good. I have myself witnessed

their influence among gangs of prisoners we have taken.

It must necessarily come about in the course of a War that

situations arise when _esprit de corps_ is equivalent to, and

even produces, discipline. That is where brother Boche fails to

rise to the occasion. I am not of those who think the Boche a

coward, but undoubtedly an unexpected situation very often plays

the very deuce with both his courage and his organisation. In his

plans he allows for most possibilities, but he is nonplussed when

the situation does not turn out exactly as it should on paper.

Again, man for man, he loses "guts" in tight corners, because of

this same lack of initiative. It is perhaps a temperamental

failing. There have been moments in this War when only his

incapacity to deal with a suddenly-developed situation has stood

between him and stupendous success. He has assumed, let us say,

that by all the rules of War the enemy must have reserves

available, and has therefore ceased his attack until such time as

he could muster his forces to meet the counter-attack by these

imagined reserve troops, when actually his enemy had no reserves

at all. Conversely, he has assumed on many occasions that his

enemy must, by all the rules of War, be battered into pulp or

asphyxiated, and that he has only to advance over the bodies of

his foes to win an overwhelming victory; yet somehow or other

from out of the indescribable debris and havoc wrought by his

artillery or gas, arise survivors who, though half-dead, yet have

enough life and pluck to hold him back.

Take as illustrations either the second battle of Ypres or

Verdun. In the first case, after the first surprise gas attack a

rent about a mile and a half wide had been torn in the Allied

line. Against a vast number of German troops there was opposed

only one single division of what Bernhardi contemptuously termed

"Colonial Militia," namely, the Canadians. For quite a long time

there were no other troops of ours (save a few oddments) in the

vicinity. The Boche had five miles or so to get to "Wipers." Of

these he covered just about two, and even that ground was only

what he gained in the first surprise of his gas attack. Between

him and the Channel coast there still stretched a khaki line. The

same sort of situation was repeated several times during the

second battle of Ypres (though the odds were never so great as in

these first April days), yet the result was always the same.

Take Verdun again. For me this prolonged battle has a strange

fascination. There is something more terrible and primitive about

it than about any other struggle of the War. It was a sort of

death-grip between two antagonistic military conceptions.

(_The remainder of this letter never came to hand._)

_March 31st, 1917._

It must be a singular experience for our troops on the Somme to

miss enemy artillery fire, trench mortars, grenades, etc., from

the scheme of things. What a huge relief to the Infantry to have

a pause from the eternal "Whew-w-w-w-Crash" of the high

explosives! I fear, nevertheless, that the British infantrymen

will soon resume acquaintance with them, for the War isn't over

by a long chalk yet. Meanwhile, however, the sight of an at

present comparatively unblemished countryside must be a great joy

to men sick of the howling wilderness created on the ground that

has been contended for since July, 1916. I know those Somme

battlefields--every square yard of soil honeycombed with

shell-holes, all traces of verdure vanished, trees reduced to

withered skeletons, blasted forests, fragments of houses, with

the poor human dead rotting all around. Verily a nightmare

country.

You may have remarked in the last _Alleynian_ a poem called the

"Infantryman," by Captain E. F. Clarke. It appeared first in

_Punch_ some time ago and has had a great vogue. When I read it

first, before I knew who the author was, I was greatly taken with

this poem. I now see from _The Alleynian_ that it is the work of

an O.A., a chap whom I held in high regard, namely, Eric Clarke,

whom you cannot fail to remember as King Richard II in the

Founder's Day Play, 1913--his superb acting in that role was

greatly admired. It was he who was to a large extent responsible

for my undertaking the editorship of _The Alleynian_. He was my

immediate predecessor in the job.

The poem appeals powerfully to me. To use the words of a Canadian

poet, R. W. Service, "it hits me right." It has a swing about it,

it has ideas, it has atmosphere. Pervading it through and through

is the atmosphere of this Western Front. I have often told you

that I had yet to meet the man who could convey that atmosphere

in story, book or article. Clarke's poem (along with

Bairnsfather's pictures) is one of the very first pieces I have

read that really gets this atmosphere. The verse is not

particularly polished, but it has life and force. Its simplicity

adds to its effectiveness. Such an expression as "the sodden

khaki's stench" lives in the memory, for it appeals directly to

the soldier's recollection of his experiences--that odour the

infantryman must have noticed dozens of times in the wet dawn,

when he was waiting to go "over the top." Clarke has undoubtedly

made a name for himself by the poem. Decidedly he has lived up to

the high reputation he had at school. It looks as if he will make

a name in literature. [See p. 240, text and footnote].

These days I am tremendously busy and revelling in it, as the

work is so completely congenial. I am muddier and greasier than

at any other period of my existence, and gloriously happy withal.

A corporal in our Company lives in the Herne Hill district, and

in civil life was a tram conductor for the L.C.C. on the Norwood

section. He has been out here two years, and won the Military

Medal for gallantry on the Somme. Very interesting to meet one of

the "dim millions" from one's own neighbourhood in this fashion,

_n'est ce pas_?

In April Paul Jones, as a Tank Officer, took part in the battle of

Arras.

_April 24th, 1917._

I am splendidly well and enjoying life hugely. If my letters for

the past three weeks have been few and far between, you must put

it down to War activities. It would be ridiculous to try to

conceal the fact that my movements of late have, to a certain

extent, been connected with the great "stunt" now in progress.

For me the past three weeks or so have been a period full of

incident and rich in variety--quite and by far the best period

of my life up to date. There have been certain rotten incidents

that have worried me at times; but, on the whole, I have been far

happier during that period than at any other time since joining

the Army. Thank goodness! I shall at length be able to hold up my

head among other Dulwich men and not be forced to admit with

shame that in this War I only played a safe, comfortable,

luxurious part in the A.S.C. No! those wretched days are over and

done with. Even now, I have a far easier time than thousands of

fellows in the Infantry.

I have referred to certain rotten incidents. The worst of these

was the death in action of one of my best friends in the Company.

This chap was a young Scotsman named Tarbet. We had been thrown

very much together and became warm friends. On April 9 Tarbet was

killed by a sniper about 11 A.M. while out in the open

reconnoitring the approach to the Boche second line. I came along

to relieve him an hour later, and practically fell over his dead

body--a very bad moment, I assure you. Another of our section

officers was wounded in the face about the same time by shrapnel.

I myself had rather a close shave, as I was alongside another man

at the time he was hit in the head by a shrapnel bullet. I

scarcely realised the explosion until I saw the poor fellow

wounded.

On the whole, that day was an absolute picnic. The only trouble

was that the Boche ran back too fast in our particular sector for

us to inflict all the damage on him that we would have liked to

have done. Such, however, has not been the case everywhere since.

He is fighting desperately hard now.

Two more O.A.'s killed in action--Gerald Gill[16] and Eric

Clarke.[17] Gill took his colours in cricket, gym, and football.

His impersonation of M. Perrichon in the French play on Founder's

Day, 1913, was very clever and entertaining. I am also much

grieved at Clarke's death. He was shaping for a brilliant career.

It's just awful this sacrifice of the best of our young men.

[Footnote 16: Lieutenant W. G. O. Gill. Born, May 26th, 1895.

Killed in Palestine, March 27th, 1917. He was in the cricket

XI, 1913, football XV, 1913-14, and in the gymnasium XI,

1912-13.]

[Footnote 17: Captain E. F. Clarke. Born, April 1st, 1894.

Killed, April 9th, 1917. Editor of _The Alleynian_,

1911-12-13. Went up to Oxford in 1913 with a classical

scholarship at Corpus Christi College.]

TO HIS BROTHER.

_April 29th, 1917._

Circumstances are making my letter-writing increasingly

difficult. It is rather a case of "but that I am forbid I could a

tale unfold," etc. I suppose holidays are on just now. I want to

tell you that I am confidently looking forward to your winning a

great success in the forthcoming Matriculation. By Jove! it

doesn't seem such a long time since I was in for that exam.

myself. In my day we were able to take it at the school, now I

believe you have to go up to London University. _Eheu fugaces!_

The more I see of life the more convinced I am of the greatness

of the old school. Wherever you meet a Dulwich man out here,

you'll find he bears a reputation for gallantry, for character,

for hard work and for what may be termed "the public-school

spirit" in its best form. Our Roll of Honour and the literally

amazing list of decorations bear this out. Of my own old

colleagues, there is not one who has not either been hit (alas!

killed in many cases) or received some decoration, or both; and

that, mark you, though we are not what is known as an "Army

School" like Eton, Cheltenham, or Wellington. Ambrose, the O.A.

in our battalion, has recently accomplished some wonderful

things, and is sure to receive a high decoration. Yet one more

up for the school!

Did you see that Scottie is now an Acting-Lieutenant-Colonel,

with a D.S.O. and the M.C.? That is _some_ achievement, if you

like! C. N. Lowe, the famous footballer, has been wounded. He had

transferred to the Flying Corps out of the A.S.C. Doherty, who

used also to be in the "Grub Department," has now got a Company

in the Infantry. You see, it isn't in the nature of a Dulwich man

to be leading a life of ease when other men are fighting.

I have been having a great time of late. Work of surpassing

interest, a certain amount of excitement, and a knowledge that

one was more or less directly participating in the winning of the

War--what more can the heart of man desire? If only poor old

Tarbet hadn't been killed--he was a dear pal of mine,--there

wouldn't be a cloud on the horizon. Don't let the Mater and Pater

get the wind up about my personal safety. At present I am quite

safe; besides, I have wonderful luck. I was only saved by a

miracle from being blown into the air last September on the

Somme. I may get home on leave in the near future.

_May 4th, 1917._

I rejoice to say that Ambrose has received the D.S.O. for that

achievement referred to in my last letter. He more than deserves

it. He had a most terrible experience. The D.S.O. for a subaltern

is one of the very highest honours that the Army has to bestow.

We are all very bucked about it, especially the O.A. section of

the battalion.

How anomalous the War has become--the world's great Land Power

striving to strike its decisive blow at sea, while the great Sea

Power is endeavouring to strike its decisive blow on land! This

double paradox will give much food for reflection to future

historians. I am coming to the conclusion that without a complete

knowledge of the facts it is well-nigh impossible to derive

accurate deductions from History. It seems to me you can make

History prove anything. To understand History in all its

significance, one must be familiar also with literature,

languages and science.

Talking of science, do you see that some modern scientists are

throwing doubt on the original theory of Evolution? They admit

the possibility of the modification of species through natural

selection, but they dispute the theory that any broad change

takes place in the genera of organisms. They do not even admit

the possibility of the atrophy, through long disuse, of organs of

which the animal no longer has need. They are forced to admit

that many species and genera have become extinct--so much is

proved by the skeletons of prehistoric beasts found from time to

time under the earth's surface. But what they dispute is that

there is any connection between those beasts and living animals.

They say, for instance, that as far back as we have records, we

find the horse practically the same, organically speaking, as he

is to-day. They cast doubt, that is, on the theory that the horse

is descended from the pterodactyl.

It is an interesting point, though there appears to be no

_essential_ difference between this new school and the

thoroughgoing evolutionists; for both admit the principle of the

survival of the fittest. To me the new school's conception seems

to be grotesque. According to them, the world was originally full

of an enormous number of animals, organisms and what not, of

which some have up to date survived, and whose numbers will

decrease until only a few certain types, or perhaps one certain

type, will be left subsisting. That is a view that I cannot

accept. But, of course, Nature has many checks on the

propagation and the multiplication of species. Natural conditions

do not permit of the existence of too many species or

sub-species. But it is clear that there are types, call them

genera, species, or what you will, that have, by virtue of some

inherent fitness and flexibility of adaptation, survived and

mastered other types.

The theory or principle of Natural Selection can also be applied

to nations. As far back as we have any record, man was much the

same sort of being as he is to-day. The genus, in fact, has not

changed. It is now established that in the long distant past

there was one great Aryan race in Central Asia, which has split

up since then into the peoples and nations of modern Europe,

India, Arabia, and so forth. Biologically speaking, these peoples

have all some traits in common, but environment has wrought great

changes and has created species. Between these species there are

great differences, so great indeed that various of them are

to-day engaged in a good old intertribal war.

But has the genus Man always borne the same sort of

characteristics as those that distinguish him to-day? Or, on the

other hand, is he descended from a kangaroo-rat through the long

lineage of the pithecanthropus, the ape-man, the man-ape, and so

forth? And why stop at the kangaroo-rat--the first mammal to

bring forth its young alive? Why not continue his lineage right

back to the original bi-cellular organism--protoplasm? If these

are our humble beginnings, what a progression to Man, so "noble

in reason, infinite in faculty"!

Speculations about the development of life are very fascinating.

I hold very strongly to belief in the survival of the fittest.

Accepting this theory, you can explain most of the apparent

inconsistencies that exist in the world. But I must admit that

there is at least a possibility that genera are not changed by

environment, time or circumstances. Perhaps they exist until they

become unfit, when they vanish. The genus may remain in existence

as a permanency till it ceases to become fit to survive, but the

species most certainly alters. The only point in dispute is,

therefore: do genera become altered by environment, etc.? Or do

they exist unaltered till they become unfit, when they just

vanish from this sublunary scene? However this may be, the broad

principle of natural selection seems to me to be unshakably

established.

_May 20th, 1917._

I was absolutely taken aback by the news of Felix Cohn's[18]

death. It seems almost incredible to me, even at this moment. It

was only a few days ago that we met out here. He had then been

"over the top" and was in high spirits. He was a sincere fellow

and played his part like a man. I do take off my hat to the

Infantry. No one in England realises what we all owe to them;

marvellous men they are. How they endure what they do, Heaven

only knows. If you see Mr. Cohn, please express to him my deepest

sympathy, or rather, send me his address and I will write to him.

[Footnote 18: Second Lieutenant Felix A. Cohn, East Surrey

Regiment. Born, August 31st, 1896. Killed, May 3rd, 1917. Was

in the Modern Sixth at Dulwich with Paul Jones. Son of Mr.

August Cohn, barrister.]

We of the Tank Corps are having a pleasant and peaceful time in

billets these days. Nature hereabouts is beginning to put on her

best dress. It is _some_ contrast between the vivid green foliage

that one sees about here and the blasted trees and

shell-shattered areas of the fighting zone. Only one thing

indicating the living force of nature did I remark in that dreary

countryside. This was the piping of a few birds now and again in

the most unlikely places. Bar that, the battle zone is a blasted

area, where the only difference between the seasons is noted by a

change of temperature and the transformation of mud into dust.

Meanwhile, I am having a very good time in billets; but I am

looking forward eagerly to a real scrap with the Boche.

Thanks so much for the "Perfect Wagnerite." It is a treat to read

about the "Ring" once more. I would give much to be able to hear

it again.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_May 25th, 1917._

Just a line to wish you the best of luck in the Matric, and to

express the hope that you will do really well. Put in all the

work you can right up to within twenty-four hours of the start of

the exam. and then take one day right off duty altogether. I am

certain you will do us all infinite credit.

As to the Pater's remark that my recent letters have lacked

detail, this is mainly due to the Censorship regulations, which I

personally like to observe in the spirit as well as in the

letter. Besides, a careless remark may be misconstrued, and it is

difficult to say one thing without disclosing others that ought

not to be revealed. Then there is the other consideration, that

if I write fully you may perhaps get the "wind up" about my

personal safety.

As regards photographs of myself, the regulations as to the

possession of cameras are very stringent, and I really haven't

the time or the inclination to go and get snapped by a civilian

photographer out here. Again, _entre nous_, I regard photographs

as trivialities--above all, those abominations "photos from the

Front." A man who is really at the Front has neither time nor

occasion to have photographs taken. No, if we must worry, let us

worry first about the things that _do_ matter.

I am frightfully sorry about the death of Felix Cohn. He was very

cheerful when I saw him. We met twice in a certain large town

which has of late figured prominently in the communiques. Our

talk was of Dulwich, the cases of Roederwald and Gropius, of

Wagner and music; and, of course, of the War itself. He had then

been "over the top" once, on the same day that I was. Felix said

that he had had an easy time, as his lot took about seven lines

of trenches in an hour. He had done considerable work as a

translator of German documents and in the examination of captured

Germans. I feel sincere sympathy for Mr. Cohn, but there is

little use in words of condolence in the case of such tragedies.

It is the price of the game.

To a large extent, the Pater's deductions about the work in Tanks

on hot days are correct. Still, you can wear practically what you

like when on duty, so one works in a shirt, shorts, puttees and

boots. Although we are for the time being out of the battle line,

I am really very busy; there is no slacking in the H.B.M.G.C.;

but I am enjoying life hugely.

I manage to get a good deal of bathing these days, as there is a

beautiful little river about a stone's throw away from our

billets. By the way, I hope you are continuing as keen as ever on

your swimming. As to leave, it has again vanished into the limbo

of futurity. I am not particularly sorry. Leave is such a

fleeting joy. Just as one is beginning to get into the way of

things at home one has to go back again to the Front. I would

much prefer to get the War completely over than get leave. After

all, in my present job I am not worried by monotony, and I find

the work of absorbing interest. Moreover, I have many friends in

this battalion, and, above all, in our own Company, which

contains some really splendid fellows. What I miss most is music.

_June 10th, 1917._

There are few opportunities of writing, and the busy period is

likely to last for a space, so I fear my correspondence for some

time to come will be but scanty. Our northern push has been a

first-rate success. The simultaneous explosion of those mines on

the Messines Ridge must have created a terrific din, though I

myself never heard a sound, being at the time wrapped in the

sleep of the just.

I do hope things are going well in the old school, but I fear

that in existing conditions it is a difficult period for all

public schools. Owing to the War, boys leave so much younger now,

and you do not have fellows of eighteen and nineteen to set the

tone; and at that age they have unquestionably a far greater

sense of responsibility than at sixteen or seventeen, or, I

imagine, in the first years at the 'Varsity after leaving school.

Ian Hay says somewhere that a senior boy at a public school is a

far more serious and responsible being than an undergraduate. As

there are no senior boys, it is more than ever incumbent upon the

masters to keep up the _esprit de corps_ of the school, and to

help maintain the old standards in work and games.

Talking of masters, I much liked that poem entitled the

"House-Master" in a recent number of _Punch_. It is just the case

of Kittermaster, Nightingale, or Scottie, isn't it? I pray and

trust that Dulwich in these difficult days will maintain its fine

traditions. The welfare of the school is a very precious thing to

me. I am inclined to think that my own six and a half years

(1908-15) at Dulwich were about the time of its Augustan era.

Among other things, this period included the year of the two

Balliol scholars, the year of the crack "footer" team that never

lost a match, and it was marked by a consistent average of

first-class XV's throughout. It produced five "blues" and

internationals, and would have produced many other "blues," and

perhaps internationals, had it not been for the War--Evans, for

example, as half-back, and Franklin or either of the Gilligans as

three-quarters. It was also the period of A. E. R. Gilligan,

unquestionably the finest all-round public-school athlete of the

past decade; the period of the gymnastic records; of the sports

records; with a consistent average of scholarships and other

educational distinctions, such as Reynolds's B.A., direct from

the school. Finally, this period was marked by a general spirit

of keenness and industry, both in work and games, throughout the

school. It was truly a glorious time. Oh, to have it all over

again!

_June 18th, 1917._

For over three weeks we have been working at exceptionally high

pressure. Chief interest now centres in Flanders. Our branch did

wonderfully well there, though the Boche apparently didn't offer

serious resistance anywhere. I was inexpressibly shocked to hear

of the death of that chivalrous Irishman, Willie Redmond. The

fact that he was carried off the battlefield in an Ulster

ambulance was a most touching episode, and should go far to

reconcile the mutually antagonistic Irish parties. Such an

incident is one of the compensations of War--few enough though

they may be, Heaven knows! As it drags on, the War is becoming

more and more mechanical. It is now like one enormous engine,

with multitudinous cogwheels, each of which plays its part.

_July 4th, 1917._

Looking at the Casualty Lists recording the death of so many

brave men, and thinking of the grief in the homes, one feels that

this War lies heavy on the world like a black horror. And yet I

find myself ever more irresistibly (albeit wholly against my will

and wishes) forced to the conclusion that War is a part of the

order of things. Did you read the Russian Socialists' manifesto

on the War? While, on the one hand, they ascribed responsibility

for it to the capitalist classes in the warring countries, yet

they admitted that Russia's withdrawal from the War would put the

Boche section of capitalists in an advantageous position, and so

decided to continue it. In other words, they admit that Democracy

is powerless to avert War.

To my thinking, all History is made up of a series of movements

like the swinging of a pendulum, from democracy (often via

oligarchy) to imperialism, and from imperialism back to

democracy. It seems to me that there is only one effective method

of ensuring world-peace. It was the method of the Romans, by

which one nation having fought its way to a position of

undisputed and indisputable supremacy, imposed its will on the

other nations of the world, and established the "Pax Romana."

Similar efforts made by great men have proved a disastrous

failure in the long run, though after meeting with temporary

success. Rome's universal dominion did not endure long, and

Napoleon's domination of the Continent was very brief. England

seems to have almost succeeded up to date in her attempt to

establish a "Pax Romana," for she gave order and peace to a large

part of the world. England builded better than she knew, for many

of the wise things she did were done under protest and from her

devotion to the _laissez-faire_ system. But this stupendous

conflict shows that the "Pax Britannica" has not succeeded in

averting wars.

I have heard it maintained that Karl Marx's theory is the

solution of the question, namely, to ignore national boundaries

and establish what he called "class-consciousness" among the

wage-earners of the world. That is to say, Marx proposed to

replace national consciousness--viz., the family, race or tribal

consciousness that exists under the name of patriotism--by

class-consciousness--viz., the consciousness of the workers in

all countries that their interests are identical, the idea being

that with the realisation of the unity of the workers wars would

cease. To this theory there are, it seems to me, two fatal

objections: (1) Even if this class-consciousness, or

international solidarity of the workers, could be brought about,

yet you would soon have the old division into capital and labour

growing up again, through the ordinary laws of natural selection

and because of the unequal capacity of different men to make

their way in the world. (2) To my mind, the tribal instinct is

much too strong to give way to a class-consciousness that ignores

national boundaries and national rivalries.

Broadly speaking, the division of the world into nations is a

natural division; and recent research all goes to confirm the

theory that man never has "made good" as an individual. He begins

his existence as a member of a family and of an association of

families--thrown together (_a_) by kinship of blood or likeness

of type; (_b_) by environment; (_c_) by chance or circumstance

(as a rule for the purpose of self-protection). It is these

enlarged families that are what we call to-day nations. I cannot

see that it would be possible to replace the great and, on the

whole, ennobling sentiment of patriotism by a broad international

trades-unionism, which is practically what Marx proposes. And

given the world as it is and animal and human nature what they

are, I don't see how to prevent the interests of nations

clashing. Ethically speaking, the trouble is that existence is a

selfish thing. Stamp out competition--which, when you think of

it, is not very far removed from war on a small scale--and

experience shows that you stamp out the incentive to work and to

progress. It is a melancholy conclusion to come to, but it's

better to look facts in the face than to shirk them.

I had the experience the other day of visiting a portion of the

country where the old battle front used to be, for two and a half

years, before the Boches withdrew to their Hindenburg line. This

section of ground is miles from the present front line, in fact

you can only hear the guns rumbling in the distance. This whole

countryside is a ruined waste--villages destroyed, weeds

overgrowing everything; and no inhabitants except troops. It was

strange to walk over the old trench systems and the broad green

band between them (still thickly strewn with barbed wire) that

used to be No Man's Land. One thought of the Englishmen,

Frenchmen and Germans who sat for so long in those trenches,

peering at each other furtively from time to time, each doing all

he could to kill the enemy, and from time to time raiding one

another's lines. I examined the deep, well-ordered Boche

trenches. All dug-outs and practically everything of military

value they had destroyed prior to their departure, but a few

concrete and steel emplacements and snipers' posts still

remained--beautifully made and all in commanding positions. The

destruction of the villages, farms and lands by the Germans on

their retirement was absolutely systematic--not a house or a

structure of any kind left standing. This area depressed one much

more than the ordinary zone near the lines, because it was all so

deathly empty and so weirdly silent, like the ghost of some

prehistoric world. Up in the battle line you have at any rate

life and activity--but here nothing at all, simply destruction

and a silent desert. I noticed in this area a French Military

Cemetery with names dating back to 1914!

I am keeping splendidly well and am absolutely happy. By far the

happiest time of my life since leaving school has been the past

six months. My brother officers are a grand lot of fellows. Our

own section of the Company is commanded by a young captain with

the M.C., who has spent most of his life in the Colonies--a

first-rate man he is. There are four other officers besides

myself, all of them splendid comrades, especially one who was

along with me in the old days back in April and whom I am proud

to consider a bosom pal--a little Irishman, called O'Connor. He

and I and poor old Jock Tarbet had always been the greatest of

friends since my arrival in the Company. Alas! there are now only

two of us left.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_July 27th, 1917._

I was charmed to get a letter from you to-day and to hear that

things are progressing so well. It certainly was bad luck for you

in the diving competition. However, better luck next time! I was

delighted to get the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News_

with the photographs of the Dulwich College O.T.C. How it does

warm my heart to see even a photograph of the old College and its

surroundings! I note that, barring Scottie and poor Kitter, there

isn't much change in the officers of the Corps. What excellent

fellows they are! Give my love to them all.

Many thanks for the last parcel containing among many acceptable

things a Gaboriau detective novel. I was very anxious to read

this and compare it with good old Sherlock Holmes, whom I still

worship as much as ever.

I have just completed two full continuous years of service in

this country. Well, cheer-oh, old boy! Best luck and much love to

you all!

_P.S._--Have you ever reflected on the fact that, despite the

horrors of the war, it is at least a big thing? I mean to say

that in it one is brought face to face with realities. The

follies, selfishness, luxury and general pettiness of the vile

commercial sort of existence led by nine-tenths of the people of

the world in peace-time are replaced in war by a savagery that is

at least more honest and outspoken. Look at it this way: in

peace-time one just lives one's own little life, engaged in

trivialities, worrying about one's own comfort, about money

matters, and all that sort of thing--just living for one's own

self. What a sordid life it is! In war, on the other hand, even

if you do get killed you only anticipate the inevitable by a few

years in any case, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that

you have "pegged out" in the attempt to help your country. You

have, in fact, realised an ideal, which, as far as I can see, you

very rarely do in ordinary life. The reason is that ordinary life

runs on a commercial and selfish basis; if you want to "get on,"

as the saying is, you can't keep your hands clean.

Personally, I often rejoice that the War has come my way. It has

made me realise what a petty thing life is. I think that the War

has given to everyone a chance to "get out of himself," as I

might say. Of course, the other side of the picture is bound to

occur to the imagination. But there! I have never been one to

take the more melancholy point of view when there's a silver

lining in the cloud.

Certainly, speaking for myself, I can say that I have never in

all my life experienced such a wild exhilaration as on the

commencement of a big stunt, like the last April one for example.

The excitement for the last half-hour or so before it is like

nothing on earth. The only thing that compares with it are the

few minutes before the start of a big school match. Well,

cheer-oh!

This was our son's last letter. A few days later came a field postcard

from him, bearing date July 30, the day before the battle in which he

was killed. After that, silence--a silence that will remain unbroken

this side of the grave.

PART III

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

_The day's high work is over and done,

And these no more will need the sun:

Blow, you bugles of England, blow!_

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

_That her Name like a sun among stars might glow

Till the dusk of time with honour and worth:

That, stung by the lust and the pain of battle,

The One Race ever might starkly spread

And the One Flag eagle it overhead!

In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride,

Thus they felt it and thus they died._

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

_Blow, you bugles of England, blow!_

W. E. HENLEY: "THE LAST POST."

The circumstances in which Lieutenant H. P. M. Jones met his death are

described in the following letters sent to me by Major Haslam, his

commanding officer, and Corporal Jenkins, the N.C.O. in his Tank:

_August 2nd, 1917._

Your son went into action with his Tank, together with the

remainder of the company, in the early morning of July 31st. He

was killed by a bullet whilst advancing. From the evidence of his

crew I gather he was unconscious for a short time, then died

peacefully. I knew your son before he joined the Tanks. We were

both in the 2nd Cavalry Brigade together. I was delighted when he

joined my company. No officer of mine was more popular. He was

efficient, very keen, and a most gallant gentleman. His crew

loved him and would follow him anywhere. Such men as he are few

and far between. I am certain he didn't know what fear was.

Please accept the sympathy of the whole company and myself in

your great loss. We shall ever honour his memory.

J. C. HASLAM (MAJOR),

No. 7 Compy., "C" Battn., Tank Corps.

Corporal D. C. Jenkins wrote:

I have been asked by your son's crew to write to you, as I was

his N.C.O. in the Tank. Your son, Lieut. H. P. M. Jones, was shot

by a sniper. The bullet passed through the port-hole and entered

your son's brain. Death was almost instantaneous. I and

Lance-Corporal Millward, his driver, did all we could for your

son, but he was beyond human help. His death is deeply felt not

only by his own crew, but by the whole section. His crew miss him

very much. It was a treat to have him on parade with us, as he

was so jolly. We all loved him. Fate was against us to lose your

son. He was the best officer in our company, and never will be

replaced by one like him. I and the rest of the crew hope that

you will accept our deepest sympathy in your sorrow.

Paul Jones had touched life at so many points--Dulwich College, the

athletic world, the Army, journalism, the House of Commons, and

Wales--that the news of his death caused grief in far-extending

circles. Of the hundreds of letters of condolence that reached us I

propose to reproduce a few here. They are unvarying in their testimony

to his idealism, his personal charm and the nobility of his nature.

Extracts from his last letter, published in the _Daily Chronicle_, the

_Western Mail_, Cardiff, and _Public Opinion_, attracted considerable

attention.

* * * * *

Lieutenant Jack Donaldson, who, as an A.S.C. officer, was attached to

the 2nd Cavalry Brigade in the winter of 1916-17, wrote:

OFFICERS' MESS,

HARROWBY CAMP,

GRANTHAM.

_August 6th, 1917._

It was with the very deepest sorrow that I read in to-day's paper

of the death of your son in action. As you know, he worked under

me throughout the greater part of last winter. He was the first

subaltern, if I may so express it, I ever had, for he worked

under me though he was actually senior in point of rank. He was

also the best and most loyal one I could wish for. Far more than

that, he was a most interesting and lovable companion and friend.

In fact, when he left us the gap created in our mess was one that

became more noticeable every day. Intellectually, he was a great

loss to us, for his interests were extremely broad and his views

original. But far more than that, there was a sort of bigness

about him. He was an idealist, and the rarer sort, the sort that

carries its theories into practice.

We all laughed at him and at some of the things he did and the

scruples he had, but in our hearts I think we all honoured and

loved him for them. For without forcing it in any way upon others

he himself followed a code of honour that differed from, and was

stricter than, that of the world around him. He was quixotic,

especially in anything to do with money, and often to his own

personal loss. I think we were all the better for having known

him. He seemed hardly to think of himself at all.

No man I ever met was more censorious of his own actions, or more

obstinate in his defence of any principle or theory he was

advocating in argument, no matter how hare-brained it might seem.

We used to spend hours arguing over anything, from free-will to

the "loose-head." I knew, of course, how much he disliked the

class of work (requisitioning of local supplies) he was doing for

me, though no one could have worked harder and few have done it

better; but the commercialism of it was abhorrent to him. It was

his duty to drive a hard bargain and to be one too many for a

knave, and while he did his best to fulfil it he disliked the

task.

I took him down on his first interview for the Tanks, and again

on his transfer; and though I had no share in getting him the

latter, I don't know that I should regret it if I had. For I saw

him several times afterwards. I had a couple of joy-rides in his

land-ship, and I and all others who met him could not but remark

how happy he was. After the Arras show I believe he was simply

radiant. He has died the death he would have chosen and in a good

cause. Many a time he said to me that he was sure he would never

survive the war, and that he did not, for himself, greatly care,

for he was not built for a mercenary age. We may be sure that all

is well with him where he lies.

I last saw him at Poperinghe about a month ago. He was full of

spirits then, though under unpleasant enough conditions. Since

then my transfer, applied for at the same time as his, has come

through. I was so looking forward to another meeting with him

later in France.

From Captain Maurice Drucquer, barrister-at-law, now serving in the

A.S.C.:

I want to tell you how grieved I was to hear of the loss of your

son. He received his commission the same day as I did, and we

were posted to the same station. I only enjoyed his company for

three months, as he was sent abroad. During that short period he

had endeared himself to all of us, his brother officers, though

we were many years his senior in age. What appealed to me most in

Paul was the combination in him of boyhood and manhood. There was

not the slightest attempt at pretence, not the slightest sign of

precociousness, no desire to ape the tone or the airs of those

among whom he worked. On another side of his character he was in

every respect a man. He tackled all problems of a serious nature

with a grasp of the subject which might well be the envy of a

thoughtful man. One could not enter into conversation with him

without at once perceiving that he must have given much thought

and study to the everyday affairs of life. His knowledge of

literature was great, and one was surprised, even abashed, at his

store. His hours off duty were spent well and wisely. A certain

period was always given to healthy exercise, and then would come,

almost as a matter of course, hours of fruitful reading. The

affectionate part of his nature came out in his relations with

the people with whom he lodged. He earned the affection of the

whole household, and the lady of the house has often told me that

she loved him like her own sons. I saw much in Paul that I cannot

put into writing, and I think he had the spirit to see certain

truths which we see all too dimly.

Mr. George Smith, M.A., Headmaster of Dulwich College since the autumn

of 1914, writes:

It was with deep regret that I learned of Paul's death, and I

feel most sincerely for you all in your great sorrow. As you

know, I was brought very closely into touch with him as soon as I

came to Dulwich. He was the captain of the XV and of the football

of the College during my first year; and I relied on him mainly

for the organising and inspiring of the games. There his energy

and keenness were invaluable to us. Then, as a prefect, he used

to bring his essays every week; and I was greatly impressed by

his intellectual power and promise. I remember how full his

essays were of matter; how ready he was to grasp and to originate

new ideas; how vividly and emphatically he expressed himself. We

looked forward to a brilliant and useful career for him. But it

was not to be. It is very hard to lose him. But he has done his

duty; and he leaves behind him a memory that we of the old school

must especially cherish and honour.

The Reverend A. H. Gilkes, Vicar of St. Mary Magdalene, Oxford,

formerly Headmaster of Dulwich College, in a touching tribute to the

"noble character of your brave, dear and able son," said: "I

sympathise with you fully and deeply. It means little, I know, to you

in your trouble, but I trust it means something, that your son was so

much loved and admired, and is so sadly missed by so many. He was

fearless, strong and capable, and his heart was as soft and kind as a

heart can be. I thought that he would do great things; and indeed, sad

though it is, I do not know that he could have done a greater."

* * * * *

Mr. J. A. Joerg, principal of the Modern Side, Dulwich College, a

gentleman of German antecedents, for whom my son had a high and an

unalterable regard, wrote:

It was with the greatest horror that I read of the fall in action

of your hero-son Paul. I read his noble character during the many

years he was with me, and I recognised and admired the great

sense of justice and duty and loyalty that were such prominent

features with him. His deep gratitude for anything that was done

for him will always be remembered by me. He was a noble boy. I

shall always reverence his memory.

Mr. P. Hope, Classical master at Dulwich, to whom Paul owed much when

studying English literature, and whom he always recalled with

affection, sent me a pen-picture of my son limned with insight and

love:

_August 18th, 1917._

I have heard with deep sorrow and distress of the death of your

dear son, H. P. M. Jones, killed in action. Your son was never in

the Classical Sixth at Dulwich College, and so was not directly a

pupil of mine. But he often came to me for advice and help, and

we often talked together about many things. I always cherished a

real regard and admiration for him and his sterling qualities and

great ability. He was a most kind-hearted and generous-minded

boy, one who had the best interests of the school at heart, one

who never spared himself if he could in any way render a service

to his team or to the school as a whole; one who could be relied

on to act loyally, faithfully and conscientiously in all that he

did; one who would place duty before all other considerations. He

was an indefatigable worker, a boy of great power and promise,

and, so far as we could prophesy, was sure to achieve a high and

distinguished position for himself in the world later on. He was

greatly beloved by the boys, his own school-fellows, and honoured

and respected by all his masters.

I well remember how he gave up hour after hour of his own time

out of school to the training of the XV; how he would throw

himself heart and soul into the heavy work connected with the

organisation of the school football and games generally, and how

he would do all in his power to make things happier and easier

for the boys with whose welfare he was entrusted. He was indeed,

as he grew older, just one of those men whom we could least of

all spare in these days, the very embodiment in himself of all

that is best in the public-school spirit, the very incarnation of

self-sacrifice and devotion. I cannot tell you how much we shall

miss him at the College among the Old Boys. There is no name or

memory that we shall hold more dear than that of your much-loved

son. He has died, even as he lived, in fulfilment of the high

ideal which he set before him, and there could be no nobler or

more glorious death.

Though our loss is great, yours is unspeakably greater. Our

hearts go out to you in reverent sympathy. As we think of the

dear ones who have made the great sacrifice for us, it is hard to

fix our thoughts on the contemplation of their shining example,

to find satisfaction in the assurance that their memory and their

inspiration can never die. It is so human and so natural that we

should miss them in their actual presence in our midst; and

their absence leaves such a hideous gap in our lives which

nothing can ever fill. But maybe as the days go by we shall

understand more clearly the real value of their sacrifice and

their life and death.

"Salute the sacred dead,

Who went and who return not--

Say not so!

We rather seem the dead

That stayed behind."

Your son was a truly good, simple-hearted, modest, gallant man:

he has contributed his part to the making of the new world which

we all pray will follow after the war--the new rule of

righteousness and peace. He shall not be without his reward; and

you, too, who have taught him from childhood and filled his mind

with your own ideals, may remember him with pride as having

fulfilled the highest aspirations which you had formed for him.

Mr. E. H. Gropius, who was captain of the school in 1914, when my son

was at the head of the Modern Side, writes:

Paul was a friend of mine long before he reached the brilliant

position he held when he left Dulwich. During his last two terms

I got to know him still better and to admire him more, not only

for his intellectual and athletic brilliance, but for his solid

qualities, his strength of character and sound judgment. He was

one of the best footer captains we have had, and he never once

put his own personal feelings before the good of the school. As

for in-school footer, he absolutely reformed it. Not that footer

is the most important thing in a man's life. But if a man can

play as he did, he must be a sportsman; and Paul died as he

lived, a great sportsman. He could quite easily have kept in the

A.S.C., but he preferred to do more. It is men like he was that

we need most, but even if he is not with us his memory is. His

influence at school was enormous; to all who knew him that

influence will remain a powerful factor in their lives. Though

we had hoped to be up in Oxford together, it could not be. Had he

gone up his genius would certainly have made its mark.

When I think of my last year and the great times we had at

Dulwich, it seems impossible that I shan't see Paul again. He was

absolutely one of the best, the very best. But I am sure he would

not wish us to be over-miserable on his account. His last letter

gives a perfect picture of his mind and character. I really

believe that he did welcome the war, not as a war, but because it

gave him, as well as others, the chance of seeing things in their

true light.... When I saw Mrs. Bamkin a few weeks ago we talked

very intimately about Paul. She knew him only through her own boy

who was killed in July, 1915, and through what other fellows and

myself had said--and we came to the conclusion that Paul's was

one of the finest characters of my time at school.... He inspired

in me all the highest feelings. His example will help us on and

he will live among us still.

A young German, Mr. Gerald Roederwald, a fellow-student with my son in

the Modern Sixth, wrote:

I did not think that Paul would ever be able to get into the

firing-line at all, but it was just like him to seek the thick of

danger. Reading his last letter it seemed to me just as though we

were still at school together in the midst of an argument. Often

have I thought of "H. P. M." as we used to call him at school. We

all liked him. What a career his would surely have been! It was

an accepted tradition amongst us that old "H. P. M." would one

day astonish the world. Those who knew him well derived great

benefit from his cultured mind. I myself owe more than I can

express to your son's influence over me. No one who came near him

could help coming under the spell of his personality. His

remarkable intellectual gifts made us feel that he was our

superior. Not only that, his great stature seemed to be the

essence of his whole being. I mean that everything about him was

on a large scale. Nature had gifted him with a generous, open

mind, which was incapable of taking in anything that was small or

mean. Whenever Paul spoke to me his eyes seemed to probe into the

depths of my whole being. As long as I live I shall never forget

him. His spirit is with me always, for it is to him that I owe my

first real insight into Life.

From Mr. Raymond T. Young, Felsted School:

I knew Paul as a small boy at Brightlands ten years ago. He was

in my form and had already begun to show great promise

intellectually and as a sound and splendid boy. Afterwards I came

across him when he played such a fine game for the Dulwich Rugger

side. Had he been spared, I quite think he would have taken a

"Blue" at forward for Oxford. You must comfort yourselves with

the constant thought that you have given for England one whose

whole life was as perfect and true as it was full of promise of

great things; and also you must be very proud of having had so

much to give.

The Master of Balliol (Mr. Arthur L. Smith), writing on 21st August,

1917, said:

In sending you the official condolences of the college on the

death of your brilliant son, I should like also to express

personally my own feelings of the very successful career that was

open to him at Oxford, which, like so many of our best young

scholars, he gave up without a moment's hesitation to serve his

country and the world in this great crisis. Such a change is

surely not all loss if we could see things in their true

proportion and in their realities; but meantime the loss must

indeed be severe to you, because you must have been justly proud

of him on so many grounds. I remember how he struck me in the

scholarship examination by the excellent way in which he put some

very vigorous good sense, particularly on the subject of the

character of Oliver Cromwell; and I see that my notes refer to

him as "showing much vivacity of expression," "sound reading,"

"strong mental grasp and excellent arrangement and method." He

also made "a most pleasing and favourable impression in 'viva

voce.'" He would have been a very leading and, in the best sense,

popular man in the college. His last letter is one of the finest

even of the many fine letters that have been written under such

circumstances during the last few years.

A high official at the War Office wrote:

In this great and cruel crisis I have had before me many things

which have evoked the deepest sympathy of my heart; but I know of

nothing which has distressed me more than the sad blow which you

have received. Your son's whole life and his outlook on life

appealed to me in a remarkable way. There was nothing mean or

small in his physical form or his mental equipment; and his fine,

strong joy of life, and his love for the everlasting ideals made

an impression on my mind which will not readily be erased. It is

not so well known as it should be how manfully he overcame every

obstacle to make himself the most perfect defender of his country

and how ardently he strove with a hero's heart to place his

glorious gifts upon the altar of his country. He was all that the

most exacting paternal standards could demand. Now that his sun

has gone down while it is yet day, with all its brilliant past

and all its brilliant prospects, I join with your many friends in

the sincere and heartfelt hope that the courage, consolation and

pride which come to those who have "nurtured the brave to do

brave things" may be yours in largest measure in your hour of

sore trial.

From Mr. Lionel Jones, Science headmaster, Birmingham Technical

School:

I believe ours was the first house Paul visited, and I have

followed his career with interest and with, indeed, a sense of

pride. We had expected him to do great things; yet he has done

greater, for his last letter shows he had grasped the inner

meanings of Life and Death more clearly than we do, and was

content to sink the lesser in the greater Being.

From Mr. Hugh Spender, Parliamentary correspondent of the _Westminster

Gazette_:

I had the privilege of meeting your son, and I shall always carry

a very lively recollection of him. He was so modest that I did

not realise what a distinguished college career he had had. But

he impressed me very vividly with the strength of his

personality, remarkable in one so young. There was an air of

radiant gaiety about him which sprang from a pure heart and a

lofty purpose. I realised that he must have had a very great

influence for good. This thought must be a great consolation to

you in your grief. Here was a life "sans peur et sans reproche,"

a light to brighten the footsteps of every man who knew of him.

A well-known Professor, himself a Balliol history scholar, wrote:

I only met your son once, but I liked him much, and from the time

he got the Brakenbury the promise of his future career at Balliol

had a very special interest for me. I felt sure he was destined

to do great things. It is tragic to know that that destiny will

now never be realised; but he has done greater things; he has

done the greatest thing of all. That he should have joined the

Army so early and pressed for transfer to the machine-gun

corps--a unit which occupies posts of the greatest danger, and is

required to hold them at all costs and against all odds--makes

his achievement all the more memorable. Your sorrow must indeed

be great, and almost intolerable, but the thought of such a high

and fearless devotion will, I trust, do something to assuage it.

From Mr. William Hill, an old journalistic friend of mine:

Yesterday morning I read with regret profound, on account of the

nation's loss as well as your own, the report of the death of

your gallant son. Yesterday evening in a volume by

Watterson--which incidentally contains a sketch of the Captain

Paul Jones of history, depicted as a brilliant young man, with

charms of person and graces of manner--I read in an appreciation

of Abraham Lincoln a letter written by the great President to a

sorely-bereaved mother, which I feel it to be a duty and an

honour to recite in part to you in this hour. Lincoln wrote:

"I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which

should attempt to beguile you from a loss so overwhelming. But

I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be

found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray

that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your

bereavement and leave you only the cherished memory of the

loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have

laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of Freedom."

In Your Own Case, Lieut. Paul Jones, In The Form Of His Last

Letter And By The Testimony Of His Major, Has Left A Legacy Of

Protest And Aspiration And Example Which I Ardently Trust And

Believe Will Reinforce Powerfully The Spirit Of Regeneration, So

Long Belated, That Is Already Beginning To Influence Materially

The Britain Of Our Immediate Future. Sealed By The Sacrifice Of

His Life, The Note Of A Saner And Purer National Life Set In His

Letter By Your Son Will, Ere Half The Century Is Past, Give Us, I

Am Confident, A Stronger And Mightier Britain.

From Mrs. Denbigh Jones, Llanelly:

"Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" That has

been the ideal of these brave young souls. From one great joy to

another your glorious boy led you on. He lived and moved with an

intensity and a fullness beyond our slow dreams, as if rushing to

consume everything in life worth reaching and learning in the

given time. The intoxication of life which possessed him will

shine for ever in your memory, as it was not of earth. He scaled

the topmost crags of duty, and now his young voice still calls to

us "far up the heights."

My son's nurse, for whom he had a warm and abiding affection, married

Mr. W. W. Jones, of Llanelly, who wrote:

On behalf of my wife, his devoted and loving nurse Nan, and

myself, we extend to you our most heartfelt and sincere sympathy

in this great catastrophe of your lives through the death in

action of your dear son Paul, whilst fighting for the rights of

justice, humanity and freedom. He died like the hero he was. My

wife was greatly distressed and painfully grieved when she learnt

of the cruel loss you have sustained. Paul's name was a household

word in our home. She always spoke of him as such a noble,

unselfish and virtuous boy, good in spirit, great of heart. It is

hard that he should be taken, his life already so rich in

achievements and with its promise of a brilliant and golden

future. By his death it is not only you, his parents, who will

suffer; but Paul, being in himself a great democrat--which in

these days we can ill afford to lose--the democracies of the

world will suffer by the loss of such a gallant and noble

gentleman.

From a man of letters:

Thinking of your great sorrow over the loss of that splendid boy

of yours, there came to my mind that passage in _Macbeth_ where

Ross tells old Siward:

"Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt;

He only lived but till he was a man;

The which no sooner had his prowess confirmed

In the unshrinking station where he fought,

But like a man he died.

SIWARD: Had he his hurts before?

ROSS: Ay, on the front.

SIWARD: Why, then, God's soldier be he!"

From the editor of a London daily newspaper:

It is infinitely tragic to hear day by day of this waste of the

life of brilliant young men who were the hope of the future. And

yet we must not say that it is waste. If we say that, then there

is no mitigation of the sorrow. The price is appalling, but we

must believe that it is being paid for a treasure the world

cannot live without; and if that treasure is won, your sorrow

will at least be assuaged by the thought that it is not in vain,

and that what you have lost the world has gained.

From a friend and colleague on the _Daily Chronicle_:

My wife idolised Paul for his lovableness and nobility. The

vision we had of him in his splendid youth has been made

unforgettable by his glorious sacrifice.

From a Welsh editor:

The memory of Paul's rare and great qualities and the definite

promise he gave of a very brilliant career will ever remain

fragrantly in your hearts and in those of your friends who had

the happiness to know him.

From an Irish editor:

I was impressed no less by his unaffected modesty than by his

evident ability and high character. Many as have been the

brilliant young lives lost in this war, there can have been but

few which carried such high promise as his.

From a Scottish journalist:

The Greeks summed up human virtue in a phrase which can hardly be

bettered--[Greek: kalos kai agathos]. In the promise of his life,

and even more in the grandeur of his death, your son was [Greek:

kalos kai agathos].

From a Dulwich schoolboy:

I can say nothing beyond this, that I feel certain Dulwich will

not forget.

From his uncle, Mr. Brinley R. Jones, Llanelly:

What pride to have reared such a son and to know that he felt

that the greatest thing in life was to lay all on the altar of

his country! And to think of the gallant band whom he has

joined--W. G. C. Gladstone, Rupert Brooke, Raymond Asquith,

Donald Hankey, and many more.

"And ofttime cometh our wise Lord God,

Master of every trade,

And tells them tales of His daily toil,

Of Edens newly made;

And they rise to their feet as He passes by,

Gentlemen unafraid."

The tears came to my eyes, tears of joy and pride, when I read

the extract from Paul's wonderful letter to Hal. We had looked

forward to Paul serving England in his life--great service for

which his transcendent gifts seemed to mark him out. It has been

ordained, however, that his service is by way of Calvary. We can

only wonder what it all means.

A colleague of mine in the Press Gallery wrote:

He was a fine fellow and you had good reason to be proud of him.

I was greatly struck by his last letter. It breathes a splendid

spirit and reminds me of a passage in my favourite essay in

Stevenson: "In the hot fit of life, a-tip-toe on the highest

point of being, he passes at a bound on to the other side."

An old friend who knew Paul well and whose two sons were educated at

Dulwich College wrote:

I grieve beyond measure at the passing of so noble-hearted a man.

He, like others who have gone down in this horrible war, was of

the very flower of our race--he even more than most of them; and

the nation's loss is great, too. There are consolations even in

such an affliction as yours; and the highest consolation of all

must be that Paul willingly laid down his life for his

fellow-men.

From Major David Davies, M.P., Llandinam:

Your gallant son's death brings to my mind a verse of Adam

Lindsay Gordon's:

"Many seek for peace and riches, length of days and life of ease;

I have sought for one thing, which is fairer unto me than these;

Often, too, I've heard the story, in my boyhood, of the doom

Which the fates assigned me--Glory, coupled with an early tomb."

Your son has covered himself with imperishable glory, though his

promising young life has suddenly been cut off. Is it too much to

hope that those great principles for which he fought so nobly

will at last become the heritage of the whole world? He and those

who have fallen with him will then have created a new earth, in

which shall dwell peace and righteousness. I firmly believe it

will be so; but it is up to us who are left behind to see to it

that all the heroic sacrifices have not been made in vain, and

that the "new order" will be worthy of those ideals which were

cherished by the men who laid down their lives for them.

Of the many messages that reached us, none touched a deeper chord than

the following:

_7th August, 1917._

I would like to convey to you my condolences in the loss of your

son, Lieut. H. P. M. Jones. Although a stranger, I am moved to do

this after reading in to-day's _Daily Chronicle_ the account of

his career and those noble words he wrote in his letter home just

before his death. I and those around me felt, "Here was a fine

man and one the country could ill afford to lose." May it be some

comfort to you in your grief, that your boy's death made at least

one man say to himself: "I will try to be a better

man."--ANONYMOUS.

A young Welsh musician wrote:

I cannot express how intensely I feel for you in your great

sorrow at the death of Paul. Of surpassing intellect and noble

ideals, he would have been invaluable to the country in the near

future. I feel sure it must be a source of great pride and

comfort to you that he made the supreme sacrifice in such a

courageous way, so becoming to his noble soul. He will live for

all time in my mind as the very essence of honour and idealism.

"That was a wonderful letter," writes a newspaper proprietor. "I have

read nothing finer. It brought tears to my eyes, but it made me proud

of my race."

* * * * *

The athletic editor of a London newspaper, who is an authority on

public-school athletics, wrote:

In your son's death we have lost a model sportsman. I will long

remember him, as will Dulwich and the young giants of the school

he so splendidly led.

From an official of the House of Commons:

I have prayed earnestly that there may be comfort in your

mourning, and in due time a binding-up of hearts so sorely

broken. The record of his school life, vivid with success and

leadership and, best of all, whole-hearted in its purity, wrung

my heart as I thought of what had been lost to us. But I believe

he has passed on to other service.

"A life nobly lived and nobly died--the ideal"--such was the comment

of an old colleague of mine, who has himself since lost a promising

soldier son. "I venture to say," he added, "that his noble letter,

written almost on the eve of his death, will carry healing to

thousands and thousands of sorely-stricken hearts in these sad times.

It should be printed in letters of gold."

* * * * *

"Be sure," wrote an old Cardiff friend, "in all your sorrow that He

who fashioned your boy so well and equipped him so fully, still has

him in His own kind care and keeping; and that when you 'carry on,'

bearing your load bravely, your dear boy will be nearer to you than

you often think, in some splendid service, too."

* * * * *

"It is such noble sacrifices as your son's," wrote a well-known M.P.,

"that almost alone redeem the horror of this world-wide catastrophe."

* * * * *

From M. Marsillac, London correspondent of _Le Journal_ (Paris):

What a truly magnificent spirit was shown in that letter of your

son! Indeed, we who remain behind are more to be pitied than

those who go forth into Eternal Peace by such a noble and

luminous road.

Mr. Alexander Mackintosh, its Parliamentary correspondent, writing in

the _British Weekly_, said:

Lieutenant Paul Jones, as an occasional visitor, was familiar to

the Press Gallery. Oxford has lost another young man of unusual

gifts, a scholar and an athlete, as modest as he was brave, and

the Gallery has a sense of personal loss. Yet it bids his father

say, in the beautiful apostrophe which Rustum puts into the mouth

of the snow-headed Zal:

"O son! I weep thee not too sore,

For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!"

Mr. Arnold White ("Vanoc") in the _Referee_ for August 12, 1917:

Just before his death Lieutenant Paul Jones wrote a letter which

deserves record on imperishable bronze. This young officer has

given a new lustre to the name of Paul Jones.

Messages of condolence were received from the King and Queen, the

Prime Minister, Cabinet and ex-Cabinet Ministers, the Army Council,

members of both Houses of Parliament, clergymen, London and provincial

pressmen, scholars, soldiers, labour-leaders, newspaper and

journalistic societies and political associations. Letters came not

only from the four countries of the United Kingdom, but also from

France, Palestine, South Africa, India and Canada. These sympathetic

expressions from far and near, from the exalted and the humble, prove,

if proof were needed, that the memory of brave soldiers like Paul

Jones, who have sacrificed their lives in a great cause, is cherished

with gratitude and reverence by their countrymen.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;

Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning

We will remember them.

INDEX

Acton, Lord, 78

Alleyn, Edward, 14

_Alleynian, The_, 25, 29, 41 _et seq._

Alleynians, Old:

Ambrose, 231, 240

Barnard, W. J., 170

Beer, H. O., 155

Bray, F. W., 156

Cartwright, E. C., 20, 225

Clark, G. P. S., 157

Clarke, E. F., 25, 237

Cohn, F. A., 244

Corsan, 170

Crabbe, 174

Dawson, 208

Dicke, R., 170

Doherty, 241

Edkins, H., 26, 213, 217

Evans, W. E., 248

Fischer, A. W., 29, 194

Gill, W. G. O., 240

Gilligan, A. E. R., 29, 39, 248

Gilligan, A. H. H., 38, 177

Gover, 20

Gropius, E. H., 246, 264

Hannaford, S. J., 23

Henderson, W. J., 196

Hillier, F. N., 217

Howard, C. C., 194

Jones, Basil, 29, 189, 199

Jordan, J. P., 225

Kemp, 149

Killick, S. H., 199

Knox, F. P., 155

Lloyd, R., 139

Lowe, C. N., 241

Mackinnon, R. F., 218

Mann, J. S., 218

Peaker, A. P., 208

Potter, K. R., 217

Reynolds, J., 248

Roederwald, G., 246, 265

Sewell, 234

Tatnell, 176

Trimingham, 234

Wetenhall, 20

America and the War, 101, 103

Antoinette, Marie, 201

Army Service Corps, 104, 144, 187, 191, 198

Arnold, Matthew, 80

Asquith, H. H., 162, 165

Asquith, Raymond, 212

Athletes and the War, 49, 50, 124

Athletics:

Cricket, 37 _et seq._

Football, 21, 28, 177, 186, 223, 233

Lawn tennis, 21

Running, 22

Swimming, 21, 183, 246

"Victor Ludorum," 23

Bacon, Francis, 14

Balkan States, 151, 156

Barnett, D. O., 199

Balliol College, Oxford, 1, 19, 23, 227

Master of, 227, 266

Bennett, Arnold, 123

Bernhardi, General, 93, 236

Brakenbury scholarship, 19, 227

British Empire, 87, 93, 122

Brooke, Rupert, 199

Browning, 77, 81, 118

Brussels, 56

Buchan, John, 154, 185, 202, 228

Burke, 76, 201

Burns, 76

Byron, 21, 77, 203

Caesar, Julius, 87, 88, 125

Canteen, Expeditionary Force, 205

Capital and Labour, 86, 250

Carlyle, 79, 82, 91, 111

Cavalry, British, 105, 136, 145, 163, 188, 219

Charles I. and II., 89, 90

_Chronicle, Daily_, 13, 148

Churchill, Winston, 165, 184

Commercialism, 50, 93, 253

Conquest, Norman, 89

Cromwell, 89, 125

Dante, 76

Dardanelles operations, 102

Democracy, 87, 96, 125, 249

Dickens, Charles, 73, 77

Donaldson, Jack, 258

Doyle, Conan, 72, 185

Drake, 89

Dulwich College, 1, 14, 24, 240, 247, 252

Dulwich Masters:

Boon, F. C, 18

Doulton, H. V., 17, 26

Gibbon, W. D., 30, 241

Gilkes, A. H., 15, 225, 261

Hope, P., 262

Joerg, J. A., 18, 262

Kittermaster, A. N. C., 180, 194, 247

Nightingale, F. L., 171, 194, 247

Oldham, F. M., 45

Smith, George, 261

Education, English, 96

Classics in our public schools, 17

English Universities, 227

Public schools and the War, 151

Elizabeth, Queen, 87

Engineering, 54, 55, 234

English qualities, 93, 122, 125, 200, 203, 206

Epicureanism, 82

Erasmus, 44, 79, 89

Evolution, 94, 122, 128, 243

Flanders, 140, 143, 181

Founder's Day at Dulwich, 25

Fox, 91

France, 99, 131

Frederick the Great, 90, 116, 118

French farmers, 179, 217, 225

French generalship, 215

Froude, 77, 79, 88, 112, 117

Garvin, R. G., 199

George, D. Lloyd, 93, 123, 193, 204

Germany, 56, 93, 123, 130

Her diplomacy, 127

Her methods in war, 100, 235

Gibbon, 76, 88, 91

Girondins, the, 183

Gladstone, 93

Goethe, 57, 74, 83, 125

Goldsmith, 77, 90

Greece, Ancient, 94

Grey, Sir Edward, 91, 127

Haldane, Lord, 165

Hamlet, 182

Haslam, J. C., 108, 258

Hay, Ian, 247

Hildebrand, 88

Hindenburg, 102, 161

History, 19, 87, 242

Homer, 73, 77

Horses, about, 136, 159, 164, 181, 188, 213

House of Commons, 95, 123, 163

Hudson, W. H., 80

India and the War, 95

Ireland, 129, 185, 214

Jews, the, 92

Johnson, Dr., 90, 96

Jonson, Ben, 76

Kant, 214

Keats, 76

Kipling, Rudyard, 73

Kitchener, Lord, 186

"Laissez-faire" system, 92, 125, 129

Leonardo da Vinci, 44

Llanelly, 52, 232

Louis XIV, 58, 87, 90

Louis XV, 91

Louis XVI, 91, 201

Luther, 89

Macaulay, 77

Maeterlinck, 81

Mainwaring, Thomas, 9

Marx, Karl, 249

McGill, Patrick, 224

Milton, 75, 81, 202, 223

Morocco, 93

Morris, William, 65

Music:

Beethoven, 57, 60, 67, 204, 232

Classical and Romantic, 66

Gluck, 67

Mozart, 67, 68

Nikisch, 232

Opera, development of, 64, 67

Wagner, 61 _et seq._, 115, 232, 245, 246

Napoleon, 58, 61, 116, 125, 136, 249

Navy, British, 12, 130

Battle of Jutland, 186

Falklands Islands battle, 101

Norman Conquest, 89

Oxford, 19, 20, 227

Paris, 58

Patriotism, 92, 250

Pax Britannica, 249

Pax Romana, 249

Pitt, the younger, 91

Plymouth, 9, 11

Political economy, 87

Politicians and the War, 148, 163, 172

Pope, 75

Prisoners, German, 203

Public schools, influence of, 48, 151

Punch and the War, 138, 154

Puritanism, 82

Redmond, W. H. K., 248

Rees, Ivor, 204

Reformation, the, 89

Revolution, the French, 80, 91

Rhine, the, 57, 63, 91, 123

Roberts, Lord, 100

Rousseau, 77

Schools:

Bedford, 32, 38, 134, 166, 185

Haileybury, 32, 231

Merchant Taylors', 32, 216

Sherborne, 32, 38

St. Paul's, 33, 39

Shakespeare, 60, 69, 70, 74, 182, 202

Shaw, G. B., 70, 73

Simon, Sir John, 172

Socialism, State, 95

Socialists and the War, 249

Soldier, the British, 132, 148, 161

Somme battlefields, 203, 237

_Spectator_, 164, 219

Stoicism, 82

Tacitus, 73, 88

Taine, 75, 84

Tirpitz, 101

Trade Unionism, 92

Treitschke, 57, 91, 92

Vernede, R. E., 49

Vivian, Hugh, 191

Wales, 53

War, the:

A nocturnal adventure, 168

An off-day at the front, 173

Diary of, 99 _et seq._

Its causes and objects, 47

Loss of ideal aims, 152

Motor transport, 160, 190, 194

Night on a battlefield, 209

Our treatment of prisoners, 206

Requisitioning officer's duties, 131, 152, 158, 218

Tank Corps, 106, 229, 239

The horse in war, 160, 184

Verdun, 236

Ypres, 138, 236

Zeppelins, 101, 145, 213

Wells, H. G., 73, 228

Welsh coal strike, 129

Welsh football, 34

Welsh music, 71

Welsh soldiers, 150, 167, 177, 178

Wordsworth, 75, 109

Working-classes, the, 85, 92, 250

Young, Arthur, 91, 201

Zangwill, I., 155

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