June 16th, 1916.

I have had another fit of the blues over this wretched transfer. Why should it be given to all the fellows I know to be in the thick of real fighting—a life which anyone should be proud to live—while to me, aged twenty, standing six feet, about forty inches round the chest, Rugby footballer, swimmer, fluent French speaker, and Balliol scholar, it is given to load up rations? Loathing this Supply work, I have already applied for a transfer to the Horse Transport Section. Oh! that I had only obeyed the dictates of my own conscience and enlisted in the H.A.C. at the start of the war, instead of staying on at school to get a paltry scholarship which the odds are 10 to 1 on my never being able to use! What I pray for is a job in which the following elements are constantly present: (1) hard work; (2) real brain work, employing, if possible, my knowledge of languages; (3) constant danger, or, at least, the constant chance of it; (4) if possible, horses to ride. For such a job I would willingly give ten years of my life.

June 22nd, 1916.

I am glad to say that I'm not finding my new job so absolutely hopeless as I expected. It is in many ways not at all uninteresting to be attached to a Supply Column. After a long time with men whose one interest in life is horses, I now find myself with men who eat, drink, live and breathe motors. My experience has already taught me that England has a splendid system of mechanical transport. Our column numbers no fewer than 150 lorries, 6 motor-cars, and 20 motor-bikes, and about 600 personnel, not to speak of a big travelling workshop and two or three break-down lorries. When you consider that this is merely the means of supplying one single division, you will faintly realise what a part mechanical transport plays in this war. There is no horse-train to a cavalry division, and the lorries deliver rations direct to the regimental quartermasters, so you stand a good chance of seeing all the fun if with the M.T. My duty is to make arrangements for translating the ration figures rendered daily to me by the Cavalry Brigades into terms of meat, bread, biscuit, forage, etc., and arrange for these to be loaded at railhead on to the lorries; then, in company with the M.T. officer of the day, to take these rations up to the units, at the same time obtaining the next day's feeding strength from the Brigade Supply Officers.

This particular M.T. column delivered rations in the front line trenches back in 1914, and once a portion of it was captured by the Boches and recaptured by the 18th Hussars.

The M.T. officers are a very efficient lot, and know their job from A to Z. Among them is Captain Hugh Vivian, a member of the famous firm of Vivian & Son, of Swansea and Landore, so near to our ancestral home. He is O.C. to the section of lorries to which I am attached—a most intellectual man of charming manners, who has travelled all over Europe and speaks French and German fluently. He is one of the ablest men I have met in the Army and I find him one of the best of fellows. He may have to leave us shortly, because his thorough knowledge of the metal trades has marked him out to the authorities as a man invaluable for the production of munitions at home.

You have to be with a Supply Column in order to get some idea of the vast quantities of food that are sent up daily to the Front. Never have I seen such quantities—innumerable quarters of meat, tons of bully, crates of biscuits, and cheese, butter, jam, sugar, tea galore. When you remember that all this food has been transported across the Channel, and much of it previously imported from foreign countries into England, you begin to comprehend the value of sea-power.

I am told that the Cavalry Brigade have had to fix up a special interpreter to assist in the requisitioning work since my departure! "Verbum sat sapienti"! Why the authorities should give a man nearly a year's training in one job and then shift him to something else, without reference to his faculties, experience, or wishes, I simply can't tell. Still, there it is, and we must assume that they know best.

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Early in July began the great battles of the Somme, when our New Army displayed before an admiring world its magnificent fighting qualities.

July 9th, 1916.

Things have been moving "a few" (as the Yanks say) on this front, haven't they? Let no one, however, delude himself with the belief that the business can be done in five minutes. Things in general in this war have a habit of moving slowly; also the enemy is undoubtedly well defended. Some of his dug-outs are 30 and 40 feet deep, with machine-guns on electric hoists, etc. The wily Boche has not wasted his time during his twenty odd months on this front. But what a relief it is to get back to action after so many months of sitting still!

I have seen numbers of wounded go through the various railheads. These cases were comparatively light wounds, the serious cases being removed by motor ambulance. But many of the gallant chaps I saw seemed in considerable pain. They were sent off in batches as soon as possible to a seaport, the returning supply trains being utilised for this purpose. Every one was in an incredible state of grime. It is the griminess of modern warfare that strikes me as its most characteristic feature.

For a whole fortnight I have lived, moved and had my being in a motor-lorry. I found it quite comfortable, though it was not inside the body of the vehicle that I had my dwelling. You see the lorries are almost always full of rations ready for delivery; so I slept in the driver's seat, and found it quite tolerable. It is just like the driver's seat on a motor-bus; in fact, many of the lorries are old London General omnibuses converted. Personally, I never wish for anything better, least of all on active service. There was a cushion and I had my blanket bag. What more could a man want?

The Ulster Division did remarkably well in the recent fighting. I am not surprised, for I saw them training in England, and was impressed by their toughness—hard-bitten, short, powerfully built men, who took things very seriously.

I can't tell you with what joy and pride I learnt that Lloyd George had been made Minister for War! I regard him as the outstanding personality of the age. Granted that he is sometimes rash, granted that he does not always master the details of the problem he is dealing with, granted that he sometimes propounds schemes before they are ripe; yet against that place (1) his wonderful personality, (2) his boundless vitality and energy, (3) his heartfelt sympathy for the downtrodden ones of the world, (4) his wonderful ideas and ideals, (5) his quickness of intelligence, (6) his ardent patriotism, (7) his remarkable powers of oratory, and (8) his almost uncanny gift of seeing into the future—and you have a man whose superior it would indeed be hard to find. Nietzsche would have welcomed him as his superman incarnate! I have never wavered in my admiration for L. G. Even when he was in hot water over Marconis, I stuck to him. Anyhow, was there ever a man who was absolutely perfect? Let us, for Heaven's sake, judge a man on his great points, and not "crab the goods" by always emphasising his weaknesses. Lloyd George is the man whom the Germans have more cause to fear than all the rest of the Cabinet or any of our authorities, civil or military.

July 17th, 1916.

In that mysterious quarter known as the back of the Front the motor-lorry is omnipresent, especially at a time like this. Wherever you go you see motor-lorries carrying food, ammunition, telegraphic appliances, barbed wire, gas cylinders, clothing, coal; in short, every sort and kind of article necessary to the service of an army in the field. Sometimes they are even used to carry up troops and to bring down wounded. During the Loos push, for instance, this column was hurriedly requisitioned to take up a Yorkshire battalion to the Hohenzollern Redoubt.

I was much interested in Kittermaster's last letter published in The Alleynian—a very characteristic bit of writing. There were very few fellows or masters either who ever got at Kitter's inner nature. He was always somewhat of a mystery to most people. This was accentuated by his taciturn temperament, his rather distant manner, and short, brusque way of speaking. But he certainly was one of the very best masters I can remember at Dulwich, and of the Corps he was a wonderful O.C. There have been many tributes to Kitter, but I scarcely think that people have done full justice in the obituary notices to Nightingale, the other Dulwich master who has given his life in the war—a sterling chap if ever there was one.

So Howard,[8] as well as R. B. B. Jones, now figures in the death roll! It seems but yesterday that we three were ragging together in the swimming baths, of which both these chaps were great habitués.

I am very sad, too, at the death of A. W. Fischer.[9] He and I got our 1st XV colours together in Killick's year, and were the best of friends throughout his last two years at school. He was a smallish, active forward of the Irish type, a splendid hard worker all through the game. He and I never on any occasion got crocked, and we played in every 1st XV match for two consecutive seasons, 1912-1914. He was a shrewd fellow, too, and well read, particularly in the classics. He had a very deep, rich voice, and used to do well every time in the competition for the Anstie Memorial Reading Prize. As a soldier he would have been almost ideal, as he was a rare good leader, and a devil-may-care chap who feared nothing. It is inexpressibly sad that he should have been taken away thus. And I haven't even seen him since we parted at the end of the summer term, 1914, just before this holocaust started. We shook hands on saying "Good-bye" on the cricket ground, he proceeding towards the school buildings, and I towards the pavilion. He was to have gone to Cambridge the ensuing October, and we had been talking of his chances of a "Blue," and if we would be able to play against each other in the coming season. But what use to raise up the vanished ghosts of the past? It only makes the tragedy more heart-breaking. It is up to us to see that these lives have not been laid down in vain.

July 25th, 1916.

I was up yesterday in the region where we won ground from the Germans, seeing to a dump of rations. The chief impression I brought away with me was one of all-pervading dust. I have witnessed a few scenes of destruction in my time out here, but nothing to match a certain village in this area. Vermelles was bad enough, but this place is even worse. Everything in it has been razed to the ground. Except for an occasional square foot of masonry protruding out of the earth, there is nothing to suggest that there was ever a village here at all. In one old German trench I saw a cross with the following words written on it: "Hier liegen zwei Franz. Krieger," which interpreted would be: "Here lie two French warriors," a tribute by the enemy to two Frenchmen buried here earlier in the war before we took over this portion of the line.

Alas! another old pal of mine has been killed, namely W. J. Henderson,[10] a captain of the Loyal North Lancashires. In the old days at Dulwich he did well in football. He got into the 2nd XV under Evans, and frequently played for the 1st XV. He was also decidedly clever, and won a classical scholarship at Oxford. The war is taking a frightful toll of the best of our race.

July 27th, 1916.

I should like to have your permission to apply for a transfer to the Royal Field Artillery. The procedure will be quite simple. I will send in my application to the O.C., who will forward it with the Medical Officer's health certificate to the higher A.S.C. authorities; then it will go forward in the usual course. If the people in charge think my record satisfactory and my eyesight good enough they will take me. I want to give the authorities a chance to take or refuse me for a really combatant corps. In this way, whether refused or accepted, I shall have satisfied my conscience. After all, the doctor will state on the medical certificate exactly what my vision is. So there will be no question of trying to deceive the authorities. They will have before them all the facts re my record and my eyesight. If they then refuse me, well and good. I shall accept the inevitable. If they take me, so much the better. I have had several chats with the Officer Commanding the Supply Column on the subject, and explained to him that I was utterly fed up with grocery work.

The scenes I have witnessed during and since this great attack—the Somme battles—have confirmed my resolution to go into the fighting line. You who have not seen the horrors of a modern campaign cannot possibly know the feelings of a young man who, while the real business of war is going on at his very elbow (for we are not far from the centre of things), and who is longing to be in the thick of the fighting, is yet condemned to look after groceries and do work which a woman could do probably a great deal better.

Oh! it is awful. And all this, mind you, with the knowledge that all the chaps one used to know are in the thick of it.

To sum up, I recognise that I have a serious physical defect. I shall not attempt to conceal it from the authorities; it would be wrong to do so. But I have also many physical, and I think some mental, advantages over the average man. Moreover, I am young and exceptionally strong. I give you my word of honour that in making my application I shall not conceal the facts about my short sight. Having lodged my application for transfer, it will be for the authorities to say whether they will take me or leave me. Please, please, give your approval to my putting in such an application. Occasions come to every man when he has to make up his mind for himself and by himself—as I did about my move to the Modern side of Dulwich. Was that a failure?

August 8th, 1916.

I am more thankful than I can say to have your permission to apply for transfer to the R.F.A. Since I wrote to you a circular has come from G.H.Q. stating that officers for the artillery are wanted urgently. They propose to send home two hundred officers a month till further notice for training at the Artillery School. I want, if possible, to avoid going home to train. I would like to go through my training course here, but I fear beggars can't be choosers, and in the case of a highly technical arm like the gunners the training may have to be done in England. Everybody with us is feeling restive; the inaction that prevails is getting beyond a joke.

As for the A.S.C., I consider that my particular branch of the service is overstocked. In itself the mere fact of the work not appealing to me (though I absolutely loathe it) would not be decisive. It is because I am convinced that I could do better work in other directions that I am longing for a transfer. Even the transport side of the A.S.C. I would not object to. It is the Supply, or grocery, side that I loathe. Had I remained in the post of Requisitioning Officer, with its variety of work and the possibility of exercising my linguistic gifts, I would have been moderately content. But in my heart and soul I have always longed for the rough-and-tumble of war as for a football match. What I have seen of the war out here has not frightened me in the least, but rather made me keener than ever to take part in the fighting. It is all very well to be an "organiser of victory," but it does not appeal to me, even if I had the particular type of mind necessary for success at it. But I am not a good business man, and the details of business bore me stiff. On the other hand, it is my passionate desire to share the hardships and dangers of this war.

It is not only my own desire and my own temperament that influence me, but the example of others. I pick up my newspaper to-day, and what do I see? Why, that a fellow that sat in the same form-room as I did two years back has won the V.C., paying, it is true, with his life for the honour. But what a glorious end! I mean, of course, my namesake, Basil Jones, the first Dulwich V.C., of whose achievement one can scarcely speak without a lump in the throat. Likewise I see my friend S. H. Killick, to whom I gave football colours, has been wounded. And think of the men who have fallen! Men of the stamp of Julian Grenfell, D. O. Barnett,[11] Rupert Brooke, Roland Philipps, R. G. Garvin, and W. J. Henderson have not hesitated to give up for their country all the brilliant gifts of character and intellect with which they would have enriched England had it not been for the war. The effect on me is as a trumpet call. All the old Welsh fighting blood comes surging up in me and makes me say, "Short sight or no short sight, I will prove my manhood!" If it should be my fate to get popped off—well, it is we younger men without dependants whose duty it is to take the risk. You will get some inkling of my feeling when you read in Garvin's father's article how his son, when sent off to the Divisional H.Q., lost all his spirits and begged to be sent back to the old battalion, and how, when he did get back to it, "his letters recovered their old clear tone." How well I can understand that!

My application for a transfer to the R.F.A. has now gone in. If I am refused I shall be broken-hearted, but my conscience will be clear. If I am accepted, it will be the happiest day of my life.

A few words now about some personal experiences. At a certain village not far from here are a number of Boche prisoners. Every day they go out to shovel refuse into army wagons, and then unload these wagons elsewhere on to refuse heaps. It is a daily occurrence to see a Boche mount up on the box beside the English driver, and off they go—if the Boche can speak English—chatting merrily as if there had never been a war. I have even seen Tommy hand over the reins to his captive, who cheerfully takes them and drives the wagon to its destination, while the real driver sits back with folded arms. That will show you how far the British soldier cultivates the worship of Hate. It is small incidents of this kind, unofficial and even illegal though they may be, that make one realise the true secret of Britain's greatness—her magnanimity and her kindliness.

August 14th, 1916.

The Dulwich Army List makes very interesting reading, though I notice some omissions and errors in it. Everyone seems to be doing something. It is as good a record as that of any other school or institution of any kind in the country. I have not yet had any news about my move to the Gunners, but the application has only been in a comparatively short time, and these things have to take their course. I know that my application was duly forwarded and recommended by my C.O. to the Divisional authorities. I shall be very much surprised if I don't get the transfer. By Jove! if I only can. You cannot imagine anyone being so fed up with anything as I am with my present job. Loathing is not the word for the feeling with which I regard it.

I am reading Burke on the French Revolution. It is brilliant writing, to be sure, but Burke is too biased and has not complete knowledge of his subject. You would think from the way he writes that the "Ancien Régime" was an ideal system of government which brought to France nothing but prosperity! Had he possessed the knowledge of Arthur Young, who had examined social and economic conditions in France with piercing eyes, he would doubtless have modified his views. Moreover, Burke forgets the maxim he himself laid down in his speeches on the American Revolution—that large masses of men do not, as a rule, rebel without some reason for so doing. It seems to me that Burke's heart and his inborn prejudices have run away with his head. Though he scoffs at people who try to work out systems of government on the lines of idealism, yet his own views are often purely idealistic, especially on the subject of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, whom he apparently regarded as a pair of demigods!

The style of the book is splendidly oratorical, sometimes too much so, but there are passages in it which it would be difficult to match even in the splendid realm of English prose—for example, his great panegyric on the State. On England, too, he is very fine. Many people to-day might do worse than read his defence of the British Constitution, though I personally disagree with some points in his argument. One sentence from this passage might be addressed to our Allies very appropriately to-day—"Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of great cattle reposing beneath the shadow of the British oak chew the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make the noise are the only inhabitants of the field."

Unfortunately the British people do bear a strong resemblance to great cattle, and it requires a Lloyd George to awaken the sleeping animals and galvanise them into movement.

Recently I got hold of a volume of de Musset. There is some beautiful verse in it, especially the "Ode to Lamartine," in which he has a great tribute to Byron.

Could you send me out the programme of the coming Promenade Concert season? I would give anything to hear Wagner and Beethoven once more. My allegiance to these giants, as to Shakespeare and Milton, grows stronger every day. The appalling tawdry trash that passes for music nowadays, and the degradation of art and literature which seems to be the feature of the twentieth century, intensify my loyalty to great musicians and noble writers. What is the cause of this decadence? There is surely enough inspiration for genius in this colossal war, when every day the spirit of man is winning new triumphs and deeds of extraordinary heroism are being performed.[Back to Contents]

August 21st, 1916.

I am delighted to tell you that I have been temporarily posted to a job of real interest and responsibility, having been given the command of a working-party composed of infantry, artillery, and A.S.C. men, whose function it is to load and unload ammunition at an important railhead not far from the Front. We are about 150 in all, and a very happy family. We live in tents and work under the orders of the Railhead Ordnance authorities. There is a vast amount of work, and it goes on continuously, at present from 4 A.M. to 9 P.M. daily, and sometimes throughout the night as well. It is a revelation to see the immense quantities of explosives, etc., that are sent up. I have nothing further to report about the R.F.A. transfer, but my C.O. has assured me that if my application is not successful I shall be able to return shortly to the Cavalry Brigade in my old capacity as Requisitioning Officer.

This working ammunition-party of which I am in command is located in a little town well in the swirl of war, with the guns booming in the near distance most of the day and night. The "unit under my command," to put it in official language, lives in a field by the railhead. We have a pair of first-rate sergeants (R.H.A. and Infantry) and various very sound A.S.C. n.c.o.s in charge. Everything goes merrily as a wedding-bell. A gunner officer looks after the administrative welfare, pay, etc., of the artillerymen, but the discipline and command of the unit as a whole devolve on yours truly.

Next door to us across the line there is a concentration camp of Boche prisoners. They work on the railway all day shovelling stones in and out of trucks and lorries. To the eternal credit of England the treatment the prisoners receive, the food supplied to them, and the conditions under which they live are all of the very best. They have their being in tents within a barbed wire enclosure, not too crowded, and have excellent washing facilities (hot baths once a week), good food and conveniences for its preparation, including huge camp kettles for cooking—in short, every comfort possible. The work they do is hard, but no harder than that many of our own fellows have to do in the normal course of events. The considerate way in which our prisoners are treated is a great tribute to British chivalry. An old French soldier, watching them one day in their camp, said to me: "Vous les traitez trop bien ces salots." I replied: "Oui, mais c'est comme ça que l'Angleterre fait la guerre—avec les mains toujours propres."

I was grieved to hear of the death of Lieutenant Ivor Rees, of Llanelly. He was a great friend of Arthur and Tom. It is awful, there is no doubt about it, the sacrifice of these lives cut short in their prime, but they are not wasted; of that I am convinced. Besides:

One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.

Lloyd George's Eisteddfod speech was very stirring. I like that phrase, "The blinds of Britain are not drawn down." I see the papers are discussing Ministerial changes. I hope whatever happens that Lloyd George will remain at the War Office—it is the place where his personality is wanted. I am reading two interesting French books: Émile Faguet's "Short History of French Literature" and Dumas' "Vingt Ans Après." I wish you would send me Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason," or one of Hegel's books. This evening I listened to Beethoven's "Egmont" overture—what a glorious work it is! Keep your eye for me on any books dealing with Beethoven or the immortal Richard.

September 2nd, 1916.

I am still in command of the ammunition working-party, and, entailing as it does real work and responsibility, am enjoying it hugely. All our men seem very happy. Their rations and living conditions are excellent. We have our own canteen, which does a great trade. It is a bad day if the canteen fails to take 250 francs, although it is open only from 12 to 2 and from 6 to 8 as per regulations.

We get our stuff from the nearest branch of the Expeditionary Force canteens, a military unit which does a colossal business at the back of the Front. It has depôts almost as large as those of the A.S.C. A sergeant-major of the nearest branch of the E.F.C. tells me that they calculate that at one depôt they take more money in a day than Harrod's Stores do in a week. The place is chock-a-block from morning to night, and outside there is always waiting a string of lorries, mess-carts, wagons, limbers, from all over the place. The part played by the E.F.C. in the war is by no means unimportant. It is a regular military unit, with officers, n.c.o.s and men (in khaki, of course), run under the authority of the War Office and subject to military law. Profits on sales go to the purchase of fresh stock, and I believe, in part, to the Military Canteens Fund at the War Office. The whole thing is run by the Director of Supply and Transport at the W.O., and is commanded out here by an A.S.C. major. It is difficult not to make profits on canteens; even in our comparatively small one, we constantly find ourselves saddled with more money than is required, and this although the prices charged to the men are the lowest possible. One great merit of the canteens is that they prevent the men from being "rooked" by unscrupulous civilians, who, I regret to say, are to be found in force in some of these French towns and villages.

The military canteen movement on its present huge scale has only been possible to us because of (1) the comparatively high rates of pay in the British Army; (2) the command of the sea, making transport from England simple and easy; (3) the inexhaustible reservoirs of supply and manufacture that exist within the British Empire. There can be no doubt about it that the path of the British soldier in this war has been made as easy as it is possible to make it—an incalculable advantage to a nation that has had to create a great voluntary Army in a comparatively short space of time. Whatever faults the military authorities may have committed in other directions, they have kept steadily in view the Napoleonic maxim, "An army moves on its stomach."

The Boche prisoners round about here work energetically. They must, I fancy, be amazed themselves at the manner in which they are treated—the abundance of food, the entire absence of rancour on our part, and the general conditions under which they work and live. Actually, they get their Sunday afternoons off. Some of them have been given a little plot of land close to the internment camp, where they are busy gardening in their leisure time. In the camp they have all sorts of work-tables and tools, and you often see some of them doing carpentering after their day's work is done. The prisoners stroll about the camp and its environs at will, and the men on guard are continually chatting and joking with them. The ration of the prisoners includes fresh meat and bread every day, and a supply of tobacco and cigarettes once a week. It is much to the credit of Britain that her captives in war should be treated with so much generosity. Don't let the Government abandon this policy of broad magnanimity because of the noisy clamour of armchair reprisalists at home. By the way, these Boche prisoners observe the rules of discipline even in their captivity, and when British or French officers pass by they stand respectfully to attention. Most of the prisoners are big chaps.

If you have not read it, let me recommend to you a book by John Buchan called "The Thirty-nine Steps." To my mind it is the cleverest detective story I have read since the exploits of Sherlock Holmes. It is in a way a sort of enlarged version of an earlier story by Buchan that appeared in Blackwood's Magazine called the "Power House." As in the "Power House," the chief villain is merely hinted at; he is only fully revealed in the last page. Throughout the rest of the story he is one of those genial, cheery old men who are always puffing cigars and drinking whisky. The incidents take place in England and are connected with a series of events that precipitated the present war. I enjoyed the book and admired the ingenuity with which the plot is worked out. The writing is vigorous and there is no sloppy sentimentality.

September 6th, 1916.

Yesterday my working party had orders suddenly to shift its quarters to a spot farther up the line. Having struck camp we started off about 2 P.M. in motor char-à-bancs and lorries. After about two hours' plunging about in roads that were like quagmires we arrived at our destination, a newly formed railhead, not far from the battle line. It is situated on a sort of plateau. The surrounding country is thick with guns. In the past twelve hours there has been a terrific bombardment, the guns booming incessantly. Even Loos, which wasn't so bad while it lasted, pales into insignificance in comparison. At night the sky reminds one of the Crystal Palace firework show in its palmiest days. It is a fine place this from the point of view of health, being high up and open to the fresh air and the sunshine. I am feeling absolutely splendid both in health and spirits. It is a treat to be up where things are happening.

September 12th, 1916.

Pursuant to orders from the Division, I marched my party up to join another working party that is engaged on duty whose scope extends as far as the most recently gained ground. We are quartered along with a lot of cavalry at a point in the area captured, and are just in front of our big guns. The country all around is a veritable abomination of desolation. Its surface is intersected at innumerable points with ditches, in which much splendid English blood has flowed. Here and there, looking very forlorn, are stark and blasted stumps that used to be woods. Above and around the ceaseless voice of the guns fills the air with its clamour. Steel helmets and gas helmets are the standing order for us when on duty.

Whom do you think I met this morning to my great delight? No less a person than Peaker,[12] now an officer of the K.R.R.s. He was just back from a certain spot in the line, where his lot had "gone over" with good results. The story of his experiences occasioned heartburnings to myself as regards the part I've been playing in the war behind the battle line. He had recently met Cartwright, G. T. K. Clarke, and the elder Dawson—all old Alleynians, who have had the privilege of participating in the "push." On the advice of the Divisional A.A. and Q.M.G., I am reluctantly leaving over the question of transfer to the R.F.A. till things get more settled. At present I am away from the Division, and it is difficult, almost impossible in fact, for me to arrange the interviews with the Medical and Artillery authorities that are necessary as a preliminary to transfer. Still, as I am getting plenty of interesting work at my present job I don't mind waiting.

September 14th, 1916.

Last night I was detailed to go up with a working party engaged in operations on the very site of the last great battle. The whole business took place under cover of darkness. After an hour and a half's trudging, up hill and down dale, we got to the allotted spot and began our work. The night was alive with noises—ear-splitting reports of big guns, the shrieks and whistles of shells in transit, and the rat-tat-tat of machine-guns. Now and again the darkness would be illuminated by the glare of star-shells. I think I mentioned to you before the mournful desolation of this war-scarred countryside—land without grass, without trees, without houses, nothing more now than a wilderness, with yawning shell craters innumerable, and here and there blackened and branchless stumps that used to be trees. We were near the site of a village famous in the annals of British arms. A single brick of that village would be worth its weight in gold as a souvenir. As we worked in the darkness the air was polluted by a horrible stench, and as soon as one's eyes got accustomed to the gloom there became visible silent twisted forms that used to be men. But enough; I dare not tell you of the ghastly scenes on that historic battlefield; it would give you nightmare for weeks to come if I did.

Out here one gets into a callous state, in which these things, while unpleasant, are scarcely noticed in the whirl and confusion of events. Personally at the time, in traversing this battlefield, I was slightly horrified at first, but chiefly conscious only of the frightful odour of mortality. It is on thinking the thing over in retrospect and with cold blood that the real sense of horror begins to creep into one's soul. Such is the so-called "ennobling influence of war"! As I went over this grim battlefield, with all its tragic sights, I reflected bitterly on the triumph of twentieth-century civilisation.

Our work occupied us about five hours, and we trekked for home before dawn. Through the night there was movement and activity—ration parties, walking wounded, stretcher-bearers, reliefs, all moving silently in the darkness like so many phantoms. I have picked up a number of souvenirs from the old Boche trenches, including a Boche steel helmet, with a shrapnel hole in the side as big as a crown-piece. Its wearer must have "gone West" instanter.

September 21st, 1916.

In the last few days two other officers and myself have been in charge of working parties. Starting out at 8 A.M., it is our habit to proceed on foot to places distant anything up to three and four miles, returning in the late afternoon. Yesterday we got to our destination about 9 A.M., and found the Boche "crumping" with fair regularity the vicinity of an apology for a road. Though little more than a muddy track, and only recently captured by us, this road is full of traffic most hours of the day. The "Hun" knows this and acts accordingly. As we were marching gaily up about 9 A.M. he began a "strafe" of the district with pretty heavy shells at intervals of a couple of minutes. Suddenly came a bang about thirty yards in front of us on the road, and he put a beautiful shot almost under the wheels of a lorry, digging a huge crater in the road, into which the crumpled-up chassis subsided with a crash. Fortunately the driver was not there, or for him it would have been a case of "kingdom come." I was at the head of our lot, along with my friend Lieutenant Gardner. We considered what we should do—whether to push straight through to our destination, which was not two hundred yards away, to wait where we were, or split up into small parties. We arranged that he should lead on, while I would wait to see all the column pass and hurry up stragglers. Gardner had not got farther than fifty yards when a six-incher came plonk within a few yards of him. Luckily he and all his lot had time to prostrate themselves, and there were no casualties. I was gathering the remainder of the party, when whew! crash! and I felt a terrific detonation at my very elbow, and for a moment was stunned and deafened. A Boche shell had pitched not five yards behind me. How I was not blown to smithereens will always be a marvel to me. As I staggered about under the shock of the explosion I could feel bits of steel and earth pattering on my helmet like rain. After the first momentary shock I was in full possession of my wits, and I quickly realised that, for the moment at least, I had lost all sense of hearing in my right ear. But this was a small price to pay for the escape. Such a miracle would assuredly never happen again. A few hours later I had regained a good deal of hearing power, but it is not right yet. Experts, however, tell me that this effect will pass off in time. A fragment of the shell passed through the right sleeve of my heavy overcoat. I am glad to say we had no casualties at all, though the enemy kept on dropping heavy stuff round about us all day.

Well, cheer-oh! I am keeping as fit as a horse. My appetite, I regret to say, gets bigger every day.

September 27th, 1916.

Our working party having finished its duties, I have now been appointed Requisitioning Officer to the 2nd Cavalry Brigade. This is much better than that horrible job with the Supply Column. The war news is splendid, but some glorious men have "gone West." We are paying a big price for victory. The death of Raymond Asquith is a great tragedy. A brilliant life extinguished, one that gave promise of great things. I had a shock to-day on reading in the paper that my old friend H. Edkins,[13] who took a Junior Scholarship at Dulwich in the same year as I did, is reported among the missing. He was an able and gifted fellow. Do you remember how well he sang at the school concert in December, 1914? With all my heart I hope he's all right. I wish you would get for me Professor Moulton's book, "The Analytic Study of Literature."[Back to Contents]

October 3rd, 1916.

Here I am a Requisitioning Officer again, this time for another Cavalry Brigade. I was sorry not to get back to my old comrades. Still, it is a change to work with new regiments. This Cavalry Brigade is a famous body of troops. To it belongs the honour of having been the first lot of Britishers in action in the war. While I like my duties, I am beginning to feel restive, and am longing to get back to the real battle zone. What think you of our new war machines? [Tanks were first employed on September 15, 1916.—Editor.] I have had many opportunities of studying them on the move. One would scarcely believe it possible they could go over ground such as I have seen them comfortably traverse. No obstacle seems insurmountable to them. They are quaint-looking things, but, in spite of the Press correspondents, they are no more like to, or suggestive of, primeval monsters than a cow resembles a chaff-cutter.

Ireland is an enigma and no mistake. The man who settles the Irish problem will go down to history. The difficulty would appear to be to effect any rapprochement of the English and Irish national points of view, these having been determined by the different environments of the two races. In national life as in nature the law of natural selection operates.

I rejoice to say that I've got two horses again, one a big brown horse, very strong and a hard worker, the other a powerful bay mare. Neither is particularly good-looking, but I've learnt from experience that soundness and strength in a horse are more to be desired than good looks, especially when campaigning. It is seldom that you can combine all the qualities. Breed and blood tell in horses. A well-bred horse will outlast a common one, because it tries harder. What you want is a judicious mixture of breed and strength. My two horses are pretty well-bred and have great strength, and always try hard; so I'm pretty well off, I reckon.

I observe that those blighted Zeppelins have been about England again. But really the Zepp. is a colossal failure, whether you regard it from the point of view of doing military injury, or damage likely in any way to help Germany in the war, such as impairing the morale of the British people. The best reply to the Zepps. is being given day and night on the Somme, where hundreds of thousands of Boches must at present be wishing they had never been born. I am surprised they have stuck our bombardment as they have done, but I am bound to say that the Boche is by no means a coward.

I am at present deeply immersed in Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason." It is a great work, and not by any means one to be read in a hurry. Every line is charged full with deep thinking. It appeals to me intensely. Kant's was a gigantic mind.