Chapter XVI: Part II: War Letters (3)

I went into the trenches a few days back--not in the front line,
but as far as Brigade Headquarters, which is a sort of series of
caverns in the ground, and is approached by a long communication
trench. Nothing much was happening; and, anyway, this particular
trench is so deep that there is nothing to be seen save a strip
of sky above your head. In a few places you can get out and stand
on the open ground without much danger. The spectacle is
curious--practically nothing visible to indicate that there is a
war on. No soldiers in sight, only a lot of shell-holes and
barbed wire, and a general sense of desolation, with an
occasional crack of a rifle bullet, the whistle and crash of
Boche shells and the bang of our own guns from just behind.

I suppose that the Army class at Dulwich are hot favourites this
year for the Form Cup, and the Engineers for the Side. Our star
on the Modern Side has, I fear, waned. I shall never forget that
final Side match last year, when, with a team much the weaker on
paper, we (the Modern Side, captained by Paul Jones) snatched a
victory by sheer tactics. It was the best game, or rather, one of
the four best games, I remember--the other three being the
Bedford match in 1913, when A. H. Gilligan shone so brilliantly;
the famous 28-28 draw at Bedford in 1912; and the Haileybury
match of the same year. In every one of these games the football
reached a high standard, and the result was a pretty fair
indication of the run of the play, except perhaps in the second
game, in which it was the personal brilliance of the Gilligans
and Evans that snatched an almost lost game out of the fire.
Great Scott! What wouldn't I give to be starting my school career
again? Make the most of your school days, my son, for you'll
never have such a time again!

_March 2nd, 1916._

A few days ago I went up to see Elias--Captain T. Elias,
son-in-law of Dr. MacNamara, M.P.--and had tea with "C" Company,
1st London Welsh. To my amazement I discovered that Percy
Davies--now Major Davies, son of Mr. David Davies, Mayor of
Swansea, 1917, and editor of the _South Wales Daily Post_--was in
the same village at the time. So I went along to his mess; we
were overjoyed to meet one another. He introduced me to his
messmates, a ripping set of chaps, who included Sir Alfred Mond's
son, and one Parry, whose brother played for Dulwich, inside to
Harold Gilligan, in Evans's year. Amazing coincidences, what? At
the invitation of these fellows I went with them to a concert
they had got up in the village. It was quite the best show of its
kind I have seen out here, and there are lots of concert-parties
in these parts. The Welsh have a gift of music that is peculiar
to them alone. There was some first-rate singing at the concert;
and a private soldier--a Tommy, mark you!--played Liszt's "No. 2
Rhapsody" and Schubert's "Marche Militaire" almost flawlessly.
And the way the audience appreciated it! Then we had some
first-rate comic work--really refined, not cheap and coarse--by a
man whom I am sure I've seen at Llandrindod. Altogether it was a
first-rate show--by miles the most interesting, intellectual,
refined and capable performance I've seen out here.

They have shows of various kinds every night of the week--boxing
contests, trials by jury, concerts, etc. What enterprise and
intelligence our countrymen have! Percy Davies himself looks
after the boxing, and he made quite a telling little speech in
announcing his plans for the coming week. Mond is a good chap,
very jovial, boyish and unsophisticated. In fact, all these
fellows are of the very best, and of outstanding intelligence.
Would that I were with them! I was struck by the remarkable
difference between these officers and the cavalry officers with
whom I am in daily association. Each type is wholly admirable in
its own way, but they have not many characteristics in common.

_April 14th, 1916._

I derive great pleasure and interest from watching the methods of
these French peasants with their horses. It is nothing short of
marvellous. They never groom their horses and never clean the
harness or bits, yet the horses keep fit as fiddles and look
really well too. Their intelligence is extraordinary. Almost
every night I see the old chap, at whose farm I keep my own
horses, come in with four or five horses from ploughing--riding
on one, not in the orthodox fashion, _i.e._, astride, but with
both legs hanging over the horse's near side, something like
ladies' style of riding, but without saddle, braces, or stirrups.
He is leading no fewer than four other horses on one rein--a
remarkable thing in itself. When he gets into his farmyard he
slides off and gives some sort of a weird shout that sounds like
"Ooee-ee-ee!" The moment the horses hear this off they go to the
pond in one corner of the yard and drink their fill.

Meanwhile the farmer has gone into his house. Presently he
reappears at the door and utters something like "Oy-eh!" He may
be fifty yards from his horses and never goes near them, but as
soon as they hear this call they leave the pond and troop off
into their stable, where each horse takes up his own place and
stands still there ready to be tethered. They all know exactly
where to stand, and the old chap unharnesses them, hangs up the
harness for use next day, chucks a few handfuls of oats into the
manger, shoves some hay into the rack, and leaves them for the
night. He never troubles about drying their legs and hoofs after
their immersion in the pond. Probably if you treated one of our
horses in that fashion he would be likely to get a "cracked heel"
and go lame. But these French farm horses never seem to mind in
the least. Well, one lives and learns. Our grooms are vastly
amused at these methods of horse-managing. The baffling thing is
the wonderful health enjoyed by the French horses. It is very
rare for any of them to go lame or sick, or even lose condition
despite their--to us--extraordinary _mode de vivre_.

_April 27th, 1916._

I see that poor Kitter[6] has been killed. It is too horrible;
first Nightingale, now Kittermaster. At Dulwich Kitter was always
looked upon as a prototype of K. of K. He was a very silent man,
who nevertheless took a very real interest in the affairs of the
school, his form, and his "House." He knew a lot about military
tactics, and his chief hobby was the Corps, for which he worked
and slaved in school-time and out. He taught us fellows more
about military discipline and training than you could get from
months of study. He was always having little field-days, extra
drills, and so forth, and while any movements were on he was
always explaining and talking to you, showing why this, and why
that, and so forth. He had a fund of dry humour. One of the best
men at Dulwich, I always thought! Poor chap! Well, well!

[Footnote 6: Captain Arthur N. C. Kittermaster. Born, 1871.
Killed in action in Mesopotamia, April 5th, 1916. A master at
Dulwich, 1896-1915. An accomplished scholar and athlete, who
was C.O. of the Dulwich O.T.C.]

In May, 1916, Paul came home on leave. He spent a very enjoyable week in London and had the satisfaction of meeting many old College friends. On 12th May I saw him off by the 8.10 A.M. train from Victoria. There is a clear picture of him in my mind's eye standing on the platform before taking his seat in the waiting train, cheerily greeting this friend and that, conspicuous in the throng of officers by his massive physique. He looked the incarnation of young manly vigour, courage and hope, and there was about him a fresh and fragrant air like the atmosphere of that delicious spring morning. The future is mercifully veiled from man. Little did either of us think when saying farewell, clasping hands and gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, that we would never meet again on this earth.

_May 15th, 1916._

Had a pleasant crossing to France. I dined in an hotel with a
gunner lieutenant, who in civil life was a Professor of
Literature, a charming and cultured man. We discussed some of our
respective pet theories on Art and Life, the Novel and the Drama,
etc., and found many points of agreement.

Well! it was a great leave. There is no countryside to compare
with the English. If you had lived among the flats of Flanders
you would find the tamest English scenery beautiful. Not that we
are situated at present in unbeautiful surroundings. In fact, the
downs about here are very pleasant, and there are many trees in
the valleys; but give me the English countryside. Then there is
London! Dear old London! to me the one town in the world. Our own
home, too, with its happy blend of urban and rural. And then the
old school----! Yes, it was a great leave, there can be no
possible doubt about it. Would that it had been twice as long!

On arrival at our quarters I found my horses very well. They are
looking perfectly beautiful just now, their coats shining, smooth
and glossy like silk. My big one really blazes on a sunny day,
and my cob is not far behind him. I shall have a very busy time
in the next ten days, arranging for a supply of about 30 tons a
week of green fodder to be purchased in weekly instalments in the
neighbouring countryside. All the troops are going to bivouac in
the fields shortly, as they always do this time of the year,
remaining under canvas until September, or even October if the
weather permits.

_May 18th, 1916._

Thanks so much for the "Shakespeare"; it was exactly what I
wanted. I am making a careful study of the Bard's works again,
and with an enthusiasm that has not one whit abated; rather it
has augmented. I only wish it had been possible to see some of
his plays whilst on leave.

What a superman Shakespeare was! The interest of his plays is
absolutely perennial. Perhaps the most extraordinary feature of
his work is the astonishing consistency of the characters in his
_dramatis personæ_. His characters invariably behave exactly as
people of that type would and do behave in real life. Thus we
have the illusion that the characters conceived by his mighty
imagination are themselves real. He has hit with marvellous
accuracy on the points in human nature that are common to almost
all ages, and, _mutatis mutandis_, his plays could be staged in
the nineteenth or twentieth century without losing any of their
power.

Men of the type of Hamlet are doubtless rare, yet we all know the
sort of genius who is so much a genius that he is incapable of
action and does nothing but reflect. Hamlet seems meant to show
how vain it is to be merely a philosopher in this world. Hamlet
is always pondering, thinking of the abstract rights and wrongs
of the case. In the result, though he does eventually avenge his
father's murder, his introspection and vacillation have led to
the death of himself and no fewer than three other innocent
persons--Ophelia, Polonius and Laertes. Yet Hamlet was at least
twice as brainy as the rest of them, and he was also a good
sportsman; for instance, he refuses to kill Claudius when he
finds him at a disadvantage--that is, when Claudius is praying.

To me the lesson of the play seems to be this--the only policy
that really works in this world is to "go in and get the goods,"
as the Canadians say. The philosopher usually causes more trouble
than his philosophy is worth. It is the old lesson of the
Girondins and Jacobins over again. No one doubts which of them
had the purer and loftier ideals. Equally no one doubts that the
Girondins, despite all this, were hopelessly outmanoeuvred by the
practical Jacobins, who had not a tithe of their brains.

To change the subject, I have been getting a lot of swimming
lately. At a big cement works in a neighbouring town there is an
enormous pond in a quarry. The water is about 15 feet deep all
round and not at all stagnant, and there is a splendid place for
diving. Yesterday I was down at a neighbouring seaport on
business and got a delightful swim in the sea. A swim means to me
almost as much as a Rugby match. I am going down to the
cement-works pool every day, and whenever possible I shall have a
swim in the sea. The weather just at present is wonderful, the
sunshine simply glorious. Do not imagine that I am neglecting my
work. In fact, I have been tremendously busy buying and arranging
for green fodder for about 2,000 horses at the rate of 4 lbs. per
horse per diem. By to-morrow noon I shall have contracts
concluded to keep the brigade supplied until further orders.

_May 21st, 1916._

Thanks so much for congratulatory messages. It certainly was
gratifying to get the second pip, and a particularly pleasant
coincidence that it should be gazetted on May 18th [his
birthday].

The weather in "this pleasant land of France" remains wonderful.
The sun is really shining. In the height of summer I have never
known more beautiful weather. This, on the whole, is a
picturesque part of France, and everything looks at its best just
now. The lanes and wooded downs here might be in Surrey.

I was seven hours in the saddle yesterday. The General himself
commented the other day on the splendid condition of my horses.
They certainly are looking extraordinarily well.

_May 28th, 1916._

I note that Winston Churchill suggested in the House of Commons
the other day that the Cavalry should be turned into Infantry.
With due respect to him, I think that he is all wrong. Whenever
the "Push" comes, cavalry will be not only desirable, but
absolutely and vitally essential. The day of cavalry charges may
have gone, but I agree with Conan Doyle that "the time will never
come when a brave and a capable man who is mounted will be
useless to his comrades." You might, indeed, mount them in motor
cars, but a man with a horse has three times the freedom and the
scope for scouting and independent action that a man has who is
brought up in a motor and then dumped to shift for himself. I
entirely agree with Churchill, nevertheless, about the large
number of able-bodied men employed behind the fighting-lines. I
only wish I were in the trenches myself, I can tell you. My
rejection for the Infantry was a bitter blow!

Everybody here is grieved at the death in action of Captain
Platt, ---- Hussars, attached Coldstream Guards. I knew him quite
well, and we were great friends. He was a chivalrous gentleman,
and very clever intellectually, quite a bit of a poet in his way.

_June 2nd, 1916._

We are now in bivouacs in a big field. I have rigged up a
first-rate tent, made out of cart-cover, with a sort of enclosed
dressing-room for washing, etc., attached. We've got a fine
mess-tent, 30 feet long by 20 feet wide, made out of
wagon-sheetings. It is not only much more pleasant, but a good
deal cheaper, to live in the open like this.

So Churchill has once again leapt to the fore as a critic of the
Army. Mind, I have a lot of sympathy with some of his arguments,
but in general this last speech seemed to me mere wild and
whirling words. I note that L. G. now appears in the rôle of
Conciliator-in-General to Ireland. If anyone can settle this
miserable Irish question, he will.

The war drags wearily along on its monotonous course. Are you
reading Conan Doyle's review in the _Strand_ of the early stages
of the war? The style is not so good as John Buchan's, and
perhaps he is inclined to miss the broad issues of the conflict.
But for details, and for pictures of incidents that go to make up
war, Conan Doyle's narrative is very good indeed. The story of
the heroic fight of "L" Battery R.H.A. at Le Cateau, when the
whole battery was wiped out save for an odd man or two, is
admirably told. War was war in those days, not like this
earthworm war that has replaced it. Still, no doubt the trench
phase will not last for ever.

_June 9th, 1916._

The school cricket XI seems to have been doing badly. It was
undoubtedly hard lines to go under by only four runs to Bedford,
but our bad season is only a tribute to the patriotism of the
school, for I can see from the names of the eleven that we have
no one playing over the age of 17. Our system of training the
young idea in cricket is very much inferior to the training for
footer. The consequence is that in Dulwich cricket a young team
is probably destined for disaster, whereas I know from experience
that whenever we've had a young footer team it has had quite as
much success as teams exclusively composed of fellows in their
last year at school.

To speak of bigger matters, it seems to me impossible as yet to
put together any connected story of the Battle of Jutland. The
only facts that seem certain are that both sides lost heavily
(the Boches worse than ours, I expect), and that British
superiority on the seas, and consequently the maintenance of the
blockade, remains _in statu quo antea_. I am quite prepared to
find, when the true facts come out, that it was a deathless story
of heroism on the British part, and that in a fight with a foe
about six times his strength Beatty covered himself with glory.

Lord Kitchener's death was terribly tragic. There ought to be
stringent inquiries as to the ways and means by which the Boches
were enabled to sink H.M.S. _Hampshire_. On the other hand, I can
see that it is possible that the whole thing was a woefully
unfortunate accident. To have one's name coupled with
"Kitchener's Army"--a title alone which should pass K.'s name
down to posterity--is no small honour.

WITH A SUPPLY COLUMN

In June Lieut. Paul Jones, much to his chagrin, was transferred from the 9th Cavalry Brigade to the Divisional Supply Column. His letters will show how much he resented this change. (Certain words and figures omitted from the following letter are the result of excisions made by the Press Bureau censorship. They do not appear to have been made on any intelligible principle.)

_June 12th, 1916._

I have been transferred from my old post of Requisitioning
Officer to Supply Officer, Cavalry Division Supply Column. I am
frankly and absolutely fed-up with this change! They tell me it
is promotion. Well, as I told my colonel, promotion of that kind
was not what I wanted. I loved my old job with its facilities for
exercising my French, and its comparative variety. Now I am
dignified with a job whose main element is seeing to the rations
being loaded on to the motor lorries that feed the division. I
have not even a chance of exercising my special faculty--that of
speaking French. I told my colonel I didn't want the job and
beseeched him to leave me with my brigade. He was adamant. My
late General wrote a personal letter to the A.S.C. colonel,
urging in the strongest terms that I should be left with the
brigade. Even to his appeal the only answer vouchsafed was: "The
change is equivalent to a promotion for the officer," and it is
"necessary for the satisfactory rationing of the division." The
colonel told me he was moving me (1) because I was good at
figures--me!; (2) because I was hard-working. They don't seem to
realise that, if what they said was true, I would have been a far
greater asset as a Requisitioning Officer. Oh, it does drive me
wild!

We had a brilliantly successful Divisional Horse Show last
Saturday. It proved a real triumph for the ---- Hussars of our
brigade--to my mind the best cavalry regiment in the Army. They
romped home easy firsts for the cup presented by the G.O.C. to
the regiment that got the greatest number of points in the
competitions. The classes for heavy and light chargers brought
out some magnificent horses. The well-known C.O. of the ----
Hussars was very much in evidence in all these classes. He is a
striking personality. With his hard, shrewd, red face, his
wonderfully thin legs, light-coloured breeches, beautifully-cut
tunic and high hat cocked over his left ear, he looked the
personification of the cavalry officer as we read about him in
novels. It would seem as though these cavalry officers had been
fashioned by nature to sit on a horse. I suppose it is heredity.
Certainly they are all of a type.

An interesting unofficial incident was provided by a man in the
4th Dragoon Guards producing a fine bay horse which he wagered 30
to 1 against any officer riding. It was a real American
buck-jumper. This challenge was enough for the dare-devil
subalterns of the ---- Hussars, and one of them, Beach-Hay, a
splendid horseman, promptly closed with the offer. For twenty
minutes or so he tried to mount, without succeeding; finally he
muffled the horse's head in a cloak and got on his back. Then he
dug his spurs in and set off at a gallop over the wide plain
where the show was being held. All went well for some time until
suddenly, without any warning, the horse put his feet together,
arched his back, and leapt several feet into the air, at the same
time turning to the left sharply. This the horse repeated several
times, up hill, down hill, sideways. How Beach-Hay managed to
keep his seat no one could tell; it was marvellous the way he
stuck on. At last the spirited animal contrived to get the rider
well forward on his neck, and then Hay slipped off and the horse
was away over the plain at full gallop, riderless. He was chased
and caught at last after a long run. Then up stepped a wily old
trooper of the 5th Dragoon Guards who used to be a jockey. He saw
that the horse was now tired out and got on his back without
difficulty, and as the animal by this time was utterly fagged, he
found little trouble in keeping his seat. All the honours,
however, belonged to the young subaltern.

Did you see that wonderful record of R. B. B. Jones[7] of
Dulwich? He shot no fewer than fifteen Boches in a scrap in the
craters on the Vimy Ridge before himself being killed. I remember
him more than well--a short, sturdy fellow, a very good shot, and
an excellent diver and gymnast. He did not go in much for cricket
or for football. Poor chap! Yet such a death, I think, is far
more to be coveted than an ignoble life far from danger and risk.
I often think of those lines of Adam Lindsay Gordon:

No game was ever yet worth a rap for a rational man to play,
Into which no accident, no mishap, could possibly find its way.

[Footnote 7: R. B. B. Jones. Born, 1897. Killed, May 21st,
1916. In the shooting VII, 1913-14; captain of gymnasium,
1914. Lieutenant, Loyal North Lancashires. His heroic bravery
on the Vimy Ridge recognised by bestowal of a posthumous
V.C.]

_June 16th, 1916._

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

_June 22nd, 1916._

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

_July 9th, 1916._

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

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

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

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

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

_July 17th, 1916._

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

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

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

[Footnote 8: C. C. Howard. Born, 1897. Killed, May 23rd,
1916. Held an exhibition in science at Trinity College,
Cambridge. Lieutenant, Loyal North Lancashires.]

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

[Footnote 9: A. W. Fischer. Born, 1895. Died of wounds, May
12th, 1916. In the 1st XV, 1912-13-14. Held the Tancred
Studentship for Classics and Science at Caius College,
Cambridge. Lieutenant, Devonshire Regiment.]

_July 25th, 1916._

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

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

[Footnote 10: Captain W. J. Henderson, M.C. Born, 1895.
Killed in action, July 6th, 1916. A senior classical scholar
at Dulwich. Won a classical scholarship at Corpus Christi
College, Oxford. Joined the Army, September, 1914.]

_July 27th, 1916._

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

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

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

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

_August 8th, 1916._

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

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

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

[Footnote 11: Lieutenant D. O. Barnett, killed in action,
1916, was a distinguished scholar and athlete at St. Paul's
School. His career there presents a striking similarity to
that of Paul Jones at Dulwich. Both won junior and senior
scholarships; both ended their school career by winning a
Balliol scholarship; both shone in athletics; Barnett was
captain of St. Paul's School; Paul Jones was head of the
Modern Side at Dulwich.]

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

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

_August 14th, 1916._

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

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

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

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

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

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

IN THE SOMME BATTLEFIELD

In August, 1916, Paul Jones was relieved of his uncongenial duties with the Supply Column and appointed to command an ammunition working-party located at an advanced railhead in the terrain of the Somme battles.

_August 21st, 1916._

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

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

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

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

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

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

_September 2nd, 1916._

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