Part 3
This is the outline of any trench, German, French or English, so there is no harm in showing you. Now _these_ trenches are all broken down and in a filthy mess, and we are building them up as quick as we can. The French seem to have had no idea of trench-work. My platoon occupies about 25 yards of trench, but it is very small—only 32 all told. Night and day we work—only allowing a certain portion to be at work at one time, and having another certain portion told off for sentry duty. I have been studying the German trenches (150 yards off now) this morning with my glasses (Uncle Charlie’s) and see they are hard at work on theirs also. And so there you have us—a picture—two parties—150 yards apart—both digging for all they are worth and picking each other off at every opportunity—both entirely at the mercy of the other’s artillery—both having their letters from home and national papers urging them (if anything ever did) to do great things. This strikes me forcibly this morning—quiet for the last hour as your study itself—and _isn’t_ it an absolutely unique situation? There are many brave men over yonder just longing for a ‘scrap’ like we are—perhaps they haven’t quite got our spirit, but still your Bosch is no weakling. And this situation exists, with few exceptions (I mean hand to hand struggles) for 400 miles of frontage! Of course these are all truisms—but—dash it! do the people in England realize that if that 150 yards was taken and a few more miles were rushed after that by our friends across the way—_anything_ might happen. Of course this is all ‘supposing’—but—_what_ a pity we aren’t fighting this war on the borders of Scotland! No—the Germans will never break our line, but neither have we broken theirs and people seem to think that that is a foregone conclusion. However Italy, as you say, will put matters on a more promising footing.
Last night I had to post a listening-patrol from my platoon out in front. It was a pitch dark night, so I had a roam round (safe as houses at night)—I got quite close to old man Fritz and only retreated quickly because I came across the remains of a struggle between French and German—_not_ very enticing. The men I took out with me lay down (they are old hands at the game) close to the ground amongst the _clover_, which abounds here and affords excellent cover—and closer still when they sent their infernal lights up which give everyone away for a long way round. It is exciting, in a mild form, out in front, as the Germans are just over the lip of the hill and can creep up their side and put out their patrols so that you have two little parties listening for each other’s movements at only about 30 yards distance. I thought I had been and gone and done it when I saw something jolly like a man in the grass. It was a dead ‘Froggie’—that was all!
Since I talked of its being quiet, the Huns have started their little game (so cheerful for the _bowler_!) of pelting us with trench-mortars—and it is just about time our artillery got onto them. These mortars they bring up into the first line trenches and so range at about 200 yards—imagine the size of the projectile. Now I hope this letter hasn’t too much ‘frightfulness’ in it—It may interest you and any aunts or ‘droppers in’ there may be!
The C.O. (Jones) is coming along—he is a calm one—one of those trench m’s burst just behind him just now: their effect, of course, is very local. Just at the end of my stretch of trench are the old emplacements where the Canadians lost and retook their guns. Truly a historic piece of ground this—This is the very trench from which the French ran when first the Gas was employed—that is why there is such an enormous amount of equipment and hundreds of broken French rifles lying about.—The Germans have been in it _also_, so there will be some pretty times when the _ghosts_ of this place have a look in later on! Outside our booby-hutch there is a topping little look-out place from which on sunny mornings I try my luck with a rifle—I made Fritz keep his head down this morning alright!
Ah! the French have got at them with shrapnel—that will help matters—(you must excuse these little side-allusions—a little hard to keep my attention fixed you know!).
Ah! Boom—Boom—Boom—the guns are waking up all along—now things will probably keep alive until sundown when night will come on, each side will send out its listening-posts, there will be a big exchange of rifle-fire (there always is about 8 P.M.—9 P.M. when we ‘stand to’), and another day of this extraordinary existence both sides are leading will be over.
I could rattle on like this for pages—but have run short of paper (send me out a _big block_).
So toodle-oo pip! pip!!
Love to you all.
Ever your own loving son,
OSCAR.
(Letter going to Masongill today).
* * * * *
Another ‘scrap of paper’ for you to digest!
Rather a droll thing was told me yesterday by one of the Lancashire Fusiliers (our Brigade)—he was taking a wounded Tommy down the communication trenches—shot in the leg—and could only carry him by throwing him across his shoulder—legs dangling in front. During the way down the unfortunate Tommy got another one through the head—and when he got him to the dressing-station he was cursed by the doctor who said he had enough cases to deal with as it was and could do without _dead_ men—at which our Lancs hero cried ‘The —— liar! he told me he was hit in the leg!’
_Some_body sent me a little book called ‘Aunt Sarah and the War’ the other day. Many thanks and jolly good—whoever it was!
Send me the ‘Times’ every now and again—will you?
Must have another ‘go’ at Fritz—so once more ‘So long!’—when I am putting out barbed-wire tonight I shall remember R.K’s
‘I wish me mother could see me now with a fence-post under me arm!’
* * * * *
It was with this screed that Oscar enclosed a set of his own verses, about which we had a little correspondence later. They had only been jotted down, he explained, to go into his letter to me, and he would not hear of their emerging anywhere in print. ‘Heavens! I can get something better off my chest than that,’ he protested, ‘if it comes to “type”!’ These private pages, however, are barely in that category, and, as even Oscar allowed that his ‘doggerel’ was ‘true to experience,’ here those verses are:
‘JUNE 13TH, 1915.’
Two long lines of sandbags twisted and intertwined, With a felled tree here and a shell hole there and a ‘traverse’ undermined; Fields which are dotted with men, down in the clover green; A rifle bent and a pouch half spent and a ruin in between:
Scarcely a sound for token of what is taking place, For hardly a word is spoken and hardly sign of a face. Sudden—a shot outringing and—arms both backwards thrown, A curse at his foe outflinging, the Sniper has met his own!
Silence again, and never a sound, but the swish of spades As each side makes endeavour to work ere daylight fades: Night, and the cover of darkness screens what the workers make, And Belgium in her starkness is still as a mountain lake.
And so the day is over—the end as much in doubt— And Fritz no nearer Dover; and so the papers shout: ‘At Przmysl and Epernay heavy battles have been fought, But (Official) Ypres way there’s _nothing_ to report!’
This, at any rate, has been seen—if, indeed, not merely a dramatic version of the ‘ripping shot’ mentioned in another letter of about this date:
* * * * *
MY DEAREST AUNTIE,—You wrote me such a delightful letter and I loved every word of it. Thanks so much also for the Cream and Coffee—A.1.—only in this heat it won’t keep! If I may suggest so—Condensed Milk is better—but I loved the Coffee and have writted to M: for more. I am keeping them fairly at it at Hornton Street—what? They seem to be mad about my letters: I can only say that I love every word from them and from you too. Write again if you can spare the time—You have no idea how cheery it is to get your letters from the Ration-party (food!) at 2.30 A.M. when one is feeling pretty hard-boiled! Talking of food we are feeding like—well, like you seem to have fed at Hornton St.! _I’ll_ tell you what _we_ (another 2/Lt and self) have of an evening:
3-6 eggs apiece Soup (sometimes) Tea or Coffee or Chocolate Bread & Potted Meat & Butter and Jam Vin Ordinaire! (pinched from a ruined ‘estaminet’ (pub!) Dessert (Chocolate and anything we can rake up—dog biscuits etc:)
and then with very distended insides we go on our several duties—as often as not sleeping for an hour or two—or crawling out in front among ancient Frenchmen long since deceased or shoving up barbed wire etc: Tonight I am on the last named job—I always nearly break my neck over the beastly stakes! Fritz is as quiet as a lamb today—a simile one cannot often employ when speaking of him! I hit a fellow yesterday ‘somewhere in France’—in other words he will find it very painful to sit down for a while! It was a ripping shot—I used a French Rifle which I am going to try and bring back with me. I have some unexploded shells too—but can see No: 7 going to ‘kingdom come’ when one day Daddy strikes a match on one—so I think I had better leave them alone here! It is such a magnificient evening here—not a _sound_—but the birds singing like mad—only now and then a shot rings out to waken one up and a trench-mortar gets to work—last named very loud and noisy, but not v: useful, like _some_ masters I used to know at Eton!
Straight behind us is ‘Wipers,’ and every 5 mins. to the tick a great ‘Uncle Sam’ comes whistling over and makes the town more of a scrap-heap than ever: the pity of it! It gives the lie to Kipling’s topping lines which I will put down simply because I love them like everything else of his:
‘I do not _like_ my Empire’s foes nor call ’em _angels_—still What _is_ the use of ’ating those whom you are paid to kill!’
Well—I could talk rot for pages about the life out here, and some day I will let myself out on paper about it. But for ‘sensation!—sport!—sport for sport’s sake’—do you remember Raffles at those lines in the play—3rd Act?—that’s what one feels when crawling about at night. Every minute one is living is a year—certainly I have learned more in 2 months than 20 years!
So long—you are a brick to write.
_All_ food mighty acceptable!!
Love to George if you see him.
Ever your affec: nephew,
OSCAR.
P.S. The Gas has slain the strawberries—I fear.
(42)
June 15, ’15. 6 P.M.
... All your news so interesting—esp. of Eton—ripping you’re going down there from _my_ point of view—I hope you saw all the old haunts—library and all—they have a very big place in my heart here—and I try and liken _this_ game to the old House ‘Ties’—only the odds aren’t so against us here and we’ve more to back us up! I wrote to Tutor—did he tell you? I want to know _all_ news about Eton....
Another quiet day here and another still more beautiful evening. Really it is very hard to realise that anything is doing—the country looks wonderfully pretty in spite of its ugly spots. The ruins of farms scattered over the place look quite picturesque.
We had a few swells round the trench last night and they complimented the Essex on our work—oh! we are ‘some boys’!
(43)
6.30 P.M. June 16, ’15.
MY DEAREST MUMMY,—What an evening! the most perfect sunset I have ever seen—and de la Mare has just had a parcel of food—so what with eggs etc: we shall have a fine meal tonight!
This morning at 2 A.M. there was a big attack further south[6]—we don’t know result yet but believe we took 3 lines of trenches. We witnessed the _whole_ fight from here—at least the _artillery_ part of it, since we are on a raised piece of ground.
You never saw such a sight as just now—6 aeroplanes (all English and French) up at once and one German—poor old Fritz! However he got away alright.
Another quiet day on our part of the line. It is getting quite like a rest-cure in our booby-hutch—nothing but food and slopping up and down our own little section of trench—very little sleep though. Sleep is apt to be disturbed so rudely at all hrs. of the day!
No letters this morning—but no doubt will hear from one of you tomorrow.
Much love.
Ever yr own loving
OSCAR.
(44)
Thursday, 17th June.
... de la Mare and I are both living like kings on all this food.... We are now about to have a gigantic meal before the night’s work—not much _work_ for us officers, but having to keep awake is the nuisance—and I find it almost impossible to sleep very well in the day. However we’re none the worse for living like this!
On Saturday we go back to billets, where we remain for 4 days, then back here for 10 days or so more; they are working us very hard—heaven knows why—I suppose because we are so good at it!
(45)
Saturday, 8.30 P.M. June 19th, ’15.
... You will be interested to hear I have been ‘slightly wounded’—a mere touch under the ear[7] which made me leave the trenches early this morning for the Dressing Station—just to take the necessary precautions, which are _compulsory_, against poisoning.
Yesterday the C.O. wanted a bombing-party to go out from B Coy to see what it could do. I had _bagged_ that job weeks ago—and have been reconnoitring in front of our lines all this past week with a view to a ‘scrap’ some night. So last night I got a party—2 N.C.O’s and 1 man armed with Hand-grenades and myself with some of the _new Hand-bombs_—glorious things, _just_ the size _and_ weight of a _Cricket Ball_! Then at 12.30 this morning we got over the parapet and sailed over the intervening 200 yards. Of course I had planned the whole direction and spot to aim at etc: so we got up to 70 yards of the old Bosches without difficulty—going in single file—myself at the head ... and lying out in the long grass we could distinctly hear Fritz breathing hard over his spade-work—they were digging. I had previously arranged with de la Mare that he should send a series of _flares_ up to show me where exactly I was and so beat the Bosch at his own dirty game. The difficult part lay in getting within 20 yards of them—for the hand-grenades are difficult to hurl much further with any accuracy. As a matter of fact I could have got much closer up to their trench, if I hadn’t been so anxious about the men with me—I would have done the whole job alone only the officer _has_ to have 2 men and 1 N.C.O. with him on these occasions. If we had tried to get any nearer than the spot which I eventually chose one of them would have given the show away I am sure.
At any rate we waited for a few minutes whilst more flares went up, and then after gauging the distance I led off with cricket-ball No. 1—it was just like ‘throwing in’ from ‘cover’ (a fast long hop!)—only this time I had ‘some’ batsmen to run out and there was a price on those stumps! I fancy ‘things happened’ in their trench—as there were howls—and a bit of lyddite flew back and hit me just under the ear—mere scratch—only it spoilt my old coat for ever and ever—amen! The others then stood up and ‘threw in’—the wicket-keep put them down nicely—and we made haste back to the Pavilion!—it _was_ a case of ‘appealing against the light’—for it was 1.30 A.M. by then and getting uncomfortably light. ‘Fritz’ seemed so scared that he never fired a shot—only sent up a brace of flares—during which we lay down flat in the long grass. When I got back Monypenny said I must go and have the scratch painted with Iodine and that sort of rot—so I went off with Crump (who—remember—is stretcher-bearer) to show me the way back to the dressing-station at the Canal. We just got there before dawn. I then ‘took car’ (don’t cher know!) to a place 2 miles back where I went to the Field Ambulance and had a sleep—then had the thing seen to and an injection v. Poison put into me—then to our _billets_ by Red Cross Car, as the Battalion comes back tonight and they said it was not worth coming all the way back. So here I am—alone in our little farm house again—and am off to sleep in the barn as usual! The Battalion won’t arrive until early morning probably—so I haven’t done badly!
I had a little jaunt with a R. Cross Captain in his ambulance Car and got some money from the Field Cashier, had a shave and shampoo and two excellent meals—in which we had STRAWBERRIES!—in the town close by here.
At first I was jolly sick at having to come back, but it has really been rather a ‘jaunt,’ starting with our escapade in the early hours—for all the world like those early rises up at Masongill—crawling after Rabbits: these were ‘some rabbits’!
Well—am dead tired—so good night.
I knew you would like a description of this sort of thing—but remember that it is an every night occurrence—this bombing—and jolly sight nicer than sitting helplessly being shelled by invisible guns. It is the _only relic_ of the old fighting left in this war—this bombing—none of your gas or shells—but just like our troops did at Badajoz etc: in the old wars—top-hole....
(47)
Sunday, June 20th, ’15. 8 P.M.
MY DEAREST MUMMY,—Thanks so much for your 2 lovely letters. The P.C. I got last night—No: I letter this morning and No: II just now! I am in the height of happiness, for I have had such a glorious lot of letters and parcels since I came here yesterday. Last night the fruits from G.M. and a parcel from Barkers via Daddy and your letter and a _very_ nice one from Mr. Bryers with a 7d novel—and tonight your letter—a _very_ cheery one from D—and a _de_lightful one from de Havilland—one that makes me thrill with the old zest for the House I used to feel in those immortal House-matches and all the other things which you know I held dear at Eton—also 3 parcels of food!—more from D—more from you (?)—and still _more_ from D with the Army & Navy Canteen thing!!! The whole mess-table is now rocking with my things!!
Oh! Mummy, what a glorious time I am having! I mean all these letters and parcels from you and D, the former so cheery and encouraging—and the very life itself—in the thick of it, and _yet_ at Stone House, Eton, Masongill and, always, No: 7. Through every one of these places I have been time and again and yet with my feet on Belgian soil and my eyes bunged up with sleep! Never has my imagination stood me in such stead—you will laugh, but all the same you will understand. What _does_ it matter where one is and how one is so long as one has these pictures behind one—I _am_ beginning to see the falseness of materialism—One can be in a French trench and yet at Masongill with the greatest ease—I can, thank heaven.
Well—our little dinner is on the table in the garden and it is getting dark—a beautiful evening. I have been strolling round the fields with my mind concentrated on Masongill—that is the greatest rest one gets here from the trenches—_Freedom_ for absent-mindedness—which of course it is!! I presume you have had my long letter to D forwarded on to you—that has all my news.
A kiss to G.M.—and a big one!
Ever yr own loving and very—very happy son—
OSCAR
I bought this little ‘souvenir’ in the town here yesterday and one for G.M.
* * * * *
Not a word about the bombing to his mother, who was away from home, and not to be alarmed if Oscar could help it. At Masongill, moreover, she was in his oldest and very dearest haunts; and in billets he had time to join her there in spirit as he describes. The trenches may well have seemed the farther cry, that summer Sunday evening in the farm-house garden, with the ‘glorious lot of letters and parcels’ hot from home. Yet his bombing adventure was on his mind; he feared he had made too much of it, and he now went vigorously to the other extreme, incidentally assuring me that he was ‘as timorous as a cat,’ and closing the subject in a characteristic letter to us both.
(60)
June 29th, ’15. 7.30 P.M.