ARCHIE
Yesterday some Hun aeroplanes got across and came right above this camp, a comfortable way behind the front line. Heavily strafed by our Archies. The blue sky was dotted all over with the pretty little white clouds of shrapnel.
Sergeant Pritchard and I were standing close to Flannagan (one of the men's horses), and the men were at stables. We were all looking up and longing to see a Hun aeroplane hit, when suddenly "s-s-s-swish, plop!" just behind me. It was one of the Archie shrapnel cases. It buried itself deep in the ground 3 yards from where we were standing. We dug it up, and I'll bring it home for you. If it isn't too tediously heavy.
Of course, Archie shrapnel cases all come down, and you see hundreds of them lying about; but I've never had one so close before. They sometimes fall broadside on, and sometimes end on, in which case they bury themselves fairly deep. All the Hun aeroplanes got away, alas!
October 26.
Once more I'm going up to the strange dead village of ——. In many ways I shall be sorry to go back to comfort and billets, because the material for pictures here is very wonderful. You shall see several small things (the powers that be call it waste of time!), and it's infuriating to think that more can't be done.
I tell you, if you were here, and if I could paint a bit every day, I should be quite happy. The "subjects" are endless, and in particular I long to do great big stretches of this bleak brown land. Well, it can't be helped, so it's no good thinking about it.
October 29.
We are moving to a "back area" to-morrow.
A WOUNDED TANKThis Tank got hit as it was walking over a house inFlers. They covered it up with tarpaulins to prevent the Hun aeroplanes from obtaining too much information about it. The black stuff is shrapnel. The pink clouds are sent up by crumps as they explode amongst the remains of the brick houses.
November 1.
It's a superb day, and we are back at ——, one of our old billets, right away from the beastliness. And although leave won't be for another week or two, still, it will come soon. And Swallow is in tremendous spirits.
Here is a drawing done surreptitiously of a tank in full view of Fritz. You see those little stumps of trees? Well, I'll tell you what those are called when we meet, and also what village is just on their left. You may say it was stupid to sit in full view of Fritz, but it was the day after an advance, and there's hardly ever anything doing then in the way of sniping. The guns, of course, are all pooping off, but they weren't shelling just there, so it was quite safe. This drawing gives you some idea of the desolation, but none of the unevenness of the ground. You can't walk in a bee-line for three yards without getting into a hole. The last time I was in those parts, by the way, I came on a rather jolly cottage wineglass that had been thrown out into some soft mud, and was not even cracked.
November 6.
COCQUEREL
An extraordinary change. Let me now give you an idea.
We are in a pretty little country village miles and miles away, and (although one of Fritz's aeroplanes flew over the church as bold as brass just before we got in) the quiet and peace of the place is very refreshing. And, droll to relate, I'm writing this in bed, with a touch of flu—such a bed, too, all soft and billowy. In ordinary life it would be condemned as a "feather" bed, but now it is a bed for princes.
And the room. A rather dark old-fashioned paper, an old clock ticking, an old shining chest of drawers with a marble top, and clothes hanging on pegs. Hale has arranged the pistol, and ammunition, and maps, and gas helmets, and steel helmet, and spare kit, with great elaboration, all over the room. At the present moment he is "sweeping out" with the appropriate hissing noises. The dust will, I hope, subside during the course of the day.
Hunt has got Jezebel, Swallow, and Tank into a disused barn, where they will be warm and happy.
Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey pony browsing. The leaves are yellow, and there's no wind.
The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me in some little "remèdes," which Tim refuses to let me have. One is what the old man (an ex-chemist) calls "salicite de métal," and the other is what the old lady calls a "remède de bonne femme." You rub yourself with it all over every two hours!
Tick, tick, tick, tick. Lovely! The old clock is rumbling. It is about to strike twelve.
It has struck twelve—no, not struck twelve, rather it has buzzed twelve, like some old happy bee.
The hens are still pecking about in the orchard, and the grey pony is rubbing himself against a tree.
All so cosy and delicious. Now for a doze.
November 7.
DOZING
Here's a poem. It's called
HENS.
At the end of the war(Ring, bells, merry bells!)We intendTo keep hens,Me and Helen.(Ring, bells!)Such hens!(Merry bells!)And though all our hens' eggs be surrounded by shells,We shall laugh and not care;For there won't be no war,And no hell any more,While Helen is thereWith the hens.
At the end of the war(Ring, bells, merry bells!)We intendTo keep hens,Me and Helen.(Ring, bells!)Such hens!(Merry bells!)And though all our hens' eggs be surrounded by shells,We shall laugh and not care;For there won't be no war,And no hell any more,While Helen is thereWith the hens.
I've just made that up, and the inspiration of so profound an epic has made me want to doze again. Such a lot of dozing!
November 12.
In to-day's letter I enclose a couple of field post-cards which I found on a Boche dug-out bed-hole.
I've been so busy these last days, up till late hours, and writing has been "na-poo." Leave? Yes, leave will come in time. Probably the first half of December.
How maddening it is for poor old Tom! It's most damnable hard luck being kept there without leave such a long time. And I expect that he also has rather lost interest. At first the men were a great source of interest, and the horses and everything. Then France and the front were very interesting. Lastly, being under fire was very interesting. But now that we are back in Rest, I begin to feel I shall be rather sorry to go through it again. And Tom has had so much of it. Yes, he ought to come home.
The cottage people here have those lovely pale salmon winter chrysanthemums in their gardens. Don't you like them?
Since we arrived in this wee village a week ago, I haven't been on a horse once, and have never seen anything outside the village itself, which consists of one street and a side-lane.
November 14.
I wasn't able to write yesterday, and there may be several blank days to come.
Roger is temporarily away, and I am in charge. The thing that's happening is this: A and B are coming down to us, and others are going to relieve them. So the arrangements and correspondence are vast. All the billeting of this town is pushed on to my hands, too; and though it's only a small village, there's a good lot to do. I can't collect any thoughts to write to you. You understand, I know, and so I needn't say more. I'll write again at length when things settle down. This sounds muddled. But I count on your understanding that I've got more work to do than I can manage.
November 16.
THE OTHER SQUADRONS ARRIVE
To-day, by some amazing fluke, there's a lull. One squadron has gone. Sir John is on his way down. Julian starts early next week, and Gerald a few days later. So within a fortnight we shall all be together. Which will be good.
Some infantry came in from the line to-day. Oh ye gods! the British infantry! No rewards, honours, no fame, can ever be enough for them. We have not yet gone through what they have to go through, but we have been in and out amongst them all the time, and we know. Thank goodness this spell of dry weather seems to have come for a few days at least. Cold at night is nothing. It's wet at night that just kills men right and left. Alan died yesterday morning. Died of exposure. He caught a chill while we were up in front, and then got much worse, and it finally developed into peritonitis and pneumonia. And now he, too, is dead. We were all very fond of Alan.
Death is such a little thing. A change of air—no more. Death is the last day of Term, the last day of the Year. Regret? That's because we don't understand, quite.
November 17.
I sent you off another beastly little scrap of paper to-day, because it was impossible to write more. Here (7 p.m.) is another moment, so I snatch it.
Listen. Of course it is true that leave has been cancelled, but we hear (Rumour) that this is only for a few days owing to submarines.Ifleave reopens again, as seems likely therefore, I go next. I shall have to hand over Orderly Room and all current correspondence, etc. That means, with luck, I leave here on the 2nd. Don't, of course, count on this; but let's toy with the idea.
November 23.
I am sitting in the sun, having read your letter. The valley of the —— is below me, a mile wide, all reed-beds and half submerged willows, with the main stream lying like a blue snake amongst pale acres of sedge.
Damn! I was going to write a long and cosy letter, but was called back. I had escaped for an hour from Orderly Room with your letter and a sketchbook, and was caught in the act. No time now.
November 25.
THE SOMME VALLEY
A few more moments with you before you go to bed.
Yes, isn't it funny how we seem to be talking face to face! And to every question of mine you reply in three days' time andvice versa. It always sounds to me like this, rather:
Question.Answer.Mon.Isn't it cold?None.Tues.Have you seen mother?None.Wed.Are you happy?None.Thurs.How are you all?Freezing.Fri.When did I see you last?Only yesterday.Sat.May I have a cake!Yes, very.Sun.How is Queen Anne?Much better.Mon.None.Last April.Tues.None.I'll send one.Wed.None.Dead.
Don't you find it's a bit like that? What question can I have asked a week ago to which the answer is a rabbit? So tiresome when we want to talk at very close range.
As to leave—well let's not talk about that. Every dog has his day.
You know the dog who has been shut up in a kennel for a long time? Or the dog who has been locked up in an empty house for a long time? It'll be a mixture of these.
Well, the day will come.
November 27.
Can't write properly because it's very cold and I've been riding, and that makes one's fingers like pink bananas. They don't seem to answer to the bridle. There's an awful noise of hissing going on. Hale and Hunt are busy on the horses.
November 28.
A box will arrive containing another Bristol ball, which I discovered in a cottage here, and bought for 1fr. 50c. Rather a jolly green one, biggish. Also I am enclosing the wineglass from Geudecourt, which I mentioned some time ago. There can't be any harm in mentioning this name, as we have left that area some time now. I have got several sketches of other places round about there, which I hope you will like. Won't it be fun, when the time comes, looking at them. To-day Hunt came round in a great state about the horses. Jezebel had pulled up her shackle, and was in "one of her moods," as Hunt always describes it. She had been kicking both Tank and Swallow with great violence. He had left Hale trying to get her quiet, and rushed up to report.
She was quiet again when I got down, and Hale had tied her up successfully.
THE PRUDENT SERGEANT
But the point of telling you of this episode is that meanwhile it was getting time for the post to go. Prudent Sergeant Marsden (Orderly Room sergeant) observed that I hadn't addressed the letter yet or signed it outside. So he did it himself! "You very seldom write any letters to other addresses, you see, sir, so I thought I'd better address it myself. I thought it would beinadvisableto miss a post, and I thought the young lady would forward it on if it was not for her!"
It made me laugh as I haven't laughed for a long time. Wasn't it nice and thoughtful. He tells me he duly forged my signature in the left-hand bottom corner.
Jorrocks sends his love. "Your little filly" he always calls you.
November 29.
About leave. There's no more chance of it at present, I think, as we are going up to the line again in a week or two, and we want to work off all the men, who haven't had any leave at all, before moving up mudwards, when all leave will be stopped. We are engaged at present in practically rebuilding and making sanitary an entire French village, and in "training," which means all the old dismal tedium of manœuvres plus spit and polish.
These villages are most amazingly ill-built. Swallow this morning lashed out on being bitten by Jezebel, and (dear silly Swallow!) instead of hitting Jezebel, she brought down half the wall of the shed in which they live, which frightened her to such an extent, Hunt tells me, that she allowed Jezebel to eat all her food at midday stables.
November 30.
We move next week, I think, or possibly the week after.
We are not going back to quite the same part of the line, but near it. It will be new country to me altogether, and to everyone else concerned.
Poor Swallow, poor Jezebel, poor Tank, I'd give anything to shelter you three; but, alas! I fear you are going to have a nasty time of it now. All clipped, too. It's Swallow particularly that I tremble for. He does so throw up the sponge. Tank copies Bird in everything, so she ought to pull through all right.
December 1.
AMIENS CATHEDRAL
All leave is cancelled again, at any rate in this army—possibly on account of the move, possibly on account of nasty fish in the sea. However, the telegram says "until further notice," which usually means for a short time only. Not that it affects me, but it's bad luck on some of the men who were just off.
Now about Xmas. I have got a new crop, thank you ever so much, that I bought at a town near here.
A beautiful cathedral town.
With doors all padded up with sand-bags, the great cathedral towers above the town, and is seen for miles and miles. A good effort. What fun they must have had building it. What they believed then they expressed in outward and visible form. What we think now is (or ought to be) very different indeed from what they thought then. But I can't remember having ever seen anything thatbeginsto express what we think (or ought to think) now.
Everyone in the Church of England now seems to me to thinkalmost exactlywhat was thought when this cathedral was built! If this war achieves nothing else, I pray with all my mind, and all my soul, and all my strength, that all the sects and all the churches may suddenly feel tired of all the 1001 little methods of procedure, and say: "Damn it all! what does all this ancient paraphernalia mean to us? Is God quite so complicated and involved as we have supposed? Everything else in the world progresses. Thought progresses. Let us take a deep breath, and realize that religion ought to be more 'into the future' than even Zeppelins or Tanks, please."
EXPLOSION OF AN AMUNITION DUMPThe smoke from a large explosion usually assumes a queer tree-like form and disperses slowly.
December 2.
Just been superintending the burying of some horses. A curious job. You have to disembowel them first. Quite ghoulish. And then head and legs are cut off, and the whole is buried in a hole 12 feet deep. Up there they often lie about for some time, and get as smelly as dead human beings. Back here it all has to be done prestissimo.
The strange thing is that, whereas before the war I should have felt sick and possibly dreamt about it, now it seems merely more boring than most other things of the kind.
Up there Tommies and Honourables eat their lunch of sandwiches with lots and lots of dead people in varying stages of decomposition all round. An odour more hideous than anything you have ever imagined. But you get used to it.
TALKING ABOUT HOME
"How unpleasant they are to-day," you say to anyone you are with. And the answer is probably just a laugh. Then you go on (if things are quiet) to discuss an imaginary day at home. You would smile.
We actually discuss everybody's clothes, the things in the room, the shape of the fireplace, the look of the tea-things and the comfiness of the chairs.
And we always end up by saying: "And then after that I shall do absolutelyNothingfor a fortnight!"
December 3.
December. Frost on the trees, all fairy-like in this dense mist. Not a sound. The sun quite small and white and far away. And if we were on the Cotswolds, I expect we should go out for a bit of a walk, just to warm up, after breakfast.
December 4.
A staff job has been in the air several days. It may or may not come off. I'm not very keen about it in many ways. But I've a feeling that I could do it rather well, and so I'm not sure that I oughtn't to accept.
Jezebel and Swallow have quarrelled. Isn't it awful. Hunt has had to put Tank in between them.
Jezebel kicked Swallow, and the blood fairly spouted out—got her in the leg, and she lost her temper, and began lashing out. Hunt, with great presence of mind, threw a bucket of water over them both. And as soon as they were quiet, dear, good, demure little Tank was put in between them as buffer.
It's a most dreadful nuisance. They used to get on so well together. I hope they will leave that curious little Tank alone. Swallow is as lame as a cat now. The accursed female is very exasperating, I fear. Hunt quite irritated me for a moment when he remarked, after the incident: "Oh, it's all right, sir. She was in one of her moods." I pointed out to him that it was not all right. Whereupon he took it into his head that I was strafing him, and muttered sulkily: "Well, sir, I must say I never did like Abroad."
Which made me laugh to such an extent that I got a sort of fit of laughing (don't you know?) and couldn't stop. Eventually I had to go away. He looked so comic and so dejected, and his use of the word Abroad (as if it were a country in itself) always makes me laugh idiotically. I haven't seen him since, and it will be difficult to explain the apparent frivolity.
Things have been very complicated just lately owing to our having to make arrangements about taking over this new bit of line.
December 5.
CONCERNING WORK
One of the many things the war has taught us, I think, is the comparative equality of all work. Work depends almost entirely on the actual number of hours per diem, don't you think?
Certainly brain work is more tiring than spade work. But I'll guarantee that the man who does eight hours' brain work is notmuchmore tired than the man who does eight hours' spade work.
The only difference is that open-air work means better health, and consequently more power to work long hours.
But I really do believe that, for example, a nurse's day's work (either for wounded or babies) isjustas hard as a bricklayer's day, or a bank clerk's day, or an engine driver's day. And I believe that the various degrees of skill, necessary for doing any job really well, are not very different on the whole. Different, yes, but not very different. A General's job is difficult, but notmuchmore difficult than a nurse's job.
And so I believe all jobs ought to be paid on a rather more equal footing. Not on an equal footing, but arather more equalfooting than now.
Do you agree?
December 6.
Cathedrals, the earth, the sky, and all that in them is—those are the things that rest and soothe one out here. Thank God for cathedrals! How splendid of Litlin, to be getting Bunny taught reels. I do trust she will give lots of attention to it.
After seeing a certain amount of human misery and so forth, I believe more than ever that the whole aim of the world is in the direction of Joy. And as dancing is one of the most primitive expressions of joy, give me dancing, says I.
This is all said in the middle of dictation of orders, and so I expect it's ungrammatical, but you know what I mean.
December 7.
What do you think? I lunched to-day with George. We lunched in a most superb officers' club, formerly the house of some Count or other: all white and gold, and chandeliers and mirrors—a dream.
December 8.
JEZEBEL ACCEPTS AN APOLOGY
Our move has been postponed twice now, and we don't go till Monday.
But meanwhile I heard from Mark to-day. He is A.D.C. to the G.O.C., and apparently caught sight of Roger and me the other day, while flashing past in the G.O.C.'s car. So we are going to have a great meeting. It will be immense fun. Mark, Dennis and I were all tremendous friends—just the same type.
Swallow is much better, and Jezebel says that, if she had known Swallow would bleed so much, she would have kicked him in a different place, where he wouldn't have bled so profusely. This, for Jezebel, is extremely gracious.
Tank's only remark about being put between the two was: "Well, I'm always very glad to do what I'm told."
Swallow is desperately sorry about the whole affair, and is on tenter-hooks lest Jezebel should never speak to him again. He says she really didn't mean to kick, and she can't understand how it is that he has so little control over himself. So all's well.
December 9.
Hunt and Hale have made their very tumble-down barn a perfect model of neatness. They sleep within about 3 yards of the horses' heels. Hunt in particular never likes to be far away from "my 'osses," as he calls them. I have less and less say in the matter of the 'osses as time goes on! I merely say: "Hunt, I want a horse and an orderly at 8 a.m. to-morrow."
It's useless for me to say I'd like Swallow or Tank or Jezebel, because, if I name one in particular, there's always some reason why it would be better not to ride that one that day. Oh, "she wants shoeing behind," or, "she had one of her moods this morning, and so I exercised her very early," or "he didn't eat his corn, and had better stay in." So I just meekly ask for a horse. And a horse arrives.
Swallow is still rather lame, but seems better now. And the gentle influence of Tank is, I really believe, soothing Jezebel. Tank is a very charming creature, and her perfect manners are a good example to the other two. But—what an awful admission!—she is so good that I own I find her rather dull. Poor little Tank!
Jorrocks has gone off to a nasty place, I fear, with his troop. But all seems fairly quiet at present.
December 12.
The trek is at an end.
We have arrived at a place well behind the line, and not at all wrecked, except for holes here and there. But the river! Oh my aunt! It's marvellous. It winds in and out of low hills, and as I saw it this evening, from an eminence, it looked more snaky than ever. Huge great loops with the lovely pale sedges on either side. The almost yellow hills are dotted with junipers. I long to see it to-morrow morning. There's no doubt it's one of the most fascinating rivers I've seen. Hooded crows sailing over the uplands, and I met a flock of bright sweet goldfinches near some guns, and a tree-creeper in a copse.
SAILLY-LE-SEC
What a wonderful day! It was snowing all the time, with quite warm, sunny intervals. Swallow and Tank and Jezebel are all under cover, and I've actually got a bed! You might not call it a bed, but it is a bed, because it has four legs (one of them a biscuit tin). The place where we were going to has been rather too heavily strafed lately, so they are keeping us back here.
Things are wonderfully quiet, and there are no batteries near us, which is pleasant. I did want to show you the beautiful river winding in and out of the little hills. The great river-bed is quite untouched by shells here, and the very sight of it would soothe the most jangled nerves. Oh, it did look so heavenly this evening. Thank God for this glorious river. The snow melted as it fell. The snow flakes as they touched the river were like fairies taking headers.
December 15.
Isn't this fine about Peace?
So Fritz would like Peace, would he? No amount of flamboyant talk can possibly hide the fact that he wants peace. And it isn't the victor who asks for peace first. Carry on, say we.
December 20.
Have you had any of the letters in which I told you how the place we were to have been sent to was too continuously strafed? And how we were sent to this very quiet and unwrecked place? And how I've got a bed, and how happy the horses are?
About the intelligence job. Things are hanging fire rather, as the Staff Major, who may ask for me to come away with him to another corps, is now attached to this corps. So what will be the end of it I don't know.
Frankly, I am sore tempted for this reason, that I think I could do it rather well. Of course, each corps does things differently, but, judging from the way in which this corps likes the job done, I feel certain I could tackle it in another corps. That's boasting. But you understand so perfectly. It would be glorious to be doing something really well.
A STAFF JOB
Ican'tbe an ordinary soldier. Too absent-minded—hopelessly vague and careless. I live on tenter-hooks always. What detail have I forgotten? What order did I give that could be taken two ways?
It's sad for Pat that his friends are gone. I feel so murky when mine go, that I understand what it must be for him. But friends or no friends, broken-hearted or whole, we must damned well carry on! And that's all about it.
A perfect letter from old Norman to-day. He must be quite useless as a soldier, whereas at his own job he stands alone, with a wonderful future before him. Well, well! I meant not to grouse to you again. And here's a letter nearly full of it. But there, I made a stupid mistake to-day, and it's all so boring and beastly.
Anyhow, we are fighting for civilization, and the Huns are, too, in a way. But our idea of civilization is better than the Huns' idea. So we gradually win.
December 21.
I have at last made up my mind. I'm going to take on this job. How unwillingly I can hardly tell you. I wanted to be in the great Push next year so badly. Everyone, everything, is preparing for it. The cavalry will get through, and I shall be driving about behind in some gilded car, or watching from some very distant hill with Jezebel (who won't care a damn whether the cavalry get through or not).
But I had two interviews with the Major and the General to-day. Coves like painters seem to be rather wanted, and—well, it's clear now. I must go.
To-morrow or next week, perhaps, the extreme fascination of the job will obliterate a certain feeling of flatness, of disappointment, of ... of ... of shirking. Yes, that's it: I feel as if I were shirking all the horrors. You see, I shall enjoy this job immensely. All the hateful "arrangering things" for large numbers of men, all the tiresome formalities, all the discomfort, all the future dangers, finished with—over. I don't say that we've hadlongperiods of danger ormuchdiscomfort; but we've had quite enough to make a very ordinary mortal hope never to go through it again.
But to think that I've deliberately chosen the easy path. Well, I don't care! I've chosen it. I meant to choose it. I'm glad I've chosen it. That is the one job in the whole war that I could do really well. How best to serve the country—that's the only question. So there you are. I've been and took the plunge, and I believe I'm right.
First of all a week or two getting to know the ropes inthiscorps, and then off with the Major and the General to another corps.
My aunt! what an egoistical letter this is. However, to you no apologies.
December 22.
A DECISION
Letters have been lurching in, in threes and fours. But what matters it how they come? I always know that they are coming. And the future's wheremyheart is always. So here's to the letters to come, and here's to our meeting again, and here's to Life—long, sweet, glorious Life.
We shall see the Christmas roses of the Cotswolds together one day, and I think the war will have given them a mysterious loveliness that we never understood before. Every year they'll come up out of the ground again and surprise us. I shall be getting older and older—and so will you, too. And all our little plans will have a quiet, peaceful joy for us that wouldn't have been possible but for the war. Art will be like angels coming and going. Effort will be intensified. The lives of the poor must be happier, because everyone will be more ready to give and take.
It won't come all at once. But there'll be a difference. The war will have made a difference. Thank God for the war!
December 25.
CHRISTMAS 1916
Never talk about the "idle" staff. Yesterday we were working absolutely solid without any break at all except an hour for lunch and an hour for dinner (tea? away frivolous thought!) from 9 a.m. till 11.30 p.m. Most interesting; but let's hope this first day's experience won't be a fair sample, or I shall simply melt down like a guttered candle. None of the Generals and people seemed to think it unusual. At least they never said so. Personally I found it quite kolossal.
12.30 a.m.
Such a funny Christmas Day! I've been fixing on a large map all the gun positions on the corps front. There are a very great many, and the positions must be marked very exactly. I was quite nervous lest there should be a mistake. It has taken since about two o'clock till now. And I think it is accurate at last.
At about 10 p.m. I found out an awful mistake. One of the heavies quite 100 yards wrong, which might have meant that it would be ranging on the wrong place, and probably do no damage whatever. Desperate thought!
Well, the staff is the most hard-working body of men I've ever seen. They don't appear ever to get any exercise. And, really, the work is all so vital that I don't see how they ever can expect to get any exercise.
About leave. Possibly on the way up to the other corps a side-slip to Blighty will be allowed.
Don't depend on anything. There seems to be a dearth of people who can do this work, and so it would be unwise to count on getting away. The thing is, however, conceivable—that is all.
December 27.
First of all about current affairs here.
Captain G—— is probably going to Army, so it is suggested that I shall take his place here. He runs all the plotting of the aeroplane photographs, etc., for the corps. It's a most awful and alarming responsibility, and I don't feel that I can do it yet. May he not get taken away just for a little while, or I'm lost.
The corps commander sends for him (he has been doing the job for nine months), and says: "Now, where is our line at the present moment? Has so-and-so trench been repaired, and where is so-and-so German battery that was shelling the —— Brigade yesterday?" Well, of course I simply couldn't answer these questions yet.
The prospect is murky. Given a little time, I think I could do it; but ... well, one can but try.
I asked the Captain if he thought leave at all possible. He most strongly advised me not to dream of asking. The corps is certain to refuse in any case, as they will want me to sweat up the show and get to know all about it as rapidly as possible.
January 2, 1917.
I think I shall be going to live with the R.F.C., so as to be able to snatch their photographs the instant they come in—puzzle them out—put them quickly on to a map—and send them off. Everyone then will know far more quickly what Fritz is up to.
So don't be surprised if letters are addressed from R.F.C. shortly. I shall take a couple of draughtsmen and a clerk and an orderly, and Hale.
THE BUTTE DE WARLENCOURTThis small chalk mound was one of the most difficult obstacles on the way toBapaume. In the foreground a large 'crump-hole' and the remains of a little copse.
January 11.
AEROPLANE PHOTOGRAPHS
I don't know when leave will be possible. This job is rather in the making, and is really very important stuff. A great responsibility, says the corps commander. In fact, I am just a bit nervous about things generally. That battery that was reported in so-and-so wood. Is it there still? Well, where has it moved to, then? You are not sure? Why not? No recent photographs of it? But why not? Can it be in so-and-so quarry, perhaps? That light railway has been repeatedly smashed up by our heavies. Repaired? What? What evidence have you? Let me have a map as soon as possible, showing exactly where you believe that line has been repaired, and the exact position of that battery in the quarry—if it really is there. But don't tell me it's in the quarry unless you are quite sure. Yes, sir. And you'd better have the map duplicated. How many can the draughtsmen print before to-morrow? About 300. Well, send out copies. I must have that battery silenced at once. Do you see? Can I rely on it being sent out in time? Yes, sir.
That's the sort of thing. Things thatmustbe done and quickly. Perhaps it sounds nothing much—a mere bit of a map. But maps are like lamps to men in the dark. And they must be accurate. To me, therefore, the most inaccurate, absent-minded mortal before the war that ever breathed, it is all a source of great anxiety.
January 12.
I've got a bedroom with a brick floor in a cottage. I really hardly know what it's like, as I arrive there about twelve o'clock every night and fall into bed, and then up again at 7.30 next morning as a rule, and frowsy at that. The roads here are just as muddy as ever, and if you go off the roads you go too deep. We are camouflaging the whole place, and I think it will soon be very difficult for the Huns to see it. At least, when I say "we" are camouflaging, I mean that I run out for two minutes about every three hours, and give hurried directions to a few bewildered men, and rush in again. I'm sure they think the extraordinary patterns that I order them to paint all over the huts, etc., are quite mad. The R.F.C. show isn't ready yet, but it's likely to be so shortly.
January 17.
To-day's letter got me into an absurd fit of internal laughter. Hale brought it in while I was poring over some new photographs of Boche emplacements, or dug-outs, or something—poring with a magnifying glass.... And then came your drawings of the rooms at the cottage.
That'll be admirable. I tried to hold my head and think of exactly how the cottage looked, and where the new rooms were to be; but somehow I've got no brains left. And I leave it all to you. One day we shall be able to discuss it peaceably, but at present this brain is like some limp jellyfish floating in the sea.
To-day I'm doing a map, and the draughtsmen are copying it, of some Boche dug-outs. Ye gods! what do I care about dug-outs! As well make maps of all the rabbit-holes in Glamorganshire. But there, what's the good of talking like that. It's got to be done.
January 24.
BUSY DAYS
The aeroplanes have brought in the most marvellous photographs, and I am very busy deciphering them and mapping the information on to a map.
February 8.
After many, many days of incessant work comes a brief interval of repose—till to-morrow morning.
We moved up here yesterday afternoon late.
Well, imagine a lovely large hut.
The room on the left is where all the maps, etc., are made, and the room on the right is my office.
But outsiders can't just barge into my office. Oh no! They must ask one of the orderlies if they can see me. Isn't it ridiculous!
Then there is a tiny bedroom.
The office walls are entirely covered now with aeroplane photos and maps. It is all rather fun, and I think it won't be quite such a strain. The cold is intense. Hale is functioning with the stove in my room at the moment. I have said once that I don't really need a fire in my bedroom; but he evidently has different views, and is firmly lighting it. He is quite happy here.
I'm having the hut papered, to make it warmer. And canvas curtains, if you please!
The R.F.C. people are most hospitable and nice. I like them very much. It's all quite interesting, and the aeroplanes are delicious as they move, buzzing like vast mosquitoes.
I go down in a side-car every day (that's the programme) to corps H.Q. to report and get instructions.
February 12.
Something may happen to prevent leave before leave comes. You will understand. I should have to "remain at my post," as novels say.
February 15.
WITH THE R.F.C.
A very difficult map has just been finished, and is being printed, and here we sit down for a little talk together. The war is for the moment far away. Away anxiety, away nervous apprehension, away fatigue, away responsibility, away Wilhelm! Let the doors be shut, the curtains drawn. Listen. An adventure, amusing, and rather exciting. Would you like to hear about it? Well, I was making a raised map of a particular part of the line for the corps commander. And I go up from time to time to scan the ground, so that it may be very accurate and therefore rather useful. At least that is what I hope. Yesterday, then, up into the blue, piloted by Eric.
It was not a good day. In fact, too dud for good observation. But the relief map must be ready quickly.
Imagine us, please, robed in leather coats and leather helmets and gauntlets, and with goggles, waiting at the entrance of a hangar while the mechanics bring out the gadfly. They have already looked the creature over with great care. The pale yellow wings glitter against the violet horizon. The sun is shining, but it's freezing hard. Eric climbs in, and then I do. I sit behind with the machine gun.
I clasp a sketchbook, to sketch the lie of the land. O my aunt in Jericho! isn't it Arctic! Fingers that feel like ammoniated quinine. You know, a faint unpleasant tingle.
They are starting the engines. Difficult this cold weather. The following strange colloquy ensues:
Mechanic:"Contact."Pilot:"Contact."M."Switch off."P."Switch off."M."Contact."P."Contact."M."Switch off."P."Suck in."M."Contact."P."Contact."
Mechanic:"Contact."Pilot:"Contact."M."Switch off."P."Switch off."M."Contact."P."Contact."M."Switch off."P."Suck in."M."Contact."P."Contact."
And with a terrific whir the propeller flashes round. The sound increases, and then decreases slightly, and increases again. The gadfly moves. Moves more rapidly. Skims along the ground. Rises, rises, rises. Ah, the beautiful river! Every time I have flown the beauty of that river catches me in the throat. But this featureless waste. Bereft of everything but earth, and a few low shelters and gun-pits, and seamed with trenches. Hideously lonely.
Well, anyhow, here we are sailing high above it all, the wind occasionally lifting one of the wings, and then the other, like a sea-gull's. There is a haze, and it's not easy to see. You peer over the edge, and behold at last the desired wood.