I meant to send this letter off to-day, but I have not been able to. This morning we breakfasted at the gentlemanly hour of 9-0 off omelettes from the estaminet, bacon (a ration), coffee, marmalade and bread and butter. We did a little work this morning, lunched off bread and butter and marmalade and then a lecture, and then we went into the town for tea and dinner. They have a very nice cafe place here—a private house. Madam's husband is a prisoner, and her husband told her to be "gaie," so she runs a cafe and enjoys herself. We had a very good tea; they have some very nice cakes called gauffes (I don't quite know how to spell it), like sweet pancakes, and afterwards a bath. The division has some baths. There is a starch factory—I think it is—and there are some large sort of square vats in it. They are used as baths for officers; they have three big vats, one very big, and they are as hot as you like, and are 8 feet by 4 by 4 feet deep, and you can have a topping bath in them—you can just swim a stroke or two. Then afterwards we had a cold plunge in a very big one. It was simply delicious and cost us nothing. One of the best baths I have ever had. I had one bath to myself and Bill Fiddian the other. Then we went to dinner and enjoyed ourselves muchly. Soup, veal, chicken, coffee, all for 3/9 or rather five francs—a franc equals about 9d now, as English credit is very good—and then home to bed.
To-night the machine guns seem rather busy. I have just heard one let off a few hundred rounds, but I don't think one round in a thousand hits a man. There is one busy popping off now. It is funny being a sort of spectator. Things are pretty quiet really at present, as I saw in a captured German letter from a German soldier to his mother. "In the spring the curtain will rise"—I wonder who will pull the string. They are noisy to-night, a lot of waste of ammunition, both rifle and machine guns going on. It is a calm night so the noise carried.
Well, good-night, Mother,
Much love to all,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
There they go: rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat, a machine gun.
11th Suffolks,
B.E.F., Saturday, January 29th.
My darling Mother,—
Do you send any of my letters on to Winnie? or anybody? After work to-day we went into the town to have tea. After tea we met some of our men and gave them some pay, pro. tem., as they have had no pay for two weeks or so and were broke. Then I bought a Pearson's magazine (price 1s.) and we started for home and got a lift on a 3-ton A.S.C. lorry, from which I dropped the magazine, unfortunately. I am billeted in an estaminet by myself, and Bill Fiddian is with two other officers on the same course in another estaminet in a large room with three beds, out of which all the bedrooms open. Grandma groans in one small room, Monsieur and Madame and about two dozen others in another small room and two officers in two other small rooms. Grandma has just gone to bed; she has attained to the small total of 97 years and seems able to look after herself. We have just been having a long talk with Madame, who brought us up our dinner, an omelette and coffee. We have been reading and talking, and on Monday we shall return to the battalion. The big candle you sent me is topping and is lasting for hours. The guns are at it again—they have been busy all day. The Germans were here once, but they are not here now. Since coming out here I have come to be very proud of the battalion. I have seen no battalion with their physique and few with their discipline. They sing a song about the Suffolk boys being respected wherever they go, and I think they are. In comparing them with other men, I have been struck, and so have others, with how fair they are. Most of them have very fair hair, often gold, and fair rosy cheeks. They seem a very Saxon type. I have been wondering whether they are descendents of the Danes and Saxons, who took refuge in the fens in Norman times, a memory of Hereward the Wake. The fen men have always been a separate race; they must have very little Norman blood in their veins. They have the Saxon stolidity also. I am very glad I am not in a town battalion like the Northumberlands and such regiments. They are not nearly so easy to control or so well disciplined, and I am pleased to discern to-day that our men seem much quicker in picking up new ideas, despite the fact that they are not so educated. Well, I am afraid all this is very boring. But,as I have suddenly developed into a writer of letters, I must write either just what comes into my head or nothing at all. It seems funny this long, stretching line of trenches, always busy even in the quietest of times. By daytime guns and shells; by night, bombs, flares, searchlights and machine guns. And a few miles behind it as we are, perfectly safe as if there was no such thing as war, with only the faint noises one notices, now faintly, now clearly, as the wind varies to remind one of the struggle going on. It seems funny to lie in a comfortable bed and watch it all through the window as on a stage. Noises off.
Please send me big candles when you send a parcel. This one is lasting beautifully. Yesterday (Sunday) we fired off the mortar in the morning, and in the afternoon went into the town for dinner. I wanted to go to a Catholic Church in the evening to see what it is like, because, of course, there are no Protestant Churches here.
This afternoon we went to the Theatre of the Division we are attached to. They have a cinematograph and a band, orchestra and concert party, all composed of Tommies. They are at present in what I think must be part of a disused factory, and it was a very good show. I went and one of the other officers on the course, and two of the officers whose battalion we are attached to. Then we had dinner with them in their company mess, and a jolly good dinner, too, and after we talked. It was very interesting, as they have been out over six months continually, and not lost a single officer I think. They had some very amusing yarns. I will tell you sometime.
When I returned to my billet I had an awful business. It was one of the blackest nights I have ever seen. I have never before remembered a night, when you literally could not see your hand six inches before your nose. Last night you could not—I tried. Also the darkness was misty as well, it simply got up and hit you in the face. I started back once—it quite seemed as if someone was striking a blow.
To-day we did one of the most curious and typical things of modern warfare. At 10-30 we went out for a walk—five of us—and our destination was the trenches, just for a few hours' joy ride. We walked about five miles along the road, and then about a mile across open fields. The last mile, of course, was within rifle range of the German trenches, but they could not see you, except from observation posts, and if they couldwe were too far off to make the shot easy enough to make it worth trying. The only disturbing thing was the behaviour of our own artillery, who suddenly let off a gun, only a few yards from the road on which we were walking, and made a horrid row. The curious thing about this trench warfare is that a trench is such a small thing to hit that the German and our own artillery have given up trying to do any real damage, but they have come to a sort of agreement to keep their faces up and to impress upon the infantry in the trenches that there is some reason for an artilleryman being paid more than the infantry. Accordingly, they plant their wretched guns near a road, and when anyone goes along it they let off a round just to see him jump. The shell probably falls in Holland or in our own lines. Anyway, it does no damage, and the artillery enjoy their little joke all right. It has become almost second nature with them. Of course, the new batteries take some training—they lack humour. One battery let one Brigadier-General, one Colonel and a transport mule go past and each time forgot about loosing off a round. At the end of the cross country jaunt we came across the beginning of the works of the Cave-men. You may have seen some in England—they disguise themselves as earth and then dig long narrow holes and live in them. The Cave-men are strange creatures. We went up one of then funny long narrow burrows, and occasionally they let off a funny toy which cracked overhead. At length we came to the real caves where these men live. I noticed that they were very vain men and were continually looking into a sort of box thing, with a glass at the end, and admiring themselves therein, and then so intoxicated were they with the sight that they would put a stick to their shoulder and break forth into smoke and flame. The name of this people is the Tribe of Tommizi.
And I noticed their gods visited them. Speckless mortals, clothed in fine linen, wearing turbans or caps, as they call them, trimmed with red and gold, and so appalling was their aspect that the Cave-men were, as it were, turned to stone, and stood with their hand to their hats as if to guard against a blow, or to ward off the evil eye. And behold, a terrible dragon screamed across the sky, shouting out with hate and roaring as the thunder, and fell and burst itself asunder, and I fled, and the Cave-men laughed, for their gods in red were there and they feared not. I expect the above gives you a good picture of trench life. It is as given me by a friend ofmine who visited these men—my own experiences were different.
My own experiences I will call "An Idyll of Spring" in blank verse, without the blanks and without the verse, and will be continued in our next.
We wandered up the communication trench and nosed all along the firing line, only 50 yards from the German trench—I thought it was topping. I had a good look, with a periscope, while a sniper vainly tried to hit it, and its owner became nervous of losing it. I enjoyed my visit very much. Wednesday: The Brigade Major came to see me, and told me that I am to command the Brigade Trench Mortar Battery, so I am now one of the working members of the Brigade Staff, though I don't wear a red hat. I was very pleased. He took me back to Brigade Headquarters for tea and dinner and I had a very good time. But, unfortunately, I had to come home in the dark. All the roads round here have ditches on either side. It was pitch dark, I did not know the road, and it was too dark to see the turnings oft. I missed my way and went miles. I hated it. I don't mind a German, but I don't like the dark. Thursday: We amused ourselves, and at 3-0 I went to see the Brigade Major of the Brigade, to which we were attached for instruction, and he sent us to the reserve billets, within a mile or so from the firing line, which they have a stupid habit of shelling. It keeps waking you up in the night. Then this morning we marched off and got two 'busses back to the place we were in two weeks ago, after our first move, well back about ten miles or so, to train the battery. It is a topping little village on a slight hill, and we have topping billets. Fiddian is with me at present. We have a room each, a feather bed with clean sheets and a nice little sitting room. The men are in a topping loft with plenty of straw and seem very happy. We are going to dinner with the Colonel of the 16th Royal Scots. I command the battery and have the powers of a Battalion Commander. I am absolutely on my own, no Company Commander, no Battalion Commander, only the Brigade can give me orders. Fiddian is second in command. We have four gun detachments. I hope the war goes on for ever as far as myself is concerned; at present I like it all, even including the trenches.
Much love to all, Mother dear,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
P.S.—I have just received your letter dated January 30th. The reason some of my letters are dated differently inside from out is that I begin writing a new letter directly the old one goes off and they take some days to write, and also posting is often delayed. I am very busy organising the battery at present, and have a lot of work to do. I have just got my guns (4) to-night. The first place we were in was near St. Omer, and it was there we went to shop. I am allowed to tell you now—it is some time since we left there.
Please send me my Sam Browne belt as soon as possible. I am awfully sorry to hear that Father has been ill. Please give him my very best love as always, and tell him I do not write to him separately as my letters are always family affairs, and I cannot write more than one. Does anyone else see my letters? If you see the Aunts please give them my very best love too. Please thank Auntie Agnes for writing me such an interesting letter. It was awfully nice of her to write, and I will try to answer it. She asked if she could do anything for me—well, I don't want to trouble her, but if she really would like to, a cake sent any time she is making them would be very acceptable. You can get no cakes out here. Also I should like you to take my letters to the Aunts and Uncle Ted any time you go to see them, and read them any bits that may interest them. You have no idea, but I know you have, how I appreciate letters, especially the topping long one I have just received from you. My letters are very much delayed at present as I am detached from the battalion and being moved about. I have little time to complete letters before there is more news to tell.
Good-night, little Mother, give them all a good-night kiss from me. I hope Charlie is fit and well.
Much love to all,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
11th Suffolks,
B.E.F., Monday, February 7th.
My darling Mother,—
I think my budget must be growing fast. Yesterday I spent in organising my battery. I got some green and white paint from the A.S.C. and painted all my guns, so that they look beautiful now. Most of my time nowadays I spend in trying to get money for myself and for my men, rifle oil, baths, boots mended, equipment for guns, and all sorts of things. This morning I took the whole battery in battery drill. Most of it's composed by myself, as there isn't a drill book for trench mortar batteries. It is very interesting, as I have to think out all my own tactics, and organisation. On every other, infantry or cavalry or artillery, there are thousands of War Office books, so that one needs to think very little for oneself.
We are just having dinner, Fiddian, Carroll, who is my second in command, and myself—quite a nice dinner—while our servants make merry in the kitchen. The house where I am billeted is owned by a topping old man. Whenever I pass through their kitchen they all get up and monsieur says: "Bon jour Monsieur L'Officier." He is a time-served French soldier, and works in a big wood just near here. We had a Taube—A German aeroplane—over here this morning. It dropped one bomb, which did not go off, a few hundred yards from here. I did not hear about it till afterwards. The battalion has just returned to-day from the trenches for a week or so before we return to them to take over part of the line. Where we are going is, I believe, a fairly nice peaceful spot. I shall try and stir them up if I have half a chance. What happens in trenches is: that if the Germans get nasty and shell us, or send a few bombs from trench mortars, we try to make ourselves nastier still and send over twice as many. Then the Germans get nastier still, till both sides have got thoroughly bad tempered at having their parapets spoiled and trenches messed about. Then it gradually wears out. And as the Germans are using bad ammunition at present they go to bed or wander off to get a drink, and we soon do the same. I have just seen Brown. He says he was going up to the trenches in rather a nervous state of mind when the Officer Commanding the trenches into which we were going for instruction met him, told him his sergeant-major, would lookafter our men and took him to have a wash and then to have dinner in mess. They had soup, meat, sweet and savoury, all to the strains of a gramophone. Not bad for the much-abused trenches. The battalion was in about a week and lost nobody. This morning we were to be inspected by our Divisional General. But he spent so much time talking to the battalion that he was unable to see us. He says he is going to save every life he can in his division. He is going to improve any trenches we go into, to make them absolutely safe, and so on. He is a fine man. He was in command of a brigade at the beginning of the war, and saved his own brigade by his calmness and bravery.
Tell May there is nothing I like so much as long letters, otherwise I should not write such appalling long screeds about nothing at all.
I am going out to-night to mess with "D" Company of one of the Scots Battalion. Now I am attached to Brigade Headquarters I see quite a lot of Captain Creig, who is on it you know. He sometimes gives me news of Uncle Fred.
I have just received a letter from May and one from Father. They have been delayed, as I am away from the battalion. Remember that you can say anything you like in your letters, as they are not censored at all. I very rarely see a paper, so any news is valuable, especially about such things as the last Zeppelin raid, &c. Please send me also my slacks and shoes, and the Sam Brown belt as soon as possible. I will enclose a cheque for all I owe you in this letter; I hope it will cover it all. One of the Scots, Kitton, a friend of mine, came in to dinner last night with us, Carroll and myself, or rather it was Bill Fiddian and myself. Carroll was out.
Yesterday we spent in the usual way. I went to dinner in the evening with "D" Company of the Scots, and had a very pleasant time. Unfortunately, after dinner, I went to see Major Warden, of the Scots, and, instead of going into his room, I stalked into Madame's bedroom, and fled precipitately. This morning I took the men down, and we had a bath in some temporary baths the R.E.'s have rigged up. I received a very nice parcel from you to-day (Thursday) containing a cake, powdered milk, tea, &c. It was very welcome. It had been delayed with the battalion. I went along to the battalion and saw several of the officers to-night. I was very glad to see them. Good-night, little Mother, I am going tobed. Whenever it is raining you can be quite certain that we are being inspected by some big General. It has been pouring all this morning because we were being inspected by Lord Kitchener. We have just returned and had lunch and changed, and I am now spending a quiet afternoon, hoping that some of the battalion will come in to tea with us.
The Colonel is in command of the Brigade, as our new Brigadier is away on leave. Our Brigadier, General Fitton, was, as you may have seen in the casualty lists, the first casualty in the Division. He was killed by a stray bullet during a visit to the trenches. We are all extremely sorry to lose him; he was such a priceless old man, although he made us work. It was extremely bad luck for him.
I will finish this letter now, as I am just sending off a batch of my men's letters, which I have just finished censoring.
Much love to all—
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
11th Suffolks,
B.E.F., Sunday.
My darling Mother,—
I have just returned from taking the men to have a hot bath in some baths the Engineers have rigged up. You asked about our padré. He is at present at the base; he has been very ill for a little time, and we have no padré at present. Yesterday afternoon I went down to see "C" Company, and, whilst I was in a farm talking to Gillson, a Fokker came and dropped two bombs a few hundred yards away. They did no damage as they exploded in the middle of a large field. I am sorry that I have not sent this letter before, but I have been rather busy lately, not only with work, but with social business. Last night I had dinner with the A.S.C., and the night before with Major Warder, of the Scots, and the Signalling Officer of the Brigade had dinner with us. You will be surprised at the menu:—Soup, lobster, roast beef and fried potatoes, chocolate blancmange, welsh rarebit, coffee. Quite good for France. Fuller, my servant, cooks for us, and he is turning out a genius as a cook; he cooks toppingly. We have rather to try and make ourselves pleasant to other people, when we are an independent unit, they can do so much for us. A captain of the A.S.C. took me into the town I have often mentioned before—20 miles from here. I wanted to buy a gramophone, a lot of people have them in the dug-out. I am thinking of getting one. Will you ask May to get me two catalogues, one of Decca gramophones and one of Master's Voice. If I go on like this I expect you will all be coming out here for a holiday. We fired off our guns the other night and the Colonel in command of the R.E.'s came to see us fire. I asked him to dinner, but he could not come.
I cannot write a long letter, but will write again soon. To-morrow we go towards the trenches and will be in them in a day or so. Much love to all,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
11th Suffolks,
A/101 Trench Mortar Battery,
B.E.F.
This letter is in two parts—this is No. 1.
My darling Mother,—
I have another letter half written to you, but the tablet it was written on is left at my billet, and, as I rather forgot where I left off, I hope I will not leave a gap. To-day is Monday, 22nd. As you know, or will know when I finish the other letter, Friday and Saturday we moved, and rather marched up, billeting Friday night and on Saturday night—I won't go into details. On the march we saw an aeroplane being shelled—a very pretty sight—white puffs of smoke bursting all round it; one bit of shrapnel fell quite near us and made one of the brigade sergeants quite excited. I am writing this in comfort in bed in my dug-out, though my eyes keep trying to close; I am a bit tired, but I shall get a good night's sleep, I hope. It is now nearly eleven. On Sunday morning I came up early to prospect round the trenches, and to take over from the battery we were relieving. I prospected and then returned back to bring the battery up.
To get to the trenches we go first along the road up to a deserted village the Germans shell when they have nothing better to do. They were shelling it when I came out in the morning. I have often heard shells described as sounding like express trains coming through the air. They are almost as difficult to describe as the noise of the bullet. It's a far quicker noise than an express train. It sounds like a taxi going at about a hundred miles an hour and then bursting; a bullet sounds like someone cracking a very loud whip just in your ear, and a bit noisier than that when it is close to you. A machine gun—there is one going now—sounds like a very noisy motor bike, exactly like one, shells and bullets both whistle as well as they are going on. Well, I must get on, I brought my men in in the afternoon. After you get to the deserted village, you start up the communication trench, twisting and turning for about 1,000 yards, you pass the second line, and so on up to the firing line. The trenches we are in are rather wet, but quite pleasant. Directly we arrived in I found dug-outs for the men and myself, or rather pinched them, and put my guns in position. I will carry on to-morrow, I hope; till then, good-night. It's to-morrow now, and nearlythe day after; in fact, it is the day after. You will be glad to know that the trench mortar man is the only one who gets a chance to sleep in the trenches; that is, to have a decent sleep. This morning I got up at 11-0, when my servant got me tea and a fire. Here is a plan of my dug-out:—
Dug Out Plans
It is quite a comfortable place, but rather cold now the brazier is out. I will describe it. The whole is made of wood with a wooden floor, just like our hut, only a smaller edition. It is about five feet six inches high, and stands on the ground level in the firing line, earth piled on top and all round it. The bed is made, I don't quite know how, but it is wood with canvas stretched across it, like a sort of hammock, and I have my valise, sleeping bag, blanket, fur coat, &c. I sleep in everything except tunic and boots. The pictures are post cards. It is lighted by your candle. It has been snowing the last two days and everything is cased with snow. I mess with "D" Company of the Scots—we have quite a nice dug-out.
The first night I arrived I climbed over the parapet with another officer to examine our wire. It has to be repaired every night. The German trenches are about 70 yards away in some places and as much as 400 in others. It is rather exciting wandering about in front of the line, as lights go up every now and then and show a bright white light in the air for a minute or two like a rocket. When one goes up you fall flat and pretend you are a sandbag or a milk-can or a rat.You may meet Fritz on the same job sometimes; I always have a bomb handy to give him a brotherly welcome.
Well, I arose at 11-0, washed myself, and messed about, sent down for rations and sandbags, &c. The German artillery is just firing, or perhaps it is our own. You hear a bang and then a buzz over your head a long way up. They are probably firing at something a good way back. Rather bad form to fire at night time, I think; I hope no one sends for me to do a little straffing. Having arisen at the early hour I mentioned I nosed round and noticed some of the wretched Germans were having the cheek to work by day time, throwing earth out of their trenches. You could see on the snow on the parapet, so I sent them four rounds with my compliments and they then saw their mistake and stopped. I then watched their return of compliments with a battery of field guns; they were quite cruel to a small bush a hundred yards behind our line. I thought it rather a funny object to vent their spleen on. Yesterday I inspected the whole of the brigade trenches to see where I could make myself unpleasant to Fritz, and to-day we started making a beautiful emplacement in the salient. I messed as a visitor with "B" Company to-night, and so to bed. To-day it is Thursday, I think. Yesterday I had a very exciting day, rather too exciting in parts. I got up at 8-30 in time for breakfast, and went down to see the second in command of the Scots, and stayed at headquarters for lunch. In the afternoon we worked on another emplacement and got it nearly finished. We have to be continually working on the trenches—that is, the Infantry have to. My men do some work every day making emplacements, as those already in the trench do not come up to my standard at all, and we need a lot more to move the guns about. The life is either rather too exciting or ideal. It is usually a sort of picnic; at least, for the battery. We can't do any firing as I have not got my own ammunition at present. The men get up at any old time, they brew tea most of the day. In the morning they don't do much. Then they cook their dinner. In the afternoon they work on emplacements and some go down for rations; they have to carry it all a mile or two, and it takes a long time, mostly through trenches. Then they brew tea again. At night one is always on duty as a sentry over the guns. In the ordinary course of events their life and mine is just a picnic. Well, yesterday after lunch we worked, and then I had tea with the company I mess with,after which, at about 6-30, Kitton and I started out. By the way, the men all have to stand to arms for an hour or more at dawn and dusk. After stand-to in the morning, they get rum. I think I am the only man in the trenches who does not stand-to. Kitton and I went to see the Brigade Major, and they made us stay for dinner; we did not want to, as headquarters mess are all nice and clean and we were simply filthy, I had not shaved and was filthy dirty. I will tell you what I wear. Starting at the extremities:—Long pair of gum boots—they are an Army issue, and come up to the thighs, one pair socks, trousers (more intimate details censored), sweater, tunic, fur coat, what skin I don't know, it is something like squirrel in colour, grey—also an Army issue; and either a waterproof cape, coming down to the calves, Army issue (free) or my Thresher and Glenny.
After dinner, and a talk with the Brigade Major about instructions, &c., for the battery, we set off down the road back to the trenches. When we got to the village you can either go up the communication trench or miss the first 500 yards or so of it and go up the road taking your chance of machine guns. Being rather late we chose the road. But, unfortunately, we had not gone 200 yards up it when tut-tut-tut-tut-tut-tut (say that as fast as you can and then say it faster and get father to sneeze it) a wretched machine gun got right on to the road. With our usual politeness we gave the road up to someone who seemed to want it more than ourselves, and dived into some R.E. stores at the side, while the wretched gun went on for 2 minutes, the bullets ricocheting off the road and ripping into the wood in which we were hiding. The only thing you could see of me were: (1) That upon which I sit down, and (2) my legs. I didn't mind about them, as a wound in them would only have meant a few months leave. At last the thing stopped, and we, strange to say, returned to the village and went along to the communication trench when plop, bang, smash (four sneezes from father, the new housemaid dropping the dinner tray and the chapel-keeper dropping the plate, will give you some idea—get them to try), four shells fell 50 yards away on our left. We were then halted by a sentry, one of my own battalion. Meanwhile, I saw the whole sky lit up as all our heavy guns were letting themselves go a bit; I suppose they knew the machine guns had been unkind to us and were trying to show their sympathy. The sentry challenged, I replied with our namesand ranks. He glibly replied "Pass friends, all's well." As we were passing him to go to the C.T. (communication trench) I noticed something funny about his face, so I asked him what was the matter with it. He answered that he was wearing a gas helmet. I asked him if it was for amusement, or because he thought his face would frighten the passers-by. He answered that there was a gas attack on. Then an infernal din broke out, artillery, rifles, machine guns, &c., Very lights. I can tell you we got our helmets on pretty slick. Of course, Kitty (that's Kitton) had forgotten his (he's getting the other battery in the brigade, a Scot—a topping chap), but as I had two I lent him one of mine, keeping the prettiest, a blue and white striped one, for myself. Then we proceeded up the C.T. Well, you have never worn a gas helmet. It smells like ten hospitals and nearly suffocates you. I could not breathe out of mine at first and the windows got misty, but it got all right soon. You can imagine what it was like, nearly suffocated, hardly able to see or hear, and slithering about in army rubber boots on the ice in the bottom of the C.T., catching my cloak in everything, never knowing who was coming towards us, whether it was a fat, greasy Fritz or what it was, not having the faintest idea what was happening in the front and the firing line we were making for, unarmed except for the moral effect our gas helmets would create by their hideousness.
However, I soon managed to breathe out and to see a bit. Then I noticed the position of the Very lights and saw we still held the front line, so we felt reassured, especially as we could hear the topping sound of our own shells whizzing over our heads, about the most comforting sound I have ever heard. When we came to Battalion Headquarters we found that the gas was off and gladly took off our helmets and tried to push on to the firing line. But we had awful difficulty, as about 800 men, who had been in working parties working on the trenches, were coming down, and the whole way up the C.T. we were sniped and shelled, the shells bursting all round us within a few yards, but, thank goodness, none going into the trench. The men coming down seemed to think the end of the world had come were almost on their hands and knees. We tried to encourage them a bit, but they did not like to stand up, though they were not likely to be hit unless a shell came into the trench. At length we arrived at the safety of the firing line; really it is quite the safest place unless youare several miles back. They practically never shell the trenches unless there is an attack coming off, because they can do so little damage without shooting off hundreds of rounds. In the firing line we found things quieted down, no attack being made against us and things generally normal. The alarm had come from our right. There was an attack away up North, and probably the alarm had been passed right down the line. I think we were successful in the attack I mention. At about 3-0 a.m. I got to bed.
I arose this morning at about 11-0. Fuller fried my breakfast on the brazier and I had it in bed. Then I washed my feet, rubbed them with anti-frost bite, had a good wash and shave, brushed my teeth and hair and went to lunch feeling very fit.
Had tea this afternoon at our Battalion Headquarters and am now going to bed at 1-10 a.m., having been scrawling this rubbish for about an hour; breakfast in bed in the morning, I think.
I am afraid this letter has been a long time coming, but somehow I always seem to have something to do. There are two noises I can hear now, one the squeak of a rat, but I know he won't come in (at least, I hope not), and two, the crack of a sniper's bullet, which I know has no chance of coming in. As the papers would say, "Situation normal on the Western Front." We get absolutely no news, you know more of what is going on in France than I do. We heard that the division on our right were in action the other night, but, although it was four nights ago, we don't know whether it is true.
Father's and May's letters to hand, for which many thanks. Father gives me a lot of news. I had not heard of the fall of the place he speaks of, I suppose the Russians took it—good work. I do hope Lovel comes home, don't tell him too much of what I say about the artillery.
There are two things of which we absolutely cannot get too much—1, candles; 2, cake. I have about one and a half of ordinary candles a day.
Much love to all,
From your sleepy and loquacious Son,
ALEC.
P.S.—Don't believe all I say.
A/101 Trench Mortar Battery,
101st Brigade, B.E.F.
My darling Mother,—
I received yesterday a letter from you and one from Win. I am sorry to hear you had not heard from me for some time. How long was it? as I have never been a week yet without sending off a letter. Only once has there been more than five or six days between letters. My last was sent off on Friday night and the previous one the Friday before. By the time you receive this you will be glad to know that I am out of the trenches (D.V.) for 16 days, and shall have a nice rest. Yesterday we fired some ranging shots and were unsuccessful, as there was a strong head wind. I was firing obliquely thus:
Firing Directions
and the first shot got blown right back into our wire and put me in a fearful funk. To-day I had my usual breakfast at 10-0 in bed, washed, shaved, and then went along to see "A" Company Commander to arrange about firing. On the way to his headquarters I saw a captain of the R.H.A., and found out he had come to be in command of a heavy trench mortar battery in our brigade. While talking, he mentioned the name of a man's father whom I knew at Jesus, and then I found out he had been at Jesus; he was in his third year when I was in my first, I had met him and knew his name well and he knew mine. I was extremely pleased to have him in the brigade. This afternoon a major in command asked me to get on to a dug-out in the German lines, the roof of which was showing over the parapet and from where a sniper had killed one of his men. I did so. We fired four shots, all landed in the trench, the fourth blowing up the dug-out. That sniper snipes no more. The infantry were awfully bucked and several men have spoken to me as I wander along the trenches about our good shooting. It was a long-range and there was a difficult wind. I was very pleased. The Germans retaliated with mortars, but fell short of our front line. Then I went and had tea, having done a good day's work. To-nightthe company I mess with kindly invited Lloyd-Barrow, the Jesus man, to dinner, and I am just going to bed now. I will send this letter off to-morrow night when we arrive in billets. I am afraid that it is rather short, but one has very little time on one's hands in the trenches, I find.
Yesterday we came out of the trenches. In the morning I got up early and was cleaned for the fray at 10-0 o'clock when with his and I with my guns we played havoc for an hour or so. The men were very pleased when I removed what they declared to be a cookhouse. This war becomes quite incomprehensible to you once you have seen the real thing; no tactics, no strategy, just men turned moles. I believe in time we should become sort of Cave-men; our eyes would have developed into sorts of periscopes, our feet would have become web-footed to help us to stand up on wet duck boards; there would be a new type of man. As it is, it is quite haphazard and pointless. Just somebody makes himself disagreeable when he has nothing better to do. It is so difficult to hurt anyone actually in trenches; I think a mortar is the only thing that can do so. With dozens of shells sent over in the last ten days or so (40 yesterday morning) there has not been a single man in the brigade wounded by shell fire, and rifles and machine guns are the same. The casualties occur only in a push when one goes over the parapet, and that is not war, only a big field day. I was talking to a sergeant-major who had been through Neuve Chapelle, and said that it was just like a field day in Salisbury Plain, men marching in fours in all sorts of formations. His battalion halted after a little, ate its lunch, and then went on, got a bit too far forward, returned and dug themselves in, and trenches again. It is a hole and corner affair. We were all very cheered yesterday morning by the official news of the French successes at Verdun, and we all got obstreperous and terrorised poor Fritz. The men say they infinitely prefer the front line trenches to training at home. They have more comfortable sleeping accommodation, better food and less work. I like it better myself. Then what seems funny is to come out of the trenches and to be in perfect safety two and three miles back. I went on a course to-day; demonstration in mortars.
We are billeted in a topping farm, and I have a huge great room with a big bed and a fire. They are nice clean people in the farm. The men have a loft, and use of kitchenfor sitting in. We are within shelling distance, but the people in the farm have been living in the farm, carrying-on their ordinary work, without the young men right through everything, and the farm is absolutely undamaged. Well, I must go to bed, little Mother. Did you receive my letters asking May to get me gramophone catalogues of Decca and Master's Voice gramophones as soon as possible? Parcel received. Slacks, shoes, candle, biscuits, &c., very welcome indeed. Stir Ellen up to make another cake, larger; I will write to her. Also can you send me Mars oil for boots.
Much love to all,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
A/101 Trench Mortar Battery,
101st Brigade, B.E.F.
March 2nd.
My darling Mother,—
Please note address. Don't put in my battalion, if you like you can put in O.C. before the name of the battery officer commanding, as a bit of swank. This letter is a joint one to you and May. Many thanks, May dear, for the simply topping parcel; it is ripping. Thank you, Mother mine, also for the letter and the papers. The parcel had been delayed a little by going to the battalion. The Aunts also sent me a delightful parcel. I have been having a sort of little private Christmas on my own, with a letter from Win also, and two free papers from the King. At least, the Post Office gave us them, free to the B.E.F. Consequently, I am very pleased to-night. I don't want my gum boots, nor my Burberry, British warm or rug, as you know I have my Thresher and Glenny and a fleece lining, also a fur coat, a mackintosh cape, and a pair of thigh gum boots, all the last three presents from the King, or rather from Father as a taxpayer. Please thank Father very much for them. Also for the guns, which were bought out of the taxes he pays. Several people have asked me where to get candles like the ones you send me, and I tell them to see that when their father marries he marries a wife with brains, as that is the only way. Then, Mother, about the cheque: it is intended to pay for the cigarettes and my knife, fork and spoon, and such things, I would much rather you used it, as you are all practising war economy and I am living in luxury; at least, do please me by buying a new hat with it, or something as a little gift from me. I know it will not go far towards a hat, but Father will give you the rest, and then it will be from the two Alexanders. I am quite rich, I have nearly £30 in the bank, and I am intending to be absolutely extravagant and buy a gramophone, and even then I shall have a nice balance. I don't spend nearly all my pay, and I am sure I don't earn my pay, because already I have introduced economic reforms in Germany by cutting down the personnel of their Army, and so saving them expense.
I wish I had seen Norman Smith in St. Omer. At present in billets we are doing little: we draw our rations and eat them, go for our letters and read them, get new clothes and wear them, take rations up to the dump for those in thetrenches, and then go to bed. To-morrow is a red-letter day. We are going to have a bath. I am getting quite good at having a bath in a tin hand-basin, but to-morrow I shall soak in a great vat, which was once used for washing clothes. You will be glad to hear that we have had no single case in the brigade yet of a man sharing his clothes with anything else of the type in the dog's diary: "Bad attack of eczema, caught one."
The rats in the trenches are delightful animals, about as large as an overgrown horse, but you get quite friendly towards them in a little while; after all, I suppose they are fighting for their country like some of us. I expect the papers in ratland are like ours: "In the western hole there is nothing to report, the situation was normal, in Rotten Row Alley gnawing was heard, and it is thought that the enemy are sapping towards us." Then they have articles about the bad conditions of their trenches, and write home to say that the human vermin simply swarm there, and are swollen to a huge size and have all become furry.
Much love to all,
From your loving Son,
ALEC.
P.S.—We had an official message sent by the French line brigade to say that the French had won back all ground lost at Verdun and taken thousands of prisoners.