At the end of the war
(Ring, bells, merry bells!)
We intend
To keep hens,
Me and Helen.
(Ring, bells!)
Such hens!
(Merry bells!)
And though all our hens' eggs be surrounded by shells,
We shall laugh and not care;
For there won't be no war,
And no hell any more,
While Helen is there
With the hens.
I've just made that up, and the inspiration of so profound an epic has
made me want to doze again. Such a lot of dozing!
_November 12._
In to-day's letter I enclose a couple of field post-cards which I found
on a Boche dug-out bed-hole.
I've been so busy these last days, up till late hours, and writing has
been "na-poo." Leave? Yes, leave will come in time. Probably the first
half of December.
How maddening it is for poor old Tom! It's most damnable hard luck being
kept there without leave such a long time. And I expect that he also
has rather lost interest. At first the men were a great source of
interest, and the horses and everything. Then France and the front were
very interesting. Lastly, being under fire was very interesting. But now
that we are back in Rest, I begin to feel I shall be rather sorry to go
through it again. And Tom has had so much of it. Yes, he ought to come
home.
The cottage people here have those lovely pale salmon winter
chrysanthemums in their gardens. Don't you like them?
Since we arrived in this wee village a week ago, I haven't been on a
horse once, and have never seen anything outside the village itself,
which consists of one street and a side-lane.
_November 14._
I wasn't able to write yesterday, and there may be several blank days to
come.
Roger is temporarily away, and I am in charge. The thing that's
happening is this: A and B are coming down to us, and others are going
to relieve them. So the arrangements and correspondence are vast. All
the billeting of this town is pushed on to my hands, too; and though
it's only a small village, there's a good lot to do. I can't collect any
thoughts to write to you. You understand, I know, and so I needn't say
more. I'll write again at length when things settle down. This sounds
muddled. But I count on your understanding that I've got more work to do
than I can manage.
_November 16._
[Sidenote: THE OTHER SQUADRONS ARRIVE]
To-day, by some amazing fluke, there's a lull. One squadron has gone.
Sir John is on his way down. Julian starts early next week, and Gerald a
few days later. So within a fortnight we shall all be together. Which
will be good.
Some infantry came in from the line to-day. Oh ye gods! the British
infantry! No rewards, honours, no fame, can ever be enough for them. We
have not yet gone through what they have to go through, but we have been
in and out amongst them all the time, and we know. Thank goodness this
spell of dry weather seems to have come for a few days at least. Cold at
night is nothing. It's wet at night that just kills men right and left.
Alan died yesterday morning. Died of exposure. He caught a chill while
we were up in front, and then got much worse, and it finally developed
into peritonitis and pneumonia. And now he, too, is dead. We were all
very fond of Alan.
Death is such a little thing. A change of air--no more. Death is the
last day of Term, the last day of the Year. Regret? That's because we
don't understand, quite.
_November 17._
I sent you off another beastly little scrap of paper to-day, because it
was impossible to write more. Here (7 p.m.) is another moment, so I
snatch it.
Listen. Of course it is true that leave has been cancelled, but we hear
(Rumour) that this is only for a few days owing to submarines. _If_
leave reopens again, as seems likely therefore, I go next. I shall have
to hand over Orderly Room and all current correspondence, etc. That
means, with luck, I leave here on the 2nd. Don't, of course, count on
this; but let's toy with the idea.
_November 23._
I am sitting in the sun, having read your letter. The valley of the ----
is below me, a mile wide, all reed-beds and half submerged willows, with
the main stream lying like a blue snake amongst pale acres of sedge.
Damn! I was going to write a long and cosy letter, but was called back.
I had escaped for an hour from Orderly Room with your letter and a
sketchbook, and was caught in the act. No time now.
_November 25._
[Sidenote: THE SOMME VALLEY]
A few more moments with you before you go to bed.
Yes, isn't it funny how we seem to be talking face to face! And to every
question of mine you reply in three days' time and _vice versa_. It
always sounds to me like this, rather: