Chapter XIV: Part II: War Letters (1)

(From a Photograph by his Brother)]

AT A HOME PORT

From April 15, 1915, to July 26 in the same year Second Lieutenant H. P. M. Jones was employed at a home port which was, and is, one of the principal centres of supply for the British Expeditionary Force. He was glad of the opportunity of obtaining an insight into the methods of supplying the British Army in the field, and was impressed with the thoroughness, efficiency, and businesslike promptitude of the Army Service Corps. He took the earliest chance of quitting this routine work and applying for service abroad.

_May 15th_, 1915.

You London folk seem to have been having high times with the
enemy aliens. It is quite startling and quite pleasant to see
English people roused to do things at last. I see from the photos
in the papers that the rioting was done for a great part by men
of fighting age who ought to be in the Army. It stands to reason
that it is always the dregs of the population who show their
patriotism by this sort of behaviour. Still, it is refreshing to
see someone taking some sort of action. Everybody here is cursing
the Government for its remissness with regard to Germans and
Austrians resident in this country. There are exceptions, such as
Germans who have absorbed the British spirit, but, generally
speaking, Germans, even if naturalised, must retain their
patriotic feelings towards their Fatherland, and the patriotic
German is, of course, England's enemy. Therefore he will try his
best to do us all the harm he can.

Personally I think we ought to take stern action in regard to the
internment of all Germans in this country. My argument is not
based on trivial ideas of retaliation or punishment, but it is
based on facts such as the following: (_a_) I am a Britisher,
Britain is fighting; so I fight for Britain and wish to see her
everywhere victorious: (_b_) In Nature the strongest survive and
the weaker go to the wall, and in this war Britain must prove
herself either the stronger or the weaker: (_c_) Our policy must
be guided by the idea of proving ourselves the stronger in deeds,
not words--not by talk of justice or right, because invariable
universal abstract standards of justice and right never existed,
and never will exist, in this world. The ideal never was anything
but a dream--that is why the poet can never be a politician, and
vice versa. We must not let sentimental considerations stand
between us and victory. Sounds just like a German talking,
doesn't it? Yes, I do agree with the German point of view--except
as regards frightfulness, which is really folly and does not
achieve its end--but I transfer the point of view to England. Why
should England allow any rival to stand in her way? In any case,
are we not the world's greatest political people and the best
colonisers? Leave the realms of Art to the other nations if you
like--England never will be artistic, I fear--but Art is not
politics. Politics--I mean primarily foreign policy--signifies
the adaptation of a nation to environment of time, place and
circumstance, and it is that which is the ruling fact of life.

I am now quite converted to the doctrine of facts. Though
passionately idealistic in many respects, I realise that the
_Facts_ of life are in cruel but deadly opposition to the
_Ideals_ of life, and that while the Ideal remains a dream the
cruel Fact remains the reality.

This pseudo-philosophy arises from my having read Arnold
Bennett's article in to-day's _Daily News_, and also from a
perusal of Hudson's "Herbert Spencer." Bennett is just an
idealist, but in dealing with those cruel realities of which I
have spoken, he seems to me a child. Any attempt to dissociate
the acts of the German Government from the views of the German
people--in other words to assume that a great part of the latter
want peace--is absurd. Look at France in 1870. When the Second
Empire was overthrown and the Third Republic set up in its place,
did the Republicans seek peace? No, they proceeded to prosecute
the war to the utmost and tried to drive the invader off the soil
of France. And even if in this war a succession of defeats should
overthrow the German Kaiser and his Government, do you think the
Germans would submit forthwith, and throw themselves on the mercy
of the Allies? No, they will fight to the last man, woman and
child to prevent the Rhine being crossed. So we should realise
that, for our own safety's sake, we must reduce the German
military forces to a position of helplessness--in fact, utterly
destroy them, if we are to have any settlement. It is Germany or
ourselves; and till one or the other is up or down, the war will
go on.

To crush the Germans we must put every ounce into the struggle.
Are we doing so? I cannot think it when I see Parliament taking
such a disgraceful line on the question of drink. Small wonder
that Lloyd George exclaims, "What an ignoble spectacle the House
of Commons presents now!" I had thought the British Parliament to
be a great and potent institution. Now I think it is a
convocation of old apple women. What we want is a Cromwell or a
Napoleon to knock together the heads of political parties and
declare, "No more drink." What will history say when it is
recorded that in the midst of this great struggle the British
people refused to give up the drink that was poisoning their
lives and hindering the work of the nation, and that the
influence of a few brewers and capitalists was sufficient to
prevent any serious reform being passed in that House which is
supposed to be the people's representative?

As for the recent anti-German riots, they seem to me to have been
organised by those slack loafing elements of the population who
lounge about refusing to enlist. Still, I suppose this is a
necessary product of our type of national civilisation. Yet that
system--the English or insular, I call it--has done, as it will
do, marvels. So perhaps all is for the best, but I am grieved
beyond measure at the collapse of L. G.'s scheme for drastic
treatment of the drink evil. He at least is a man.

Do you realise what a fine part amateur sportsmen are playing in
this war? I really doubt if there will be many great athletes
left if things go on as they are doing. On the same day I read
that Poulton-Palmer and R. A. Lloyd are gone. Only last year, I
remember seeing those two as Captains of England and Ireland
respectively, shaking hands with each other and with the King at
the great Rugby Football match at Twickenham. I see news is to
hand also of the death in action of A. F. Wilding, a great
athlete who neither drank nor smoked. So in three days we have
lost the most brilliant and versatile centre three-quarter in
Poulton, the cleverest drop-kick in the world in Lloyd, and the
world's champion tennis-player in Wilding!

_June 6th, 1915._

Lloyd George in his two last speeches has said more than anyone
else during the war. He is an extraordinary man, and at his
greatest when rallying the workers. I see that the Tory Press is
enthusiastic about him, and also about Winston Churchill's speech
of yesterday. L. G.'s remark that "conscription is not
undemocratic" has set a new train of thought stirring in this
country. Up to now, in the view of the average Englishman,
democracy and conscription had been set at opposite poles.
Personally I am not exactly a democrat, an aristocrat, a
monarchist, a socialist, or a constitutionalist, but a sort of
combination of them all, and a firm believer in the Will to Power
and in the Strong Man. But the point is that England certainly
inclines to democracy--meaning by democracy _laissez-faire_.
Hence what is needed in a crisis like this is to bring into
operation a system which, while partaking of a democratic nature,
and so not being repugnant to the national type (as developed by
geography, circumstance and history) may yet bring into play the
advantages of military training and national organisation. If you
can persuade the stolid Englishman to adopt a sort of
semi-voluntary military system, which is voluntary or appears so
to him, yet puts him under discipline, well then you have an
ideal system for England to win this war by. Of course, there is
an alternative scheme, namely, for some man of outstanding
personality to come along and say, "Look here, I am master, and
by my force of character I will compel you to bow to a system
which I know to be good for you and which will in the end benefit
you." Lloyd George might be even such a man--a Cæsar, a
Charlemagne, a Cromwell, or a Napoleon.

But I confess that this amazing English race is hard to bend,
even when a man of outstanding personality arises. Did not Oliver
himself--a superman if ever there was one--fail in his efforts to
make better those whom he ruled? Still, as Goethe says,
"Personality makes the man," and perhaps even in England a great
man might force our stubborn nation to his will. But I confess I
doubt it. Besides, I fear the system would break down as soon as
the immediate need for it had vanished. We must have regard to
the evolution of our type of race-species when trying to frame
measures for its advance to victory over another type of
race-species, for the simple reason that, if we do not, the
system we are trying to set up will remain in the air, and never
come to anything until the people have become sufficiently
educated in our way of thinking to accept such a scheme. It seems
to me that you could never make a British Army on a German model,
or a German Army on a British model, because of the difference
between the types of the two nations--the only exception being
where you have a superman with a wonderful mind and personality
to plan the pattern and enforce its adoption.

Our problem in England is to organise the very individualistic
British race without letting them imagine that they are being
organised. This sounds like the problem about the irresistible
force up against the insurmountable obstacle. But seriously if
you have followed my train of thought you will agree with me that
what is wanted is to frame a system of military service and
national organisation which yet conforms to the national
predilection in favour of _laissez-faire_. This would not be so
difficult if there were two or three centuries to do it in; the
difficulty is that we must do it at once. Perhaps it is
impossible; perhaps the influence of our insular environment will
be too strong ever to allow a general military system to grow up
here--I don't know, but I hope not. Anyway, it is Lloyd George to
whom we look to turn the wheels, because he has personality and
that almost uncanny Celtic gift of seeing into the future.

Is it not clear that the Germans have developed to the full a
system of organisation in harmony with their national character?
Geography has rendered necessary to them a certain type of
national policy, and I consider their methods were the only
possible ones for them, though they badly needed a clever
diplomatist to deceive Europe in these latter years. Now
Bismarck, if he had lived until to-day, would probably have
secured for Germany a leading place, not by directly fighting
England--who is, of course, the natural rival of Germany--the old
story of the first and the second boy in the class--but by
embroiling her at some suitable moment with other Powers. Then,
when all would have been weakened by the war, Germany would step
in and take the spoils. Fortunately for us the Prussian is a
thoroughly bad diplomatist; and he has preferred open force to
policy. Last year the Germans really played their cards
astoundingly badly. Did we? Well, in one sense, yes, in that we
failed to have a force ready to give the Germans a swift blow as
soon as they ventured on an invasion of Belgium. On the other
hand, no, because Edward Grey, acting openly, and in accordance
with British traditions, yet succeeded by some extraordinary
means in duping our enemies and making them rush into a war never
expecting that we would participate in it. By accident Grey
blundered into a marvellous stroke of diplomacy. Of course, we
know that all his actions were governed by an honest desire to
preserve peace, but the facts show that he really deceived the
Germans more than Machiavelli would have done. (The Prussian, in
the average, is very prone to misunderstand his enemy.) The
Germans thought we would not come in; we did come in, just when
they were not expecting it; in effect, that was a master-stroke.
Where we failed was that we were not ourselves ready with an
adequate force. Though we strangled German commerce at sea and
helped to save France, we were deficient in many elements of an
army, and are still woefully so. That is the natural result of
insularity.

Now if through the folly of Ministers we lose this great chance
of settling with our rival, we shall be cutting our own throats.
You see, I have led you, by a devious path, back to the old
problem--the necessity for organising England to win this war and
to establish her national type as supreme. We must take any and
every step necessary to set this great nation of ours even higher
than it stands now. Some nation must be political leader of the
international polity; why not England, whose extraordinary
colonising and governing ability is so well known? I am tired to
death of talk about "crushing militarism" and of wild dreams of
"a union of small States." If you want to see the latter process
in operation, look at the normal state of the Balkans! States may
have all the "rights" in the world, but if they are not strong
enough in a political and military sense, they will never be able
to maintain them. Since England--great and wise nation that she
is!--has the sense to use her power benignantly, what harm would
there be if she were to assert it over weaker national organisms,
as man has done over the beasts? This would certainly not be
possible without repeated wars. Subject nations may be treated as
easily and as freely as you like when under our sway, but they
must be conquered first, and we must keep our power over them
even though it is hidden.

But I am dreaming myself now, for there is nothing eternal in
Nature except conflict and change; and as our Empire grew, so, I
fear, it must some day decay. Evolution is no respecter of
persons. Anyway it is our duty to postpone that day of decline as
long as we can. In my view England's claims are above all others.
Our Allies are just so much use to us as we can make of them.
They, too, have their national ambitions and interests, and, of
course, if these clashed with ours, they would go off on their
own. I blame them not at all. It is as well, however, to be
prepared for contingencies. For example, four or five sparrows
will combine to attack a larger bird which has a piece of bread.
As soon as they get the bread the sparrows themselves begin to
squabble for its possession; and perhaps two or three will set on
the one that has hold of it and force him to give it up. Such is
Nature--a theatre of vast, unceasing conflict. Men and nations
all come under the great immutable law.

_July 19th, 1915._

This coal strike in South Wales is a baffling business. As usual,
English lack of system is to blame. The Government ought to have
taken over all the mines, as they did the railways, right at the
start of the war. But _laissez-faire_ said "No." Now see the
result. Undoubtedly men, employers and Government are all to
blame--the Government for not organising the system and failing
to stop the increased profits of the owners due to the rise in
prices; the owners for taking those profits and making all sorts
of unkept promises during the past year about meeting the men to
discuss what should be done with war profits; and the men because
they are imperilling the whole fate of the Navy for the sake of a
few more pence a day, and for failing to show that generosity of
spirit which they ought to exhibit in a national crisis like
this. What gives the lie to those critics who denounce the
unpatriotic conduct of the miners is the astounding proportion of
recruits from the affected areas, and the fact that thousands of
strikers have sons, brothers and other relatives in the trenches.
The whole thing is almost a judgment on English haphazard
methods, though I know those methods are only the product of our
insular position. After all, we fought Napoleon with almost a
revolution going on in Ireland. And do you remember the Six Acts?
So history repeats itself.

The Germans are still astounding the world. This move on Russia
will, I think, be ranked by military historians in the future as
one of the most immense things in the story of the war--a
parallel, but on a far larger scale, with the French and our own
advance from the Marne to the Aisne. Unfortunately, I am afraid
the Germans will be more successful than we were on that
occasion--for we only drove them back 20 or 30 miles, but the
Germans now seem to be menacing two great cities, half a dozen
first-class fortresses, and four vital railway lines. There is no
doubt that they, at least, are not playing at war. And to think
that it should be Wales that may be half-crippling the Navy when
we are matched with such a foe! If the Navy fails, then Heaven
help us! I don't think we can lose even now, but I doubt now if
Germany can lose. It may be 1793-1815 over again!

Don't imagine that economics end war. Nations can easily do
without trade if they will. To win a war, in ninety-nine cases
out of a hundred, you have to beat the enemy's forces decisively
in the field and put large bodies of his troops permanently out
of action, or capture important tracts of territory such as corn
land or mining districts, without which he cannot wage the war.
Nothing has done us more harm than all this talk about
"attrition." People say, "Oh, it's all right, we can strangle
Germany by means of our Navy, and only time is wanted." As a
matter of fact, Germany is so well prepared by environment,
history, and her own endeavours for such a war that were Berlin
itself in our hands, I would not like to say we should have won.
Berlin has in the past been entered by the enemy, and yet the
Germans have defeated their foes. Look at Frederick the Great--he
won his wars with half his own country in the enemy's hands. Make
no mistake, we shall have to cut the German Army to pieces if we
are to win. And we shall not succeed, at least not for any
practical purpose, unless we put every man into his right place
to win the war. We want the shell-makers at home, the soldiers in
the field, the mere politician on the scrap-heap, and capable men
at the head of affairs. There must be no more of this muddling
War Office policy, no more of this defective control of vital
industries and these scandalous deficiencies in equipment.

WITH THE 9th CAVALRY BRIGADE

On July 27, 1915, Paul Jones left Waterloo Station for service abroad. Shortly after his arrival in France he was ordered to proceed to the Headquarters of the 9th Cavalry Brigade (1st Cavalry Division), having been appointed Requisitioning Officer to the Brigade. His thorough knowledge of French was the determining factor in securing him this appointment, a very responsible one for a youth of 19.

_August 5th, 1915._

At length a chance to write a letter home. I seem to have been
travelling for weeks, and I had no time for anything but hasty
postcards. My address may not convey much geographically, but I
will take the risk of saying that I am very far up country,
and--which of course pleases me immensely--not many miles from
the real Front. My work involves a great deal of French
conversation and much riding and motoring. I am, in fact, a
Requisitioning Officer, a title which almost explains itself.

The journey up from the base seemed absolutely endless, but was
never lacking in interest, so much was there to see. The glorious
spirits of our men would be a lesson to the Jeremiahs at home.
Never had I expected, never could I believe possible, that such a
wonderfully jovial spirit could prevail among men going to
certain danger and hardship and possible death. I saw a lot of
Welshmen on the way, and wherever one met them they were singing
in those gloriously rich Welsh voices.

How kind-hearted our soldiers are I realised on my journey up.
Frequently alongside the railway line were groups of French
kiddies shouting, "Souvenirs!" "Souvenirs!" In response our
fellows were chucking out to them from the train all sorts of
things, bully beef, bread, biscuits, etc., and laughing and
chatting at the windows. What a diversity of tongues and accents
among our soldiers! Cockney, Lancashire, Scotch, Welsh and West
Country were easily recognisable. For cheerfulness and kindness
you will never match the British Tommy.

I don't see so very much difference between the new and the old
France, except for the greater number of uniforms; the same gay
old café-life goes on as always.

Only four out of the fifteen A.S.C. officers who left London on
Monday last came up-country, and I was one of the four. Eureka!
also Banzai! There ought to be a chance of some excitement,
anyhow. I am in glorious health and spirits and feel very pleased
with life. Isn't it fine that my desire to be really close to the
thick of things should be so fully gratified? Tell Hal I had two
delightful swims at the base.

_August 9th, 1915._

My mare is temporarily _hors de combat_ with a cut on the hock.
This is a nuisance, as I have now to rely on the hospitality of
other officers in lending me either their horses or their
motor-cars, or, alternatively, go about on a push-bike when I
have to travel far afield, which happens almost daily. Before the
week is out I am expecting to go right up into the firing-line.
One is astounded at the off-hand manner in which officers who
have been in the trenches take the most hair-raising adventures.
An artillery officer was telling us to-day with the utmost
sang-froid of the difficulty he and his comrades had in eating
their dinner when poison-gas was blowing about. The gas made
their eyes water to such a degree that everybody at the mess
seemed to be weeping bitterly. He also told us that for a long
time they had had no need of réveillé, as the Boches had a habit
of dropping a Jack Johnson near by every morning at 6.15
punctually. In the short time I have been out here I have been
struck with the glorious English coolness and the steadfast
refusal to get flurried that marks all our tribe.

In our relations with the inhabitants of the countryside we show
consideration and strict honesty. Every bit of damage done is
compensated, every blade of grass is paid for, although
necessarily we have first to investigate the validity of claims
for damage. The whole thing is very characteristic of British
integrity. I am going very strong and gradually getting the hang
of my work, which is decidedly interesting.

We had a remarkable concert the other night. The whole
thing--stage, paints, wigs, orchestra, curtains, scenery,
everything--was got up by the 1st Cavalry Division Supply Column,
and most of the performers were A.S.C. men. The most popular
vocalist turned up on his own, however, viz. Captain the Maclean,
of Lochbuie (of the 19th Hussars), who is quite an artist in his
way. This gay, debonair Scotsman is simply worshipped by the men.
One of the latter (himself holding the D.C.M. and the French
Médaille Militaire for conspicuous bravery at Landrecies) told me
Maclean was the bravest man he had ever seen; he is always at the
head of a rush whether on horseback or on foot, and invariably
goes into action with a hunting-crop.

A French Territorial Infantry Regiment marched into the town
yesterday. They all wore the new grey uniform that is superseding
the red trousers and blue tunics of the old days. Quite an
interesting spectacle! But for sheer beauty you should see our
cavalry on the move. A wonderful sight, I assure you, even
without all the gay accoutrements of the Military Tournament. In
fact, to my mind, the field-dress makes the affair even more
impressive. The horses are simply beauties, and every one of them
is in perfect condition.

I have met an old Bedfordian among the cavalry. We have had many
a chat comparing notes as to the past, especially in regard to
the fierce-fought struggles of old between Bedford and the
Blue-and-Blacks. We hope to get some sort of Rugger up when the
winter comes, though of course a very great proportion of the
cavalry officers are men from Eton, Harrow, Winchester and other
schools where, I regret to say, the game of games is not played!
They will have to be taught.

_August 13th, 1915._

A lot of cavalry men are up trench-digging and I have had my
first experience of being up really close to the firing-line. It
doesn't take one long to get from here to the thick of things,
and we were soon apprised of the fact by heavy and ponderous
crashes. Just above us a British aeroplane was winging its flight
towards the German lines. Presently one saw small flashes of
flame in the air all around it, followed by curious little puffs
of smoke; then came the sound of exploding shells; you know that
light travels faster than sound. The Boches were potting at the
'plane. However, the British airman was easily able to clear
away. After this, a Taube came in our direction and our artillery
was having pots at it. Pursued by two British 'planes the Taube
turned tail and skedaddled, passing exactly over our car. I
wonder it didn't buzz a bomb at us, for the road was crowded with
cars, lorries, waggons, and columns of marching soldiers. But it
didn't, and went off as fast as it could lick.

We soon reached a village which, during the previous day, had
been subjected to a mild bombardment. The results even of a few
shells were staggering. A large number of the houses and the
village church were shattered into atoms; nothing left but heaps
of bricks, with here and there a wall standing amid the débris.
To me it was a remarkable spectacle, though my companions assured
me that this village was in a positively palatial condition
compared to other places farther up. Just as we reached the
troops we were destined for, an appalling crash rent the air, and
went echoing away like a peal of thunder. It was the British
heavy artillery at work, though we couldn't see any batteries.
Meanwhile the Boches were aiming at our aeroplanes which were
flying above us continually. Amid all this our fellows were quite
unmoved, and an exciting game of Soccer was in progress, every
successful effort being cheered to the echo by the soldier
spectators. And that, mind, though only last night the Boches put
twenty-eight of our men out of action not far from this very
spot, landing three shells on top of them at midnight, killing
one and wounding twenty-seven others, not to mention several
horses.

Our route now lay along a road roughly parallel to the
firing-lines, and only a few miles behind them. We passed several
camps, where all sorts of regiments were quartered. Then we came
to quite a big town, which was packed with lorries and field
ambulances, and with columns of British soldiers, always
cheerful, though in many cases much fatigued. Finally we came
back to our quarters. To me the whole experience was most
interesting and exciting, and I am eagerly looking forward to a
repetition of it. Next time I shall go right up to the real
centre of things. It is great to be so near the scrapping, and I
only hope a chance of real fighting does come my way. Anyhow, I
am ready to do my duty, whatever it may be.

Well, the Germans have got that Petrograd-Warsaw railway.
Apparently some people anticipate an advance on Petrograd itself.
The war is assuming a phase very like that of the Napoleonic
struggles. I hope 1812 repeats itself, but candidly I don't think
that the Boches will put their heads into the lion's mouth by
risking an advance into Russia with winter coming on.

TO HIS BROTHER

_August 18th, 1915._

I am very busy, but my work is becoming more and more
interesting, and I am about in the open air almost all the time.
To-day I have had a twenty-mile horse-ride. My little mare ran
like clockwork. She is a gem of a horse. I am hoping also to get
some motor driving. There is no speed limit here. Talk about
express trains! No; Rugby football is not much appreciated by the
9th Brigade. Cavalry officers swear by polo. To see them play a
polo match is a sheer delight, for they are the best horsemen in
the world.

Many men of our Cavalry Division are at present employed in
making a reserve line of trenches some distance behind the real
article. Our own brigade is digging vigorously in the grounds of
a fine old château. The Supply Officer and I, as his understudy,
go up continually in a car conveying special supplies and to do
various other duties. The château grounds are well within enemy
gun range, and most of the neighbouring buildings have been blown
to atoms. Yesterday the first news that greeted us from the
trench-diggers was that they had been bombarded that morning by
gas shells, among other pleasant surprises. While we were
pursuing our duties I heard a boom, followed by a long, sighing
screech, then a violent crash about fifty yards off. It was a
German shell. Another and yet another followed. Suddenly an
R.A.M.C. man came running up to fetch a stretcher--someone had
been knocked out. As the nearest man at hand I joined him in
carrying the stretcher, and we doubled our fastest for the trees
where the first shot had pitched. We found that an R.A.M.C. man
had been struck above the ankle by a piece of shrapnel. The wound
was small, but deep and ugly, and the leg was broken. The poor
chap was in terrible pain. We conveyed him as carefully as we
could to the field ambulance. There had been other casualties
hereabouts in the morning.

More and more shells, and then a lull. After this exhibition of
afternoon hate, we took tea with some officers of the 15th
Hussars in a tent in the château grounds. It was a delicious
meal, and was not interrupted, though enemy shells from time to
time shot over our heads and exploded some distance away in the
woods behind. The ineffectiveness of the enemy shelling was
greeted every time there was an explosion by cat-calls, shouts
and whistling on the part of our imperturbable soldiers. Then the
enemy diverted his guns to a village through which our return
road ran. On our approaching this place we found our way barred
by military policemen, who informed us the traffic was
temporarily held up, and that we would have to seek our
destination by another and a more devious route. Looking back,
one is amused at the nonchalance of this tea in the open with the
Hussar officers, while German missiles were shooting over our
heads and crashing to earth a couple of hundred yards away. Had
the enemy shortened the range we should all have gone up among
the little birds.

Did you see that splendid joke in _Punch_--an old man talking to
a very badly wounded Irish soldier swathed in bandages from head
to foot? The former says, "This is a terrible war, isn't it, my
man?" Pat replies, "Yes, sorr, it is that; a rale tirrible war.
But faith! 'tis better than no war at all." Capital, and so
deliciously Irish!

_August 23rd, 1915._

Excessively busy days these--out sometimes from nine in the
morning till about ten at night, often missing meals perforce. A
few days back I was in the city whose name practically sums up
the character of British fighting--Ypres. Never have I seen such
a picture of desolation. Not a house standing; only skeletons of
buildings, shattered walls, and gaping window openings, from
which all vestige of glass has long since disappeared. The Church
and the Cloth Hall are simply piles of débris. To walk along the
streets is like a kind of nightmare, even when the Boches are not
indulging in a spell of hate against the place. Talk of
Pompeii--why, this puts it quite among the "also-rans." What a
pathetic spectacle to see a whole city in ruins! Stupefaction and
sadness at the wholesale destruction is my impression of this
melancholy ruin of an historic town.

Having seen my rations delivered to our regiments, I and my
companions (two Hussar officers) visited a battery of 5-inch
howitzers at work not far off, through the medium of a friendly
Artillery officer. Their headquarters have been amazingly lucky
in not being hit up to date. They told us that there was going to
be great "strafing" that night, that the Boches were very good
gunners, but that they and the French sometimes became
quarrelsome and loosed off at each other like fury for a short
time, both sides doing very little real damage. As we were
chatting a long whistle-blast betokened the presence of a Taube,
and our companions quickly dragged us out of sight into a
dug-out, lest the enemy airman should spot men about and send
back the range. You must understand that the guns are so
concealed that it is almost impossible to see them even when you
know where they are located. After the aerial visitor cleared
off, we had a great tea, with all the ground about us shaking to
the reverberation of the battery discharges. Presently a
long-drawn-out screech in the distance, and a fearful crash in
the middle distance. "That's Percy again!" said the Artillery
officer. We found that "Percy" is the name for a German
17-incher, which frequently drops shells ten miles behind our
lines. The smallest crater made by his shells would accommodate a
locomotive engine with ease. "Percy" is no doubt "some gun," as
the Yankees would say. It was a curious sensation to walk about
the fields with shells from both sides flying over one's head.
Some gas shells had been discharged that day, and the air in
places was quite heavy with the odour of them--not unpleasant to
smell, but most mephitic, and apt to make your eyes water.

Whom do you think I met on the main road up to-day? None other
than Reggie Lloyd, who was one of my best pals at Dulwich. Our
car was moving very fast and overtook his. I stopped and jumped
out, and we exchanged a firm handshake and a few words before we
had to be moving on again "in the cause of duty." He is a second
lieutenant in the R.E., and looked thundering fit. To-day I saw
him again. On this occasion he was moving about fifty miles an
hour on a motor-bike, and we only had time for a hand-wave as
we passed. What a thrill to meet an old pal like that out here in
the fire zone!

_August 28th, 1915._

To go up the road from here to the firing-line is a great
experience. You see, as you pass along, all the multifarious
items of army organisation--long lines of lorries, horsed-wagons,
limbers, guns, columns of marching men, motor-cars by the score,
French soldiers, British soldiers, aeroplanes spinning merrily
overhead--truly a wonderful spectacle. You have no conception of
the abominable state of the main roads out here. The _pavé_ road,
peculiar to these parts, is always a bone-shaker at the best of
times, but now, after the passage of so much heavy traffic, it is
simply appalling. A curious feature is the extraordinary
straightness of the main roads, down which you can literally see
for miles. The by-roads, on the other hand, seem to abound in
right-angled turns, and it is not an easy matter to drive a car
along at any considerable rate of speed.

My knowledge of French has come in very useful indeed, but for
these outlying country districts a knowledge of Flemish would be
even more valuable. Many persons about here speak not one word of
French, and Flemish is almost always used by the people _en
famille_. It is a kind of mixture of low German and middle
English. I can usually get at people's meanings, and even make
them understand mine, by a jargon embracing sometimes words from
Chaucer and sometimes a little German. Listening to the language
when spoken one is reminded of rather nasal Welsh. There is a
distinct resemblance between the general sound of Welsh and
Flemish in conversation.

These parts constitute one of the most Catholic districts in
Europe; the people are quite as devout as those of the south of
Ireland. Wherever you go on the roads you are confronted with
shrines--little structures with an altar, holy images, etc., that
can be seen through a glass window barred across with slender
pieces of iron. Above the door is an admonition urging the
passer-by to stop and say an "Ave" or a "Pater." All the
dedications to saints and the Virgin are in Latin. For example,
this is a very common heading for a shrine, "_Ave, Maria, gratiæ
plena._" I have also seen shrines dedicated to some of those old
chaps that Dad is so interested in--Antony of Padua, Francis of
Assisi, etc. All over the place you meet, stuck in boxes with
glass fronts and mounted on poles, tiny waxen images of various
saints, or Christ on the Cross, the Virgin Mary, etc., etc. When
a native comes to one of these shrines or images, he pulls off
his hat, crosses himself, repeats a prayer, and passes on,
probably confident that his sins are forgiven. Everybody goes to
Mass at the church of his commune at seven o'clock each morning,
and often in the evening as well--on Sunday about three times.
Church spires are about the only landmarks in this very flat and
rather uninteresting country. The towers vary between the square
and the spire. The church itself is always large and quite
imposing. You don't see churches of anything like the same size
in English villages of corresponding population. A common sight
as you ride along these roads is to see the curé, dressed in a
long black surtout and a huge wide-brimmed hat just like "Don
Bartola," the music-master in the opera of _Il Barbiere de
Siviglia_. The curé gravely salutes you as you pass by, "Bon
jour, mon ami!"

I am billeted with very decent folk, extremely devout Catholics.
The old man is the secretary to the Mayor. He spends his spare
time learning English, and can read an English newspaper quite
well. My room is of the kind I like--plain, with two huge windows
opening like folding-doors, and only a tiny carpet to attract the
dust; the rest clean, bare boards. In the room are two waxen
images, one of the Virgin and Child, and one of Christ carrying a
child in His arms; also a waxen model in a case of glass of the
Virgin and Child, besides no fewer than three crucifixes. This is
only characteristic of the whole village: every room I've seen
hereabouts seems crowded with images. There are lots of these
images, chipped and smashed, lying about the streets of Ypres. I
suppose where you are at present [Scotland] everybody is a
Presbyterian and very much against all ritual. There is at least
this resemblance between Scot and Flemish: they both call the
church "kirk" or "kerque." It is rather amusing to think that,
according to the ideas of some English Churchmen, both Scottish
Presbyterian and Flemish Catholic are lost for ever; while the
Baptist of Llanelly is equally convinced that all three of them
are; and each imagines the other to be hopelessly wrong. The war
has this advantage: that it cuts athwart of all such ridiculous
distinctions--for have we not among the Allies English Churchmen
and Nonconformists, Catholics, Mohammedans, Hindus and secular
Frenchmen, all fighting on the one side against another side
which includes Catholics, Protestants and Mohammedans? I say what
matter what a man believes if he does his duty?

The last two or three days I have spent in more or less local
work, meaning by that districts within about ten miles of
headquarters. I have been in the saddle all day, from 9 _A.M._ to
7 _P.M._, the only interval being for lunch. Riding is glorious
sport. I don't think I shall ever be able to live without a horse
in the future. I have been using here one of my own mares, and
a fine charger belonging to a 9th Lancer employed at H.Q. (you
remember it was this regiment that made the famous charge at Le
Cateau back in October). It is a glorious steed this, full of
"devil," and a bit bad-tempered. My own big mare is a rather
quiet horse, very good at trotting long distances; my other one
is smaller but more fiery. I prefer to ride whenever possible a
horse that really takes some managing.

_September 8th, 1915._

I am glad you are invigorated and pleased with your trip to the
land of Burns and Harry Lauder. The Scottish Highlands are the
exact opposite of these flat plains. Never in my life have I seen
a district so absolutely level as this. There are but three hills
in these parts, and these are the only landmarks for miles and
miles. Otherwise every road is like every other, every field and
every clump of trees the same. The roads are all either dead
straight or, in the case of side roads, full of right-angle
bends. There is nothing of that sinuous curving which
characterises English country roads. As you get nearer the
firing-line the roads become worse owing to the passage of Army
traffic, till finally they end up in mere broad tracks full of
holes and humps. When the weather is bad the mud is
appalling--even the Dulwich footer-ground variety comes a bad
second--added to which there is, in the case of main roads, the
nuisance of a most unlevel _pavé_, which, it is true, keeps free
from mud, but to travel along which in a motor-car is torture.
The way the Army lorries go bumping along--many of them old
motor-buses with the top parts discarded--is stupendous. It is a
strange sight occasionally to see approaching you a real
motor-bus, painted grey and full of Tommies. I almost stopped
one the other day, near the fire zone, and asked to be taken to
Oxford Circus; it all seemed so familiar.

The news from Russia isn't very inspiriting. It looks as if Riga
and Rovno will follow in the wake of Warsaw and Novo-Georgievsk.
Not that the mere capture of a town means anything in itself, but
the Boches must be getting a store of ammunition and guns through
their successes. Still, it might be that 1812 would repeat
itself, though I fear the Germans have studied history too well
to fall into the pit that destroyed Napoleon. _Nous verrons._

I went down the other day to an advanced Field Supply Depôt. I
often think of the steady flow of goods across the Channel from
the home port where I began my Army experience, and the vastness
of the silent work behind the scenes that is needed to keep the
Army going. You would be amazed to find how little is known even
in the A.S.C. itself of that which I have been privileged to see.
It has a spice of romance about it, this moving of vast stores
from England to the trenches. Out here one gets fresh bread and
meat regularly. There are also ample supplies of preserved meat.
As for "bully" beef, it is rare good stuff, and I am by no means
averse from the hard Army biscuit.

It is the chief part of my duties to make local purchases or
requisitions of goods as they are needed. Local resources are
always used to the utmost, though G.H.Q. is careful to insist on
all goods being duly paid for, or an official requisition-note
being handed to the seller. You will realise that in this sort of
work I get a lot of practice in French. The French spoken in
these parts is very thick, quite different from the metallic
French of Paris.

I am told that when we are moving in the field, cavalry go twice
as fast as any other branch of the Service. When we begin to
move, my job will be really most exciting and interesting, as I
shall have to be right on ahead with a store of supplies, bought,
requisitioned, or obtained somehow, to keep things going till the
ordinary service of lorries and horsed wagons adapts itself to
the new conditions. Whatever happens I hope to see some sport.

I get on excellently with the cavalry officers. They have a
bright charm of their own and are absolutely fearless. Most of
them are descendants of the old English and Scottish chivalry.
They are intensely Conservative in opinion, not over
intellectual, but men with fine traditions and noble instincts.
They have a passion for horses and all things equine.

_September 16th, 1915._

So you have had an experience of the Zepps. I am glad London bore
it philosophically. I never imagined that it would be possible
seriously to perturb the people of England by this species of
frightfulness. As Dad puts it, "Curiosity quite mastered every
sense of fear," but if the Zepps. are to continue paying visits
to our suburb, you may have to evacuate 198 and dig yourselves in
in the garden with communicating trenches leading from your
dug-outs to Croxted Road and Herne Hill.

It is splendid how our fellows keep rolling up to fight, for,
believe me, the war is no joke out here. Very few people who have
been out think it's all a death-or-glory sort of business. On the
contrary, it is a steady and persistent strain, a strain under
which the strongest nerves are apt to give way after a time--I am
talking, of course, of the trenches. When the cavalry go into
action as cavalry, they are bound to suffer fearfully, being so
exposed, but there's no doubt that they will do their job, and
put a still greater number of the Boches out of action. This is a
war in which there is nothing picturesque or romantic. It takes
all the cheerfulness of the British Tommy to overmaster the
grinding strain of trench warfare, though as man is by nature a
fighter, he presently begins to throw off the trammels of
civilisation and live _à la naturelle_. The British soldier has
done marvels in this war. Nothing but his irrepressible spirits
and lion-hearted courage would have held up this great host of
Boches armed with new and strange implements of war and with
every weapon known to science.

_September 18th, 1915._

In an interval of relaxation, our division gave a Horse Show
to-day. To these cavalrymen, horses are as meat and drink, almost
the one topic of their conversation, at once their delight and
their business. A lot of notabilities from various places in
France came up to see the Show. It was the most magnificent
display of horseflesh I have ever seen. It was held in a large
open field. The programme included competitions for officers' and
troopers' horses (light and heavy), driving for the limbers of
the regiment, work by machine-gun sections, races, jumping,
turn-out of A.S.C. wagons, and what-not. A wonderful display was
that of the officers' chargers, in which the long line of
competitors rode, trotted and galloped past the General who was
judging. Some of the men's horses were also very good, and really
ran the officers' chargers close for merit. The first three
prize-winners would be worth a clear £450 apiece. To describe the
efficiency of the wagon-driving, the smartness of their turn-out,
the quickness and neatness of all their manoeuvres, is beyond me.
There was no lance or sword play. The whole business had been
arranged to see that everything was as efficient as possible, and
to promote a spirit of healthy rivalry among the different
regiments. It was an extraordinary spectacle, not fifteen miles
from the firing-line, with the big guns booming in one's ears the
whole time--very characteristic of the Englishman's love of sport
and its value to the nation. This is one of the things that the
Boches never can, or will be able to, understand. They cannot
realise how these "mad English" can forget the War when in the
middle of it, and when any minute their "sport" might be
interrupted by a "Jack Johnson." I was with our Brigade
Veterinary Officer, who, of course, is an equine expert. It was a
treat to hear him telling off the points of the magnificent
chargers passing in front of us, pawing the ground and snorting,
full of dash and fire. To me the whole affair had a profound
interest. I have never enjoyed myself more, and really its
psychological significance was immense.

On the morning of 25th September, 1915, the 1st and 4th Corps of the British Army delivered an attack on the enemy line between La Bassée Canal on the north and a point opposite the village of Grenay on the south. There were subsidiary simultaneous attacks east of Ypres by the 5th Corps, and north of the La Bassée Canal by the 3rd and the Indian Corps. Our main attack was made in co-operation with the French offensive on our right. The British Cavalry Corps was posted in the neighbourhood of St. Pol and Bailleul-les-Pernes, in readiness to co-operate with the French Cavalry in pushing home any success which might be attained by the combined offensive.

_September 23rd, 1915._

I am about to leave on an official mission, the nature of which I
cannot disclose to you for the time being. My kit has had to be
sent away, and I am only equipped with things I can carry about
me or in my saddle-wallets on the horses. Revolver, haversack,
official books, map-case and respirator are slung about my body.
It is fine to be independent of trunks. Last night I bivouacked
in a field, and one day I was quartered in a mining village which
before the war must have been a busy place. It reminded me very
much of the outskirts of Llanelly. I am feeling better in health
and spirits than ever before.

An article by a Liberal M.P. that appeared recently in the _Daily
Chronicle_ annoyed me very much. Previously I had imagined the
writer to be rather a sportsman and a game fighter; but his
insulting references in this article to the "good fellows" in the
trenches, who are "excellent in their time and place," etc.,
simply set my teeth on edge. I know full well that the type of
thing that he calls "a voice from the trenches" is only an
exploitation of sensational newspapers, as Tommy never by any
chance in my experience of him talks of subjects like
conscription. But the sheer cruelty of this M.P.'s patronising
talk of the men who are dying by thousands to keep him and his
kind safe at home absolutely surpasses everything. The suggestion
that the man at the Front knows less of how to run wars than
M.P.s who have, in all probability, never seen a drop of blood
shed or a gun fired in anger in their lives, is, on the face of
it, ludicrous. We have heard a lot about the Army not interfering
in politics. Well and good; but let the politicians cease to
meddle with military affairs, unless, of course, it is manifest
that the most sacred civil rights of the people are being
sacrificed to a caucus of officers, like those who tried to hold
up the Home Rule Bill.

To-day a big detachment of German prisoners was brought into the
village. They were well dressed and equipped, and in reasonably
good spirits.

_October 3rd, 1915._