Part 4
MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—I gather that by the time this reaches you [you] will both be at No: 7 again. I got Land & Water and a letter from Masongill today.—Now _don’t_ get excited at what I described to you the other day—those little parties for bomb-throwing are constantly sent out by every Company—there is not an officer practically here who hasn’t been out on one. I must have given you to understand that it was an exceptional enterprise. Not a bit of it—it was a jolly interesting one for the first time over—but as regards danger I may as well say that there is much more of that to be met with every day that we are shelled to any extent than there is in going up, so to speak, to a man’s front door bell—pulling it—and running off again—as we used to do in Pitt St:! I want you to realize that the ‘nearer you are to the enemy here the safer it is’—this sounds paradoxical—but anyone will tell you that it’s true. I don’t give you long descriptions of being under shell-fire, but believe me I would rather _live_ 20 yards in the open in front of the Bosches than experience such a bombardment, say, as we had on the 24th May. This bombing lends itself to picturesque descriptions and all that, but it is merely the thrill of being, as you say, on another man’s doorstep which counts. If the risk were any greater than sitting in the trench with bullets flying round you can be sure we should never be allowed to go out at all—as the C.O. wants every officer he has got—and the _effect_ on the Germans of these local scraps is merely a moral one—makes them more careful and shows them that we still have our initiative—so much talked of. Very seldom do we actually attempt to destroy a certain position—machine-gun emplacement for instance—as the artillery (when they’re awake) do that for us. Well, enough for that—but please bear in mind that I’m _jolly_ careful about myself—recklessness is not encouraged out here, and a fellow is merely considered a fool, as fool he jolly well is, if he doesn’t keep himself safe for his job, which—after all is said and done—is not to provide a shooting range but to look after his men. Amen! Here endeth the _first_ lesson!
Nothing doing today—a good deal of artillery activity though—my word these Bosches do waste their shells—I really don’t think they intend in Germany to carry this war on another winter—esp: when they are on such an excellent footing for diplomatic moves as now—with Russia well fenced in derrière Lemberg—but will we let ’em come to any terms whatever—that’s the question—I don’t think we shall ever be such _dolts_—do you? This morning I was just going to have a shave and brush-up when Jones appeared and Gen: Anley a little later—not much to say—the former—and when the Tin-hat came to view I slid down a communication trench—not my place among the High and Almighty! Since then I have had my spring cleaning and a good look at the front line trenches with those very excellent glasses of Uncle C’s. It’s funny the way they start shelling here. All is quiet—then suddenly some wretched little spit-fire sends a few ‘Very little Willies’ over their trenches. A few mins: elapse then come some Hairy Maries—intended for the officious little offender—which generally plop round the reserve trenches sending up a ‘bush’ of black acrid smoke. Then the wily dogs send in a few ‘Whiz-bangs’ (so called since they burst before they even seem to leave the muzzle) which make our fellows wild—then the Germans get properly into their stride and—boom-boom-splosh-splosh is the order of the next few moments—being answered by our fellows with sickening little shrapnels which would hardly knock a sandbag over—You will see from this that Fritz has his own way here _at present_—but that is merely because we are saving our high explosive for when it is really needed—in a show.—All the same it makes one wild with rage. When we _do_ get going of course ‘it ain’t no jam for Tommy—but it’s kites and crows for him!’ (and heaps of ’em too!).
Well—my anxious ones—I laid it on a bit thick in my last long effort—believe me it is possible for AOH to exaggerate!
Much love—Tinned Fruit and all your food just _the thing_! (_Watch_ ready yet?)
Ever your own loving son
OSCAR.
* * * * *
If he would seem to have made the best of everything for our benefit, I can only say we have been shown a good many of the letters which Oscar still found time to write to others, and that practically all are in the same strain of jovial enthusiasm, full of the same genial fire and the same spontaneous fun. The only difference is here and there a grim detail which might have shocked or harrowed us. Two examples are enough to show his tender thought for us in this respect. In the second letter there was perhaps an underlying sadness, but poor Crump’s death was enough to sadden him, and was just the sort of thing that Oscar would _not_ tell us before he need.
_To Mr. de Havilland._
June 29, ’15.
... It’s an extraordinary mixture of humour and ghastliness this whole life—On one hand you can’t go a yard along the trenches without seeing something which beats anything in peace-time for sheer humour—one of our orderly men for instance stumbling along a squelching communication trench with a couple of dozen eggs and other dainties for his officer (me!) suddenly slips and falls headlong with arms stretched wildly—well—you must be in a bad plight if that doesn’t make you roar—I’ve seen it and heard it afterwards too!... And again the very first time I was up here I went along to see my Company officer (a 2nd Lieut like myself owing to the casualties we have had) in the front line—and found his feet—that was all—a Jack J: had done the rest. I never told this at home—but it will illustrate what I have been saying....
_To his Cousin Winnie._
June 28th, ’15.
... I hear from M. and D. pretty regularly—it wouldn’t be worth a week out here if I didn’t! How is Prescott & Co:—not suffering from any more maladies I hope ‘sincerely I hope so—I hope so sincerely!’ Do you remember _that_ in ‘Jones of the Lancers’—priceless song! My _servant_ used to sing that—and very well too—he sang it at a Concert at the place where we were billeted the other day—and two days ago was shot through the brain just outside my dug-out—poor fellow.... Isn’t it wonderful how things happen just at the most critical time? I was annoyed with [somebody or other] for getting me up unnecessarily this morning—He was promptly shot through the shoulder and badly cut in the head by an infernal Trench-mortar.
It is time we had another scrap—this sort of ‘lying in state’ doesn’t suit your Highness! The place has been as quiet as the grave—and yet every day a few fellows get knocked out—and as R. K. says—‘There ain’t no chorus here to give—nor there ain’t no band to play!’
A poor letter—but will get something better off my chest one of these days—I have ‘a nasty taste in my mouth,’ if you know what I mean!
Love to you all—
Yours,
OSCAR.
(61)
June 29th.
Another quiet day—oh! these quiet days—how many more of them!
(62)
July 2nd, ’15.
... remember—_we_ are the ‘trench diggers—builders—and holders,’ _and_ therefore are put onto every dirty job the authorities can find!!...
As for George—good luck to him in that benighted corner of Europe! I will send him a line sometime. Personally I would rather be in the Line anywhere than serving the guns, but that is merely through my experience of the former, _long_ as it is!...
(63)
_July 3, ’15._ 8.30 P.M.
DEAREST M. & D.,—Here we are again—in the front line this time and a bare 20 yards from the Bosches—I came up last night after dining with the R.M.C. officers at the Dressing Station—by car of course! It was rather funny to see them bolt when the Germans sent over some large shrapnel—to catch the transports coming up the roads—my—they were ‘up it’! Of course to me this was amusing after 2 solid months of much closer stuff than that! Well—this is the old trench into which I brought my platoon on the 24th when we came up to support D Company. They have improved it some—but the Bosches have sapped right up, as I say, to within 20 yards—rather less—and we shall have to chuck them a few chocolates, I’m thinking!
To-night we go out hay-making—in other words the Division want us to cut all the grass in front of our lines—they are sending _scythes_ up for the purpose! Doubtless this is to prevent Fritz from doing ‘creepy crawlums’ up to our sandbags! We are getting quite intimate with him now—eh?
Got Punch and letter-card _and_ provisions (from you and Winnie)—so am well-set up!
So glad the lace arrived! No—I bought it in a town near our billets—4 miles from —— Good heavens! —— is deserted now—what do you think??
Much love—am writing in the dark. ‘You should never write home in the dark!’
Ever yr. own loving
OSCAR.
_Such a nice letter from Auntie._
* * * * *
His letters came usually by the last post of the day, and continually by twos and threes—‘in close formation,’ as he complained when we told him, whereas he posted them ‘in open order.’ During the war that last post has become very late in our part, no doubt by reason of this very mail from the front; and many a night last summer would I go downstairs again to wait, even at the open door, even without shame in the middle of the road, till the postman’s lantern glimmered in our darkened street. On the night of July 7, he was later than ever, but that only enhanced the eventual joy of two of Oscar’s best and brightest—written with all the splendid confidence the war was giving him—even in a hand never so firm or so decided as in the trenches under fire!
(64)
July 4th, ’15. 8 P.M.
MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—A stewing hot day and my booby infested by flies! Last night I had a very full bag in letters—two from you and several others! I was so glad to have the sermon—you know how much I appreciate it.
The Pastie also arrived, and I spent the dull hour or two between 12 A.M. and ‘stand to’ in eating it hard! I have finished the whole 2 boxes already! I am so glad the lace arrived safely—I heard from G.M. too—thanking me for it. I wrote to Mrs. W. days ago!
Nothing doing today—there was to have been a bombardment by our guns this evening—but it seems to have been a wash-out! Last evening we got hold of some rifle-grenades—explosive bombs which you shoot out from the rifle—and I plumped several beauties among the Bosches—they had been doing the dirty on us all day so we showed them we weren’t exactly asleep! You fire these missiles off from the trench of course.
There is a ruined Estaminet (beer-house) between my fire-trench and communication trench, and they keep up a rapid fire on this all through the night to stop any of our little games—for a ruined building in the front line is a dangerous thing to the opposing party!
Old man Clarke has just rolled in with a list of available men for tonight’s working. Wire, bombing party etc:—We are going to give them a few Crème de Menthes early tomorrow morning—just to stop them working. You never heard such a row as Fritz makes opposite us of an evening! Sawing wood and riveting bolts and goodness knows what else besides. He has some game up his sleeve—mark you, he has sapped up to within 20 yards of us—so one has to be canny!
I’ve got some more verses to send you very soon—so brace yourself up for the shock!
Must cease fire now—
Ever yr own loving
OSCAR.
(65)
July 5, ’15. 5 P.M.
MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Got your cheery letter last night—They sort the letters earlier now—before midnight. These ‘close order’ letters are rather absurd—but it is something to do with the trains catching the mail—or rather vice versa! You’ll have to just take them en masse!
Well—rather amusing this morning—the Bosches suddenly sent over an extraordinary object—a _sort_ of aerial torpedo—which no doubt you know of. This they fired from just behind their front line only 200 yards off at most—aiming for the Estaminet which our line (my platoon) circles round. The thing came trundling through the air—you could actually see it rolling over and over—rolly-poly we call it! There were shouts and the men fled from where they could guess it would drop—then the thing dropped—and Jack J’s weren’t in it for explosion! They sent 3 of these things over and it was really rather funny—seeing a great sausage lolloping through the air—it takes about 5 mins. to land!
We got the artillery onto them and have had no more trouble since.
We had quite a merry evening last night: there was an attack on further south and the dickins of a noise, and we pumped over some rifle-grenades just to show there was no ill-feeling up our way—also I took out a brace of my N.C.O’s and attempted to give them some more to digest. As luck would have it both my efforts were ‘duds’—In other words they refused to explode—the other three grenades I couldn’t get the pin out of for firing—so I got beastly wet—lost a handkerchief and my temper for nothing—It’s an easy job here, as we are so near them, and as I told you before Fritz is much too busy at his game behind the barricade he has had the unbounded cheek to erect so near our lines, to notice our little wanderings.—It is this ‘little game’ of his that we want to discover and to put an end to—because we have an idea that he is attempting to blow the Estaminet up and, incidentally, us with it! However—‘ne craignez pas—pour nous partons demain!’ Twiggez-vous?
Old Clarke was at his best this morning when they sent the sausage over—The first landed just over his (and as it happened mine) booby—and out he came like a shot rabbit—his language—oh! ‘priceless’ isn’t the word!
He then lay out (in the most exposed part of the trench) and drawled—‘Fritz can do what he jolly well likes etc: etc:!’
His sarcasm is really worthy of some of my Eton friends! He said that they kept our guns in a glass case—he was dead on our guns—and well he might be, considering that they never do a jolly thing up this way. If they do wake up they unfailingly drop 1 in 6 into _our_ front line or just in front in their fatherly way—I love to hear the remarks passed on them—I endorse them all fully myself! Clarke’s remark that they gave us ‘O-hello’ this morning was rather nice! Some of the officers of a Territorial Division just come up here spent the night with us, in order to acquaint themselves with the trench and its many vicissitudes! They will be relieving us probably tomorrow—and it _is_ possible that we shall go back altogether for a week or more to reorganize. We shall go behind—a good way back somewhere and generally collect ourselves, for we want collecting. This is only a possibility though at present.
About Crump—he was shot dead outside my booby—just when another death we know of occurred—so I didn’t mention it in my letter—it wasn’t at all necessary.... He was a brave fellow....
As for casualties—there have been _very_ few in our Coy: none in my platoon since the above—over a week ago now. These flies are the _limit_—there’s old Clarke at it again. He’s wildly excited because our chaps have shut up one of their most officious batteries on our right with a brace of heavy explosives—‘There’ll be a Court of Inquiry on that,’ says Clarke!
It is a fairly placid evening—a little shelling by the Bosches—but nowhere near our line—we are too near their own crowd to be shelled very frequently—only when they have the exact range.
My men are cleaning their rifles and there is one of our aeroplanes doing good business overhead—a little sniping—not much. I think it is time I sent over a few more rifle-grenades—We’ve got a machine that puts them in accurately to a yard and they do a lot of damage. It will stay quiet until about 8 P.M. when there will be ‘wind up’ for 2 hours—heavy rifle fire on both sides—then fairly quiet for rest of night unless we drop bombs on them like we did last night. Then Fritz gets in such a funk that he shoots off wildly in _all_ directions except the right one! I must agree with him—it _is_ a nasty thing to be bombarded by an unseen and unlocated enemy in the shape of me or one of my men. We only gave them 3 last night though—rather a wash-out.
The wily dogs spotted a stack of rubbish-straw etc: in the Estaminet last evening and sent across _flares_ to set it on fire. They succeeded in doing so, but we[8] put earth and water on it before daylight today: so again it was Checkmate to Fritz—The ‘Jocks’ took a section of their opposing trenches yesterday—I wish we could rush these ugly sandbags in front of us—but I fear there is no such luck.
—— is a funny card—he comes tearing down here with drops of perspiration streaming off his long nose, speaking at a terrific rate and expecting you to take it all down verbatim—then whisks off again.—de la Mare comes across him more than I of course—The rest of my conversation with Clarke was strictly ‘business’ just now!
Much love—
Yr loving son
OSCAR.
_N.B._ I had a letter from Crump’s father in answer to mine—for of course I wrote about him—I think it bucked them up ‘some’ to hear from me.
O.
* * * * *
If some of the letters are more letter-like than these, surely none are more like the boy himself! It was Oscar talking to us from his trench, talking harder than ever while there was time, telling us all manner of things in each eager breath! And I was to have talked back next night; there were one or two things I was looking forward to telling him. First, how his nine-and-a-half-months-old Commission had only just arrived in all its documentary glory; and how it began with the King’s greeting, ‘To our Trusty and well beloved Arthur Oscar Hornung’!
Then I had to tell him how I had just been to tea in the room where ‘Vanity Fair’ was written, after pointing out the house to people for twenty years, as one that I never expected to have the joy of entering. It was a last joy. Within the hour came the telegram to say that Oscar had been killed in action on July 6.
III
The details when they came were scanty but enough. That early morning, the Brigade on their left being engaged in a small local attack, the Essex standing to arms had been bombarded by the enemy’s light artillery. Oscar was threading his way behind his men, all anxiety on their account, and had just asked Sergeant Clarke: ‘Is everybody all right?’ At that moment a small high-explosive just cleared the parapet, but not the opposite edge of the narrow trench, bursting close behind Oscar’s head: he died where he fell unconscious, and was buried that night by a party of the men he loved.
It is not for us to add one word of our own; but with a very few of the wonderful tributes from others, we shall leave our dear son to rest in the hearts of many loving friends.
Said the _Eton Chronicle_, in an obituary notice already quoted on the opening page:
Oscar Hornung came from Mr. Churchill’s at Stone House in September 1908 to Mr. H. de Havilland, and after six years left last July to go to Cambridge. His inherited love of literature made him an eager reader of books at all times. A Division Master recognised this one year when he gave him a special prize for English work. A good cross-country runner he was second in Junior and third in Senior Steeplechases. At football he played a hard game, and his energy as Captain of Games was notorious. A few days after leaving Eton, thinking that the best chance to get to the front was in a reserve regiment, he joined the 3rd Essex. At Harwich he lived until April in a farm-house on the marsh next the sea, and in April he went with his enthusiasm to France. Among other exploits he one night leading three others crept 200 yards to the barbed wire until they could hear the diggers, and then after a successful bomb throwing came back with his ear badly injured. On July 6th when behind the parapet he was struck by a shell and died in the trench without recovering consciousness.
A letter from a General Officer says: ‘His platoon were wild with grief, as they worshipped him. The men said he was absolutely fearless and was employed on all sorts of jobs, machine guns, bombs, patrols, etc,’ Any one who knew him will recognise the boy at Eton. He revelled in every hour of his life at the FRONT just as he had in life in general. ‘He lies buried in a cemetery made by the Essex Regiment behind a farm which goes by the name of Turco Farm on the east side of the Yser Canal.’
A simple-minded and religious boy he lived the straightest of lives, always at the top of some enthusiasm whether playing games or fighting Germans. His affection for the School at all times was intense and he wrote that Eton meant more than ever to him out there; every letter to the last showed the same spirit. Full of thought for others he was loved by all who knew him.
Comment, again, is hardly for us, who like to feel that this generous writer and friend did think of Oscar as a member of his house up to the outbreak of war; in spirit he was a most loyal member to the last; but he had actually left Eton at Easter, in order to read for King’s, the college of his own unhesitating choice, where the following October was to have found him installed. He had done his Little-go, finished for ever with uncongenial subjects; had only History, Literature, and Life before him!
From Eton came other tributes, which should speak for themselves if space permitted, and two that must. One was the beautiful letter from Peter Blacker, Captain of the House most of the two years Oscar was Captain of Games. All of it I cannot bring myself to give, but this much will show the noble comfort given, while conveying some idea of Oscar’s Eton life: