Chapter XV: Part II: War Letters (2)

Life continues to use me well, though in the last week or two I
have been all-ends up with work. I have usually managed to keep
fairly dry, but the weather is awful, and despite mackintoshes
and greatcoats galore, I have been absolutely soaked on more than
one occasion, especially one night about four days back, when I
had to sleep in the open on a heath in pouring rain, and with a
bitter wind blowing. However, one thinks but little of that sort
of thing when campaigning, and I have never been better in
health.

I wish I could describe to you some of the scenes I witnessed
during the past week, above all, on that never-to-be-forgotten
day before the great attack was made. We found ourselves moving
along the same road as the Guards--Grenadiers, Scots, and
Welsh--who were going up to the attack (the Welsh Guards had
never been in action before, having only recently been
constituted, but I hear they did great things). Never had I seen
such a sight as that evening before the attack. On one side of
the road our cavalry, on the other the Guardsmen, all moving
forward to the accompaniment of the sound of guns booming
sullenly ahead. We halted for a time beside a detachment of Life
Guards, among whom I recognised an old Alleynian named Kemp, whom
I had not seen since last October. We had a few minutes' pleasant
conversation before passing on with our respective columns.

A day or two ago I was to have gone right up to the battlefield
with supplies, but a sudden change in orders made it impossible.
However, a number of our lot were up there. They tell me it was a
fearful scene--the ground littered with corpses, and all the
débris of a battlefield scattered around. I was bitterly
disappointed at not getting right up, but duty is duty, and I
had orders to do other things. We all hope that the day of the
great move forward has now begun to dawn, but there's no doubt it
will be a devil of a job, as the Boches are fighting like hell to
regain the lost ground. All yesterday, last night and this
morning the guns have been rumbling away with more than usual
vigour.

One day last week I visited a soldiers' cemetery; it was chiefly
used for men who have died of wounds at a casualty clearing
station near by. A most mournful and yet most impressive
spectacle it was. As I returned I saw long strings of ambulances
coming down from the Front--a sight that spoke eloquently of the
toll that this war is taking of our best. I note you say that the
new Welsh Division will be going out presently, either to France
or to the Dardanelles. I hope that they will prove worthy of the
great name that the Welsh have made for themselves in this war.
Yesterday I chatted with a Welshman from Pontypridd, a Regular in
the First South Wales Borderers. He had been out here right from
the very start, had been twice wounded, and, except for one
convalescent period of a fortnight, had had no leave at all.
Chris Fowkes, who was wounded some time back, was in the same
company as this sturdy Welshman.[1]

[Footnote 1: Fowkes was a contemporary of Paul's at Dulwich.]

_October 6th, 1915._

The general impression here now is that the advance is proving a
very tough proposition. The casualty list is of colossal
dimensions. All the signs point to a long war.

A French interpreter is attached to each battalion of British
infantry, or regiment of cavalry, with a liaison officer, or
interpreter officer, attached to each brigade in addition.
Personally, I have never found any need for an interpreter's
services. I am able to make almost any of my requirements
comprehensible to the inhabitants, and I think I may describe
myself as being really fluent in French by this time. It is
perfectly amazing how few of our people can talk any other
language than their own.

That was a piquant incident at the College as described by Hal. A
little dash of unconventionality like that is wanted in Dulwich
and in all Public Schools. They, like other national
institutions, are terribly prone to get into a groove. Though
that groove be a good one, yet an occasional lift out of it can
do no harm. But there's no doubt about it that, conservative
though they may be, our Public Schools have done marvellously in
this war. The system has proved its value ten thousand times
over, and never so much as on these gory plains of Flanders and
the hilly crags of Gallipoli. Of late the officer casualties have
been fearful, and most of them these days seem to be killed, not
wounded.

So Bulgaria seems determined to come in against us. If this means
that Roumania and Greece join us, I don't see why the Germans
should be so keen on enlisting the Bulgars on their side. Funny,
isn't it, how all Europe is falling into the whirlpool of war?
Every one of the little States finds that the war is a chance for
it to get something out of someone else--hence its decision to
join in. I hope our Government won't go sending big forces out to
Albania or Salonika, or such places, unless and until they are
sure it would be to England's benefit. For the life of me, I
can't see why we should carry these footling little nations on
our shoulders. All they do is to turn on you as soon as your back
is turned, as _vide_ the Bulgars themselves. The end of it all is
that everyone is scrapping against someone else for some selfish
aim, and the main object and high ideals for which we entered
the war are wholly forgotten.

I cannot describe to you the muddy conditions out here. Mud lies
inches thick on the roads, and is kept damp and slimy by the
continual passage of limbers, horses, guns, wagons and
lorries--the final result being a veritable swamp. The other day
a man of the 19th Hussars was watering two horses when he got
himself and the two animals hopelessly bogged beside the pond in
a swamp which he mistook for dry ground. Eventually we tugged him
and the two horses out with ropes. They were all soaked with
slime and mud from head to foot. As for the infantrymen, when
they come out of the trenches, they are caked in mud all over. In
these parts mud is the great feature of the war.

_October 11th, 1915._

I continue to be very busy. You must understand that it is my job
to supplement the ordinary supplies that come up on the Supply
Column from the railway with supplies obtained locally. These
latter are frequently as essential as the former. Especially is
this the case with cavalry, who are naturally apt, when moving,
to get separated from their supplies, owing to the rapidity of
their progress. Then comes the Requisitioning Officer's real
task. That is not to say that this is the only case in which he
has to work. On the contrary, the work is absolutely continuous.
The men always want all sorts of things that the Supply Column
does not provide, and it is up to me to get those things, and
what is more, in most cases, to transport them also. I am in
charge of a number of wagons, limbers, etc., to carry out this
latter job, and I am responsible for the care and transport of
the ordinary supplies for our Brigade Headquarters after they
leave the Supply Column. I have also to do the following jobs:
(1) Distribute pay to the large number of A.S.C. men attached to
Headquarters; (2) when we are in billets, to see to the billeting
arrangements for the brigade, and adjust the relations between
the troops and whatever inhabitants there may be.

You must not imagine that there are no inhabitants in these
districts. On the contrary, it is my experience that people cling
to their homes and lead their ordinary lives right up into the
fire zone. Our authorities take the greatest care not to offend
the inhabitants. Let me give you an illustration. Recently we
were at a small village, now quite blown to atoms, and considered
a hot spot even out here, and which really has no inhabitants.
Well, on the occasion of entrenching operations our chaps found
it necessary to take some doors from ruined houses. They wanted
the timber for planks for trench supports and dug-outs. Though
all the inhabitants had fled or been killed long before, and the
village was little better than a dust-heap, yet a solemn and
portentous court of inquiry was held on those doors: were we
justified in taking them, and should payment be made for them to
the old inhabitants or their representatives? Eventually it was
decided that, as the doors were taken to help to make trenches,
they might be considered as destroyed by a _fait de guerre_,
which, I believe, corresponds to an "act of God" in the civil
courts, and payment ought not therefore to be made for the doors.
It was, however, pointed out that if the said doors had been used
to make a road, not a trench, they would not be _faits de
guerre_, and in such case payment would have had to be made to
the Mayor of the destroyed commune!

"Business as usual" is the motto they try to live up to
throughout these parts, and every effort is made to persuade
people that the war is only a sort of accident. Money remains
money, and there are people selling and buying right up to
places where many lives are lost every day. The position is
really almost that described in a _Bystander_ cartoon, depicting
a peasant standing above a line of our trenches amid a hell of
shot and bursting shrapnel, and saying, "Messieurs, I am
desolated to trouble you, but I must request you to fight in my
other field, as I plough this one to-day." By the way, _The
Bystander_ has succeeded, as no other paper save perhaps _Punch_
has done, in catching the atmosphere that exists out here.

I assure you that just behind the firing-line people are minting
money out of our occupation. Not only do they get paid regularly
if British troops are billeted on them, but they can name their
own prices for milk, beer, eggs, etc., and all those other things
that Tommy is anxious for, and for which he can afford to pay. He
is, I think, paid three times as much as either the French or the
Boche soldiers. True, I have met some pitiful cases of
refugeeism, but to a very large number of people in Northern
France the war is nothing but somewhat of a nuisance. Of course,
where they do feel it is in their own terrible casualty lists. I
have known family after family in the little villages who have
lost one or two sons. In many communes one finds that the Mayor
has been killed while serving at the front, and a deputy acts in
his stead. The Mayor of the place where we are now stationed has
three sons fighting, one at Verdun. I had an agreeable chat a few
days back with the local schoolmaster, who was home on short
leave from the trenches.

It is curious that only _The Bystander_ and _Punch_ should have
succeeded in catching the atmosphere of "Somewhere in France."
Many of the war correspondents, brilliantly though they write,
have missed it altogether. John Buchan is not so bad, when he
writes soberly, but he will let his imagination run away with
him. Talking of writers, what a delightful thing was that article
of Zangwill's in the _Daily Chronicle_ on "The Perils of Walking
in War-time"! Its brilliant satire, firm grasp of facts, lively
humour and racy style quite took my fancy.

I have had some interesting chats with some of the old soldiers
in our division about Mons, the Marne and the Aisne, and all
"those brave days of old." One chap, now acting as a clerk at
Headquarters, wears the ribbons of the D.C.M. and French Médaille
Militaire for swimming a river (on the retreat from Mons) amid a
tempest of shot and shell, and giving warning to a party of our
people on the other side who were in the greatest danger of being
surrounded--and quite oblivious of the fact--by the Boches who
had forced the passage of a bridge some way off. This brave
fellow led his menaced comrades to another bridge, and so enabled
them all to get clear.

The Supply Officer of one of our brigades is F. P. Knox, a
Dulwich man, who captained the old school at cricket back in 1895
or so and I believe led Oxford to victory after that. His brother
you may know--N. A. Knox, the famous fast bowler.

I was horrified to see in a recent casualty list among the killed
the name of Second Lieutenant H. O. Beer. I remember him as a
rather clever, quiet, inoffensive, distinctly popular fellow in
Doulton's House. He left at the end of July, 1914, without
getting any colours, but after doing quite well in all games. He
won a Junior Scholarship, but failed to get a Senior. He was made
a School Prefect in September, 1913, and you will see him in the
very middle of the back row of the photo of the Prefects that we
have--a markedly good-looking fellow, with light hair brushed
across his forehead. What a wealth of tragedy and yet also of
honour is expressed in the last line of his obituary notice in
_The Times_--"He fell leading his platoon, aged twenty years."
Only yesterday, as it were, we were at school together--I
remember handing him off with great vigour on the football
field--and now! It was just the same with poor Reynolds[2] and
Bray.[3] But I mustn't go on in this strain.

[Footnote 2: James Reynolds, head of the Modern Side for two
years. The first Dulwich boy to take the London B.A. degree
while still at school. Born, 1893. Killed in action in
Belgium, May 2nd, 1915, while serving with the London Rifle
Brigade.]

[Footnote 3: Frederick W. Bray, only son of Mr. W. Bray, West
Norwood. One of the keenest members of the O.A.F.C. Quitting
his engineering studies, he joined the 1st Surrey Rifles at
the outbreak of war. Born, August 26th, 1895. Killed, May
25th, 1915.]

_October 15th, 1915._

The Balkan business is a startling knockout for those enthusiasts
who see in the development of small States salvation for the
world! If people would only accept the fact that this is a
material world they would not be surprised at the situation.
Myself, I consider that our diplomacy has failed, probably
because it did not offer tempting enough bribes to Bulgaria and
Greece. No matter; what is the fate of a few tuppenny-ha'penny
Balkan States, who have never done a thing worth doing, beside
that of the British Empire! Why should we always play the
philanthropic idiot towards all these wretched little nations? As
if any of them--or anyone else, for that matter, in international
politics--knows the meaning of the word gratitude! However
righteous our policy may have been, it doesn't seem to have
worked in South-East Europe, and the Boches appear to have got
home first there. I don't think it is so much a triumph for their
diplomacy as a judgment on the blundering stupidity of ours. But
when all's said and done, the alliance or hostility of a few
Bulgars, Greeks or Roumanians doesn't count for so much, anyhow.
"Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock
them. Naught shall make us rue, if England to herself do rest but
true."

Have you seen the obituary notices of Captain Osmond Williams,[4]
of the Welsh Guards? His funeral took place not half a mile from
the spot where we were at the time. The 19th Hussars was once his
old regiment, and as he was simply idolised by the men, crowds of
them went to the burial. He had a most romantic career--a career
that might have stepped out of the pages of Scott or Dumas.

[Footnote 4: Son of Sir Osmond Williams, Bart., formerly M.P.
for Montgomeryshire. Served in the South African War, and in
his day was regarded as the most brilliant cavalry subaltern
in the British Army. A severe accident in the hunting-field
compelled him to leave the Army. When war broke out in 1914
he offered his services to the War Office, but was rejected
because physically unfit. He then enlisted as a private
soldier, and by repeated acts of gallantry in the field won
his captaincy.]

Yesterday I played Soccer for Headquarters against the 15th
Hussars. We beat them 2 to 1. However, I can't work up any
enthusiasm for Soccer. Oh! for a real game of Rugger. Still, the
Tommies--the English ones, at least--think Soccer the only game,
so one must cut one's cloth to one's opportunities. It is
something to get a game of any sort out here. Is the October
number of _The Alleynian_ out yet? I hope they keep their war
list up to date. Our Roll of Honour is as good as anybody's, and
should be carefully attended to.

_October 20th, 1915._

Whom do you think I met the other day leading a column of motor
lorries up to our brigade H.Q.? No less a person than G. P. S.
Clark, the centre three-quarter who scored that wonderful try
against Haileybury in my first year in the team--running and
feinting his way through right from his own line. He is a motor
expert, and has been gazetted to the M.T. branch of the A.S.C.

Is there any chance of my getting the post of A.D.C. to a Welsh
brigadier? If the Welsh division is due out presently it would be
rather a good job. But if it involved my coming back to England
for any length of time I wouldn't take it. I am perfectly
satisfied with my present work, but still would very much like to
become a real combatant. Against the defect of short sight I can
put the following points:

(a) Three months of Active Service, almost invariably in the
neighbourhood of the firing-line; on several occasions right up
in it.

(b) I have always been attached to the Headquarters of a Cavalry
Brigade, have been in the closest contact with the Brigade
Staff, and have taken my orders from the Staff Captain direct--a
very large proportion of those orders about real Staff work.

(c) I have now a real linguistic fluency in French; pretty
useful German also.

(d) I have been acting under the supervision of a Supply
Officer, whose work I do when he is away, and I know the system
of transport and supply backwards.

(e) I have a thorough knowledge of how to make up supplies by
requisition and purchase on the countryside.

(f) On the march I move at the head of the limbers which form
the Cavalry Divisional train, and am second in command of them
all, so I know something about that branch of work, too.

(g) I am quite a useful horseman.

You may say on reading the above list of virtues that a glass
case is the right place for me, but I know to the full that if
one wants one of these "knutty" jobs one has to represent oneself
as a sort of little tin god. Now don't imagine that I am
dissatisfied with my present job. I am more than pleased with it;
still I am very keen to become a fighting soldier.

_October 25th, 1915._

My present quarters are in a mill. I have a fine large room, also
first-rate stabling for my horses. Brigade Headquarters are in
one of those magnificent châteaux that are dotted over this part
of France. A gorgeous place it must have been in time of peace,
and so it is now except that it is beginning to show signs of
war-wear and constant use.

I am very bucked with life. All that we would like now would be a
stupendous advance. This nibbling policy is all very well, but it
doesn't suit cavalry.

My horses have just been clipped. It is the customary thing at
this time of year, as horses' coats get very thick, and in
consequence they sweat heavily when on the march. The effect of
clipping is curious in the extreme, as the animal no longer
appears of its original colour, but of the colour of its skin,
i.e., mouse-grey. My mare was originally chestnut; now she is a
dark grey. Horses are much happier with their thick coats off.
The hair will have grown again in a couple of weeks, but it won't
be thick for some time. My mare is a grand horse for steady,
continuous work, also quite a good galloper. I had a gallop for
two furlongs or so the other day with the Staff Captain and the
A.D.C., each mounted on a crack cavalry charger. My mare came in
with the first of them, and had more left in her at the end than
either of the others.

There is no greater mistake than to suppose that the function of
the horse has vanished in modern war. On the contrary, even in
the transport, horses are quite as much used as motors. Horse
transport is not confined to roads, and can pass much more easily
than motor vehicles over rough ground. When you get up near the
front, where the roads are badly cut up, horse transport is not
only desirable but essential. Of course, the motor is absolutely
invaluable for speedy transport. But on the whole one can say
that, except for motor-buses, which sometimes take the men right
up close to the trenches, and except for the ammunition park--a
collection of powerful and very speedy lorries loaded up with
munitions, which has always to be in readiness to dash up to the
front in view of an emergency--except in these cases, it is safe
to say that motor transport ends some miles from the actual
fighting-line, and all the remaining transport is horsed. True,
motor-cars containing Generals on inspection, Supply officers,
etc., go all over the place, often right up behind the
firing-line. Also there are the motor machine-gun cars, and the
armoured cars, which are fighting units proper. But don't for
goodness' sake imagine that the horse is done with in modern war
because of the advent of the motor.

What the motor has done is to alter the whole face of things
because of the extraordinary rapidity with which it enables you
to fling troops or supplies up to the Front or transport them
from point to point. But for the effective use of motor vehicles
you need pretty good roads. You will remember how in the earlier
months of the War, ourselves, the Germans and the French effected
big troop movements simply by motor transport. You will recall
the occasion on which the French flung a force across the suburbs
of Paris and attacked the Boches on the right, thus beginning the
movement known as the Battle of the Marne. Then there was the
occasion when Hindenburg attacked the Russians in October, 1914,
feinting at their left and striking at their right at Tannenberg
with a force of armoured cars, cavalry, and infantry conveyed in
motors. Neither of these movements could have been achieved
before the advent of motor transport. As this war progresses, the
need for really capable and cool-headed motor drivers will
steadily increase. But it will be none the less invaluable to
know how to manage a horse--whether to ride it, drive a wagon, or
ride-and-drive in a limber. One of our limber horses is a grey
captured from the Germans last year. He is a very good worker and
doesn't seem to mind being a prisoner in the least.

I must tell you of a funny incident. That night when we were
sleeping on the heath, which I referred to in a previous letter
(p. 149), our Medical Officer was awakened at 2 A.M. by a frantic
signaller, that is, one of the R.E. motor-cycle dispatch riders.
It was pouring rain at the time and bitterly cold. The signaller
solemnly handed the M.O. an envelope marked "Urgent and Special."
The M.O. opened it, his mind full of visions of men mortally
stricken awaiting immediate attention and of other tragic things.
Judge his astonishment when he found inside the following note
from his O.C.: "Kindly render your monthly inoculation return to
Headquarters before the end of the week." What the M.O. said is
unprintable, as this return had already been sent in, and, in any
case, is just a formality of no importance to anybody.

My affection for the British soldier deepens the more I know of
him. To a student of human nature it is an everlasting joy to get
Tommy to tell you his experiences in his own inimitable language,
interspersed with all sorts of gory adjectives. It is so
different from and better than the sort of thing you read in the
Society papers. Human nature as it really is comes out strongly
in these splendid men at the Front. A talk with Tommy is of
intense interest to a chap as keen as I am on psychology.

_November 5th, 1915._

Still much occupied; out almost all day and every day, either on
horseback or in a motor. Much interest has been displayed in
these parts in the visit of the King. I have passed the château
where he is staying almost every day this past week.

The district where we are now quartered is filled with refugees,
among them some orphans from Loos. Some people about here have
been terribly hit by the war, but some are reaping enormous
profits out of it. Such is the caprice of fortune. All over this
neighbourhood you see the names of Life Guards, Royal Horse
Guards, Grenadiers, etc., carved on doors and panels. We are
close to a large town which is an important point in the scheme
of things.

Events seem to be taking a remarkable turn. Who, at the start of
the war, would have thought that we would have been able to land
a military force in the Balkan Peninsula? It is really a
remarkable position all round. Asquith's speech was frank if
nothing else. There appears to have been discord in the Cabinet,
so now we are about to have something like a "Committee of Public
Safety." Marvellous race, the English! Lord Derby seems to be an
outstanding personality just now. Have you noticed how each month
of the war is marked by some new phase of public opinion?
Optimism, pessimism, spies, Zeppelins, economy, pink forms,
voluntaryism, conscription, munitions--each of these has been for
a time the centre of public interest, and each has swiftly fallen
from its pedestal to be replaced by some other phase. Curiously
enough, the talk at home has not been influenced in any direct
way by the real progress of the war, but by the effect on the
popular imagination of trivial incidents, magnified out of all
proportion by sensational journals. The war goes on,
nevertheless, showing that the great British spirit is something
far too strong and deep to be really influenced by the caprices
of public opinion.

It is amusing to see how the views of certain newspapers vary
from month to month, and even more diverting to observe how all
the amateur strategists claim that they had really predicted
every phase of the military operations. Believe me, however, the
war has been and is quite different from any ideas entertained in
regard to it in the early weeks and months. It is a blend of
grotesque incongruities that would be humorous were not one side
of them so tragic and terrible. No one here seems to know
anything definite about what is going on. One has considerable
local knowledge but very little general information. Probably the
latter is impossible to get in this sort of mix-up--the scale on
which the war is being waged is so vast.

You will see roughly from Sir John French's latest dispatch the
part played by the cavalry in the advance of 25th September-5th
October. You will not, of course, be able to glean much of what
actually happened, but I can tell you we had a most interesting
time.

How tiresome is the tosh written in the papers and spoken in
Parliament about the war! One wonders if it would not be a good
plan to shut up Parliament for a time, though I suppose it is a
good thing to have a place where men can vent their foolish
thoughts. But I am thoroughly weary of "Statements by the Prime
Minister" which state nothing, and of mere denunciations by Sir
Arthur Markham and Sir Edward Carson; also of the shrieking of
the Yellow Press, the wishy-washiness of the Liberal Press and
the _Spectator_, the impenetrable Conservatism of the _Morning
Post_, and the noisy sensationalism of the Bottomley--Austin
Harrison crew. Thank goodness the strong broad stream of British
spirit runs deeper and is much purer than would appear from this
froth and scum on the surface.

Recently it has been a period of Catholic festivals about here.
Some days there have been processions and bell-ringing from morn
to eve. The other day was the Fête des Morts, and lately there
was the French All Saints' Day. It is a singular sensation to
hear the chime of church bells blending with the thudding of the
guns.

_November 18th, 1915._

Yesterday I rode twenty-five miles. A delightful experience it
was, too;--in crisp winter weather and with the surrounding
country covered with snow. It has become very cold of late, but I
am fond of cold weather, especially when it keeps dry. Assigned
some special work by the Staff Captain, I had permission to move
when and how I liked, instead of accompanying the Column as I
usually do. The result was that I was able to join up with the
Veterinary section attached to the brigade. We moved at our own
pace, resting our horses where we wanted to and giving them a
good drink and feed _en route_, instead of jogging on
monotonously with the Column. Our horses were thoroughly fit and
full of life when we reached our destination, and good for
another twenty-five miles if necessary. You would not believe how
much horses benefit from care and attention as to food and rest.
The time you lose in watering, resting and feeding, you can
always more than make up through the consequent freshness of
your animals. Obviously, when speed is absolutely vital, you
can't choose your time to rest the horses. For example: on those
never-to-be-forgotten days, 23-26 September last, we used to move
at a rapid trot for hours on end--for the expectation then was
that the Boche line might be broken. This latest "trek" had not
the urgency or the wild excitement of that, and we were able to
take our own time.

I had a ripping game of Rugger a few days back, playing for the
19th Hussars against the Bedford Yeomanry. The latter, who
included some old Bedford School boys, beat us, though only by
one point. I played forward in the first half of the game, and
scrum-half in the second. It _was_ a treat to handle a Rugby ball
again!

Things are becoming rather mixed in English politics, what with
Asquith's contradictory statements about conscription, Carson
resigning and Winston flinging up politics for the Army. His
resignation is creditable to Winston, and at a moment like this
he would naturally want to do his bit at the Front. Everybody in
the cavalry that I have spoken to considers him a good sportsman.
Myself, I regard Churchill as a man with a real touch of genius.

The Haldane controversy seems to have started afresh. How
terrible is the ingratitude of the masses! If Haldane had done no
more than create the Territorials and the Officers' Training
Corps he would have had an everlasting claim to fame; but when
one considers also his creation of the General Staff, and his
arrangements for mobilising, equipping, transporting and
supplying the B.E.F.--well, one begins to realise that the man is
a Colossus. And yet the wretched Jingoes continue to bespatter
him with mud, and I suppose the nation in the mass regards him as
a species of highly-educated spy! But perhaps the majority of
the people have never heard of him--Charlie Chaplin is a far more
living personality to most of them, I make no doubt.

I referred in a recent letter (p. 162), to the fluctuating phases
of opinion in England in regard to the war. A new phase would
appear now to have arisen and taken the place of the Lord Derby
boom. This new phase is one of criticism of past military and
naval operations--Neuve Chapelle, Loos, Suvla Bay, the Narrows,
Antwerp, etc. etc., all of which are being discussed with equal
zest and ignorance. Mark my words, there will soon be a new phase
or an old one will recur.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_November 23rd, 1915._

I am so sorry Dulwich got done down by Bedford. Of all our
matches, that is the one we are most keen on winning. Still, we
can't expect to win always, and we have not lost to Bedford for
three years till now. I had perhaps the unique experience of
being in a team which never lost a Bedford match. In 1912-13,
when I got my colours, we drew 28 points all; in 1913-14 we won,
16 to 15; and last year, 32 to 16. Well, I would have given
anything for the School to have got home a fourth time against
old Bedford, but it was not to be.

The sudden drop in temperature during the last fortnight has
affected most people here. I have escaped without any sort of
cold, though nine-tenths of the officers and men have been down
with chills.

My mare has developed a devil of a temper of late, and bites and
kicks like anything--a sign of exuberant vigour. Fortunately she
gets on well with my other horse, and they don't "strafe" each
other in the stable. To get horses in the same stable on good
terms with each other is largely a question of feeding them at
the same time. My second horse, which my servant rides when we
are on the move, is a jolly little chestnut, very strong and
hardy, with a magnificent long tail. I ride him and the mare on
alternate days. Horses are ridiculous creatures. They will eat
all sorts of things, even wood, mud, and pieces of coal, as if
from sheer cussedness. It can't be because they are hungry, as
they get plenty to eat in the way of oats, hay, dry clover, etc.
Sometimes, as if from devilment, they will roll in the mud a few
minutes after they have been nicely groomed. Some of our
regiments have a lot of mules, which are given to fearful
brayings--a sound which is a cross between a horse's whinny, a
donkey's hee-haw and an elephant's trumpeting. Mules bite and
kick each other continually, but they will do any amount of work
when so inclined.

_November 29th, 1915._

I see that the Welshmen are coming out. May they strafe the
Boches to the wide! I hope the Cymry will prove themselves worthy
successors to Owain Glyndwr and all the other grand old chiefs
who have given us such a name in arms. Times have changed, and
to-day, instead of smiting your foe with a club or a sword, you
"strafe" him with gas-shells and machine-guns. The old way was
the best, but the natural instinct of all things animate to fight
remains, as it always will remain.

We have received some of _The Times'_ broad-sheets. I don't
exactly know whether they are good or not. It is undoubtedly a
benefit to have "bits" from great writers to skim over when you
haven't the time, or the inclination, to wade through a volume.
On the other hand, it is intensely aggravating to experience the
feeling of incompleteness that naturally results from having your
reading suddenly cut off.

_December 3rd, 1915._

The other day I was ordered to visit a certain battery in the
firing-line. No one had a ghost of an idea as to their present
location, but I discovered where their supplies were being drawn
from--a spot two miles from the line, which was being "strafed"
daily. Off I went to this place in my car, but nobody there knew
a thing about the people I wanted, so I had to go up to the
railway station and crave the loan of a telephone. After a great
deal of bother I got on to some genial soul who knew where the
Brigade Headquarters were of the lot I was after. He told me
where they had gone to, but whether they were still there or not
he didn't know. Anyhow, it was a clue. So, like Pillingshot (in
P. G.'s story), I worked on it.

After consulting my maps, and chatting with dozens of military
police, interpreters, etc., I took my car forward by a certain
road. By this time it was pitch dark, except for star shells and
gun flashes. The road was crammed with traffic. We took a wrong
turning, and eventually found ourselves on an apology for a road
that ended in a swamp full of shell-holes, and had to retrace our
steps gingerly. After blundering about in the dark for some time
we struck the village we were looking for, a hopeless sort of
place crammed with Scotsmen, all exceedingly grimy, but gay and
cheerful. In one house the men were waltzing to the strains of a
mouth-organ, though the boom of the guns was shaking the house
every second or so.

Having reached the Headquarters I was in quest of, I ascertained
from them that the battery with which I had business to do was
now at a spot two miles away down a main road which was the scene
of such desperate fighting not long back. The O.C. strongly
advised me not to take the car down there, as if I did "it was
likely that the car would stop some pieces of metal." There was
nothing for it but to walk down the road leading to the recently
captured village. It was very dark, but star-shells, with their
weird green light, would illuminate the countryside every five
minutes or so. In the darkness one could vaguely discern the
shape of the first-line transport wagons taking up rations to the
trenches, and small columns of silently marching men, and now and
then a motor lorry belonging to some ammunition park. Presently,
after what seemed an interminable walk, I found the battery, who
themselves had only just arrived, and executed my job in a
half-ruined house. To get back to my car I borrowed a horse and
rode part of the way with a number of led horses, which, having
brought up the guns, were going back to the wagon line.

On getting to my car I decided that my best road to return would
be to go straight along into a certain large town, instead of the
route we'd come by. As we spun along a voice from the darkness
hailed us: "Have you room for an officer?" We at once pulled up
and told him to jump in. Poor devil! he was almost in a state of
collapse and talked wildly. He had been six months in the
trenches, and had just come out of them in a half-hysterical
state. I had to speak to him pretty firmly before he could pull
himself together. We took him to his destination, and he was most
grateful for the lift.

It was an uncanny experience, this wandering about in the
darkness in desolate regions a few hundred yards from the
trenches. In this grim struggle there is none of the glory and
pomp of war as exhibited in the days of old, when rival armies
met amid the blare of trumpets and the waving of standards. The
pageantry of war is gone. We have now war in all its fierceness,
grime and cold-bloodedness without any picturesque glamour or
romance. Can you wonder that in such conditions civilised human
nature out here swiftly changes and is replaced by elemental
savagery?

In December, 1915, Paul Jones had short leave, and spent six days at home. He took advantage of the opportunity to have a game of football on the familiar arena in Dulwich, playing for the Old Alleynians against the College 1st XV.

_December 21st, 1915._

All well after a pleasant crossing. The blundering authorities
kept us and three other leave trains six hours in ---- station,
no one being allowed to leave the platform! We eventually reached
---- at 7 P.M. The two first men I met on the boat were old
Dulwich boys, W. J. Barnard and Bobby Dicke. Barnard is a
field-gunner, and Dicke is in the 1st Royal Fusiliers. I also met
another O.A., named Corsan, who is captain in Barnard's battery.
How well I remember ragging with him in choir practices! We had a
thrilling chat over old times. Both Barnard and Corsan went
through the Battle of Loos. On reaching France we found there was
no means of getting to our respective destinations until next
morning, so we all dined together with a couple of other subs.,
one in the K.R.R.s, a mere boy in appearance but a veteran in
experience. How delightful to meet old pals, and what splendid
fellows these old public-school men are!

Everything is very festive about here just now. Officers and men
are making ready to pass Christmas in the old-fashioned way.

_December 28th, 1915._

We had a very jolly Christmas. The revellings have, in fact, only
just begun to subside. Our Brigade Major spent his Christmas in
the trenches along with his brother, a V.C. In that part of the
line there was a truce for a quarter of an hour on Christmas Day,
and a number of Englishmen and Germans jumped out and started
talking together. A German gave one of our men a Christmas tree
about two feet high as a souvenir. It is of the usual variety,
covered with tinsel and adorned with glass balls.

_January 4th, 1916._

I was indescribably grieved to read of the death of
Nightingale.[5] Himself an O.A., he was in the Modern Sixth about
1900. He was a master at the dear old school from 1907, or
thereabouts. I regarded him as one of my best friends among the
masters. The year I took on the captaincy of the Junior School
"footer," he gave me immense help as master in charge of the
Junior School games. But really cricket was his game; he was a
splendid bat on his day, a useful slow bowler and a fine
fieldsman. He was such an enthusiast for cricket that he would
take any and every chance of playing, no matter whether against
the 1st XI or against the Junior School. In character he was
extremely simple and unaffected--not a great scholar, but a
shrewd thinker with a serviceable knowledge of history and
literature, and a fine taste in reading. Personally he was one of
the kindest of men and so easy to get on with. Though in no sense
a professional soldier, yet from a strong feeling of duty he
joined right at the start as a private in, I believe, the Rifle
Brigade, with whom he served many months in France. He then got a
commission in the 7th Lincolns, with whom he was serving when
killed.

[Footnote 5: Lieutenant F. L. Nightingale. Born, 1881. Killed
in action in France, December 19th, 1915. A master at
Dulwich, 1906-1914. A man of ripe culture and a splendid
cricketer.]

Here was a man who threw up all to take up soldiering, not
because he had the military instinct, but from sheer patriotism
and sense of duty. It was just like him--at school he would
always put himself out to play in a game if a team was a man
short. He was always called "Nighty" by the boys. Can you wonder,
with the example of such a man before me, that I should be
longing to get into the Infantry? Heavens! A man would not be a
man who did not feel as I feel about this matter.

Well, Sir John Simon has resigned. Rather a pity that such a
career should be cut short. Still, at best he was a mere
politician, and to tell you the truth I don't like politicians
much. All the same, I do think Simon did some valuable work as
Home Secretary, and earlier as Attorney-General.

For once the British Government appears to have acted with
vigour--I mean by occupying Salonika and telling the Greeks
politely to "hop it." Result, the Greeks have hopped it. How much
more simple and effective this than to jaw about "the rights of
neutrals," the "sanctity of small nations," etc., etc.! No! take
a strong line in this world, and you're more likely to get what
you want than by cajolery.

_January 26th, 1916._

One day last week I mounted my horse at 2.15 P.M. and rode in a
south-easterly direction. For the first couple of miles things
were as usual--crowds of soldiers about, of course, and lots of
transport on the move. One village I found populated half by
civilians and half by troops. Thereafter the country becomes
barer and grimmer, and the fields for the most part are
uncultivated--in itself a remarkable thing in France. The next
village I came to bore signs of having been shelled, but was
still habitable. Originally it must have been quite a pleasant
little place. Not many of the native inhabitants remained, and
the houses for the most part were filled with Scotsmen and
sappers.

Passing on, with the roar of the guns getting more and more
distinct, we come to a place that leaves no manner of doubt that
there is a war on. There are graves by the roadside, and
shell-holes. Lines of trenches and coils of barbed wire arrest
your attention. Now there comes into view the battered remnant of
what was once a busy mining village. The great slag-heap towers
up on our right hand, its sides scarred and smashed by
shell-fire. Not a house is left standing. There are only
shattered walls and heaps of bricks. Over all hangs that curious
odour one gets at the Front--a sort of combined smell of burning
and decay. A grotesque effect is produced by a signboard hanging
outside a ruined tenement and bearing the words: "Delattre,
Débitant," or, in other words, "Delattre's Inn." On the right a
gunner is standing on what was once a house roof, hacking away at
the beams with a pickaxe; he is getting firewood, no doubt.
Solemnly a general service wagon rolls by, carrying a load of
fuel, and a limber crashes past at a trot. A little single-line
railway from the colliery crosses the road, and even now there
are standing on it two or three trucks, strange to say quite
intact. The machinery at the pit-head is all smashed, bent and
broken. You are impressed with the strange, eerie silence, when
suddenly there is an earth-shaking crash. One of our heavies has
been fired. You hear the shell whirring away on its journey of
destruction, and finally a faint, far-distant crash, perhaps
marking the end of a dozen men, five or ten miles off.

Resuming my journey I reached another village, where the
destruction had been simply terrible, surpassing even that of
Ypres. This village bears a name famous in the annals of British
arms, for it was from here that the Guards charged on that
memorable day, September 25th. I saw a line of old trenches just
behind the village, and rode over to examine them. Perhaps it was
from this very line that our men advanced. I tried to picture to
myself what it must have been like--valour, endurance, turmoil,
destruction, death, a great forward rush by brave men that spent
itself, and fizzled out just on the eve of triumph. Why?

On the left there was a large cemetery. Many of the crosses had
soldiers' caps hung on them, and in one case the man was
evidently a Catholic, for crucifix and image had been taken down
from a post on the roadside and laid on the grave. I tried to
find if there was any trace of the names of two O.A.s who fell in
this battle, Crabbe and Beer, but failed to discover either name.

It was now getting late, so I retraced my steps and cantered
homewards. In this war-scarred region I actually met an old
French farmer driving his horse and trap along the road leading
towards the trenches just as if there was no war raging; and near
the one habitable house of the district small boys were playing
merrily, while their parents were calling them in and scolding
them in shrill voices. In some ruined houses were yet more
Scotsmen, most ubiquitous of peoples. I halted to chat with an
old military policeman who used to be with the 9th Cavalry
Brigade. Then home. A very interesting afternoon's work, which
gave one a real insight into "the conduct and results of war" as
waged in these cynical days.

During another visit I paid to this desolate region there was a
"strafe" of some magnitude on. As I rode I could hear the long
whistling and heavy crump of high explosives that the enemy were
dropping into a village about a mile to the left, and could see
the flame and smoke of the explosion. Our own guns soon began to
chime in. It was quite a cheerful little show, what with the
long-drawn whining of approaching Boche shells, the crash of
explosions, the thud of our guns replying, and the weird,
fluttering noise of our shells going over. Presently the gun duel
became more and more violent. The fearful crashes of our
"heavies," the groans, shrieks and whines of the shells on their
message of death, the tremendous thuds of Boche explosions, and
the whistling hum of shrapnel pieces flying around--all this made
up a pandemonium of noise. My further progress along this road
was barred by a thud amongst some ruined houses about a hundred
yards in front of me, showing that the "strafe" was veering round
to my direction. Deviating from this road I met some old
acquaintances in the Gunners, and had tea with them in their
dug-out, my horse being put up in what in pre-war days had been
somebody's sitting-room. I cantered home at dusk. All this
evening there has been a "hate" on--the sky alive with
gun-flashes and lit up by star-shells, and the air resounding
with bangings and thuddings.

_February 1st, 1916._

Hereabouts we seem now to be doing ten times as much "strafing"
as the Boches. This afternoon I saw at fifty yards' distance some
60-pounders (the old "Long-Toms") being fired. First, there would
come a flash of flame from the muzzle, followed by an
ear-splitting bang. Then the whole gun seemed to hurl itself
bodily forward and slide back into position again. Meanwhile you
could hear the shell tearing its way through the air with the
curious shuddering, or fluttering, noise that shells make in
transit.

Riding north the other day I came to a place where the only
sounds that could be heard were the intermittent crackle of
rifle-fire mingling with the shrill tones of a woman haggling
over the price of bread with an old chap who had driven out with
his pony and cart from an adjacent town to sell his goods. The
roof of the woman's house had mostly vanished and some of the
walls were non-existent, being replaced by sandbags. A notice
proclaimed that there was coffee and milk for sale within. Is it
not extraordinary to encounter this sort of thing right up in the
battle zone? It shows how human nature can adapt itself to the
most uncustomary things. I suppose we should be the same--stick
to the old home so long as there was a brick left standing.

I ran across an O.A., named Tatnell, who holds a commission in
the Motor Machine Gun Corps. He told me he had met lots of O.A.s
out here. Some of the fellows he mentioned are mere boys of
seventeen and eighteen still. One of them, Williams, I remember
last year as a drummer in the Corps. Honestly, the old school has
done splendidly. Every one of the fellows I used to know from the
age of seventeen onwards is serving, and they were all serving
long before there was any talk of Derby schemes.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_February 10th, 1916._