Part 1

‘Trusty and Well Beloved’

‘Trusty and Well Beloved’

The Little Record of Arthur Oscar Hornung

Second Lieutenant 3rd (attached 2nd) Essex Regiment

[Illustration]

E. W. H.

Privately Printed 1915

‘TRUSTY AND WELL BELOVED’

I

It was the Essex Regiment because Oscar happened to be reading history in Essex when war broke out, and from that moment he just lived ‘to have a plug at those blighters over the water.’ The nearest barracks called him and he went no farther, finding his own way at once into the Third Battalion. His Commission was one of the multitude dated August 15, 1914, but not gazetted for another month, and it was other seven before Oscar ‘went with his enthusiasm to France.’[1] His last leave was on his twentieth birthday, and a week later he wrote:[2]

I am waiting to go off any night now—I am longing to go—it _is_ a chance for us chaps, isn’t it? It is the one good thing the war has done—to give public-school fellows a chance—they are the one class who are enjoying themselves in this war.

At any rate Oscar enjoyed himself, from the very hour of his departure, on an April morning as sunny as his smile, in charge of a draft as delighted as himself. That night they embarked at Southampton, and the Seine was a river of roses in the morning:

The country on each side of the river is lovely—great woods and ravines with large old Louis XV châteaux perched high among them, and then at the foot of the hills pretty little villages, all looking so much _cleaner_ than our English ones! Then again in the villages there are all the inhabitants standing outside their doors waving handkerchiefs and even firing off guns to welcome us as we speed up-river at well over 20 knots.... One sporting kid in a village a little way back sang out ‘Are we downhearted?’ and of course she got back a roar from us ‘No!’ ... I have never seen country looking so ripping as this—at _such_ a time of year too....

I sailed into Southampton yesterday and got my chaps 50 packets of Peters’ chocolate to keep them going in case we run short of Rations—which we may very possibly do. It is glorious this rolling up the Seine to the cheers of the French on both banks and our own men (of all _kinds_ of Regiments) singing ‘Tipperary’ for all they are worth!

At Rouen he continued to enjoy himself, even when censoring letters at a five-hour stretch. ‘It is rather fun doing this job up to the 500th letter—then Tommy’s hand-writing and “love messages” get a bit wearisome!’ But all his life it took a great deal to weary Oscar, and at Rouen he found a variety of compensations for the ten days he was kept there with his draft. There were sprees and sight-seeings, now ‘in good company,’ duly detailed, again on ‘a bit of a “Tourist Stunt,” all on my only oh’; there was Bon Sécours, followed by ‘a whacking big tea at a Patisserie in the town’; the Cloche Horlogue (‘the topping big clock half way along the street of that name which leads to the Cathedral’—itself ‘a topping one’); also ‘a splendid little Restaurant we have discovered,’ and a certain ‘great dinner’ which ‘started on oysters and finished on Crème de Menthe,’ not to add ‘a priceless Music Hall—awful _rot_ but very funny.’ As a last resort there was the Divisional Mess, with its Irish doctor (‘entertains us a bit!’), its gramophone, its ‘priceless birds’ with single eye-glasses (‘so the whole place twinkles like stars, on a moonlight night!’) and a friend old or new at every turn.

I told you I had met Jack Power—well, on Thursday we visited the Cathedral together and climbed the steeple, from the top of which we got a splendid view of the city. Jack is mad keen on bells, so we had a good look at the old bell at the top of the Cathedral. Then yesterday we met again, and visited the Church of St. Ouen—have you ever seen it? It is a magnificient church—one of the finest churches which is not a Cathedral in the world, I should think. Jack Power used to be a ‘Church-crank’ I remember, so he is an excellent fellow for this kind of thing! He is only just fit, having been in hospital for weeks after coming back from the front unfit.

His great new friend was young Willoughby Rooke, like himself an only son, his own age yet a veteran of Mons, severely wounded in the winter and now on his way back to the trenches. Somebody had brought them together as ‘mad fishermen’; but they found they had other enthusiasms and some friends in common, to one of whom they wrote of each other, besides themselves exchanging letters at the front. Through them their respective people made friends in London; and long after the light of each home had gone out, a film from Oscar’s camera, left behind at Rouen, produced an excellent likeness of ‘Rookie,’ laughing, with the base camp for background.[3]

In the meantime Rouen was ‘magnificient’ (as that hard-worked word _would_ spell itself), but it was not exactly the war, and for all his gaiety Oscar fretted for the front. ‘Still in Rouen, worse luck!’ would come first, like the bad news he really deemed it for all concerned: ‘It is pretty sickening for you not knowing _when_ I am going up—but it will be one of these days.’ ‘It is the absolute edge being kept here like this!’ ‘All very well this slacking round here ... so long as the _men_ aren’t sent up ahead of me I don’t mind so much—that would be too sickening.’ The men—his men—are the child’s children all this time: ‘I have 109 Essex under me—a fine crowd,’ says one letter; and another, ‘The Essex have the best reputation for good conduct here of the whole division. They are a very good lot, this draft of mine’; and again, ‘My men are behaving admirably—and the Adjutant told (Capt:) Mullock yesterday that the Essex gave less trouble than _any other_ Regiment—in the whole DIVISION, mark you!!’ And for the last time: ‘I haven’t had a single prisoner to bring before the Adjutant—and we have been here 10 days—a jolly good record—what? The Essex have wrought their Regimental crest in broken glass on some sand at the end of their lines—it is a beautiful piece of work—and they got leave to have it photographed yesterday—I will send you a print if I can get one. This sort of thing makes them take no end of pride in themselves.’ And the same night ‘an order came down that every available officer and man should proceed to the front,’ whereat Oscar exulted with a ‘Hoch! the Kaiser!! “Always merry and bright!”’ and a final scribble as he entrained in charge of his Brigade details: ‘This is glorious—my men are so cheery—talk about the right spirit—they _have_ got it and no mistake!! Marched through Rouen—2000 of us with bag-pipes playing. Love to you all. Oscar.’

The immediate sequel ‘just about put the asphyxiating lid on’; it was also ‘the l-i-m-i-t,’ and everything else that Oscar could lay his pen to; but some foul whiff had caught him by the throat and, within sound of the firing-line, flung him straight into No. 3 General Hospital, Le Tréport, with a temperature and ‘throat as thick as camp water and rasping as a German bayonet.... If only it had been a nice little “dum-dum” I should have felt on an equal footing with these other poor chaps—instead of squatting there in the hospital train opposite them as untouched as a new inner tube!’ It was all the more tantalising because nobody knew better than Oscar that he was ‘missing no end of a scrap,’ as he lay between unforeseen sheets, in the hands of ‘topping Sisters’ (God bless them!) who gave him in spite of everything ‘a fine old time.’

I have just been writing some Rhymes of mine into one of the Sisters’ books—in return for her lending me some Kipling books! I get on like a house on fire with these ‘sisters.’ The ‘night sister’ is my great pal. We have great talks when she comes round of nights.

It was Rouen over again, without the revels or the sights: nothing for it but to make the best of several more days’ unwelcome grace. This Oscar did by sleeping prodigiously while he could, reading and writing to his heart’s content, and presently exploring the green peace of the surrounding country. His love of Nature, always intense, was indeed never more demonstrative than towards the end of this involuntary rest, when they let him roam as he liked but would not pass him for the front. The weather was ‘divine’; more than once he took in fresh stores of sleep ‘under the blue sky and boiling sun’ (the last thing a normal Oscar would have done by day); finally, he heard of some fishing at ‘a charming little village’ near by, procured cheap tackle and ‘had a perfectly heavenly time there,’ though not without martial qualms as to the propriety of the proceeding. Twice or thrice he went, catching nothing for his sins, till at last ‘the angelic French people insisted on my taking a trout, which they had caught themselves that morning, and exhibiting it at the village inn as _my_ catch! They were awfully tickled.’ He was not, however, the only sinner; at least one C.O. kept him in countenance (‘the old boy quite keen—had sent to good old Hardy’s especially for a new rod!!’). Yet ‘it doesn’t look well, and ‘it seems all wrong,’ and we were not to ‘say anything of this to _other_ people.’

This afternoon [his last] I and a Gordon Highlander took a taxi down to Criel—where I spent 3 hrs. (glorious) fishing—weather more heavenly than ever—no fish—but one of the most delightful afternoons I have ever spent. Oh! it was heavenly down there! I have got the address for future occasions!!

We had a top-hole drink of cider—real home-made stuff—at the local inn by the river—then had a big tea on the way back....

This week will be a very happy one to look back on in one way.

It still is—to us.

II

All the actual warfare he had seen as yet was a shower of shell (‘coming in one after the other, like cocoa-nuts on Epsom Race Course’) in a certain market-place at the end of April. Three weeks later he found the same thing happening at the same place, and put it in his letter with the same gusto:

What Ho! They are starting their evening’s shelling of —— just behind us. Their 15-in. come with a noise just like an express train—and they start on us every evening this way about 7 P.M., just by way of a little diversion after the day’s labours! ‘Boom /r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z/ _splosh!_’—there they go. And all this goes on whilst the birds sing, cows moo—pigs grunt—and all the other ‘beasties’ of a farm-yard perform—that is the striking feature of it all, to me anyway.

The battalion was in billets after a very strenuous time. ‘Nearly all the old crowd of officers are away wounded or worse,’ as Oscar put it. His captain, his platoon sergeant, and his servant had all been severely wounded; a second-lieutenant of his own standing had succeeded to the command of B Company, and Oscar realised what he had missed. ‘Oh! how I wish I had been in that scrap!’ he wrote, but added: ‘Tomorrow I shall have my “blooding—”’ and at the thought: ‘I’m as happy as a lark and a humming-bird rolled in one.’

* * * * *

Nearly all the rest is in the following letters and bits of letters, most of them written in the trenches under fire, those to us being numbered in the order of their arrival from the time he left.

(23)

The Trenches, 2/Essex Reg. 1.30 P.M. May 23, ’15. Sunday.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Well—here we are in the trenches—half-made and generally in a rotten condition. The Regiment that was here before us seems to have done nothing at all, except leave a mess of jam-pots etc.

We marched up here last night during a violent thunderstorm—I’ve never experienced one like it—pouring rain and fork-lightning which lit up the whole front. My word, but I’ve been ’ blooded’ alright! There was a lot of confusion in the trenches which resulted in the Germans waking us up a bit. We—that is me and my Platoon—are at present in the 2ᵈ line of trenches supporting another Coy in the 1st line. The distance between us is about 250-300 yards—and then another 400 to the German line. During the night one could walk about in comparative safety outside the trenches—but it was exciting work—as I had to supply the Coy: in front with barb-wire and sandbags—1300 sand-bags—under a cross-fire from those wretched snipers whom they employ so much. There is an old ‘Estaminet’ up in front (200 yards off), to which we have to get up these things. There we leave them to be called for by the others. The Germans have a nasty trick of sending up coloured lights—very brilliant—which reveal our whole position. When we got up there! at 1 A.M. this morning—I and 6 or 7 men—they got a bead on us, and as they have a perfect range drawn on the Estaminet things were lively. I may now be more cheerful and say we have had no one touched as yet—but these men are magnificient—they don’t care a —— for shells or anything—they scuttled about like rabbits all night—digging bomb-proof shelters etc. But those infernal lights gave the whole position away more than once. Of course, sleep is out of the question in this sort of game—but I feel as fit as anything—though I have never had such a trying ½ hr in my life as just before lunch-time when some asses on the left of the platoon showed themselves and one of their guns got at us—My aunt! but I was in a funk! How they never actually hit us I can’t imagine. Shrapnel in front and behind—but no one was hit. The worst of these shells is that you hear the beastly things coming directly after they leave the gun—_whistling_ like a train (Our own are doing so at this moment over our heads)—so the betting is then—where is it going to land! I am absolutely cut off from the other Companies as there is no telephone here—so have to work entirely on my own—and have a look round directly it becomes dark.——and the other two platoons seem to have vanished off the face of the earth—I suppose they are somewhere. I hope so.[4]

Yesterday we marched off at 9.30 A.M. and went to Divisional H.Q’s where we remained until it was time to move off in here at dark. Div: H.Q’s are situated in a glorious old château (which has escaped injury altogether) in a park which looks perfect in this month and in this weather.

6 P.M. now—they are shelling Ypres right over our heads—we call these 15-in. shells the ‘Wipers expresses’—‘Here comes the 6 P.M. express’ with a hum like an engine exactly.

There is a farm house—quite demolished—just at the end of my trench and one has to run the gauntlet to get there across the road and get bricks, wood etc: for the trench. You may say ‘where am I sitting writing this?’ Well, I am in an improvised ‘dug out’ 6 ft. long by 2 ft. broad—covered over with corrugated-iron. Very muddy and all that—but still a shelter.

All night I am working at digging the trenches and ‘dug outs’—seeing to the barbed-wire in front of us—and getting provisions from the H.Q’s behind our line. In fact we get everything ready at night—either for an attack in the morning or protection from shell and rifle fire during the day. We get more shelled in the 2nd line than the 1st—so that we should not send help up to the 1st line.

Of course, in case the 1st line of trenches are stormed or ‘gassed,’ I act entirely on my own in sending up assistance to them. There is no evidence of their having a heavy time in front at present though. We have an infernal sniper who has got behind our lines and is firing down the trench from one end—we shall have to fix him somehow, I’m thinking.

It is a perfectly heavenly evening—birds singing and country looking pretty in spite of the ruins with which it is dotted. The whole thing seems more absurd and unreal than ever to me now that I am in the thick of it. To think that this terrific din is going on incessantly down 400 miles of line is extraordinary.

My word—my dear Mummy—you should see me _now_—my coat and breeches!! After splashing about on all fours round the country-side last night I am some sight! The left knee of my bags is ripped across and I am _coated_ with clay. Once we get these trenches fixed up—with dug-outs etc: the shelling won’t be so bad and we shall be a good deal more comfortable.

Well, my dears, I am longing for a letter—but am as happy as a lark—because I know that although this is hard to stick at first—there are millions of others sticking it too—and I can only liken it to ‘putting your left leg to the ball’ at cricket, as W. H. C. used to say.

Write as much as possible—Love to all.

Ever yr own loving son,

OSCAR.

(This will go up tonight by transport—and I hope reach you soon.)

(24)

2 P.M. May 25, ’15.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Just got your letter—and cannot tell you how pleased I was to get it. Things have been pretty fast and furious since I wrote night before last. Yesterday morning, having been working all night I was just trying to get some sleep in a new dug-out which I had had built, when there was a shout of ‘The Gas, Sir!’ Out I bounced and was immediately aware of this Chlorine ‘muckins’ coming up the hill. It was just getting dawn and so I knew, as we all knew, that there was going to be an attack—and my aunt—it _was_ an attack. For 2 hrs solid the Germans rained every calibre of shell on us in our Reserve Trenches whilst we were also struggling with the Gas. I don’t know what happened to the Platoon during that time—except that several swines—my servant for one—took panic and ran. Personally I knelt down behind a parapet and prayed. However, the Gas wasn’t a success for the Germans for it soon blew off. They reckoned, of course, that whilst they attacked the first line trenches where A, C, D Companies were, they could make things so hot for us in Reserve (200 yards back) that we couldn’t send help along. However, about 4.15 A.M. I managed to collect the remnants of my Platoon and make a bid for the first line trenches—not by charging across the intervening ground which would have wiped us out—but by crawling along a very muddy communication trench which connected the French line with us. This we succeeded in doing without a casualty—and we then joined D Company in the 1st line trenches. From that time onwards a very fierce artillery battle raged until the evening—and the Germans made repeated attacks from 400 yards off—each time being knocked back into their trenches like a rabbit down a hole. Then, last night, when we heard that the Germans had taken 2 trenches on our left and when we expected we should make a counter-attack—orders came that we should retire right back to the very incomplete trenches in which we are now. We marched back here, then, during the night—dug ourselves in—and are now awaiting developments under a perfectly tropical sun and sky—_too_ hot almost. It _was_ sickening having to retire like that—for we had done magnificiently all day—A & C Companies having been almost wiped out by the German shell fire. They are absolute fiends at that.

Anyhow—here we are always merry and bright in our new position, none of us having had any sleep for 3½ days! I never could have believed that our men could stick things like they have these 3 days—they are magnificient—no other word for them. Those fellows who deserted yesterday will probably be shot. I would have shot them myself, and been perfectly justified, if I hadn’t been doubled up with the Gas.

If we have to reinforce the first line, if it gets hit badly again, the Essex will pull things together—not ’alf!

For other light on what is happening here you must read the papers, if they have anything authentic. We are just a little to the left of where I told you in one of my letters before from hospital. We heard of Italy declaring war last night. Good work! I am sorry about Raffles—but it is getting on now, isn’t it?—near the end of May!

I am so glad you liked Rooke’s mamma. I am afraid I don’t know about Carolyn—I think he has got people in town—but I will let you know if I find out when things are quieter here! At the moment of writing there are shells whizzing all over the place—‘Little Willies’ we call their shrapnel shells!

I haven’t seen any papers for days—but we shall have a rest some time—when this thing is over.

Ever so much love—I am as fit as anything—in spite of their gases.

Ever yr loving son,

OSCAR.

I will write _whenever_ possible. I very nearly lost all my kit last night—so you must expect ‘gaps’ sometimes. But a 2 day Gap at the most—I promise you.

You should see the mess I’m in after these 4 days!!

(24A)

May 26, ’15. 6 P.M.

A quiet day to-day after our adventurous times lately—weather still lovely—quite tropical heat in fact. The trench we are in now is in a rotten state—no dug-outs or anything—however the Essex are always given the ‘dirty work’ so to speak, and we have already been complimented on our fighting by the General Staff.

I have been having a good look at the German trenches through Uncle Charlie’s glasses to-day—They are digging themselves in like fiends—and have dressed themselves in khaki!

We have just this moment been firing on a German aeroplane which flew over our lines, but with no result.

I haven’t had my boots etc: off since we came up—and don’t expect I shall until we return to billets!

(25)

May 27, ’15. 6 P.M.