My dearest Auntie,—You wrote me such a delightful letter and I loved every word of it. Thanks so much also for the Cream and Coffee—A.1.—only in this heat it won’t keep! If I may suggest so—Condensed Milk is better—but I loved the Coffee and have writted to M: for more. I am keeping them fairly at it at Hornton Street—what? They seem to be mad about my letters: I can only say that I love every word from them and from you too. Write again if you can spare the time—You have no idea how cheery it is to get your letters from the Ration-party (food!) at 2.30 A.M. when one is feeling pretty hard-boiled! Talking of food we are feeding like—well, like you seem to have fed at Hornton St.! I’ll tell you what we (another 2/Lt and self) have of an evening:
- 3-6 eggs apiece
- Soup (sometimes)
- Tea or Coffee or Chocolate
- Bread & Potted Meat & Butter and Jam
- Vin Ordinaire! (pinched from a ruined ‘estaminet’ (pub!)
- Dessert (Chocolate and anything we can rake up—dog biscuits etc:)
and then with very distended insides we go on our several duties—as often as not sleeping for an hour or two—or crawling out in front among ancient Frenchmen long since deceased or shoving up barbed wire etc: Tonight I am on the last named job—I always nearly break my neck over the beastly stakes! Fritz is as quiet as a lamb today—a simile one cannot often employ when speaking of him! I hit a fellow yesterday ‘somewhere in France’—in other words he will find it very painful to sit down for a while! It was a ripping shot—I used a French Rifle which I am going to try and bring back with me. I have some unexploded shells too—but can see No: 7 going to ‘kingdom come’ when one day Daddy strikes a match on one—so I think I had better leave them alone here! It is such a magnificient evening here—not a sound—but the birds singing like mad—only now and then a shot rings out to waken one up and a trench-mortar gets to work—last named very loud and noisy, but not v: useful, like some masters I used to know at Eton!
Straight behind us is ‘Wipers,’ and every 5 mins. to the tick a great ‘Uncle Sam’ comes whistling over and makes the town more of a scrap-heap than ever: the pity of it! It gives the lie to Kipling’s topping lines which I will put down simply because I love them like everything else of his:
Well—I could talk rot for pages about the life out here, and some day I will let myself out on paper about it. But for ‘sensation!—sport!—sport for sport’s sake’—do you remember Raffles at those lines in the play—3rd Act?—that’s what one feels when crawling about at night. Every minute one is living is a year—certainly I have learned more in 2 months than 20 years!
So long—you are a brick to write.
All food mighty acceptable!!
Love to George if you see him.
Ever your affec: nephew,
Oscar.
P.S. The Gas has slain the strawberries—I fear.
(42)
June 15, ’15. 6 P.M.
... All your news so interesting—esp. of Eton—ripping you’re going down there from my point of view—I hope you saw all the old haunts—library and all—they have a very big place in my heart here—and I try and liken this game to the old House ‘Ties’—only the odds aren’t so against us here and we’ve more to back us up! I wrote to Tutor—did he tell you? I want to know all news about Eton....
Another quiet day here and another still more beautiful evening. Really it is very hard to realise that anything is doing—the country looks wonderfully pretty in spite of its ugly spots. The ruins of farms scattered over the place look quite picturesque.
We had a few swells round the trench last night and they complimented the Essex on our work—oh! we are ‘some boys’!
(43)
6.30 P.M. June 16, ’15.
My dearest Mummy,—What an evening! the most perfect sunset I have ever seen—and de la Mare has just had a parcel of food—so what with eggs etc: we shall have a fine meal tonight!
This morning at 2 A.M. there was a big attack further south[6]—we don’t know result yet but believe we took 3 lines of trenches. We witnessed the whole fight from here—at least the artillery part of it, since we are on a raised piece of ground.
You never saw such a sight as just now—6 aeroplanes (all English and French) up at once and one German—poor old Fritz! However he got away alright.
Another quiet day on our part of the line. It is getting quite like a rest-cure in our booby-hutch—nothing but food and slopping up and down our own little section of trench—very little sleep though. Sleep is apt to be disturbed so rudely at all hrs. of the day!
No letters this morning—but no doubt will hear from one of you tomorrow.
Much love.
Ever yr own loving
Oscar.
(44)
Thursday, 17th June.
... de la Mare and I are both living like kings on all this food.... We are now about to have a gigantic meal before the night’s work—not much work for us officers, but having to keep awake is the nuisance—and I find it almost impossible to sleep very well in the day. However we’re none the worse for living like this!
On Saturday we go back to billets, where we remain for 4 days, then back here for 10 days or so more; they are working us very hard—heaven knows why—I suppose because we are so good at it!
(45)
Saturday, 8.30 P.M. June 19th, ’15.
... You will be interested to hear I have been ‘slightly wounded’—a mere touch under the ear[7] which made me leave the trenches early this morning for the Dressing Station—just to take the necessary precautions, which are compulsory, against poisoning.
Yesterday the C.O. wanted a bombing-party to go out from B Coy to see what it could do. I had bagged that job weeks ago—and have been reconnoitring in front of our lines all this past week with a view to a ‘scrap’ some night. So last night I got a party—2 N.C.O’s and 1 man armed with Hand-grenades and myself with some of the new Hand-bombs—glorious things, just the size and weight of a Cricket Ball! Then at 12.30 this morning we got over the parapet and sailed over the intervening 200 yards. Of course I had planned the whole direction and spot to aim at etc: so we got up to 70 yards of the old Bosches without difficulty—going in single file—myself at the head ... and lying out in the long grass we could distinctly hear Fritz breathing hard over his spade-work—they were digging. I had previously arranged with de la Mare that he should send a series of flares up to show me where exactly I was and so beat the Bosch at his own dirty game. The difficult part lay in getting within 20 yards of them—for the hand-grenades are difficult to hurl much further with any accuracy. As a matter of fact I could have got much closer up to their trench, if I hadn’t been so anxious about the men with me—I would have done the whole job alone only the officer has to have 2 men and 1 N.C.O. with him on these occasions. If we had tried to get any nearer than the spot which I eventually chose one of them would have given the show away I am sure.
At any rate we waited for a few minutes whilst more flares went up, and then after gauging the distance I led off with cricket-ball No. 1—it was just like ‘throwing in’ from ‘cover’ (a fast long hop!)—only this time I had ‘some’ batsmen to run out and there was a price on those stumps! I fancy ‘things happened’ in their trench—as there were howls—and a bit of lyddite flew back and hit me just under the ear—mere scratch—only it spoilt my old coat for ever and ever—amen! The others then stood up and ‘threw in’—the wicket-keep put them down nicely—and we made haste back to the Pavilion!—it was a case of ‘appealing against the light’—for it was 1.30 A.M. by then and getting uncomfortably light. ‘Fritz’ seemed so scared that he never fired a shot—only sent up a brace of flares—during which we lay down flat in the long grass. When I got back Monypenny said I must go and have the scratch painted with Iodine and that sort of rot—so I went off with Crump (who—remember—is stretcher-bearer) to show me the way back to the dressing-station at the Canal. We just got there before dawn. I then ‘took car’ (don’t cher know!) to a place 2 miles back where I went to the Field Ambulance and had a sleep—then had the thing seen to and an injection v. Poison put into me—then to our billets by Red Cross Car, as the Battalion comes back tonight and they said it was not worth coming all the way back. So here I am—alone in our little farm house again—and am off to sleep in the barn as usual! The Battalion won’t arrive until early morning probably—so I haven’t done badly!
I had a little jaunt with a R. Cross Captain in his ambulance Car and got some money from the Field Cashier, had a shave and shampoo and two excellent meals—in which we had Strawberries!—in the town close by here.
At first I was jolly sick at having to come back, but it has really been rather a ‘jaunt,’ starting with our escapade in the early hours—for all the world like those early rises up at Masongill—crawling after Rabbits: these were ‘some rabbits’!
Well—am dead tired—so good night.
I knew you would like a description of this sort of thing—but remember that it is an every night occurrence—this bombing—and jolly sight nicer than sitting helplessly being shelled by invisible guns. It is the only relic of the old fighting left in this war—this bombing—none of your gas or shells—but just like our troops did at Badajoz etc: in the old wars—top-hole....
(47)
Sunday, June 20th, ’15. 8 P.M.
My dearest Mummy,—Thanks so much for your 2 lovely letters. The P.C. I got last night—No: I letter this morning and No: II just now! I am in the height of happiness, for I have had such a glorious lot of letters and parcels since I came here yesterday. Last night the fruits from G.M. and a parcel from Barkers via Daddy and your letter and a very nice one from Mr. Bryers with a 7d novel—and tonight your letter—a very cheery one from D—and a delightful one from de Havilland—one that makes me thrill with the old zest for the House I used to feel in those immortal House-matches and all the other things which you know I held dear at Eton—also 3 parcels of food!—more from D—more from you (?)—and still more from D with the Army & Navy Canteen thing!!! The whole mess-table is now rocking with my things!!
Oh! Mummy, what a glorious time I am having! I mean all these letters and parcels from you and D, the former so cheery and encouraging—and the very life itself—in the thick of it, and yet at Stone House, Eton, Masongill and, always, No: 7. Through every one of these places I have been time and again and yet with my feet on Belgian soil and my eyes bunged up with sleep! Never has my imagination stood me in such stead—you will laugh, but all the same you will understand. What does it matter where one is and how one is so long as one has these pictures behind one—I am beginning to see the falseness of materialism—One can be in a French trench and yet at Masongill with the greatest ease—I can, thank heaven.
Well—our little dinner is on the table in the garden and it is getting dark—a beautiful evening. I have been strolling round the fields with my mind concentrated on Masongill—that is the greatest rest one gets here from the trenches—Freedom for absent-mindedness—which of course it is!! I presume you have had my long letter to D forwarded on to you—that has all my news.
A kiss to G.M.—and a big one!
Ever yr own loving and very—very happy son—
Oscar
I bought this little ‘souvenir’ in the town here yesterday and one for G.M.
Not a word about the bombing to his mother, who was away from home, and not to be alarmed if Oscar could help it. At Masongill, moreover, she was in his oldest and very dearest haunts; and in billets he had time to join her there in spirit as he describes. The trenches may well have seemed the farther cry, that summer Sunday evening in the farm-house garden, with the ‘glorious lot of letters and parcels’ hot from home. Yet his bombing adventure was on his mind; he feared he had made too much of it, and he now went vigorously to the other extreme, incidentally assuring me that he was ‘as timorous as a cat,’ and closing the subject in a characteristic letter to us both.
(60)
June 29th, ’15. 7.30 P.M.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—I gather that by the time this reaches you [you] will both be at No: 7 again. I got Land & Water and a letter from Masongill today.—Now don’t get excited at what I described to you the other day—those little parties for bomb-throwing are constantly sent out by every Company—there is not an officer practically here who hasn’t been out on one. I must have given you to understand that it was an exceptional enterprise. Not a bit of it—it was a jolly interesting one for the first time over—but as regards danger I may as well say that there is much more of that to be met with every day that we are shelled to any extent than there is in going up, so to speak, to a man’s front door bell—pulling it—and running off again—as we used to do in Pitt St:! I want you to realize that the ‘nearer you are to the enemy here the safer it is’—this sounds paradoxical—but anyone will tell you that it’s true. I don’t give you long descriptions of being under shell-fire, but believe me I would rather live 20 yards in the open in front of the Bosches than experience such a bombardment, say, as we had on the 24th May. This bombing lends itself to picturesque descriptions and all that, but it is merely the thrill of being, as you say, on another man’s doorstep which counts. If the risk were any greater than sitting in the trench with bullets flying round you can be sure we should never be allowed to go out at all—as the C.O. wants every officer he has got—and the effect on the Germans of these local scraps is merely a moral one—makes them more careful and shows them that we still have our initiative—so much talked of. Very seldom do we actually attempt to destroy a certain position—machine-gun emplacement for instance—as the artillery (when they’re awake) do that for us. Well, enough for that—but please bear in mind that I’m jolly careful about myself—recklessness is not encouraged out here, and a fellow is merely considered a fool, as fool he jolly well is, if he doesn’t keep himself safe for his job, which—after all is said and done—is not to provide a shooting range but to look after his men. Amen! Here endeth the first lesson!
Nothing doing today—a good deal of artillery activity though—my word these Bosches do waste their shells—I really don’t think they intend in Germany to carry this war on another winter—esp: when they are on such an excellent footing for diplomatic moves as now—with Russia well fenced in derrière Lemberg—but will we let ’em come to any terms whatever—that’s the question—I don’t think we shall ever be such dolts—do you? This morning I was just going to have a shave and brush-up when Jones appeared and Gen: Anley a little later—not much to say—the former—and when the Tin-hat came to view I slid down a communication trench—not my place among the High and Almighty! Since then I have had my spring cleaning and a good look at the front line trenches with those very excellent glasses of Uncle C’s. It’s funny the way they start shelling here. All is quiet—then suddenly some wretched little spit-fire sends a few ‘Very little Willies’ over their trenches. A few mins: elapse then come some Hairy Maries—intended for the officious little offender—which generally plop round the reserve trenches sending up a ‘bush’ of black acrid smoke. Then the wily dogs send in a few ‘Whiz-bangs’ (so called since they burst before they even seem to leave the muzzle) which make our fellows wild—then the Germans get properly into their stride and—boom-boom-splosh-splosh is the order of the next few moments—being answered by our fellows with sickening little shrapnels which would hardly knock a sandbag over—You will see from this that Fritz has his own way here at present—but that is merely because we are saving our high explosive for when it is really needed—in a show.—All the same it makes one wild with rage. When we do get going of course ‘it ain’t no jam for Tommy—but it’s kites and crows for him!’ (and heaps of ’em too!).
Well—my anxious ones—I laid it on a bit thick in my last long effort—believe me it is possible for AOH to exaggerate!
Much love—Tinned Fruit and all your food just the thing! (Watch ready yet?)
Ever your own loving son
Oscar.
If he would seem to have made the best of everything for our benefit, I can only say we have been shown a good many of the letters which Oscar still found time to write to others, and that practically all are in the same strain of jovial enthusiasm, full of the same genial fire and the same spontaneous fun. The only difference is here and there a grim detail which might have shocked or harrowed us. Two examples are enough to show his tender thought for us in this respect. In the second letter there was perhaps an underlying sadness, but poor Crump’s death was enough to sadden him, and was just the sort of thing that Oscar would not tell us before he need.
To Mr. de Havilland.
June 29, ’15.
... It’s an extraordinary mixture of humour and ghastliness this whole life—On one hand you can’t go a yard along the trenches without seeing something which beats anything in peace-time for sheer humour—one of our orderly men for instance stumbling along a squelching communication trench with a couple of dozen eggs and other dainties for his officer (me!) suddenly slips and falls headlong with arms stretched wildly—well—you must be in a bad plight if that doesn’t make you roar—I’ve seen it and heard it afterwards too!... And again the very first time I was up here I went along to see my Company officer (a 2nd Lieut like myself owing to the casualties we have had) in the front line—and found his feet—that was all—a Jack J: had done the rest. I never told this at home—but it will illustrate what I have been saying....
To his Cousin Winnie.
June 28th, ’15.
... I hear from M. and D. pretty regularly—it wouldn’t be worth a week out here if I didn’t! How is Prescott & Co:—not suffering from any more maladies I hope ‘sincerely I hope so—I hope so sincerely!’ Do you remember that in ‘Jones of the Lancers’—priceless song! My servant used to sing that—and very well too—he sang it at a Concert at the place where we were billeted the other day—and two days ago was shot through the brain just outside my dug-out—poor fellow.... Isn’t it wonderful how things happen just at the most critical time? I was annoyed with [somebody or other] for getting me up unnecessarily this morning—He was promptly shot through the shoulder and badly cut in the head by an infernal Trench-mortar.
It is time we had another scrap—this sort of ‘lying in state’ doesn’t suit your Highness! The place has been as quiet as the grave—and yet every day a few fellows get knocked out—and as R. K. says—‘There ain’t no chorus here to give—nor there ain’t no band to play!’
A poor letter—but will get something better off my chest one of these days—I have ‘a nasty taste in my mouth,’ if you know what I mean!
Love to you all—
Yours,
Oscar.
(62)
July 2nd, ’15.
... remember—we are the ‘trench diggers—builders—and holders,’ and therefore are put onto every dirty job the authorities can find!!...
As for George—good luck to him in that benighted corner of Europe! I will send him a line sometime. Personally I would rather be in the Line anywhere than serving the guns, but that is merely through my experience of the former, long as it is!...
(63)
July 3, ’15. 8.30 P.M.
Dearest M. & D.,—Here we are again—in the front line this time and a bare 20 yards from the Bosches—I came up last night after dining with the R.M.C. officers at the Dressing Station—by car of course! It was rather funny to see them bolt when the Germans sent over some large shrapnel—to catch the transports coming up the roads—my—they were ‘up it’! Of course to me this was amusing after 2 solid months of much closer stuff than that! Well—this is the old trench into which I brought my platoon on the 24th when we came up to support D Company. They have improved it some—but the Bosches have sapped right up, as I say, to within 20 yards—rather less—and we shall have to chuck them a few chocolates, I’m thinking!
To-night we go out hay-making—in other words the Division want us to cut all the grass in front of our lines—they are sending scythes up for the purpose! Doubtless this is to prevent Fritz from doing ‘creepy crawlums’ up to our sandbags! We are getting quite intimate with him now—eh?
Got Punch and letter-card and provisions (from you and Winnie)—so am well-set up!
So glad the lace arrived! No—I bought it in a town near our billets—4 miles from —— Good heavens! —— is deserted now—what do you think??
Much love—am writing in the dark. ‘You should never write home in the dark!’
Ever yr. own loving
Oscar.
Such a nice letter from Auntie.
His letters came usually by the last post of the day, and continually by twos and threes—‘in close formation,’ as he complained when we told him, whereas he posted them ‘in open order.’ During the war that last post has become very late in our part, no doubt by reason of this very mail from the front; and many a night last summer would I go downstairs again to wait, even at the open door, even without shame in the middle of the road, till the postman’s lantern glimmered in our darkened street. On the night of July 7, he was later than ever, but that only enhanced the eventual joy of two of Oscar’s best and brightest—written with all the splendid confidence the war was giving him—even in a hand never so firm or so decided as in the trenches under fire!
(64)
July 4th, ’15. 8 P.M.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—A stewing hot day and my booby infested by flies! Last night I had a very full bag in letters—two from you and several others! I was so glad to have the sermon—you know how much I appreciate it.
The Pastie also arrived, and I spent the dull hour or two between 12 A.M. and ‘stand to’ in eating it hard! I have finished the whole 2 boxes already! I am so glad the lace arrived safely—I heard from G.M. too—thanking me for it. I wrote to Mrs. W. days ago!
Nothing doing today—there was to have been a bombardment by our guns this evening—but it seems to have been a wash-out! Last evening we got hold of some rifle-grenades—explosive bombs which you shoot out from the rifle—and I plumped several beauties among the Bosches—they had been doing the dirty on us all day so we showed them we weren’t exactly asleep! You fire these missiles off from the trench of course.
There is a ruined Estaminet (beer-house) between my fire-trench and communication trench, and they keep up a rapid fire on this all through the night to stop any of our little games—for a ruined building in the front line is a dangerous thing to the opposing party!
Old man Clarke has just rolled in with a list of available men for tonight’s working. Wire, bombing party etc:—We are going to give them a few Crème de Menthes early tomorrow morning—just to stop them working. You never heard such a row as Fritz makes opposite us of an evening! Sawing wood and riveting bolts and goodness knows what else besides. He has some game up his sleeve—mark you, he has sapped up to within 20 yards of us—so one has to be canny!
I’ve got some more verses to send you very soon—so brace yourself up for the shock!
Must cease fire now—
Ever yr own loving
Oscar.
(65)
July 5, ’15. 5 P.M.
My dearest Mummy & Daddy,—Got your cheery letter last night—They sort the letters earlier now—before midnight. These ‘close order’ letters are rather absurd—but it is something to do with the trains catching the mail—or rather vice versa! You’ll have to just take them en masse!
Well—rather amusing this morning—the Bosches suddenly sent over an extraordinary object—a sort of aerial torpedo—which no doubt you know of. This they fired from just behind their front line only 200 yards off at most—aiming for the Estaminet which our line (my platoon) circles round. The thing came trundling through the air—you could actually see it rolling over and over—rolly-poly we call it! There were shouts and the men fled from where they could guess it would drop—then the thing dropped—and Jack J’s weren’t in it for explosion! They sent 3 of these things over and it was really rather funny—seeing a great sausage lolloping through the air—it takes about 5 mins. to land!
We got the artillery onto them and have had no more trouble since.
We had quite a merry evening last night: there was an attack on further south and the dickins of a noise, and we pumped over some rifle-grenades just to show there was no ill-feeling up our way—also I took out a brace of my N.C.O’s and attempted to give them some more to digest. As luck would have it both my efforts were ‘duds’—In other words they refused to explode—the other three grenades I couldn’t get the pin out of for firing—so I got beastly wet—lost a handkerchief and my temper for nothing—It’s an easy job here, as we are so near them, and as I told you before Fritz is much too busy at his game behind the barricade he has had the unbounded cheek to erect so near our lines, to notice our little wanderings.—It is this ‘little game’ of his that we want to discover and to put an end to—because we have an idea that he is attempting to blow the Estaminet up and, incidentally, us with it! However—‘ne craignez pas—pour nous partons demain!’ Twiggez-vous?
Old Clarke was at his best this morning when they sent the sausage over—The first landed just over his (and as it happened mine) booby—and out he came like a shot rabbit—his language—oh! ‘priceless’ isn’t the word!
He then lay out (in the most exposed part of the trench) and drawled—‘Fritz can do what he jolly well likes etc: etc:!’
His sarcasm is really worthy of some of my Eton friends! He said that they kept our guns in a glass case—he was dead on our guns—and well he might be, considering that they never do a jolly thing up this way. If they do wake up they unfailingly drop 1 in 6 into our front line or just in front in their fatherly way—I love to hear the remarks passed on them—I endorse them all fully myself! Clarke’s remark that they gave us ‘O-hello’ this morning was rather nice! Some of the officers of a Territorial Division just come up here spent the night with us, in order to acquaint themselves with the trench and its many vicissitudes! They will be relieving us probably tomorrow—and it is possible that we shall go back altogether for a week or more to reorganize. We shall go behind—a good way back somewhere and generally collect ourselves, for we want collecting. This is only a possibility though at present.
About Crump—he was shot dead outside my booby—just when another death we know of occurred—so I didn’t mention it in my letter—it wasn’t at all necessary.... He was a brave fellow....
As for casualties—there have been very few in our Coy: none in my platoon since the above—over a week ago now. These flies are the limit—there’s old Clarke at it again. He’s wildly excited because our chaps have shut up one of their most officious batteries on our right with a brace of heavy explosives—‘There’ll be a Court of Inquiry on that,’ says Clarke!
It is a fairly placid evening—a little shelling by the Bosches—but nowhere near our line—we are too near their own crowd to be shelled very frequently—only when they have the exact range.
My men are cleaning their rifles and there is one of our aeroplanes doing good business overhead—a little sniping—not much. I think it is time I sent over a few more rifle-grenades—We’ve got a machine that puts them in accurately to a yard and they do a lot of damage. It will stay quiet until about 8 P.M. when there will be ‘wind up’ for 2 hours—heavy rifle fire on both sides—then fairly quiet for rest of night unless we drop bombs on them like we did last night. Then Fritz gets in such a funk that he shoots off wildly in all directions except the right one! I must agree with him—it is a nasty thing to be bombarded by an unseen and unlocated enemy in the shape of me or one of my men. We only gave them 3 last night though—rather a wash-out.
The wily dogs spotted a stack of rubbish-straw etc: in the Estaminet last evening and sent across flares to set it on fire. They succeeded in doing so, but we[8] put earth and water on it before daylight today: so again it was Checkmate to Fritz—The ‘Jocks’ took a section of their opposing trenches yesterday—I wish we could rush these ugly sandbags in front of us—but I fear there is no such luck.
—— is a funny card—he comes tearing down here with drops of perspiration streaming off his long nose, speaking at a terrific rate and expecting you to take it all down verbatim—then whisks off again.—de la Mare comes across him more than I of course—The rest of my conversation with Clarke was strictly ‘business’ just now!
Much love—
Yr loving son
Oscar.
N.B. I had a letter from Crump’s father in answer to mine—for of course I wrote about him—I think it bucked them up ‘some’ to hear from me.
O.
If some of the letters are more letter-like than these, surely none are more like the boy himself! It was Oscar talking to us from his trench, talking harder than ever while there was time, telling us all manner of things in each eager breath! And I was to have talked back next night; there were one or two things I was looking forward to telling him. First, how his nine-and-a-half-months-old Commission had only just arrived in all its documentary glory; and how it began with the King’s greeting, ‘To our Trusty and well beloved Arthur Oscar Hornung’!
Then I had to tell him how I had just been to tea in the room where ‘Vanity Fair’ was written, after pointing out the house to people for twenty years, as one that I never expected to have the joy of entering. It was a last joy. Within the hour came the telegram to say that Oscar had been killed in action on July 6.