Chapter XVII: Part II: War Letters (4)

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

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

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

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

_September 6th, 1916._

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

_September 12th, 1916._

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

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

[Footnote 12: Captain A. P. Peaker, M.C., of the K.R.R. (son
of Mr. F. Peaker, of the _Morning Post_), who was a
contemporary of Paul Jones's at Dulwich, and won an Oxford
classical exhibition in December, 1914.]

_September 14th, 1916._

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

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

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

_September 21st, 1916._

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

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

_September 27th, 1916._

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

[Footnote 13: Lieutenant Harrison Edkins, 1st Surrey Rifles.
Born, July 5th, 1896. Killed, September 15th, 1916. At
Dulwich he was captain of fives; Editor of _The Alleynian_,
1915. In December, 1914, he won the Charles Oldham Classical
Scholarship at Corpus Christi College, Oxford.]

WITH THE 2nd CAVALRY BRIGADE

_October 3rd, 1916._

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

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

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

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

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

_November 3rd, 1916._

Our Cavalry Brigade has been on the move for some time. In these
circumstances I am always busily employed. Every day that we move
I go on with the brigade advance parties, go round the billets
that the troops are going to occupy, and make all arrangements
with the French inhabitants for a plentiful supply of fuel, straw
and forage to be available for the troops when they arrive. The
weather recently has been the reverse of clement. The first
stages of the move were accomplished in pitiless rain, the more
recent ones in weather fairly dry, but bitterly cold. Not that
vicissitudes of weather worry me. I never enjoy life so much as
when I'm fully occupied with hard work like that I am now doing,
which is really useful and responsible.

The question of Ireland remains a perplexing one. We have two
Irishmen in our mess, one a Unionist, the other a Nationalist.
The impression one gets from them at least is the hopelessness of
our being ever able to settle the Irish problem. It is largely,
of course, a question of temperament. The Ulsterman with us is
all for the "strong hand" policy, but I pointed out to him the
absurdity of our adopting Prussian tactics, especially at this
moment. He agreed, but steadfastly maintained that, judging
purely from results, Balfour was the best Chief Secretary Ireland
has ever had. He frankly admitted that Carson made himself liable
to be tried for high treason at the time of the Larne gunrunning.
He also agreed with me that to administer an irritant to a man
recovering from brain fever is a very risky policy. In fact, we
came round to the old conclusion in which, to quote "Rasselas,"
"nothing is concluded." It is a thousand pities that so able,
attractive and intelligent a race as the Irish should have such
an accursedly impossible temperament. It is the unimaginative,
easygoing, supremely practical Englishman who is the ideal
governor in this foolish world, not the hot-headed idealist.

_November 10th, 1916._

I am starting off to-day on rather a big, albeit safe job,
namely, purchasing all the hay and straw in a certain area on
behalf of the Cavalry Division. It is an important commission and
will take me about a week to execute.

We have arrived at another stagnant period in the war. That was a
happy definition of it as "long spells of acute boredom
punctuated by short spells of acute fear."

What brilliant soldiers the French are! It amazes me that they
should be able to "strafe" the Boches so constantly, and at
points where one would least expect them to. The recapture of
Douaumont was, in my opinion, one of the best bits of work in the
war. Of course, the French Army is superbly generalled, and it
has a military tradition second to none in the world. A nation
that can boast of men like Vauban, Turenne, Condé, Soult,
Masséna, Ney, and Macdonald (I don't mention Napoleon, because he
was not really a Frenchman at all) has a glorious military
tradition worth living up to.

On the other hand, I cannot withhold praise from the wonderful
organisation of the Boches. The way in which they repeatedly take
the bull by the horns and attack the encircling ring of their
enemies at some new point is extraordinary. Where on earth did
they find men for their Rumanian campaign? There can be no doubt
that they are a very stiff foe to beat, and they are not easily
"rattled" by failures or defeats. But it is undeniable that they
were badly "rattled" on the Somme. British achievements there
enable one to look with great hope to the future, when our full
strength will be in the field. Man for man the German soldier is
no match for the British Tommy.

I was amazed to read in the papers that the Dulwich 1st XV have
been beaten by Merchant Taylors'. If that really happened, then
truly it is a case of "Ichabod," and "The glory is departed from
Israel."

_November 17th, 1916._

I am still detached temporarily from Headquarters, travelling
about in a motor-car for the purpose of securing local supplies
of forage and straw in the area about to be occupied by the
Cavalry Division. It is very interesting work, with a large human
element in it; but one has difficulty in getting these French
farmers and dealers to agree to our prices for their commodities.
Almost always they want much more for them than is prescribed in
our schedule of official prices. Taking note of all refusals to
sell to us, because our prices are too low, I have to-day applied
for permission to requisition the goods in these cases--that is,
to take the stuff over compulsorily, handing to the owner a note
entitling him to draw so much money from the British Requisition
Office, the amount being settled by us and not by the farmer or
dealer. That is the way the French Military authorities do
things. They, of course, are dealing with their own people. It is
different with us, and French farmers and peasants think they are
entitled to exact all they can from the English. The French
authorities, acting through their A.S.C. or the local mayors,
periodically call on the communes to supply them with so much
forage, straw and other commodities. These quantities have to be
supplied _nolens volens_ and at prices fixed by the French Army.
I can see ourselves being forced reluctantly to adopt the same
procedure, at least in some cases, though it is much more
pleasant for both parties when we can buy amicably and pay cash
on the spot.

A number of the farmers with whom I had to deal recently are
"permissionaires"--they get pretty regular leave in the French
Army. The peasant stock of the North of France has a knack of
producing good fighting men--they are an unromantic race, but
amazingly industrious, shrewd, and very tough.

My car-driver is a Welshman from Pontypridd. He is one of the
best drivers I've struck out here and a first-rate fellow to
boot. He has played a lot of Rugby, having turned out several
times on the wing for Cardiff. He is quite young, not much older
than myself. Like most Welshmen, he has literary tastes, and has
a real gift for reciting poetry.

_The Alleynian_ duly to hand. Its monthly War record for the old
school makes splendid, albeit mournful reading. How poignant to
read the record in dates of Edkins's life: "Born, 1896; left
school, September, 1915; killed in action, 1916." Judging from
the official account, Frank Hillier[14] must have done great work
in earning the Military Cross. I see also that K. R. Potter has
got the M.C. He is one of the most brilliant men Dulwich has
produced. He was one of the two men to win a Balliol Scholarship
in Classics in the second of those historic two years when we got
two in each year--a record equalled by few schools and beaten by
none. J. S. Mann, who took a Balliol Scholarship at the same
time as Potter, has been wounded in the trenches.

[Footnote 14: Lieutenant F. N. Hillier, M.C., R.F.A., son of
Mr. F. J. Hillier, of the _Daily News_. Educated at Dulwich.]

Deep was my grief to read of the death in action of R. F.
Mackinnon,[15] M.C., one of the finest forwards and captains who
has ever worn the blue-and-black jersey. He was captain of the
first fifteen in my first year at the school, 1908-9, in which we
had a pack of forwards of strong physique and whole-hearted
courage. Arthur Gilligan, who was in the same battalion as
Mackinnon, told me he was absolutely without fear, and was
continually working up little "strafes" of the Boches on his own.

[Footnote 15: Lieutenant Ronald F. Mackinnon, M.C. Born,
October 23rd, 1889. Killed, October 21st, 1916. Was in the
Dulwich 1st XV for three seasons, and captain of football
1908-9; a member of the gymnasium XVI in 1907-8, and won the
Swimming Challenge Shield in 1908.]

_November 22nd, 1916._

I have been up to the neck in work, having temporarily to do what
is really three men's work--Brigade Supply Officer, Brigade
Requisitioning Officer, and Divisional Forage Purchasing
Officer--the last a newly-created post under the direction of the
Corps H.Q. It is no joke personally arranging the payments for
all the forage in an area fifteen square miles by ten. To-day I
found it impossible to continue and do the work efficiently
without assistance. It is not so much the getting the forage as
the amount of accounting that is involved. I fear I am a poor
accountant at best, and the figuring involved in the new scheme
(there are five enormous Army forms to fill up weekly, in
addition to the ordinary business side of the transactions) has
been taxing my energies and has taken up my time long after
working hours. Major Knox, Senior Supply Officer of the Division
(an old Dulwich man, at one time the Oxford Cricket Captain, and
a splendid fellow to boot), spent about six hours to-day with me
in completely checking our available resources. The fact is that
the hay ration from England has been very considerably reduced
for some reason, and we have to make up the deficiency out here,
permission having been obtained from the French authorities to
purchase and requisition in various Army areas. This permission
was for a long time withheld, as the French wanted the local
supplies for their own troops.

I am finding the War a boring business; the glamour has decidedly
worn off. Oh, if we could but get through the Boche lines! As
things are at present, there is no thrill and not much scope for
initiative. It is just a sordid affair of mud, shell-holes,
corpses, grime and filth. Even in billets the thing remains
intensely dull and uninspiring. One just lives, eats, drinks,
sleeps, and all apparently to no purpose. The monotony is
excessive. My chief function in life seems to be the filling up
of endless Army forms. I thoroughly sympathise with the recent
protest from military men in the _Spectator_ about the "Military
Babu," who is occupying an ever larger and larger place in the
life of the Army. There will be a revolt one of these days
against the fatuity of this eternal filling up of forms for no
conceivable purpose.

It is not only myself, but many of my comrades who are bored by
the War. To my mind there are only four really interesting
branches in the Army: (1) Flying Corps; (2) Heavy Artillery; (3)
Tanks, and (4) Intelligence. It must be intense reaction against
the drab monotony of life at the Front that is responsible for
the outbreak of frivolity that is said to have been the leading
characteristic of life in London and elsewhere of late. The
Englishman doesn't like thinking; if he did, he would not be the
splendid fighting man that he is.

In literature taste had gone to the dogs long before the War, and
it seems to me that the War has hastened it on its downward path.
It does seem to me a tragic pity that no great and inspiring work
has sprung to birth in England from the contemplation of what the
men of British race have achieved in this War, enduring such
depressing conditions with so much fortitude and doing such
glorious deeds whenever there is a chance for action.

_November 29th, 1916._

More boredom and an incredible amount of figuring, until I loathe
the very sight of pencil and paper. Thanks for parcels. Everyone
is so kind that it afflicts me with a sense of shame. Not that
any amount of gifts is too lavish for the brave men in the
trenches, but for "peace soldiers," like yours truly, it is very
different. I am at present living in a beautiful château at a
perfectly safe distance from the Front, in very pleasant country,
with a motor-car and two horses at my disposal and every
conceivable luxury. And then one is asked about the hardships
that one endures! It really is too absurd. I am by no means the
only one who feels like this, but I do think it is worse for a
Celtic temperament than for an Anglo-Saxon one.

At last there seems to be a chance of escape from this luxurious
life, for a circular has just come to hand from the O.C., A.S.C.,
of the Division, intimating that a number of transfers per month
from the A.S.C. to really fighting units has been sanctioned by
the War Office, together with a form to be filled up by officers
desiring to transfer. Of course, I am putting my name down. I am
deliberating whether to go for Infantry, Artillery, or
Machine-Gun Corps.

_December 8th, 1916._

I was medically examined yesterday, and passed fit for general
service. To-day I filled in the application form, applying for
(1) Infantry, (2) M.G.C., (3) Royal Artillery. You will doubtless
want my reasons for this step. (1) It is obvious that they need
Infantry officers most. It is, therefore, clearly the duty of
every fit officer to offer his services for the Infantry. I have
been passed fit by an entirely impartial medical officer, after a
searching medical examination; therefore it is my duty to go. (2)
From the personal point of view I have long been most
dissatisfied with the part I am playing in the War, and I jump at
the chance of a transfer.

I don't pretend to be doing the "young hero" stunt. I am not out
for glory. I have probably seen far more of the War as it really
is than any other A.S.C. officer in the Division. I know the War
for the dull, sordid, murderous thing that it is. I don't expect
for a minute to enjoy the trenches. But anything is better than
this horrible inaction when all the chaps one knows are
undergoing frightful hardships and dangers. For a long time the
argument of physical incapacity weighed with me. I was forced to
admit that if, on account of defective eyesight, I was not sound
for Infantry work, it was better that I should stick to a job for
which I was fit than do badly one for which I was not fit. But I
have now been passed fit for general service, and this being so I
would be a craven to hold back from the fighting-line.

If we are to win this War it will only be through gigantic
efforts and great sacrifices. It is the chief virtue of the
public-school system that it teaches one to make sacrifices
willingly for the sake of _esprit de corps_. Well, clearly, if
the public-school men hold back, the others will not follow.
Germany at present [the Germans had recently overrun Rumania] is
in the best situation--speaking politically--she has been in
since those dramatic days of the advance on Paris. The British
effort is only just beginning to bear fruit, and we are called on
to strain every nerve in our national body to counteract the
superb organisation of the Boches. That can only be done by
getting the right man in the right job. Men with special
qualifications must be given the chance to exercise them. All
A.S.C. officers should be business men; they could perfectly well
also be men over military age, as the work demands none of the
qualifications of youth. For a young chap like myself, without
any special qualification or training, but full of keenness, with
good physique and just out of a public school, the trenches are
emphatically the place.

Well, anyway, there it is. My application is in, and I am now
just waiting for G.H.Q. to accept me for the Infantry. I should
not be surprised if I am back home at Christmas in order to
train. An excellent recommendation from my C.O. accompanied my
transfer papers. I also had a satisfactory interview with the
Major-General commanding the Division, who, I believe, added his
own recommendation.

_December 20th, 1916._

I can't tell you how relieved I was to get the Pater's last
letter, and to feel that we see the matter in the same light. It
lifted a weight from my mind, as I will frankly admit that I was
much worried, torn one way by my conscience and another by the
fear that my action would cause displeasure and grief at home.
Now, with the Pater's letter in my possession, I can go ahead
with a light heart. There can be absolutely no question that I've
done the right thing. It is a mere coincidence that my personal
feelings have long tended in the same direction. I saw the path
of duty before me absolutely clear. Up to date I have never "let
you down," and I don't think I shall do so this time.

By the way, in my transfer papers, I have expressly stipulated
for a temporary commission, as I have no idea at all of becoming
a Regular.

_January 1st, 1917._

Hearty wishes for a happy New Year, wishes which always seem to
me more serious than the greetings that pass at Christmas time.
With most people Christmas is a purely festive season, but with
the end of the old year comes the necessity of looking forward to
a new period--perhaps to be joyful, perhaps otherwise; anyway, a
period on which it is necessary to enter as far as possible with
confidence. From the general point of view that is not an easy
matter as things stand. I am bound to say I am getting
pessimistic about the War. The chief trouble is the total lack of
action that characterises it. This grovelling in ditches is a
rotten, foolish business in many ways--though to me sitting in
comfort and safety behind the lines is a great deal worse.

We passed a pleasant Christmas. I had dinner and tea with the men
of the Brigade Headquarters--the former one of the most pleasant
functions I have ever attended. I much prefer a ceremony of this
kind along with Demos to the "Tedious pomp ... and grooms
besmeared with gold" that Milton denounces so scathingly.

I am sorry the Dulwich 1st XV didn't have a very good season. To
judge from the photos in the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic_,
the forwards don't know how to pack. One of the "scrum"
photographs is one of the best illustrations of how not to pack
that I have ever struck. It seems to me that there has been a
lack of training. But what I do remark with joy is the care that
has been taken with the games. All will be well with the school
if the games are keen.

I have just been reading the first book that I've found that
absolutely gets the atmosphere of the Western Front--namely, "The
Red Horizon," by Patrick McGill, the navvy poet. It really is
great. He doesn't spare the horror of the thing one iota, but it
"gets one right." "Sapper" has a good picture of the fighting
man, but a very bad one of the Front. McGill has got a pretty
good one of the man and a superb one of the Front. He describes
to a "T" one's sensations under shell-fire.

_January 11th, 1917._

Congratulate me! I am, as I have every reason to believe, on the
verge of the most stupendous good fortune that has ever yet come
my way. Last night I got a wire ordering me to present myself at
Headquarters, Heavy M.G.C., for interview with the
Colonel-in-charge. Well, I went up for my interview this morning,
and was tested for vision by the Colonel with my glasses on.
Finally he told me that he was going to recommend me for the
Tanks, which means that the thing is as good as settled. I had
not dared to hope for such luck, owing to the fact of my not
having any special qualification. However, my usual marvellous
good fortune seems not to have deserted me. It means just this,
that I am going to be a member of the most modern and most
interesting branch of the service. So great is my delight that I
scarcely know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. The
transfer will, I fear, prevent my coming home on leave for a
time. Anyway, it's more than possible that I shall come back to
England to train. I hope not, for despite my earnest
desire--more than you can ever guess--to see you all again, I
think it is far better to remain on active service, if possible,
when on duty.

I've been pretty busy with my brigade work recently, though to
nothing like the degree of November and the first fortnight of
December. One meets strange types of humanity on this sort of
duty. You can divide the countryfolk round these parts into three
lots: (_a_) The farmers--on the whole honest, but decidedly
avaricious; the French farmer's one fear in life is that his
neighbour across the way is being paid at a higher price than he
himself. (_b_) The average merchant, who is on the lookout for
making a bit in all sorts of illegal ways, such as cheating us by
underweight. (_c_) The honest middlemen, who, I regret to say,
are few and far between. As far as possible we always try to deal
with the farmers direct, as they are fairly honest, though very
obstinate. An honest middleman is very useful, but there are not
many of him. Business difficulties are increased by the
extraordinary accent in which the country people hereabouts talk.
Sometimes even French interpreters find themselves at a loss. I
am getting into it famously, and can even speak with the local
accent myself, to a certain extent.

Did you see that my old colleague, E. C. Cartwright, has got the
M.C.? His reports of 1st XV matches in Evans's year were the
feature of _The Alleynian_, as were poor Edkins's reports in the
year of my own captaincy. Also J. P. Jordan, another O.A., well
known to me, has won the M.C.

I am delighted that the Old Man (Mr. A. H. Gilkes) has received
the living of St. Mary Magdalene at Oxford. He could, I am sure,
have never had an appointment more to his tastes--barring,
indeed, his mastership at his beloved Dulwich. As a headmaster
he was a gigantic character; of that there can be no doubt
whatever.

_January 28th, 1917._

No news yet of my application for transfer. But people "in the
know" tell me that it is only a question of time. The document
having been approved and recommended by all the necessary
authorities is, I presume, now wandering through the multifarious
ramifications of the maze of Army offices, but I am told it will
soon filter down. One thing that pleases me is an assurance that
the A.S.C. authorities, whatever may have happened in the past,
are not this time blocking my transfer. From your knowledge of my
weaknesses, you will no doubt have guessed that I'm on pins these
days--the period of waiting for the result of an exam., even if
you think you've passed, is always a trying one. It is especially
so for me on account of my absurdly impatient temperament. I fear
that leave is out of the question till the transfer is settled
one way or the other.

The cold weather now prevalent must add yet a fresh discomfort to
those that are being endured by our men in the trenches. I cannot
recollect a cold spell of such severity continuing for so long a
time. We had a heavy snowfall a fortnight back, and since then
there has been incessant and exceptionally hard frost. The roads
in places are wellnigh impassable owing to frozen snow. Going
down one steep hill to-day in our motor-car we all but turned
completely over, as at a curve in the road the car-wheels,
instead of answering to the steering gear, skidded on the frozen
surface, and the car swung completely round on its axis,
finishing by facing the opposite way to that in which we were
travelling. Where the roads are not very slippery they are as
hard as iron. A curious result is that you have a thick dust
raised over a snow-covered landscape and in bitterly cold
weather!

I was much interested in the Balliol College pamphlet and the
Master's accompanying letter. Balliol appears to have done even
more than its part in the War. Did you see that the Brakenbury
Scholarship in History for 1916 was taken by a chap from Gresham
School, Holt? I often wonder whether I shall ever go up to
Oxford. Almost needless to say, to go there would be the crowning
joy of my life, but I cannot help thinking that circumstances
will render it impossible. Still, we will hope for the best. One
thing I mean to do after the War is to learn Russian thoroughly
and to visit Russia. I am not at all sure that travelling is not
the best of all Universities. The great disadvantage of a
'Varsity is the insularity of mind which it is apt to breed. Its
rigid observance of ancient customs, its cult of "form," the fact
that it is the almost exclusive monopoly of the rich, the
aristocracy and the upper middle-class; above all, its contempt
for the learning of modern times and studied disregard of modern
languages--all these features help to make the 'Varsity as
insular as the most insular of all English national institutions.
On the other hand, by its genuine intellectuality, by its cult of
the beautiful and the abstract, by its scorn of the sordid
business side of modern civilisation, by its enthusiasm for
athletics and by its traditions of duty and of patriotism, the
'Varsity remains, to my mind, one of the most healthful
influences in modern British life.

Talking of English insularity, it is curious to note how the
Englishman makes his progress abroad. He is so insular that
instead of learning the language and adopting the customs of the
country he is in, he makes the indigenous population adopt his!
He does not, for example, know much French, but he has evolved a
sort of patois--much nearer English than French--that enables the
inhabitants to understand him and comprehend what he wants.

I have recently been reading another of John Buchan's, called
"Greenmantle." If you haven't read it, get it. It is just as good
as Buchan's other books, rich in mystery and scintillating with
adventure. It deals with this War and the experiences of Richard
Hannay (whom you will recollect as the hero of the "Thirty-nine
Steps," and who has since become a Major and got wounded at Loos)
in his efforts, eventually crowned with success, to crush a
German plot--this plot being the working up of a "Jehad," or Holy
War among the Mohammedans, and so provoking a rising of Islam
against the British. A thoroughly live story, told with great
spirit.

I have also read H. G. Wells's war novel, "Mr. Britling Sees It
Through." It is undeniably clever, though not to my mind up to
the level of Wells's very best. It rather gives the impression in
parts of having been written by the mile and then lengths cut off
as required. He has one very good touch, the realisation of the
impersonal and indiscriminate nature of the War: it claims as
victims both Mr. Britling's own son and the young German who had
been living with them before the War. The book concludes with a
letter from Britling to the German boy's father, attempting to
find some way out of the blackness. As usual with Wells, the best
feature of the novel is the way in which he expresses the point
of view of the average man. He has the trick of recording
reflections in a sort of staccato style, with gaps here and
there--just the way that one does think. There is some rot in the
book, but on the whole it is very good and well worth reading.

Recently I have been attending a Veterinary Course--lectures and
practical demonstration; most fascinating it is, I can assure
you.

WITH THE TANK CORPS

On February 13, 1917, Paul Jones joined the M.G.C.H.B., in other words the Tank Corps. His joy at this transfer was unbounded. Nothing could be in sharper contrast than the letters he wrote after joining the Tank Corps and those penned during the preceding three months, when the enforced inactivity of the cavalry and the nature of his own routine work preyed on his spirits and made him exclaim with Ulysses:

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use,
As though to breathe were Life!

_February 13th, 1917._

When I came in from my morning's work yesterday what should I
find but a telegram instructing me to report at the earliest
possible moment to Headquarters, Heavy M.G.C., for duty on
transfer! These things usually come with a rush after one has
been kept waiting a long time in suspense. I spent the rest of
the day in bringing my accounts and papers up to date, and this
morning came across in the motor to my destination. Is it not
splendid? My luck has never yet failed to stand me in good stead.
I won't deny, nevertheless, that it was a severe wrench parting
from the old Cavalry Division after twenty months of service with
it. I had formed many friendships there, among both officers and
men, and it cost me many a pang to bid them good-bye. All
partings from old associations are hard to bear even when the
parting leads up, as in my case, to the fulfilment of one's
greatest ambition. My delight knows no bounds at my new
appointment. I really am asking myself whether I am awake or not.
It almost seems too good to be true.

I am writing this letter in my new mess which is in a Neissen
hut. For the present I remain Lieutenant A.S.C.--till the period
of probation is past. But that's no matter, for the acme of my
military ambitions is now attained. My new messmates are almost
all ex-infantry men, many of whom, most in fact, are here
learning their new job. Strangely enough, I am the third Senior
Lieutenant in the company, and in point of active service, with
my twenty months in France, I stand well in front of almost all
of them. The O.C. of the company, stroke of good luck for me, is
an old Hussar officer and ex-member of the Cavalry Brigade which
I have just quitted. It was a joy to meet him again. I was able
to give him a lot of news about his old pals.

All the fellows in the new mess are amazed that I have been
without leave since the beginning of May, 1916. I must not set my
leave before my work, however. I have already started my new
labours. Altogether I am in luck all round. I verily believe I am
the luckiest man in the B.E.F. to-day. Congratulate me! You will
be interested to know that an old Dulwich boy, Ambrose, to whom I
gave 2nd XV Colours in my year of football captaincy, is in the
same battalion, but I have not met him yet.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_February 17th, 1917._

I am getting on splendidly. I can't tell you how bucked I am with
life. It was my third shot to get out of the "great Department,"
and not only did I succeed in this, but I have obtained that
which I had most desired. I had really hardly dared to hope that
I should succeed in getting into the Tank Corps. There are a lot
of Rugger men among the officers here, including an O.A.,
Ambrose, who was one of the best of the 2nd XV forwards in 1914.
In our company is a splendid fellow called Hedderwick, who played
for Loretto and was tried for Cambridge; and a man called
Saillard, who was the Haileybury full-back in that match when
they beat us at Haileybury by 32 to 12 in Evans's year. You may
recollect Saillard getting laid out in the second half,
Haileybury continuing without a full-back--with very sound
judgment as it turned out, for this enabled them to play us off
our legs in the scrum and control the game with eight forwards to
seven, and we never got the ball to give to our eight outsides.
To sum up, I am in most congenial society and enjoying life
hugely.

Naturally, I am working pretty hard, learning my new job. I am
determined to make good at it, and I have the conviction that,
with hard work and concentration, a man with education behind him
can succeed in pretty well anything that he likes. Leave may come
in the near future, provided the authorities consider I have made
sufficient progress in my new studies; but I have a lot to learn,
and it is not my desire to go on leave before I have mastered at
least the elements of my new job--very much the reverse, in fact.

_February 20th, 1917._

Am having a grand time--up to my eyes in oil, grease and mud from
8 A.M. to 5 P.M. I am finding my old hobby of engineering of the
greatest value, and my enthusiasm for seeing "the wheels go
round" has returned in all its old force. Even the gas-engine and
dynamo of famous (or infamous) memory are proving most
serviceable to me through the experience I acquired with
them--demonstrating again how useful the most _recherché_ of
ideas, occupations or hobbies may become. No knowledge is to be
despised.

The only fly in the ointment is that an exam. is due for me in a
week's time or so--as you know, impending exams. fill me with
terror. I have such an accursedly active imagination that I find
it impossible to banish from my head the thought, "What if I
fail?" I've always been afflicted with this, though I am bound to
say that when it came to the point it did not, as far as might be
judged by results, affect my actual performances. But I am,
nevertheless, in a chronic state of what the B.E.F. calls "wind
up" on account of this exam. I am so eager to do well that the
mere thought of failing is abhorrent. I am inclined to ascribe
these feelings at bottom to egotism.

There is quite a number of South Welshmen in our lot out here,
including some men from Llanelly. There are also a lot of
Scotsmen among the officers, fellows of broad speech and dry
humour to whom I am much drawn.

You haven't hit on a book on some musical subject for me, have
you? I would much like a work dealing with Wagner or Beethoven.
It is music that I miss more than anything in the intellectual
line. Shall we ever hear the "Ring" again, I wonder? Anyway, it
was one of the supreme experiences of my life to have heard it
conducted by Nikisch. I regard the "Ring" as one of the world's
artistic masterpieces. It is conceived on a scale of unparalleled
grandeur, and must be thought of as an organised whole.

I miss the "Proms" and the Sunday Concerts, too--both have done a
real national service in popularising the greatest music.

_February 28th, 1917._

In the language of Tommy, I am "in the pink" and getting on
first-rate. Am delighted to say I passed well in that
examination, being marked "very good indeed." I got more than 90
per cent. of marks. I never dared to hope for such success. It
would be absurd to deny that I am hugely bucked at the result,
but I had had a pretty strenuous training for the exam. I am
still engaged in learning, but now in a different department,
though of equal interest, and I am glad to say that no
examination is involved this time.