_Mon._ Isn't it cold? None.
_Tues._ Have you seen mother? None.
_Wed._ Are you happy? None.
_Thurs._ How are you all? Freezing.
_Fri._ When did I see you last? Only yesterday.
_Sat._ May I have a cake! Yes, very.
_Sun._ How is Queen Anne? Much better.
_Mon._ None. Last April.
_Tues._ None. I'll send one.
_Wed._ None. Dead.
Don't you find it's a bit like that? What question can I have asked a
week ago to which the answer is a rabbit? So tiresome when we want to
talk at very close range.
As to leave--well let's not talk about that. Every dog has his day.
You know the dog who has been shut up in a kennel for a long time? Or
the dog who has been locked up in an empty house for a long time? It'll
be a mixture of these.
Well, the day will come.
_November 27._
Can't write properly because it's very cold and I've been riding, and
that makes one's fingers like pink bananas. They don't seem to answer to
the bridle. There's an awful noise of hissing going on. Hale and Hunt
are busy on the horses.
_November 28._
A box will arrive containing another Bristol ball, which I discovered in
a cottage here, and bought for 1fr. 50c. Rather a jolly green one,
biggish. Also I am enclosing the wineglass from Geudecourt, which I
mentioned some time ago. There can't be any harm in mentioning this
name, as we have left that area some time now. I have got several
sketches of other places round about there, which I hope you will like.
Won't it be fun, when the time comes, looking at them. To-day Hunt came
round in a great state about the horses. Jezebel had pulled up her
shackle, and was in "one of her moods," as Hunt always describes it. She
had been kicking both Tank and Swallow with great violence. He had left
Hale trying to get her quiet, and rushed up to report.
She was quiet again when I got down, and Hale had tied her up
successfully.
[Sidenote: THE PRUDENT SERGEANT]
But the point of telling you of this episode is that meanwhile it was
getting time for the post to go. Prudent Sergeant Marsden (Orderly Room
sergeant) observed that I hadn't addressed the letter yet or signed it
outside. So he did it himself! "You very seldom write any letters to
other addresses, you see, sir, so I thought I'd better address it
myself. I thought it would be _inadvisable_ to miss a post, and I
thought the young lady would forward it on if it was not for her!"
It made me laugh as I haven't laughed for a long time. Wasn't it nice
and thoughtful. He tells me he duly forged my signature in the left-hand
bottom corner.
Jorrocks sends his love. "Your little filly" he always calls you.
_November 29._
About leave. There's no more chance of it at present, I think, as we are
going up to the line again in a week or two, and we want to work off all
the men, who haven't had any leave at all, before moving up mudwards,
when all leave will be stopped. We are engaged at present in
practically rebuilding and making sanitary an entire French village, and
in "training," which means all the old dismal tedium of manoeuvres
plus spit and polish.
These villages are most amazingly ill-built. Swallow this morning lashed
out on being bitten by Jezebel, and (dear silly Swallow!) instead of
hitting Jezebel, she brought down half the wall of the shed in which
they live, which frightened her to such an extent, Hunt tells me, that
she allowed Jezebel to eat all her food at midday stables.
_November 30._
We move next week, I think, or possibly the week after.
We are not going back to quite the same part of the line, but near it.
It will be new country to me altogether, and to everyone else concerned.
Poor Swallow, poor Jezebel, poor Tank, I'd give anything to shelter you
three; but, alas! I fear you are going to have a nasty time of it now.
All clipped, too. It's Swallow particularly that I tremble for. He does
so throw up the sponge. Tank copies Bird in everything, so she ought to
pull through all right.
_December 1._
[Sidenote: AMIENS CATHEDRAL]
All leave is cancelled again, at any rate in this army--possibly on
account of the move, possibly on account of nasty fish in the sea.
However, the telegram says "until further notice," which usually means
for a short time only. Not that it affects me, but it's bad luck on some
of the men who were just off.
Now about Xmas. I have got a new crop, thank you ever so much, that I
bought at a town near here.
A beautiful cathedral town.
With doors all padded up with sand-bags, the great cathedral towers
above the town, and is seen for miles and miles. A good effort. What fun
they must have had building it. What they believed then they expressed
in outward and visible form. What we think now is (or ought to be) very
different indeed from what they thought then. But I can't remember
having ever seen anything that _begins_ to express what we think (or
ought to think) now.
Everyone in the Church of England now seems to me to think _almost
exactly_ what was thought when this cathedral was built! If this war
achieves nothing else, I pray with all my mind, and all my soul, and all
my strength, that all the sects and all the churches may suddenly feel
tired of all the 1001 little methods of procedure, and say: "Damn it
all! what does all this ancient paraphernalia mean to us? Is God quite
so complicated and involved as we have supposed? Everything else in the
world progresses. Thought progresses. Let us take a deep breath, and
realize that religion ought to be more 'into the future' than even
Zeppelins or Tanks, please."
[Illustration: EXPLOSION OF AN AMUNITION DUMP
The smoke from a large explosion usually assumes a queer tree-like form
and disperses slowly.]
_December 2._
Just been superintending the burying of some horses. A curious job. You
have to disembowel them first. Quite ghoulish. And then head and legs
are cut off, and the whole is buried in a hole 12 feet deep. Up there
they often lie about for some time, and get as smelly as dead human
beings. Back here it all has to be done prestissimo.
The strange thing is that, whereas before the war I should have felt
sick and possibly dreamt about it, now it seems merely more boring than
most other things of the kind.
Up there Tommies and Honourables eat their lunch of sandwiches with lots
and lots of dead people in varying stages of decomposition all round. An
odour more hideous than anything you have ever imagined. But you get
used to it.
[Sidenote: TALKING ABOUT HOME]
"How unpleasant they are to-day," you say to anyone you are with.
And the answer is probably just a laugh. Then you go on (if things are
quiet) to discuss an imaginary day at home. You would smile.
We actually discuss everybody's clothes, the things in the room, the
shape of the fireplace, the look of the tea-things and the comfiness of
the chairs.
And we always end up by saying: "And then after that I shall do
absolutely _Nothing_ for a fortnight!"
_December 3._
December. Frost on the trees, all fairy-like in this dense mist. Not a
sound. The sun quite small and white and far away. And if we were on the
Cotswolds, I expect we should go out for a bit of a walk, just to warm
up, after breakfast.
_December 4._
A staff job has been in the air several days. It may or may not come
off. I'm not very keen about it in many ways. But I've a feeling that I
could do it rather well, and so I'm not sure that I oughtn't to accept.
Jezebel and Swallow have quarrelled. Isn't it awful. Hunt has had to
put Tank in between them.
Jezebel kicked Swallow, and the blood fairly spouted out--got her in the
leg, and she lost her temper, and began lashing out. Hunt, with great
presence of mind, threw a bucket of water over them both. And as soon as
they were quiet, dear, good, demure little Tank was put in between them
as buffer.
It's a most dreadful nuisance. They used to get on so well together. I
hope they will leave that curious little Tank alone. Swallow is as lame
as a cat now. The accursed female is very exasperating, I fear. Hunt
quite irritated me for a moment when he remarked, after the incident:
"Oh, it's all right, sir. She was in one of her moods." I pointed out to
him that it was not all right. Whereupon he took it into his head that I
was strafing him, and muttered sulkily: "Well, sir, I must say I never
did like Abroad."
Which made me laugh to such an extent that I got a sort of fit of
laughing (don't you know?) and couldn't stop. Eventually I had to go
away. He looked so comic and so dejected, and his use of the word Abroad
(as if it were a country in itself) always makes me laugh idiotically. I
haven't seen him since, and it will be difficult to explain the apparent
frivolity.
Things have been very complicated just lately owing to our having to
make arrangements about taking over this new bit of line.
_December 5._
[Sidenote: CONCERNING WORK]
One of the many things the war has taught us, I think, is the
comparative equality of all work. Work depends almost entirely on the
actual number of hours per diem, don't you think?
Certainly brain work is more tiring than spade work. But I'll guarantee
that the man who does eight hours' brain work is not _much_ more tired
than the man who does eight hours' spade work.
The only difference is that open-air work means better health, and
consequently more power to work long hours.
But I really do believe that, for example, a nurse's day's work (either
for wounded or babies) is _just_ as hard as a bricklayer's day, or a
bank clerk's day, or an engine driver's day. And I believe that the
various degrees of skill, necessary for doing any job really well, are
not very different on the whole. Different, yes, but not very different.
A General's job is difficult, but not _much_ more difficult than a
nurse's job.
And so I believe all jobs ought to be paid on a rather more equal
footing. Not on an equal footing, but a _rather more equal_ footing
than now.
Do you agree?
_December 6._
Cathedrals, the earth, the sky, and all that in them is--those are the
things that rest and soothe one out here. Thank God for cathedrals! How
splendid of Litlin, to be getting Bunny taught reels. I do trust she
will give lots of attention to it.
After seeing a certain amount of human misery and so forth, I believe
more than ever that the whole aim of the world is in the direction of
Joy. And as dancing is one of the most primitive expressions of joy,
give me dancing, says I.
This is all said in the middle of dictation of orders, and so I expect
it's ungrammatical, but you know what I mean.
_December 7._
What do you think? I lunched to-day with George. We lunched in a most
superb officers' club, formerly the house of some Count or other: all
white and gold, and chandeliers and mirrors--a dream.
_December 8._
[Sidenote: JEZEBEL ACCEPTS AN APOLOGY]
Our move has been postponed twice now, and we don't go till Monday.
But meanwhile I heard from Mark to-day. He is A.D.C. to the G.O.C., and
apparently caught sight of Roger and me the other day, while flashing
past in the G.O.C.'s car. So we are going to have a great meeting. It
will be immense fun. Mark, Dennis and I were all tremendous
friends--just the same type.
Swallow is much better, and Jezebel says that, if she had known Swallow
would bleed so much, she would have kicked him in a different place,
where he wouldn't have bled so profusely. This, for Jezebel, is
extremely gracious.
Tank's only remark about being put between the two was: "Well, I'm
always very glad to do what I'm told."
Swallow is desperately sorry about the whole affair, and is on
tenter-hooks lest Jezebel should never speak to him again. He says she
really didn't mean to kick, and she can't understand how it is that he
has so little control over himself. So all's well.
_December 9._
Hunt and Hale have made their very tumble-down barn a perfect model of
neatness. They sleep within about 3 yards of the horses' heels. Hunt in
particular never likes to be far away from "my 'osses," as he calls
them. I have less and less say in the matter of the 'osses as time goes
on! I merely say: "Hunt, I want a horse and an orderly at 8 a.m.
to-morrow."
It's useless for me to say I'd like Swallow or Tank or Jezebel, because,
if I name one in particular, there's always some reason why it would be
better not to ride that one that day. Oh, "she wants shoeing behind,"
or, "she had one of her moods this morning, and so I exercised her very
early," or "he didn't eat his corn, and had better stay in." So I just
meekly ask for a horse. And a horse arrives.
Swallow is still rather lame, but seems better now. And the gentle
influence of Tank is, I really believe, soothing Jezebel. Tank is a very
charming creature, and her perfect manners are a good example to the
other two. But--what an awful admission!--she is so good that I own I
find her rather dull. Poor little Tank!
Jorrocks has gone off to a nasty place, I fear, with his troop. But all
seems fairly quiet at present.
_December 12._
The trek is at an end.
We have arrived at a place well behind the line, and not at all
wrecked, except for holes here and there. But the river! Oh my aunt!
It's marvellous. It winds in and out of low hills, and as I saw it this
evening, from an eminence, it looked more snaky than ever. Huge great
loops with the lovely pale sedges on either side. The almost yellow
hills are dotted with junipers. I long to see it to-morrow morning.
There's no doubt it's one of the most fascinating rivers I've seen.
Hooded crows sailing over the uplands, and I met a flock of bright sweet
goldfinches near some guns, and a tree-creeper in a copse.
[Sidenote: SAILLY-LE-SEC]
What a wonderful day! It was snowing all the time, with quite warm,
sunny intervals. Swallow and Tank and Jezebel are all under cover, and
I've actually got a bed! You might not call it a bed, but it is a bed,
because it has four legs (one of them a biscuit tin). The place where we
were going to has been rather too heavily strafed lately, so they are
keeping us back here.
Things are wonderfully quiet, and there are no batteries near us, which
is pleasant. I did want to show you the beautiful river winding in and
out of the little hills. The great river-bed is quite untouched by
shells here, and the very sight of it would soothe the most jangled
nerves. Oh, it did look so heavenly this evening. Thank God for this
glorious river. The snow melted as it fell. The snow flakes as they
touched the river were like fairies taking headers.
_December 15._
Isn't this fine about Peace?
So Fritz would like Peace, would he? No amount of flamboyant talk can
possibly hide the fact that he wants peace. And it isn't the victor who
asks for peace first. Carry on, say we.
_December 20._
Have you had any of the letters in which I told you how the place we
were to have been sent to was too continuously strafed? And how we were
sent to this very quiet and unwrecked place? And how I've got a bed, and
how happy the horses are?
About the intelligence job. Things are hanging fire rather, as the Staff
Major, who may ask for me to come away with him to another corps, is now
attached to this corps. So what will be the end of it I don't know.
Frankly, I am sore tempted for this reason, that I think I could do it
rather well. Of course, each corps does things differently, but, judging
from the way in which this corps likes the job done, I feel certain I
could tackle it in another corps. That's boasting. But you understand
so perfectly. It would be glorious to be doing something really well.
[Sidenote: A STAFF JOB]
I _can't_ be an ordinary soldier. Too absent-minded--hopelessly vague
and careless. I live on tenter-hooks always. What detail have I
forgotten? What order did I give that could be taken two ways?
It's sad for Pat that his friends are gone. I feel so murky when mine
go, that I understand what it must be for him. But friends or no
friends, broken-hearted or whole, we must damned well carry on! And
that's all about it.
A perfect letter from old Norman to-day. He must be quite useless as a
soldier, whereas at his own job he stands alone, with a wonderful future
before him. Well, well! I meant not to grouse to you again. And here's a
letter nearly full of it. But there, I made a stupid mistake to-day, and
it's all so boring and beastly.
Anyhow, we are fighting for civilization, and the Huns are, too, in a
way. But our idea of civilization is better than the Huns' idea. So we
gradually win.
_December 21._
I have at last made up my mind. I'm going to take on this job. How
unwillingly I can hardly tell you. I wanted to be in the great Push
next year so badly. Everyone, everything, is preparing for it. The
cavalry will get through, and I shall be driving about behind in some
gilded car, or watching from some very distant hill with Jezebel (who
won't care a damn whether the cavalry get through or not).
But I had two interviews with the Major and the General to-day. Coves
like painters seem to be rather wanted, and--well, it's clear now. I
must go.
To-morrow or next week, perhaps, the extreme fascination of the job will
obliterate a certain feeling of flatness, of disappointment, of ... of
... of shirking. Yes, that's it: I feel as if I were shirking all the
horrors. You see, I shall enjoy this job immensely. All the hateful
"arrangering things" for large numbers of men, all the tiresome
formalities, all the discomfort, all the future dangers, finished
with--over. I don't say that we've had _long_ periods of danger or
_much_ discomfort; but we've had quite enough to make a very ordinary
mortal hope never to go through it again.
But to think that I've deliberately chosen the easy path. Well, I don't
care! I've chosen it. I meant to choose it. I'm glad I've chosen it.
That is the one job in the whole war that I could do really well. How
best to serve the country--that's the only question. So there you are.
I've been and took the plunge, and I believe I'm right.
First of all a week or two getting to know the ropes in _this_ corps,
and then off with the Major and the General to another corps.
My aunt! what an egoistical letter this is. However, to you no
apologies.
_December 22._
[Sidenote: A DECISION]
Letters have been lurching in, in threes and fours. But what matters it
how they come? I always know that they are coming. And the future's
where _my_ heart is always. So here's to the letters to come, and here's
to our meeting again, and here's to Life--long, sweet, glorious Life.
We shall see the Christmas roses of the Cotswolds together one day, and
I think the war will have given them a mysterious loveliness that we
never understood before. Every year they'll come up out of the ground
again and surprise us. I shall be getting older and older--and so will
you, too. And all our little plans will have a quiet, peaceful joy for
us that wouldn't have been possible but for the war. Art will be like
angels coming and going. Effort will be intensified. The lives of the
poor must be happier, because everyone will be more ready to give and
take.
It won't come all at once. But there'll be a difference. The war will
have made a difference. Thank God for the war!
_December 25._
[Sidenote: CHRISTMAS 1916]
Never talk about the "idle" staff. Yesterday we were working absolutely
solid without any break at all except an hour for lunch and an hour for
dinner (tea? away frivolous thought!) from 9 a.m. till 11.30 p.m. Most
interesting; but let's hope this first day's experience won't be a fair
sample, or I shall simply melt down like a guttered candle. None of the
Generals and people seemed to think it unusual. At least they never said
so. Personally I found it quite kolossal.
_12.30 a.m._
Such a funny Christmas Day! I've been fixing on a large map all the gun
positions on the corps front. There are a very great many, and the
positions must be marked very exactly. I was quite nervous lest there
should be a mistake. It has taken since about two o'clock till now. And
I think it is accurate at last.
At about 10 p.m. I found out an awful mistake. One of the heavies quite
100 yards wrong, which might have meant that it would be ranging on the
wrong place, and probably do no damage whatever. Desperate thought!
Well, the staff is the most hard-working body of men I've ever seen.
They don't appear ever to get any exercise. And, really, the work is all
so vital that I don't see how they ever can expect to get any exercise.
About leave. Possibly on the way up to the other corps a side-slip to
Blighty will be allowed.
Don't depend on anything. There seems to be a dearth of people who can
do this work, and so it would be unwise to count on getting away. The
thing is, however, conceivable--that is all.
_December 27._
First of all about current affairs here.
Captain G---- is probably going to Army, so it is suggested that I shall
take his place here. He runs all the plotting of the aeroplane
photographs, etc., for the corps. It's a most awful and alarming
responsibility, and I don't feel that I can do it yet. May he not get
taken away just for a little while, or I'm lost.
The corps commander sends for him (he has been doing the job for nine
months), and says: "Now, where is our line at the present moment? Has
so-and-so trench been repaired, and where is so-and-so German battery
that was shelling the ---- Brigade yesterday?" Well, of course I simply
couldn't answer these questions yet.
The prospect is murky. Given a little time, I think I could do it; but
... well, one can but try.
I asked the Captain if he thought leave at all possible. He most
strongly advised me not to dream of asking. The corps is certain to
refuse in any case, as they will want me to sweat up the show and get to
know all about it as rapidly as possible.
_January 2, 1917._
I think I shall be going to live with the R.F.C., so as to be able to
snatch their photographs the instant they come in--puzzle them out--put
them quickly on to a map--and send them off. Everyone then will know far
more quickly what Fritz is up to.
So don't be surprised if letters are addressed from R.F.C. shortly. I
shall take a couple of draughtsmen and a clerk and an orderly, and Hale.
[Illustration: THE BUTTE DE WARLENCOURT
This small chalk mound was one of the most difficult obstacles on the
way to BAPAUME. In the foreground a large 'crump-hole' and the
remains of a little copse.]
_January 11._
[Sidenote: AEROPLANE PHOTOGRAPHS]
I don't know when leave will be possible. This job is rather in the
making, and is really very important stuff. A great responsibility,
says the corps commander. In fact, I am just a bit nervous about
things generally. That battery that was reported in so-and-so wood. Is
it there still? Well, where has it moved to, then? You are not sure? Why
not? No recent photographs of it? But why not? Can it be in so-and-so
quarry, perhaps? That light railway has been repeatedly smashed up by
our heavies. Repaired? What? What evidence have you? Let me have a map
as soon as possible, showing exactly where you believe that line has
been repaired, and the exact position of that battery in the quarry--if
it really is there. But don't tell me it's in the quarry unless you are
quite sure. Yes, sir. And you'd better have the map duplicated. How many
can the draughtsmen print before to-morrow? About 300. Well, send out
copies. I must have that battery silenced at once. Do you see? Can I
rely on it being sent out in time? Yes, sir.
That's the sort of thing. Things that _must_ be done and quickly.
Perhaps it sounds nothing much--a mere bit of a map. But maps are like
lamps to men in the dark. And they must be accurate. To me, therefore,
the most inaccurate, absent-minded mortal before the war that ever
breathed, it is all a source of great anxiety.
_January 12._
I've got a bedroom with a brick floor in a cottage. I really hardly know
what it's like, as I arrive there about twelve o'clock every night and
fall into bed, and then up again at 7.30 next morning as a rule, and
frowsy at that. The roads here are just as muddy as ever, and if you go
off the roads you go too deep. We are camouflaging the whole place, and
I think it will soon be very difficult for the Huns to see it. At least,
when I say "we" are camouflaging, I mean that I run out for two minutes
about every three hours, and give hurried directions to a few bewildered
men, and rush in again. I'm sure they think the extraordinary patterns
that I order them to paint all over the huts, etc., are quite mad. The
R.F.C. show isn't ready yet, but it's likely to be so shortly.
_January 17._
To-day's letter got me into an absurd fit of internal laughter. Hale
brought it in while I was poring over some new photographs of Boche
emplacements, or dug-outs, or something--poring with a magnifying
glass.... And then came your drawings of the rooms at the cottage.
That'll be admirable. I tried to hold my head and think of exactly how
the cottage looked, and where the new rooms were to be; but somehow I've
got no brains left. And I leave it all to you. One day we shall be able
to discuss it peaceably, but at present this brain is like some limp
jellyfish floating in the sea.
To-day I'm doing a map, and the draughtsmen are copying it, of some
Boche dug-outs. Ye gods! what do I care about dug-outs! As well make
maps of all the rabbit-holes in Glamorganshire. But there, what's the
good of talking like that. It's got to be done.
_January 24._
[Sidenote: BUSY DAYS]
The aeroplanes have brought in the most marvellous photographs, and I am
very busy deciphering them and mapping the information on to a map.
_February 8._
After many, many days of incessant work comes a brief interval of
repose--till to-morrow morning.
We moved up here yesterday afternoon late.
Well, imagine a lovely large hut.
The room on the left is where all the maps, etc., are made, and the
room on the right is my office.
But outsiders can't just barge into my office. Oh no! They must ask one
of the orderlies if they can see me. Isn't it ridiculous!
Then there is a tiny bedroom.
The office walls are entirely covered now with aeroplane photos and
maps. It is all rather fun, and I think it won't be quite such a strain.
The cold is intense. Hale is functioning with the stove in my room at
the moment. I have said once that I don't really need a fire in my
bedroom; but he evidently has different views, and is firmly lighting
it. He is quite happy here.
I'm having the hut papered, to make it warmer. And canvas curtains, if
you please!
The R.F.C. people are most hospitable and nice. I like them very much.
It's all quite interesting, and the aeroplanes are delicious as they
move, buzzing like vast mosquitoes.
I go down in a side-car every day (that's the programme) to corps H.Q.
to report and get instructions.
_February 12._
Something may happen to prevent leave before leave comes. You will
understand. I should have to "remain at my post," as novels say.
_February 15._
[Sidenote: WITH THE R.F.C.]
A very difficult map has just been finished, and is being printed, and
here we sit down for a little talk together. The war is for the moment
far away. Away anxiety, away nervous apprehension, away fatigue, away
responsibility, away Wilhelm! Let the doors be shut, the curtains drawn.
Listen. An adventure, amusing, and rather exciting. Would you like to
hear about it? Well, I was making a raised map of a particular part of
the line for the corps commander. And I go up from time to time to scan
the ground, so that it may be very accurate and therefore rather useful.
At least that is what I hope. Yesterday, then, up into the blue, piloted
by Eric.
It was not a good day. In fact, too dud for good observation. But the
relief map must be ready quickly.
Imagine us, please, robed in leather coats and leather helmets and
gauntlets, and with goggles, waiting at the entrance of a hangar while
the mechanics bring out the gadfly. They have already looked the
creature over with great care. The pale yellow wings glitter against the
violet horizon. The sun is shining, but it's freezing hard. Eric climbs
in, and then I do. I sit behind with the machine gun.
I clasp a sketchbook, to sketch the lie of the land. O my aunt in
Jericho! isn't it Arctic! Fingers that feel like ammoniated quinine. You
know, a faint unpleasant tingle.
They are starting the engines. Difficult this cold weather. The
following strange colloquy ensues:
_Mechanic:_ "Contact."
_Pilot:_ "Contact."
_M._ "Switch off."
_P._ "Switch off."
_M._ "Contact."
_P._ "Contact."
_M._ "Switch off."
_P._ "Suck in."
_M._ "Contact."
_P._ "Contact."
And with a terrific whir the propeller flashes round. The sound
increases, and then decreases slightly, and increases again. The gadfly
moves. Moves more rapidly. Skims along the ground. Rises, rises, rises.
Ah, the beautiful river! Every time I have flown the beauty of that
river catches me in the throat. But this featureless waste. Bereft of
everything but earth, and a few low shelters and gun-pits, and seamed
with trenches. Hideously lonely.
Well, anyhow, here we are sailing high above it all, the wind
occasionally lifting one of the wings, and then the other, like a
sea-gull's. There is a haze, and it's not easy to see. You peer over the
edge, and behold at last the desired wood.
[Sidenote: A SCRAP IN THE AIR]
A wood? That? Good heavens! That poor miserable mess of splinters and
gashed soil? Each time I see one of the woods destroyed by this war I
thank God that our glorious Cotswold woods are still untouched.
Primroses, wood-anemones, squirrels. To think of squirrels!... Not
another aeroplane in sight. Neither our own nor Hun machines. Eric
circles smoothly round above the wood, and then crosses back over
no-man's-land to fly low, so that I can see the wood obliquely. Archie
quite wide of his mark. This doubling and circling perplexes him. The
sketch progresses. I look round from time to time to see that there are
still no Huns about. Eric also looks about. No: nothing in sight. The
guns are pooping off, but the noise of the engines makes the guns sound
like tiny little "pops." There, now I've nearly done. Lucky I came,
because the wood isn't quite what we thought. Yes, that'll do.... We are
up at a considerable height....
Suddenly Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! above our heads. Three
Hun aeroplanes right on top of us; Eric drives headlong in a spiral
curve at full speed, smoke trailing out behind. The gun! I fumble.
Can't get round to it. Damn!
Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! go the Huns. But Eric is faster. Are
they all Huns, though? Shall I fire? Yes. No. They daren't come down low
over our lines. We are safe. Yes, look, they were all Huns. They hang
about far up aloft. The Hun usually hunts in threes. Why, oh why, didn't
I fire? Well, it can't be helped now. Eric looks round. We both laugh.
"Why didn't you fire?" he shouts. I can't hear what he says, but I know
from the shape of his mouth that's what he is saying. I just smile and
shake my head. Can't explain now.
Where on earth did they come from? Coasting about very high up, I
suppose, and suddenly swooped down at us.
However, the drawing is done. So that's that. Home, John!
One little bullet-hole through one of the wings, no more. Indifferent
shooting, my friend Fritz. However, I can't talk, because I never fired
at all!
_February 16._
I've never thanked you for the chocolates which arrived two days ago.
But they arrived during one of the avalanches of work, and were all
eaten within half an hour or so; not by me, but by various R.F.C. men
who are always coming in and out of my office for "the latest."
[Sidenote: TOLL OF WAR]
To-day all frosty and sunny. Think of going on to the terrace at home
before breakfast and seeing some jolly little new flower out, with the
Golden Valley behind, all grey-blue and woody.
It's all working well here, and, being the representative of the corps,
I have a certain status which is pleasant. They think that I may or may
not give them a good character to the Powers that be. Quite fun.
They are awfully nice fellows. The only two I knew before were Eric and
Bill Vivian. Bill I have known for a very long time, and during the war
I've seen a great deal of him, and was very fond of him. He was brought
down by Archie yesterday in our lines. Burnt to death. Dead when they
reached him. Yesterday night at mess we were all quite gay. Only one man
showed that his heart was as heavy as lead. And it seemed bad form.
Heaviness of heart is bad form. No gentleman should have a heavy heart.
A sign of weakness, of ill breeding.
_February 17._
To-day has been one of the jumpy, anxious days again, because something
is to happen shortly, and those concerned are ringing up all the time
asking me this and that about the Boche trenches, etc. And they want
maps of this and plans of that and t'other. It's these times before some
event that are so wearing. The smaller the event, the more wearing very
often, because it's just some one or two officers, perhaps, who are
doing the show, and, of course, half their success or failure depends on
whether an unhappy intelligence officer can tell them exactly what they
are up against, and exactly where it is and so on. I always go on the
principle of assuming the worst. If I think there _may_ be a minny to
meet them, I tell them there _is_ a minny, and probably two. It may not
be very cheering to them. But if the minny is there, well, then I've put
them on their guard; and if it isn't there, well, they can laugh at the
work of the staff, and there's no harm done. People don't realize the
awful strain and responsibility and hard work of staffs. It's sometimes
a nightmare. Think of it in this way: I make a slip. A dozen men get
killed. When the Push comes, I make another slip, and a hundred men get
killed. Perhaps more. All the work of the lazy and incompetent staff!
But if the staffs are lazy and incompetent, then, for goodness' sake,
let's put more energetic and more competent people in their places. But
where are these more competent people? In the divisions? in the
battalions? But that is exactly where the present staffs came from! And
they are the very people who originally jibed at the staffs! Well,
anyhow, the war will end some day.
_February 21._
[Sidenote: THE WILD DUCK]
_Re_ America. It doesn't look much as if they were coming in now, does
it? However, one of the Scots Guards gave me June as the end of the war.
He offered me 10 to 1 in francs; but, as I am always rather muddled as
to whether that means that he gives me 10 francs if I win, or I give him
1 franc if I lose, or what, I declined to bet. I expect he thinks I
don't bet on principle. But, anyway, let's hope he wins.
Leave is off at present.
The worst of this game is that now I feel I want to do it all myself. I
really do know a fair amount about the Boche lines, and I long to spend
a day wandering about there taking notes!
I was up yesterday afternoon trying to find out a certain T.M. battery,
and what should fly by quite close and quite unconcerned but a duck! We
were not very high, and it was very misty. The duck just appeared, with
his neck stretched out, eager and oblivious. And then vanished into the
mist again. I was thinking about that duck too much to find out what I
wanted. Anyway, it was a fruitless journey. But flying amongst clouds is
very beautiful. Sometimes we got above the clouds, to where the sun was
functioning away as efficiently as ever. The clouds looked like millions
of feather beds.
_March 2._
I have been doing some drawings of R.F.C. officers. They love being
"took" out here, and my office is rapidly degenerating into a club,
which makes work no easier.
Well, you see from the papers what is happening. The Boche retires to
the Hindenburg Line, and we follow.
I should so love to tell you all about it, but Mum's the word. A great
moral defeat for poor Fritz, anyway.
The cavalry are sharpening their swords.
The aeroplanes sail high up in the blue, like hungry hawks.
_March 5._
I am probably going off to-morrow. Now, where do you think? Paris?
Madrid? Anything of that sort?
Wrong again. Shall I tell you?