Chapter XVIII: Part II: War Letters (5)

Last Sunday we had a real first-rate game of Rugger--not very
scientific as far as passing and outside play were concerned, but
a great struggle forward. My own side had a couple of splendid
Scottish forwards against it, and I had a great deal of defence
to do, falling on the ball, etc. The final was 6-3 against us,
but one glaring offside try was allowed to our
opponents--accidentally, of course, as the referee's view was
unfortunately obstructed at the time. It was a grand game to play
in, though I was not in the best of training--one's first game
for fourteen months is usually apt to be a bit of a strain, and I
hadn't played since I turned out for the O.A.'s at Dulwich in
December, 1915. It was simply great, worth living years for, to
touch a Rugger ball again.

_March 17th, 1917._

These days for me are crammed full of work, 8.30 A.M. to 6 or 7
P.M. as a general rule. I am enjoying life hugely, however. To me
hard work has always been preferable to slack times, and I like
going at high pressure. Besides, this is such a grand job that
the work is a sheer pleasure. By Jove! if you only knew how much
happier I am these days than in any period during the twenty odd
months I had spent previously playing at soldiers in the "Grub
Department." It amazes me that I could have been so long
contented with work like that of the A.S.C. Well, anyway, those
days are over and done with, and a new and brighter era has been
ushered in. As a rule, I am now almost always in an incredible
state of grease and oil and grime, which, remembering my old
propensities, you will know delights me. The old gas-engine at
home was nothing to it. I have had to set aside a special suit
for daily use, as even with overalls on there is not sufficient
protection against grease, oil, petrol and mud. I cannot tell you
how supremely happy I am in my work.

Ambrose returned to his company from a course of instruction last
week, and he came across immediately to see me. We discussed old
times and old friends with great gusto. There are two other
Dulwich men in the battalion whom I never knew well, as they were
fairly senior fellows when I was only a kid, though I distinctly
remember both. Their names are Trimingham and Sewell. They were
in what was in those days Treadgold's House.

I am sending back by the same post a pair of spectacles which got
broken recently. Will you please get them repaired? I still have
four sound pairs, but I always like to keep up the set of five
with which I started in the War.

The breaking of the great frost created appalling conditions on
this countryside, which for some time was an absolute quagmire.
Even now things are pretty bad, though the weather improves
daily.

_March 20th, 1917._

Well, the Boche has retreated on the Somme, as most people
anticipated he would, though few imagined he would make such a
considerable withdrawal. He is a cute customer, of that there is
no doubt. He never does a thing without having a reason. Yet
there have been occasions in the War when he has entirely
misjudged the situation. Take Ypres and Verdun for example. This
retirement on the Somme is clever, though it may tell on the
morale of his men. On the other hand, the Boche relies, and
always has relied, much more on discipline than on morale for
keeping his army together. He has never developed _esprit de
corps_ as it has been developed in our army, or the French, but
there's no denying that his discipline is something pretty
considerable. That discipline, as far as can be gauged, has as
its foundation a very efficient system of N.C.O.'s. His officers
are intelligent, but nothing to write home about, but his
N.C.O.'s are unquestionably very good. I have myself witnessed
their influence among gangs of prisoners we have taken.

It must necessarily come about in the course of a War that
situations arise when _esprit de corps_ is equivalent to, and
even produces, discipline. That is where brother Boche fails to
rise to the occasion. I am not of those who think the Boche a
coward, but undoubtedly an unexpected situation very often plays
the very deuce with both his courage and his organisation. In his
plans he allows for most possibilities, but he is nonplussed when
the situation does not turn out exactly as it should on paper.
Again, man for man, he loses "guts" in tight corners, because of
this same lack of initiative. It is perhaps a temperamental
failing. There have been moments in this War when only his
incapacity to deal with a suddenly-developed situation has stood
between him and stupendous success. He has assumed, let us say,
that by all the rules of War the enemy must have reserves
available, and has therefore ceased his attack until such time as
he could muster his forces to meet the counter-attack by these
imagined reserve troops, when actually his enemy had no reserves
at all. Conversely, he has assumed on many occasions that his
enemy must, by all the rules of War, be battered into pulp or
asphyxiated, and that he has only to advance over the bodies of
his foes to win an overwhelming victory; yet somehow or other
from out of the indescribable débris and havoc wrought by his
artillery or gas, arise survivors who, though half-dead, yet have
enough life and pluck to hold him back.

Take as illustrations either the second battle of Ypres or
Verdun. In the first case, after the first surprise gas attack a
rent about a mile and a half wide had been torn in the Allied
line. Against a vast number of German troops there was opposed
only one single division of what Bernhardi contemptuously termed
"Colonial Militia," namely, the Canadians. For quite a long time
there were no other troops of ours (save a few oddments) in the
vicinity. The Boche had five miles or so to get to "Wipers." Of
these he covered just about two, and even that ground was only
what he gained in the first surprise of his gas attack. Between
him and the Channel coast there still stretched a khaki line. The
same sort of situation was repeated several times during the
second battle of Ypres (though the odds were never so great as in
these first April days), yet the result was always the same.

Take Verdun again. For me this prolonged battle has a strange
fascination. There is something more terrible and primitive about
it than about any other struggle of the War. It was a sort of
death-grip between two antagonistic military conceptions.

(_The remainder of this letter never came to hand._)

_March 31st, 1917._

It must be a singular experience for our troops on the Somme to
miss enemy artillery fire, trench mortars, grenades, etc., from
the scheme of things. What a huge relief to the Infantry to have
a pause from the eternal "Whew-w-w-w-Crash" of the high
explosives! I fear, nevertheless, that the British infantrymen
will soon resume acquaintance with them, for the War isn't over
by a long chalk yet. Meanwhile, however, the sight of an at
present comparatively unblemished countryside must be a great joy
to men sick of the howling wilderness created on the ground that
has been contended for since July, 1916. I know those Somme
battlefields--every square yard of soil honeycombed with
shell-holes, all traces of verdure vanished, trees reduced to
withered skeletons, blasted forests, fragments of houses, with
the poor human dead rotting all around. Verily a nightmare
country.

You may have remarked in the last _Alleynian_ a poem called the
"Infantryman," by Captain E. F. Clarke. It appeared first in
_Punch_ some time ago and has had a great vogue. When I read it
first, before I knew who the author was, I was greatly taken with
this poem. I now see from _The Alleynian_ that it is the work of
an O.A., a chap whom I held in high regard, namely, Eric Clarke,
whom you cannot fail to remember as King Richard II in the
Founder's Day Play, 1913--his superb acting in that rôle was
greatly admired. It was he who was to a large extent responsible
for my undertaking the editorship of _The Alleynian_. He was my
immediate predecessor in the job.

The poem appeals powerfully to me. To use the words of a Canadian
poet, R. W. Service, "it hits me right." It has a swing about it,
it has ideas, it has atmosphere. Pervading it through and through
is the atmosphere of this Western Front. I have often told you
that I had yet to meet the man who could convey that atmosphere
in story, book or article. Clarke's poem (along with
Bairnsfather's pictures) is one of the very first pieces I have
read that really gets this atmosphere. The verse is not
particularly polished, but it has life and force. Its simplicity
adds to its effectiveness. Such an expression as "the sodden
khaki's stench" lives in the memory, for it appeals directly to
the soldier's recollection of his experiences--that odour the
infantryman must have noticed dozens of times in the wet dawn,
when he was waiting to go "over the top." Clarke has undoubtedly
made a name for himself by the poem. Decidedly he has lived up to
the high reputation he had at school. It looks as if he will make
a name in literature. [See p. 240, text and footnote].

These days I am tremendously busy and revelling in it, as the
work is so completely congenial. I am muddier and greasier than
at any other period of my existence, and gloriously happy withal.

A corporal in our Company lives in the Herne Hill district, and
in civil life was a tram conductor for the L.C.C. on the Norwood
section. He has been out here two years, and won the Military
Medal for gallantry on the Somme. Very interesting to meet one of
the "dim millions" from one's own neighbourhood in this fashion,
_n'est ce pas_?

In April Paul Jones, as a Tank Officer, took part in the battle of Arras.

_April 24th, 1917._

I am splendidly well and enjoying life hugely. If my letters for
the past three weeks have been few and far between, you must put
it down to War activities. It would be ridiculous to try to
conceal the fact that my movements of late have, to a certain
extent, been connected with the great "stunt" now in progress.
For me the past three weeks or so have been a period full of
incident and rich in variety--quite and by far the best period
of my life up to date. There have been certain rotten incidents
that have worried me at times; but, on the whole, I have been far
happier during that period than at any other time since joining
the Army. Thank goodness! I shall at length be able to hold up my
head among other Dulwich men and not be forced to admit with
shame that in this War I only played a safe, comfortable,
luxurious part in the A.S.C. No! those wretched days are over and
done with. Even now, I have a far easier time than thousands of
fellows in the Infantry.

I have referred to certain rotten incidents. The worst of these
was the death in action of one of my best friends in the Company.
This chap was a young Scotsman named Tarbet. We had been thrown
very much together and became warm friends. On April 9 Tarbet was
killed by a sniper about 11 A.M. while out in the open
reconnoitring the approach to the Boche second line. I came along
to relieve him an hour later, and practically fell over his dead
body--a very bad moment, I assure you. Another of our section
officers was wounded in the face about the same time by shrapnel.
I myself had rather a close shave, as I was alongside another man
at the time he was hit in the head by a shrapnel bullet. I
scarcely realised the explosion until I saw the poor fellow
wounded.

On the whole, that day was an absolute picnic. The only trouble
was that the Boche ran back too fast in our particular sector for
us to inflict all the damage on him that we would have liked to
have done. Such, however, has not been the case everywhere since.
He is fighting desperately hard now.

Two more O.A.'s killed in action--Gerald Gill[16] and Eric
Clarke.[17] Gill took his colours in cricket, gym, and football.
His impersonation of M. Perrichon in the French play on Founder's
Day, 1913, was very clever and entertaining. I am also much
grieved at Clarke's death. He was shaping for a brilliant career.
It's just awful this sacrifice of the best of our young men.

[Footnote 16: Lieutenant W. G. O. Gill. Born, May 26th, 1895.
Killed in Palestine, March 27th, 1917. He was in the cricket
XI, 1913, football XV, 1913-14, and in the gymnasium XI,
1912-13.]

[Footnote 17: Captain E. F. Clarke. Born, April 1st, 1894.
Killed, April 9th, 1917. Editor of _The Alleynian_,
1911-12-13. Went up to Oxford in 1913 with a classical
scholarship at Corpus Christi College.]

TO HIS BROTHER.

_April 29th, 1917._

Circumstances are making my letter-writing increasingly
difficult. It is rather a case of "but that I am forbid I could a
tale unfold," etc. I suppose holidays are on just now. I want to
tell you that I am confidently looking forward to your winning a
great success in the forthcoming Matriculation. By Jove! it
doesn't seem such a long time since I was in for that exam.
myself. In my day we were able to take it at the school, now I
believe you have to go up to London University. _Eheu fugaces!_

The more I see of life the more convinced I am of the greatness
of the old school. Wherever you meet a Dulwich man out here,
you'll find he bears a reputation for gallantry, for character,
for hard work and for what may be termed "the public-school
spirit" in its best form. Our Roll of Honour and the literally
amazing list of decorations bear this out. Of my own old
colleagues, there is not one who has not either been hit (alas!
killed in many cases) or received some decoration, or both; and
that, mark you, though we are not what is known as an "Army
School" like Eton, Cheltenham, or Wellington. Ambrose, the O.A.
in our battalion, has recently accomplished some wonderful
things, and is sure to receive a high decoration. Yet one more
up for the school!

Did you see that Scottie is now an Acting-Lieutenant-Colonel,
with a D.S.O. and the M.C.? That is _some_ achievement, if you
like! C. N. Lowe, the famous footballer, has been wounded. He had
transferred to the Flying Corps out of the A.S.C. Doherty, who
used also to be in the "Grub Department," has now got a Company
in the Infantry. You see, it isn't in the nature of a Dulwich man
to be leading a life of ease when other men are fighting.

I have been having a great time of late. Work of surpassing
interest, a certain amount of excitement, and a knowledge that
one was more or less directly participating in the winning of the
War--what more can the heart of man desire? If only poor old
Tarbet hadn't been killed--he was a dear pal of mine,--there
wouldn't be a cloud on the horizon. Don't let the Mater and Pater
get the wind up about my personal safety. At present I am quite
safe; besides, I have wonderful luck. I was only saved by a
miracle from being blown into the air last September on the
Somme. I may get home on leave in the near future.

_May 4th, 1917._

I rejoice to say that Ambrose has received the D.S.O. for that
achievement referred to in my last letter. He more than deserves
it. He had a most terrible experience. The D.S.O. for a subaltern
is one of the very highest honours that the Army has to bestow.
We are all very bucked about it, especially the O.A. section of
the battalion.

How anomalous the War has become--the world's great Land Power
striving to strike its decisive blow at sea, while the great Sea
Power is endeavouring to strike its decisive blow on land! This
double paradox will give much food for reflection to future
historians. I am coming to the conclusion that without a complete
knowledge of the facts it is well-nigh impossible to derive
accurate deductions from History. It seems to me you can make
History prove anything. To understand History in all its
significance, one must be familiar also with literature,
languages and science.

Talking of science, do you see that some modern scientists are
throwing doubt on the original theory of Evolution? They admit
the possibility of the modification of species through natural
selection, but they dispute the theory that any broad change
takes place in the genera of organisms. They do not even admit
the possibility of the atrophy, through long disuse, of organs of
which the animal no longer has need. They are forced to admit
that many species and genera have become extinct--so much is
proved by the skeletons of prehistoric beasts found from time to
time under the earth's surface. But what they dispute is that
there is any connection between those beasts and living animals.
They say, for instance, that as far back as we have records, we
find the horse practically the same, organically speaking, as he
is to-day. They cast doubt, that is, on the theory that the horse
is descended from the pterodactyl.

It is an interesting point, though there appears to be no
_essential_ difference between this new school and the
thoroughgoing evolutionists; for both admit the principle of the
survival of the fittest. To me the new school's conception seems
to be grotesque. According to them, the world was originally full
of an enormous number of animals, organisms and what not, of
which some have up to date survived, and whose numbers will
decrease until only a few certain types, or perhaps one certain
type, will be left subsisting. That is a view that I cannot
accept. But, of course, Nature has many checks on the
propagation and the multiplication of species. Natural conditions
do not permit of the existence of too many species or
sub-species. But it is clear that there are types, call them
genera, species, or what you will, that have, by virtue of some
inherent fitness and flexibility of adaptation, survived and
mastered other types.

The theory or principle of Natural Selection can also be applied
to nations. As far back as we have any record, man was much the
same sort of being as he is to-day. The genus, in fact, has not
changed. It is now established that in the long distant past
there was one great Aryan race in Central Asia, which has split
up since then into the peoples and nations of modern Europe,
India, Arabia, and so forth. Biologically speaking, these peoples
have all some traits in common, but environment has wrought great
changes and has created species. Between these species there are
great differences, so great indeed that various of them are
to-day engaged in a good old intertribal war.

But has the genus Man always borne the same sort of
characteristics as those that distinguish him to-day? Or, on the
other hand, is he descended from a kangaroo-rat through the long
lineage of the pithecanthropus, the ape-man, the man-ape, and so
forth? And why stop at the kangaroo-rat--the first mammal to
bring forth its young alive? Why not continue his lineage right
back to the original bi-cellular organism--protoplasm? If these
are our humble beginnings, what a progression to Man, so "noble
in reason, infinite in faculty"!

Speculations about the development of life are very fascinating.
I hold very strongly to belief in the survival of the fittest.
Accepting this theory, you can explain most of the apparent
inconsistencies that exist in the world. But I must admit that
there is at least a possibility that genera are not changed by
environment, time or circumstances. Perhaps they exist until they
become unfit, when they vanish. The genus may remain in existence
as a permanency till it ceases to become fit to survive, but the
species most certainly alters. The only point in dispute is,
therefore: do genera become altered by environment, etc.? Or do
they exist unaltered till they become unfit, when they just
vanish from this sublunary scene? However this may be, the broad
principle of natural selection seems to me to be unshakably
established.

_May 20th, 1917._

I was absolutely taken aback by the news of Felix Cohn's[18]
death. It seems almost incredible to me, even at this moment. It
was only a few days ago that we met out here. He had then been
"over the top" and was in high spirits. He was a sincere fellow
and played his part like a man. I do take off my hat to the
Infantry. No one in England realises what we all owe to them;
marvellous men they are. How they endure what they do, Heaven
only knows. If you see Mr. Cohn, please express to him my deepest
sympathy, or rather, send me his address and I will write to him.

[Footnote 18: Second Lieutenant Felix A. Cohn, East Surrey
Regiment. Born, August 31st, 1896. Killed, May 3rd, 1917. Was
in the Modern Sixth at Dulwich with Paul Jones. Son of Mr.
August Cohn, barrister.]

We of the Tank Corps are having a pleasant and peaceful time in
billets these days. Nature hereabouts is beginning to put on her
best dress. It is _some_ contrast between the vivid green foliage
that one sees about here and the blasted trees and
shell-shattered areas of the fighting zone. Only one thing
indicating the living force of nature did I remark in that dreary
countryside. This was the piping of a few birds now and again in
the most unlikely places. Bar that, the battle zone is a blasted
area, where the only difference between the seasons is noted by a
change of temperature and the transformation of mud into dust.
Meanwhile, I am having a very good time in billets; but I am
looking forward eagerly to a real scrap with the Boche.

Thanks so much for the "Perfect Wagnerite." It is a treat to read
about the "Ring" once more. I would give much to be able to hear
it again.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_May 25th, 1917._

Just a line to wish you the best of luck in the Matric, and to
express the hope that you will do really well. Put in all the
work you can right up to within twenty-four hours of the start of
the exam. and then take one day right off duty altogether. I am
certain you will do us all infinite credit.

As to the Pater's remark that my recent letters have lacked
detail, this is mainly due to the Censorship regulations, which I
personally like to observe in the spirit as well as in the
letter. Besides, a careless remark may be misconstrued, and it is
difficult to say one thing without disclosing others that ought
not to be revealed. Then there is the other consideration, that
if I write fully you may perhaps get the "wind up" about my
personal safety.

As regards photographs of myself, the regulations as to the
possession of cameras are very stringent, and I really haven't
the time or the inclination to go and get snapped by a civilian
photographer out here. Again, _entre nous_, I regard photographs
as trivialities--above all, those abominations "photos from the
Front." A man who is really at the Front has neither time nor
occasion to have photographs taken. No, if we must worry, let us
worry first about the things that _do_ matter.

I am frightfully sorry about the death of Felix Cohn. He was very
cheerful when I saw him. We met twice in a certain large town
which has of late figured prominently in the communiqués. Our
talk was of Dulwich, the cases of Roederwald and Gropius, of
Wagner and music; and, of course, of the War itself. He had then
been "over the top" once, on the same day that I was. Felix said
that he had had an easy time, as his lot took about seven lines
of trenches in an hour. He had done considerable work as a
translator of German documents and in the examination of captured
Germans. I feel sincere sympathy for Mr. Cohn, but there is
little use in words of condolence in the case of such tragedies.
It is the price of the game.

To a large extent, the Pater's deductions about the work in Tanks
on hot days are correct. Still, you can wear practically what you
like when on duty, so one works in a shirt, shorts, puttees and
boots. Although we are for the time being out of the battle line,
I am really very busy; there is no slacking in the H.B.M.G.C.;
but I am enjoying life hugely.

I manage to get a good deal of bathing these days, as there is a
beautiful little river about a stone's throw away from our
billets. By the way, I hope you are continuing as keen as ever on
your swimming. As to leave, it has again vanished into the limbo
of futurity. I am not particularly sorry. Leave is such a
fleeting joy. Just as one is beginning to get into the way of
things at home one has to go back again to the Front. I would
much prefer to get the War completely over than get leave. After
all, in my present job I am not worried by monotony, and I find
the work of absorbing interest. Moreover, I have many friends in
this battalion, and, above all, in our own Company, which
contains some really splendid fellows. What I miss most is music.

_June 10th, 1917._

There are few opportunities of writing, and the busy period is
likely to last for a space, so I fear my correspondence for some
time to come will be but scanty. Our northern push has been a
first-rate success. The simultaneous explosion of those mines on
the Messines Ridge must have created a terrific din, though I
myself never heard a sound, being at the time wrapped in the
sleep of the just.

I do hope things are going well in the old school, but I fear
that in existing conditions it is a difficult period for all
public schools. Owing to the War, boys leave so much younger now,
and you do not have fellows of eighteen and nineteen to set the
tone; and at that age they have unquestionably a far greater
sense of responsibility than at sixteen or seventeen, or, I
imagine, in the first years at the 'Varsity after leaving school.
Ian Hay says somewhere that a senior boy at a public school is a
far more serious and responsible being than an undergraduate. As
there are no senior boys, it is more than ever incumbent upon the
masters to keep up the _esprit de corps_ of the school, and to
help maintain the old standards in work and games.

Talking of masters, I much liked that poem entitled the
"House-Master" in a recent number of _Punch_. It is just the case
of Kittermaster, Nightingale, or Scottie, isn't it? I pray and
trust that Dulwich in these difficult days will maintain its fine
traditions. The welfare of the school is a very precious thing to
me. I am inclined to think that my own six and a half years
(1908-15) at Dulwich were about the time of its Augustan era.
Among other things, this period included the year of the two
Balliol scholars, the year of the crack "footer" team that never
lost a match, and it was marked by a consistent average of
first-class XV's throughout. It produced five "blues" and
internationals, and would have produced many other "blues," and
perhaps internationals, had it not been for the War--Evans, for
example, as half-back, and Franklin or either of the Gilligans as
three-quarters. It was also the period of A. E. R. Gilligan,
unquestionably the finest all-round public-school athlete of the
past decade; the period of the gymnastic records; of the sports
records; with a consistent average of scholarships and other
educational distinctions, such as Reynolds's B.A., direct from
the school. Finally, this period was marked by a general spirit
of keenness and industry, both in work and games, throughout the
school. It was truly a glorious time. Oh, to have it all over
again!

_June 18th, 1917._

For over three weeks we have been working at exceptionally high
pressure. Chief interest now centres in Flanders. Our branch did
wonderfully well there, though the Boche apparently didn't offer
serious resistance anywhere. I was inexpressibly shocked to hear
of the death of that chivalrous Irishman, Willie Redmond. The
fact that he was carried off the battlefield in an Ulster
ambulance was a most touching episode, and should go far to
reconcile the mutually antagonistic Irish parties. Such an
incident is one of the compensations of War--few enough though
they may be, Heaven knows! As it drags on, the War is becoming
more and more mechanical. It is now like one enormous engine,
with multitudinous cogwheels, each of which plays its part.

_July 4th, 1917._

Looking at the Casualty Lists recording the death of so many
brave men, and thinking of the grief in the homes, one feels that
this War lies heavy on the world like a black horror. And yet I
find myself ever more irresistibly (albeit wholly against my will
and wishes) forced to the conclusion that War is a part of the
order of things. Did you read the Russian Socialists' manifesto
on the War? While, on the one hand, they ascribed responsibility
for it to the capitalist classes in the warring countries, yet
they admitted that Russia's withdrawal from the War would put the
Boche section of capitalists in an advantageous position, and so
decided to continue it. In other words, they admit that Democracy
is powerless to avert War.

To my thinking, all History is made up of a series of movements
like the swinging of a pendulum, from democracy (often via
oligarchy) to imperialism, and from imperialism back to
democracy. It seems to me that there is only one effective method
of ensuring world-peace. It was the method of the Romans, by
which one nation having fought its way to a position of
undisputed and indisputable supremacy, imposed its will on the
other nations of the world, and established the "Pax Romana."
Similar efforts made by great men have proved a disastrous
failure in the long run, though after meeting with temporary
success. Rome's universal dominion did not endure long, and
Napoleon's domination of the Continent was very brief. England
seems to have almost succeeded up to date in her attempt to
establish a "Pax Romana," for she gave order and peace to a large
part of the world. England builded better than she knew, for many
of the wise things she did were done under protest and from her
devotion to the _laissez-faire_ system. But this stupendous
conflict shows that the "Pax Britannica" has not succeeded in
averting wars.

I have heard it maintained that Karl Marx's theory is the
solution of the question, namely, to ignore national boundaries
and establish what he called "class-consciousness" among the
wage-earners of the world. That is to say, Marx proposed to
replace national consciousness--viz., the family, race or tribal
consciousness that exists under the name of patriotism--by
class-consciousness--viz., the consciousness of the workers in
all countries that their interests are identical, the idea being
that with the realisation of the unity of the workers wars would
cease. To this theory there are, it seems to me, two fatal
objections: (1) Even if this class-consciousness, or
international solidarity of the workers, could be brought about,
yet you would soon have the old division into capital and labour
growing up again, through the ordinary laws of natural selection
and because of the unequal capacity of different men to make
their way in the world. (2) To my mind, the tribal instinct is
much too strong to give way to a class-consciousness that ignores
national boundaries and national rivalries.

Broadly speaking, the division of the world into nations is a
natural division; and recent research all goes to confirm the
theory that man never has "made good" as an individual. He begins
his existence as a member of a family and of an association of
families--thrown together (_a_) by kinship of blood or likeness
of type; (_b_) by environment; (_c_) by chance or circumstance
(as a rule for the purpose of self-protection). It is these
enlarged families that are what we call to-day nations. I cannot
see that it would be possible to replace the great and, on the
whole, ennobling sentiment of patriotism by a broad international
trades-unionism, which is practically what Marx proposes. And
given the world as it is and animal and human nature what they
are, I don't see how to prevent the interests of nations
clashing. Ethically speaking, the trouble is that existence is a
selfish thing. Stamp out competition--which, when you think of
it, is not very far removed from war on a small scale--and
experience shows that you stamp out the incentive to work and to
progress. It is a melancholy conclusion to come to, but it's
better to look facts in the face than to shirk them.

I had the experience the other day of visiting a portion of the
country where the old battle front used to be, for two and a half
years, before the Boches withdrew to their Hindenburg line. This
section of ground is miles from the present front line, in fact
you can only hear the guns rumbling in the distance. This whole
countryside is a ruined waste--villages destroyed, weeds
overgrowing everything; and no inhabitants except troops. It was
strange to walk over the old trench systems and the broad green
band between them (still thickly strewn with barbed wire) that
used to be No Man's Land. One thought of the Englishmen,
Frenchmen and Germans who sat for so long in those trenches,
peering at each other furtively from time to time, each doing all
he could to kill the enemy, and from time to time raiding one
another's lines. I examined the deep, well-ordered Boche
trenches. All dug-outs and practically everything of military
value they had destroyed prior to their departure, but a few
concrete and steel emplacements and snipers' posts still
remained--beautifully made and all in commanding positions. The
destruction of the villages, farms and lands by the Germans on
their retirement was absolutely systematic--not a house or a
structure of any kind left standing. This area depressed one much
more than the ordinary zone near the lines, because it was all so
deathly empty and so weirdly silent, like the ghost of some
prehistoric world. Up in the battle line you have at any rate
life and activity--but here nothing at all, simply destruction
and a silent desert. I noticed in this area a French Military
Cemetery with names dating back to 1914!

I am keeping splendidly well and am absolutely happy. By far the
happiest time of my life since leaving school has been the past
six months. My brother officers are a grand lot of fellows. Our
own section of the Company is commanded by a young captain with
the M.C., who has spent most of his life in the Colonies--a
first-rate man he is. There are four other officers besides
myself, all of them splendid comrades, especially one who was
along with me in the old days back in April and whom I am proud
to consider a bosom pal--a little Irishman, called O'Connor. He
and I and poor old Jock Tarbet had always been the greatest of
friends since my arrival in the Company. Alas! there are now only
two of us left.

TO HIS BROTHER.

_July 27th, 1917._

I was charmed to get a letter from you to-day and to hear that
things are progressing so well. It certainly was bad luck for you
in the diving competition. However, better luck next time! I was
delighted to get the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News_
with the photographs of the Dulwich College O.T.C. How it does
warm my heart to see even a photograph of the old College and its
surroundings! I note that, barring Scottie and poor Kitter, there
isn't much change in the officers of the Corps. What excellent
fellows they are! Give my love to them all.

Many thanks for the last parcel containing among many acceptable
things a Gaboriau detective novel. I was very anxious to read
this and compare it with good old Sherlock Holmes, whom I still
worship as much as ever.

I have just completed two full continuous years of service in
this country. Well, cheer-oh, old boy! Best luck and much love to
you all!

_P.S._--Have you ever reflected on the fact that, despite the
horrors of the war, it is at least a big thing? I mean to say
that in it one is brought face to face with realities. The
follies, selfishness, luxury and general pettiness of the vile
commercial sort of existence led by nine-tenths of the people of
the world in peace-time are replaced in war by a savagery that is
at least more honest and outspoken. Look at it this way: in
peace-time one just lives one's own little life, engaged in
trivialities, worrying about one's own comfort, about money
matters, and all that sort of thing--just living for one's own
self. What a sordid life it is! In war, on the other hand, even
if you do get killed you only anticipate the inevitable by a few
years in any case, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that
you have "pegged out" in the attempt to help your country. You
have, in fact, realised an ideal, which, as far as I can see, you
very rarely do in ordinary life. The reason is that ordinary life
runs on a commercial and selfish basis; if you want to "get on,"
as the saying is, you can't keep your hands clean.

Personally, I often rejoice that the War has come my way. It has
made me realise what a petty thing life is. I think that the War
has given to everyone a chance to "get out of himself," as I
might say. Of course, the other side of the picture is bound to
occur to the imagination. But there! I have never been one to
take the more melancholy point of view when there's a silver
lining in the cloud.

Certainly, speaking for myself, I can say that I have never in
all my life experienced such a wild exhilaration as on the
commencement of a big stunt, like the last April one for example.
The excitement for the last half-hour or so before it is like
nothing on earth. The only thing that compares with it are the
few minutes before the start of a big school match. Well,
cheer-oh!

This was our son's last letter. A few days later came a field postcard from him, bearing date July 30, the day before the battle in which he was killed. After that, silence--a silence that will remain unbroken this side of the grave.