All the actual warfare he had seen as yet was a shower of shell (‘coming in one after the other, like cocoa-nuts on Epsom Race Course’) in a certain market-place at the end of April. Three weeks later he found the same thing happening at the same place, and put it in his letter with the same gusto:
What Ho! They are starting their evening’s shelling of —— just behind us. Their 15-in. come with a noise just like an express train—and they start on us every evening this way about 7 P.M., just by way of a little diversion after the day’s labours! ‘Boom /r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z/ splosh!’—there they go. And all this goes on whilst the birds sing, cows moo—pigs grunt—and all the other ‘beasties’ of a farm-yard perform—that is the striking feature of it all, to me anyway.
The battalion was in billets after a very strenuous time. ‘Nearly all the old crowd of officers are away wounded or worse,’ as Oscar put it. His captain, his platoon sergeant, and his servant had all been severely wounded; a second-lieutenant of his own standing had succeeded to the command of B Company, and Oscar realised what he had missed. ‘Oh! how I wish I had been in that scrap!’ he wrote, but added: ‘Tomorrow I shall have my “blooding—”’ and at the thought: ‘I’m as happy as a lark and a humming-bird rolled in one.’
Nearly all the rest is in the following letters and bits of letters, most of them written in the trenches under fire, those to us being numbered in the order of their arrival from the time he left.
(23)
The Trenches, 2/Essex Reg.
1.30 P.M. May 23, ’15. Sunday.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—Well—here we are in the trenches—half-made and generally in a rotten condition. The Regiment that was here before us seems to have done nothing at all, except leave a mess of jam-pots etc.
We marched up here last night during a violent thunderstorm—I’ve never experienced one like it—pouring rain and fork-lightning which lit up the whole front. My word, but I’ve been ’ blooded’ alright! There was a lot of confusion in the trenches which resulted in the Germans waking us up a bit. We—that is me and my Platoon—are at present in the 2ᵈ line of trenches supporting another Coy in the 1st line. The distance between us is about 250-300 yards—and then another 400 to the German line. During the night one could walk about in comparative safety outside the trenches—but it was exciting work—as I had to supply the Coy: in front with barb-wire and sandbags—1300 sand-bags—under a cross-fire from those wretched snipers whom they employ so much. There is an old ‘Estaminet’ up in front (200 yards off), to which we have to get up these things. There we leave them to be called for by the others. The Germans have a nasty trick of sending up coloured lights—very brilliant—which reveal our whole position. When we got up there! at 1 A.M. this morning—I and 6 or 7 men—they got a bead on us, and as they have a perfect range drawn on the Estaminet things were lively. I may now be more cheerful and say we have had no one touched as yet—but these men are magnificient—they don’t care a —— for shells or anything—they scuttled about like rabbits all night—digging bomb-proof shelters etc. But those infernal lights gave the whole position away more than once. Of course, sleep is out of the question in this sort of game—but I feel as fit as anything—though I have never had such a trying ½ hr in my life as just before lunch-time when some asses on the left of the platoon showed themselves and one of their guns got at us—My aunt! but I was in a funk! How they never actually hit us I can’t imagine. Shrapnel in front and behind—but no one was hit. The worst of these shells is that you hear the beastly things coming directly after they leave the gun—whistling like a train (Our own are doing so at this moment over our heads)—so the betting is then—where is it going to land! I am absolutely cut off from the other Companies as there is no telephone here—so have to work entirely on my own—and have a look round directly it becomes dark.——and the other two platoons seem to have vanished off the face of the earth—I suppose they are somewhere. I hope so.[4]
Yesterday we marched off at 9.30 A.M. and went to Divisional H.Q’s where we remained until it was time to move off in here at dark. Div: H.Q’s are situated in a glorious old château (which has escaped injury altogether) in a park which looks perfect in this month and in this weather.
6 P.M. now—they are shelling Ypres right over our heads—we call these 15-in. shells the ‘Wipers expresses’—‘Here comes the 6 P.M. express’ with a hum like an engine exactly.
There is a farm house—quite demolished—just at the end of my trench and one has to run the gauntlet to get there across the road and get bricks, wood etc: for the trench. You may say ‘where am I sitting writing this?’ Well, I am in an improvised ‘dug out’ 6 ft. long by 2 ft. broad—covered over with corrugated-iron. Very muddy and all that—but still a shelter.
All night I am working at digging the trenches and ‘dug outs’—seeing to the barbed-wire in front of us—and getting provisions from the H.Q’s behind our line. In fact we get everything ready at night—either for an attack in the morning or protection from shell and rifle fire during the day. We get more shelled in the 2nd line than the 1st—so that we should not send help up to the 1st line.
Of course, in case the 1st line of trenches are stormed or ‘gassed,’ I act entirely on my own in sending up assistance to them. There is no evidence of their having a heavy time in front at present though. We have an infernal sniper who has got behind our lines and is firing down the trench from one end—we shall have to fix him somehow, I’m thinking.
It is a perfectly heavenly evening—birds singing and country looking pretty in spite of the ruins with which it is dotted. The whole thing seems more absurd and unreal than ever to me now that I am in the thick of it. To think that this terrific din is going on incessantly down 400 miles of line is extraordinary.
My word—my dear Mummy—you should see me now—my coat and breeches!! After splashing about on all fours round the country-side last night I am some sight! The left knee of my bags is ripped across and I am coated with clay. Once we get these trenches fixed up—with dug-outs etc: the shelling won’t be so bad and we shall be a good deal more comfortable.
Well, my dears, I am longing for a letter—but am as happy as a lark—because I know that although this is hard to stick at first—there are millions of others sticking it too—and I can only liken it to ‘putting your left leg to the ball’ at cricket, as W. H. C. used to say.
Write as much as possible—Love to all.
Ever yr own loving son,
Oscar.
(This will go up tonight by transport—and I hope reach you soon.)
(24)
2 P.M. May 25, ’15.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—Just got your letter—and cannot tell you how pleased I was to get it. Things have been pretty fast and furious since I wrote night before last. Yesterday morning, having been working all night I was just trying to get some sleep in a new dug-out which I had had built, when there was a shout of ‘The Gas, Sir!’ Out I bounced and was immediately aware of this Chlorine ‘muckins’ coming up the hill. It was just getting dawn and so I knew, as we all knew, that there was going to be an attack—and my aunt—it was an attack. For 2 hrs solid the Germans rained every calibre of shell on us in our Reserve Trenches whilst we were also struggling with the Gas. I don’t know what happened to the Platoon during that time—except that several swines—my servant for one—took panic and ran. Personally I knelt down behind a parapet and prayed. However, the Gas wasn’t a success for the Germans for it soon blew off. They reckoned, of course, that whilst they attacked the first line trenches where A, C, D Companies were, they could make things so hot for us in Reserve (200 yards back) that we couldn’t send help along. However, about 4.15 A.M. I managed to collect the remnants of my Platoon and make a bid for the first line trenches—not by charging across the intervening ground which would have wiped us out—but by crawling along a very muddy communication trench which connected the French line with us. This we succeeded in doing without a casualty—and we then joined D Company in the 1st line trenches. From that time onwards a very fierce artillery battle raged until the evening—and the Germans made repeated attacks from 400 yards off—each time being knocked back into their trenches like a rabbit down a hole. Then, last night, when we heard that the Germans had taken 2 trenches on our left and when we expected we should make a counter-attack—orders came that we should retire right back to the very incomplete trenches in which we are now. We marched back here, then, during the night—dug ourselves in—and are now awaiting developments under a perfectly tropical sun and sky—too hot almost. It was sickening having to retire like that—for we had done magnificiently all day—A & C Companies having been almost wiped out by the German shell fire. They are absolute fiends at that.
Anyhow—here we are always merry and bright in our new position, none of us having had any sleep for 3½ days! I never could have believed that our men could stick things like they have these 3 days—they are magnificient—no other word for them. Those fellows who deserted yesterday will probably be shot. I would have shot them myself, and been perfectly justified, if I hadn’t been doubled up with the Gas.
If we have to reinforce the first line, if it gets hit badly again, the Essex will pull things together—not ’alf!
For other light on what is happening here you must read the papers, if they have anything authentic. We are just a little to the left of where I told you in one of my letters before from hospital. We heard of Italy declaring war last night. Good work! I am sorry about Raffles—but it is getting on now, isn’t it?—near the end of May!
I am so glad you liked Rooke’s mamma. I am afraid I don’t know about Carolyn—I think he has got people in town—but I will let you know if I find out when things are quieter here! At the moment of writing there are shells whizzing all over the place—‘Little Willies’ we call their shrapnel shells!
I haven’t seen any papers for days—but we shall have a rest some time—when this thing is over.
Ever so much love—I am as fit as anything—in spite of their gases.
Ever yr loving son,
Oscar.
I will write whenever possible. I very nearly lost all my kit last night—so you must expect ‘gaps’ sometimes. But a 2 day Gap at the most—I promise you.
You should see the mess I’m in after these 4 days!!
(24A)
May 26, ’15. 6 P.M.
A quiet day to-day after our adventurous times lately—weather still lovely—quite tropical heat in fact. The trench we are in now is in a rotten state—no dug-outs or anything—however the Essex are always given the ‘dirty work’ so to speak, and we have already been complimented on our fighting by the General Staff.
I have been having a good look at the German trenches through Uncle Charlie’s glasses to-day—They are digging themselves in like fiends—and have dressed themselves in khaki!
We have just this moment been firing on a German aeroplane which flew over our lines, but with no result.
I haven’t had my boots etc: off since we came up—and don’t expect I shall until we return to billets!
(25)
May 27, ’15. 6 P.M.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—Thanks for your ripping letter again last night. We get the letters here by the ration carts which come up at night-time, so the actual post comes in at about midnight. I read yours this morning at 2 A.M. when we were ‘standing to’ in the grey light of dawn waiting a possible German attack, which is in all cases preceded by Gas here. You are splendid about everything—getting a Respirator and all that—of course we are all dealt out special ones here, which, if properly adapted, the Gas has absolutely no effect on. To-day has again been quite calm—just the usual exchange of artillery-fire and rifle-fire. This is the programme of the day at present here: Work all night at strengthening the position (sand-bags etc:)—barb-wire—and getting in provisions, water—etc. under cover of darkness. Day-time, 2 A.M. (dawn about) we stand to arms for ½ hr whilst the listening posts (consisting of 3 men and a N.C.O.) are brought in. These last are simply what they imply—i.e. men who lie down and keep their ears and eyes open for any movement on our front—posted well out in front of our trenches. If an attack is to be made it is almost certain to come off then—like the other day. From then till dark (about 8.30 P.M.) we lie very low and sleep as much as possible. This last is not always very easy—and depends entirely on (1) the condition of the trench, (2) the activity of the German artillery—! I have slept about 6 hrs since we came in, I should think. You can imagine that one gets very fat, sleepy and dirty under these conditions. Meals? Well—‘rations’ consist of bully-beef (which will go at a German’s head before I eat it)—cheese—jam—and bacon—tea and sugar. The last three ingredients (good word!) I find most suitable.—‘Am I late for meals?’ Well—there is no fixed time—and one simply seizes a bite when one can. The men make small fires in the corners of the trenches and are very good at doing my bacon and tea (without milk!) for me, when things are quiet. These trenches are, you must understand, still in the most elementary condition—and by the time we have made them comfortable we shall probably be leaving for somewhere else in the line. They always seem to give the Essex the dirty work to do—and that is because they do it so well. I want you to have an idea of things—now the country is flat—you know that—and we face slightly up hill—with the German trenches about 550 yards away. Between the two positions are several farmhouses—in ruins—which provide cover for German snipers sometimes. These are shelled continuously—as they are used by both sides for distinguishing marks to get a range off. The rest is green country—hedges and everything as it might be found on the Sussex downs. Even cows are wandering about just behind the trench here—and we are wondering how to get rid of them! Of course you mustn’t imagine a straight line—the firing lines of both forces curve all over the place—so that at some points it is very hard to distinguish between them. There is a small stream running between the lines, from which we get some of our water, and in the evening sometimes for 2 or 3 minutes the guns will stop and it will be quiet and country-like except for the ominous ruins dotting the landscape and the flames of —— in the background—where some place has caught alight.
There is very little actually to do in the trenches, except sit tight and see that the men do so also. I can’t be bothered to wash or anything like that—though I did have a shave the other day for a wonder! You should see my puttees! and my ‘bags’ are torn to ribbons round the knee——I have just heard a typical type of Tommy ‘wit’ remark ‘Fritz is quiet!’ I have Tommy all round and behind me here—lying in all attitudes in a trench that is not more than 2 ft. wide anywhere! Again—this very moment at a bullet whizzing over I hear ‘Ah! Fritz!!’ Men with such spirit in them as this will go through H—— and come out the other side comfortably! This game of lying low, doubled up in an open trench reminds me so much of Kipling’s
—out of ‘Piet’—I think....
Daddy—your letters are absolute life to me out here. I want to say this, as I want you and Mummy to understand what it feels like to get a letter like I did this morning—or rather last night—just when another day was coming on—it is like whisky to a Scotsman—much more, because it lasts!! I am going to write every day if I possibly can—just a break here and there you must expect. I am writing no other letters at present, and have only had two from anyone else but you—but I really don’t require anything but yours—just a line from either of you. I am feeling as fit as anything—teeth and everything splendid. I’m coated with dirt, but what does that matter? You can look like a scarecrow here for all anyone cares! Things are very quiet this evening—and I think something big must be going on further down the line. You did get that letter which I sent from hospital with the [Daily Mail] map in it—didn’t you? Because that shows you exactly where I am without my saying anything here. The papers should tell you the rest.
Well—toodle-oo—do write, won’t you—it is just like as if one was at Eton—letters etc:! Remember ‘always merry and bright!’
Much love to you both—and G.M.[5]
Ever yr own loving son,
Oscar.
(26)
May 28th, ’15. 5 P.M.
... Another quiet day to-day, and tonight we go into reserve trenches—which is very tame—and from there probably to billets for rest after about 4 days—so have no anxiety about me, my dears, for another 8 days at least.... Well—we both spent our Whit Monday as circumstances permitted, didn’t we? I had the most thrilling day of my life, anyhow, and the moonlight night wasn’t quite like Oxshott Woods!... I am hearing priceless things whilst I write: such as these: ‘All change here for Liverpool Street’ as the guards are being relieved: and ‘You want a shave, Bill—outside and you’ll get a —— close one!’
... This is a wretchedly written epistle, but you must remember that I am sitting in a very cramped position in my temporary dug-out—consisting of a niche in the trench, 6 ft. long by 2 ft. wide! I believe I told you this before, but there is nothing like rubbing it in! I got quite a sleep last night, turning in here about 12.30 A.M. and sleeping till 4 A.M.—best I’ve had so far.
The routine is always—for both sides—work by night—sniping and sleep by day. Now there is just desultory rifle-fire going on—perfectly safe as long as you keep down. We have had no more casualties since Monday’s affray.
... My platoon sergeant is a fine chap ... a sound fellow. Unshaven for 1 week he looks just like an old pirate with one of those ‘Swiss Caps’ on his head.
(27)
May 30th, ’15. 7 P.M.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—Got both papers last night and your ripping letter when I returned from a tedious digging expedition just in front of the enemy lines—most welcome they were! Now I hope all letters and parcels will behave themselves, though I must admit none of the parcels have arrived as yet. I hope for a different discovery when we return to ‘billets’ however, which will probably be tomorrow or next day. I am out of the trenches now and on the bonny banks of a Canal 2 miles back from the firing-line—In Reserve, in fact. We left the trenches Friday night—had a quiet day here yesterday, in which I was able to get a shave and wash—and last night I had to go with the aforementioned digging-party right in front of our lines, and fill up some trenches which a regiment evacuated the other day in face of the Germans. This was to prevent them getting them for their own use. It is weird work—standing out there between the two firing-lines in the semi-darkness—with flares (which the Germans send up continuously all night) showing one up plainly, as they show everything else up in the vicinity. They use fire-works for these, of course. There was a big attack going on made by the French on our left, so all was quiet in our actual area, though you never know when the enemy aren’t going to hear the sound of the shovels and open fire. Then the moon shining over all makes the gutted, stark farm-houses scattered over the fields stand out grotesquely—for all the world as if you were standing at the Coliseum end of the Forum in Rome and looking into it. You know the lines in which ‘Plains which the moonlight turns to sea’ comes? I can’t find a better line to describe the appearance of this perfectly level battlefield stretching for miles on either side—and the dig-dig-dig—with an occasional whistle which has to be smothered. What a chance for a budding Kipling!
It was great work getting those papers last night—so quickly—That is a top-hole wheeze in Punch—there is also a good parody (is that the right word?) on H. Belloc.
Thanks so much for the Fishing cutting—the Canal here seems full of some kind of fish, though I have not tried my hand at them. Excellent work re Khaki Breeches. I am in need of a 2nd pair badly now—Thoughtful Mummy! I have discovered a weird ‘bloke’ for a servant—His name is Crump—surely you can work a wheeze with that kick-off?? He has a wonderful knack of getting things to eat—he has bought eggs, butter, and milk from the town here (you should be able to guess what town) and is altogether a useful one, I’m thinking!
I have a priceless ‘booby’ to live in here. You have to crawl in on your ‘innards’ but when you get there it is very cosy with straw to lie on. All the men have boobies to live in too—funny little holes in the ground—all round my big hole—for all the world like a rabbit-warren!
Our C.O.—Jones—has been promoted Major—he is a jolly good soldier too.
It is another heavenly evening, and with the ruins of —— against the sky—what a picture—by heavens!—what wonderful sights there are to see here if one keeps one’s eyes open—sights which can’t have ever been much surpassed in any war before. There! they are shelling the town now—great 12 in: shells in the middle of it—and then at night a dull glow will gradually appear in the sky, which will redden and spread as more shells are poured in. Mind you I am in the outskirts of this place myself at this moment—so I am writing with the very thing before me.
Of course, people will come in their thousands to see these historic places in a year or more’s time—but what a sight to see before the common crowd can!! No one in the world but one or two w: correspondents and a few Regiments like my own can see this and other wonderful sights up here. For instance—the very fields in front of the trenches we have been occupying have been the scene of the most famous engagements of the war so far as we are concerned—how much more I could ‘gas’—but won’t, because I shall be letting some cats out! I have got the best part of a 6 in: German shell which exploded just outside my ‘booby’ last night whilst I was away—my servant had a near escape. It is beastly heavy, but I will hang onto it somehow. I am not allowed to send it home to you unfortunately.
Well—I love your letters—write away when you have time—everything merry and bright as ever.
Love to G.M.
Ever your own loving son,
Oscar.
N.B.
When are you off to Masongill—I want to know.
To Hugh de Havilland, his Eton Tutor.
N.B. Couldn’t you somehow concoct a new ‘stink’ for us to apply v: the Germans here? You have the laboratories of Eton to work in and it might send us through to the Rhine! Why not all the Science masters put their heads together and make a real good-un—a corker!
I can introduce the new invention to the Brigadier and be promoted on the spot!
A. O. H.
(30)
June 2, ’15. 6.15 P.M.
Here we are again in billets and at the same farm-house as we were at before. This is very convenient, as we know our way about the place—the same squalling kids, etc.!...
Another heavenly day of sunshine—the country here looks more ripping than ever—and it is a glorious slack here after our ten days in the trenches....
It seems queer to be back here again—in the comparative quiet of the country. We came here by a night-march last night—arriving 2 A.M. this morning. I slept in my barn again—topping to get out of one’s clothes for a change—I shall have a bath tomorrow!
(33)
June 5, ’15. Saturday, 5 P.M.
We go up to the trenches again tomorrow (Sunday) stopping for the afternoon on the way at the good old château—much like the one Uncle Innes is billeted at I fancy.
Well, the inspection went off alright today—It was the General commanding the 2nd Army Corps (which we are in) who inspected us—and he came up to me and shook me by the hand and congratulated me on having the best platoon in the Company—Thereupon a man in the front rank fell almost into his arms—fainting—and had to be assisted off. The General, however, was a sportsman and took no heed of the occurrence—I was furious, but it was distinctly funny otherwise. As for the hand-shake—I certainly shan’t wash my right fist till I come out from the trenches again after that!
Before leaving the old man (extraordinarily young for his post really) said a few kind words to the officers and left us all feeling we could take on old man Kluck himself!
(35)
June 8, ’15.
... Funny kind of day today—as quiet as the grave—hardly a shot fired this afternoon—our friend Fritz is never so crafty as when he is quiet—always up to some dirty game or other—so we expect some jollification soon!
There was a thunderstorm this afternoon which cleared the air a bit—it has been devilish hot—‘where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows crawl’ our friend has it! The flies are awful now—suddenly come on—send me some of that ‘Anti-Midge’ stuff which Hardy’s sell—My face is like St. Andrew’s golf course now—and lots of bunkers at that!...
... Had a royal lunch today—potted meat and bread and butter—coffee (j: good) and cream—and tinned peaches and cream! I wish we had some more of the latter—just the thing in this crawling heat. We had my ‘Barrack Room Ballads’ out this afternoon and Monypenny pored over them awhile.
My servant Crump is an extraordinary fellow—I am told he was educated at Charterhouse and enlisted at the beginning of the war!
(36)
June 9, ’15. 10 P.M.
My dearest Mummy and Daddy,—No post last night so I daresay I shall get something tonight.
Another quiet day today—rained a bit this evening. Crump got me some fresh eggs and milk from a neighbouring farm behind the Canal—priceless servant, what? The flies are awful during the day here now—‘Muscatol’ quickly please! Tomorrow night we go into the front line trenches which are barely 70 yards from our friends—There are no trenches to speak of and we are fired on from every quarter of the globe—but that is why they are sending the Essex there—remember! Tonight we are working away at the trench just in front of us—the men are working splendidly—and the whole place is swimming with mud and water already!
... Monypenny and I and de la Mare lay and basked all day in our shirts drinking hot tea and cursing at the flies. This evening I had my Section Commanders up (remember—4 Sections—about 10 men—to a Platoon) and told them a few things. It is by cursing the N.C.O’s that one gets any efficiency out of the men—It is just like H. de H.’s at Eton over again—House didn’t swing together if the younger members of ‘Debate’ didn’t control their juniors—who were friends of theirs.—So the young N.C.O. finds it hard to drop on the men from whom he has just been raised in rank—and ‘the backbone of the Army is the non-commissioned man.’ R. K.
Thanks to my worthy Sergeant Clarke—in charge of Platoon—my men are learning discipline and how to keep their heads—by degrees—but it is very hard work, as they are really all very young and inexperienced—straight from the home, so to speak—I am not quite sure how they would do if it was a case of ‘no one cares to face ’em but every beggar must’—(R. K.)—however, as I told my Corporals tonight, we shall see their worth sooner or later. Peake was wounded last night—only slightly in the arm—will be back soon, in fact. I have got some glorious G: shells here—but don’t know how I could ever get them on to the mantelshelf in the Study!! Some more of that café au lait, please, and condensed milk and Menier Chocolate—keep you busy!
Well—I must go out again and have a look round—we shall have a great time in this trench out in front—it is in a swamp and there are fifty Canadians in the Parapet!
Toodle-oo!
Much love to you both and everyone else at No. 7.
I so love your letters—both of you.
‘Bon Soir!’
Your loving son,
Oscar.
(37)
June 10th, 1915.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—No letter last night, but I expect something tonight—perhaps the bed! Today has been again uneventful and we go into the new trenches at 9.30 tonight. It is one mass of mud here now but will soon dry up with the sun. We shall be six days in the new trenches, and then probably straight back to billets. What was my surprise today but to see Monypenny suddenly open a ½ bottle of champagne! He had been given it down at Battalion Headquarters—a present from the C.O.!
Programme today has been 2 A.M.—flop into dug-out dog-tired and very sick at getting no letters by our midnight mail (?)—2 A.M.-3 A.M. ‘stand to arms’—i.e. all respirators ready for instant use and rifles clean etc. whilst a mist slowly lifts from the dewy ground in front and the enemies’ trenches become gradually visible.—Directly they are well in sight the men are allowed to lie down and sleep—all except the sentries. 9.30 A.M. awoke in frowsy, damp booby and had some breakfast made by the redoutable Crump. 10 A.M. had a look round the platoon: saw rifles were clean etc: 10 A.M. onwards slept—or rather tried to, flies awful! Later in the morning Monypenny showed us where we were going tonight and what we should have to do there—then nothing more till tonight—just drowse and curse at the wet and the flies and read ‘Michael Strogoff’—also listen to the Germans shelling buildings on our right and left and wondering for how long he is going to leave us alone!
Well—must stop now. I do hope these letters are reaching you—and not all in one batch! I still want something—and that is a revolver holster to fit that Smith Wesson revolver we bought together!
Much love to you all—You will now have an idea of what I am up to during the day—at night we simply work at sandbags and barbed-wire etc: so as to protect ourselves by day.
A rotten letter!
Ever your own loving son,
Oscar.
(39)
Saturday, June 12th, ’15. 6.45 P.M.
... We have really ‘upholstered’ this ‘booby’ of ours very smartly—We have a table and 2 chairs (ammunition boxes) and have adorned the walls with pictures (of actresses) out of a Magazine and the photo of a Frenchman’s ma taken out of a rubbish-heap behind! The whole concern is only about 8 feet by 6 in dimension and de la Mare—myself—and my most worthy Crump live in it.... We sent Crump off on an expedition for food the other day and he was clever enough to buy us 18 eggs, 2 bottles Vin Ordinaire, 2 lbs butter, 3 loaves bread, and a bottle of milk—and bring all these up through miles of communication trench without breaking an h’egg! Imagine him slushing through mud holding the bundle of eggs before him!...
This is really very cosy—and if undisturbed by our friends 150 yards off will continue to be so. We’re going to ask for leave, ‘Moneybags’ and self—to bomb these blighters out of a small trench which they have jutting from their line—in other words a ‘salient’ in their line. This will be more to our liking than sitting being shelled, I’m thinking! After this rain—it will be a ‘sticky wicket,’ but a slow overhand bowler with a hand-grenade should beat the Teuton Batsman—at any rate the fielding will be good—although I shouldn’t like to be silly-point!; that’s my silly point!
(40)
June 14.
For those who can look at this sort of warfare in the right way there are enormous advantages—I feel as if I had lived a century!
(41)
June 14th, 1915. 1 P.M.
My dearest M. & Daddy,—Got the Chronicle, letter and ‘Land and Water’ this morning—also all those letters which went wrong when I was in hospital! I had a ripping letter from Auntie also and a note from Daisy—also the fruit etc: from G.M. so I didn’t do badly. Amongst the lost letters was one from Shane and his wife; several from you both, and a note from Rooke. Shane seemed pretty cheery—he wrote from Salisbury. Have you seen anything of him lately? Well—you all seem to be reading my muckins—the whole contingent at No: 7—the ‘droppers in’ and car-riders etc: so I will extend my descriptive efforts a bit, for as far as I can see the papers talk a lot of rot and give people a very poor idea of the general doings, round here at any rate. Some day I am going to try my hand at a few short stories (shut up laughing!) on the Sniper, the ‘Jack Johnson’ and several other objects of interest—when I have the energy—which is not often. The programme is eat, sleep, and work, and there is not much energy left for writing, though any amount of time and scope. For instance, I simply can’t be bothered to write in Pen and ink—this is a very untidy output!
Enough of this: now let me give you an idea of what the French trenches which we are occupying are like.
First there is a barricade of earth thrown up—about 10 ft. wide by 3 high—the cavity left being the actual trench. Between this mound of earth and the trench is a wall of sand-bags—three to four thick by 10 high. This gives a man 6 ft. of standing room with a stepping stone on which to stand for firing purposes. Behind and jutting out from this parapet are erected what we know as ‘traverses,’ or thick walls of sandbags 15 ft. long by 12 ft. wide (about) to protect the flanks of the trench; thus:
Behind all are communication trenches, the purpose of which lies in the name and does for ‘dug outs’ etc:
This is the outline of any trench, German, French or English, so there is no harm in showing you. Now these trenches are all broken down and in a filthy mess, and we are building them up as quick as we can. The French seem to have had no idea of trench-work. My platoon occupies about 25 yards of trench, but it is very small—only 32 all told. Night and day we work—only allowing a certain portion to be at work at one time, and having another certain portion told off for sentry duty. I have been studying the German trenches (150 yards off now) this morning with my glasses (Uncle Charlie’s) and see they are hard at work on theirs also. And so there you have us—a picture—two parties—150 yards apart—both digging for all they are worth and picking each other off at every opportunity—both entirely at the mercy of the other’s artillery—both having their letters from home and national papers urging them (if anything ever did) to do great things. This strikes me forcibly this morning—quiet for the last hour as your study itself—and isn’t it an absolutely unique situation? There are many brave men over yonder just longing for a ‘scrap’ like we are—perhaps they haven’t quite got our spirit, but still your Bosch is no weakling. And this situation exists, with few exceptions (I mean hand to hand struggles) for 400 miles of frontage! Of course these are all truisms—but—dash it! do the people in England realize that if that 150 yards was taken and a few more miles were rushed after that by our friends across the way—anything might happen. Of course this is all ‘supposing’—but—what a pity we aren’t fighting this war on the borders of Scotland! No—the Germans will never break our line, but neither have we broken theirs and people seem to think that that is a foregone conclusion. However Italy, as you say, will put matters on a more promising footing.
Last night I had to post a listening-patrol from my platoon out in front. It was a pitch dark night, so I had a roam round (safe as houses at night)—I got quite close to old man Fritz and only retreated quickly because I came across the remains of a struggle between French and German—not very enticing. The men I took out with me lay down (they are old hands at the game) close to the ground amongst the clover, which abounds here and affords excellent cover—and closer still when they sent their infernal lights up which give everyone away for a long way round. It is exciting, in a mild form, out in front, as the Germans are just over the lip of the hill and can creep up their side and put out their patrols so that you have two little parties listening for each other’s movements at only about 30 yards distance. I thought I had been and gone and done it when I saw something jolly like a man in the grass. It was a dead ‘Froggie’—that was all!
Since I talked of its being quiet, the Huns have started their little game (so cheerful for the bowler!) of pelting us with trench-mortars—and it is just about time our artillery got onto them. These mortars they bring up into the first line trenches and so range at about 200 yards—imagine the size of the projectile. Now I hope this letter hasn’t too much ‘frightfulness’ in it—It may interest you and any aunts or ‘droppers in’ there may be!
The C.O. (Jones) is coming along—he is a calm one—one of those trench m’s burst just behind him just now: their effect, of course, is very local. Just at the end of my stretch of trench are the old emplacements where the Canadians lost and retook their guns. Truly a historic piece of ground this—This is the very trench from which the French ran when first the Gas was employed—that is why there is such an enormous amount of equipment and hundreds of broken French rifles lying about.—The Germans have been in it also, so there will be some pretty times when the ghosts of this place have a look in later on! Outside our booby-hutch there is a topping little look-out place from which on sunny mornings I try my luck with a rifle—I made Fritz keep his head down this morning alright!
Ah! the French have got at them with shrapnel—that will help matters—(you must excuse these little side-allusions—a little hard to keep my attention fixed you know!).
Ah! Boom—Boom—Boom—the guns are waking up all along—now things will probably keep alive until sundown when night will come on, each side will send out its listening-posts, there will be a big exchange of rifle-fire (there always is about 8 P.M.—9 P.M. when we ‘stand to’), and another day of this extraordinary existence both sides are leading will be over.
I could rattle on like this for pages—but have run short of paper (send me out a big block).
So toodle-oo pip! pip!!
Love to you all.
Ever your own loving son,
Oscar.
(Letter going to Masongill today).
Another ‘scrap of paper’ for you to digest!
Rather a droll thing was told me yesterday by one of the Lancashire Fusiliers (our Brigade)—he was taking a wounded Tommy down the communication trenches—shot in the leg—and could only carry him by throwing him across his shoulder—legs dangling in front. During the way down the unfortunate Tommy got another one through the head—and when he got him to the dressing-station he was cursed by the doctor who said he had enough cases to deal with as it was and could do without dead men—at which our Lancs hero cried ‘The —— liar! he told me he was hit in the leg!’
Somebody sent me a little book called ‘Aunt Sarah and the War’ the other day. Many thanks and jolly good—whoever it was!
Send me the ‘Times’ every now and again—will you?
Must have another ‘go’ at Fritz—so once more ‘So long!’—when I am putting out barbed-wire tonight I shall remember R.K’s
It was with this screed that Oscar enclosed a set of his own verses, about which we had a little correspondence later. They had only been jotted down, he explained, to go into his letter to me, and he would not hear of their emerging anywhere in print. ‘Heavens! I can get something better off my chest than that,’ he protested, ‘if it comes to “type”!’ These private pages, however, are barely in that category, and, as even Oscar allowed that his ‘doggerel’ was ‘true to experience,’ here those verses are:
This, at any rate, has been seen—if, indeed, not merely a dramatic version of the ‘ripping shot’ mentioned in another letter of about this date: