11. Now then for No. 11! A bit of embroidery. I think it is a
vestment of sorts. It's white, and there's heavy gold embroidery at
the sides. It is a cloak of some description, but the top part,
where there should be a collar or something, is gone. Then
11A is a piece of black and silver embroidery. It was all
very muddy and riddled with shrapnel or bits of crump, so I just
cut off the only sound bit. Both these things are exceedingly
beautiful. They are probably vestments, because they were quite
near what must have been the church. I am sure it must have been
the church, although I hadn't a map--first, because I saw the
village in the distance some time ago, while the church was still
standing, and therefore I know the church's situation; and,
secondly, because I saw remains of large pillars, and a few bits of
what was once a font amongst the débris.
There now. Isn't that a good haul! It's not easy to get anything worth
sending home, because everything is so utterly smashed up.
_October 2._
Jezebel and Swallow and Tank have all been clipped trace high. I am
getting rather attached to Tank. She is so modest and unselfish--a
contrast to Jezebel. She never expects little treats, and seems quite
surprised when I give her anything. Swallow and Jezebel always neigh
when they see my electric torch coming towards them after dinner (while
we are back in these safe places). But Tank is very shy of the light,
and thinks it will bite her.
Swallow is getting much better, and really seems to understand that the
shells and guns and things probably won't hurt him. We have been most
extraordinarily lucky. The troop that got through nearly to ---- the
other day, hadn't a single casualty, although Dick's own mare was shot
under him and a great many other horses were wounded. The squadron of
---- were very badly scuppered, I fear. But, anyhow, we all feel that
Lloyd George is right. We are just beginning to win.
_October 5._
It is a glorious day. Such clouds. Swallow kicked up his heels and
played about like a kitten when Hunt took him to water this morning.
It's extraordinary how used the horses are getting to trenches and
wire, etc. At first they were rather afraid to jump these sudden deep
ditches, but now they pop across like rabbits.
_October 17._
[Sidenote: ARCHIE]
Yesterday some Hun aeroplanes got across and came right above this camp,
a comfortable way behind the front line. Heavily strafed by our Archies.
The blue sky was dotted all over with the pretty little white clouds of
shrapnel.
Sergeant Pritchard and I were standing close to Flannagan (one of the
men's horses), and the men were at stables. We were all looking up and
longing to see a Hun aeroplane hit, when suddenly "s-s-s-swish, plop!"
just behind me. It was one of the Archie shrapnel cases. It buried
itself deep in the ground 3 yards from where we were standing. We dug it
up, and I'll bring it home for you. If it isn't too tediously heavy.
Of course, Archie shrapnel cases all come down, and you see hundreds of
them lying about; but I've never had one so close before. They sometimes
fall broadside on, and sometimes end on, in which case they bury
themselves fairly deep. All the Hun aeroplanes got away, alas!
_October 26._
Once more I'm going up to the strange dead village of ----. In many ways
I shall be sorry to go back to comfort and billets, because the
material for pictures here is very wonderful. You shall see several
small things (the powers that be call it waste of time!), and it's
infuriating to think that more can't be done.
I tell you, if you were here, and if I could paint a bit every day, I
should be quite happy. The "subjects" are endless, and in particular I
long to do great big stretches of this bleak brown land. Well, it can't
be helped, so it's no good thinking about it.
_October 29._
We are moving to a "back area" to-morrow.
[Illustration: A WOUNDED TANK
This Tank got hit as it was walking over a house in FLERS. They
covered it up with tarpaulins to prevent the Hun aeroplanes from
obtaining too much information about it. The black stuff is shrapnel.
The pink clouds are sent up by crumps as they explode amongst the
remains of the brick houses.]
_November 1._
It's a superb day, and we are back at ----, one of our old billets,
right away from the beastliness. And although leave won't be for another
week or two, still, it will come soon. And Swallow is in tremendous
spirits.
Here is a drawing done surreptitiously of a tank in full view of Fritz.
You see those little stumps of trees? Well, I'll tell you what those are
called when we meet, and also what village is just on their left. You
may say it was stupid to sit in full view of Fritz, but it was the day
after an advance, and there's hardly ever anything doing then in
the way of sniping. The guns, of course, are all pooping off, but they
weren't shelling just there, so it was quite safe. This drawing gives
you some idea of the desolation, but none of the unevenness of the
ground. You can't walk in a bee-line for three yards without getting
into a hole. The last time I was in those parts, by the way, I came on a
rather jolly cottage wineglass that had been thrown out into some soft
mud, and was not even cracked.
_November 6._
[Sidenote: COCQUEREL]
An extraordinary change. Let me now give you an idea.
We are in a pretty little country village miles and miles away, and
(although one of Fritz's aeroplanes flew over the church as bold as
brass just before we got in) the quiet and peace of the place is very
refreshing. And, droll to relate, I'm writing this in bed, with a touch
of flu--such a bed, too, all soft and billowy. In ordinary life it would
be condemned as a "feather" bed, but now it is a bed for princes.
And the room. A rather dark old-fashioned paper, an old clock ticking,
an old shining chest of drawers with a marble top, and clothes hanging
on pegs. Hale has arranged the pistol, and ammunition, and maps, and
gas helmets, and steel helmet, and spare kit, with great elaboration,
all over the room. At the present moment he is "sweeping out" with the
appropriate hissing noises. The dust will, I hope, subside during the
course of the day.
Hunt has got Jezebel, Swallow, and Tank into a disused barn, where they
will be warm and happy.
Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey
pony browsing. The leaves are yellow, and there's no wind.
The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me
in some little "remèdes," which Tim refuses to let me have. One is what
the old man (an ex-chemist) calls "salicite de métal," and the other is
what the old lady calls a "remède de bonne femme." You rub yourself with
it all over every two hours!
Tick, tick, tick, tick. Lovely! The old clock is rumbling. It is about
to strike twelve.
It has struck twelve--no, not struck twelve, rather it has buzzed
twelve, like some old happy bee.
The hens are still pecking about in the orchard, and the grey pony is
rubbing himself against a tree.
All so cosy and delicious. Now for a doze.
_November 7._
[Sidenote: DOZING]