Robert Ernest Vernede - Novelist/Poet

[stiletto_33853]

25th March, 1917.

I sent you a snippet last night to say we were out. We had rather an interesting time, and but for the extreme coolth it would have been a nice change.

The newspapers will probably have given you some idea of it, but as usual they are grossly exagerated and unduly optimistic, though no doubt things are moving forward considerably. We spent some days in a ruined room in a ruined village with snowdrops poking out of the shell-holes in the garden and saw cavalry on the go. Spurling and I also went for what looked like a country walk and got in a spinney rather larger than the one on the way to the Lordship, which the Boches then shelled for half an hour, while we dodged around and around trying to get out. Just as we did, I heard another coming, got under a bank and shouted to him to. He did so just as the shell burst on the road not five yards ahead of him. I never saw a shell so near, and never without doing some damage, but luckily it fell over his head and just in front of him, so that he was behind it, which is, I believe, the best position to be in. The one that hit me at Delville Wood was three times as far away.

It was one of the kind that you can hear go off perhaps six miles away, and then after a minute, just the faintest whirr before it bursts with a terrific crash.

The Germans seem to be behaving abominably; that is in keeping with their traditions apparantly, but it makes me feel that they won't realise the war till they have done their own houses deliberately blown up by a number of insulting fiends. Losing colonies or navies doesn't affect the individuals at all closely, and though they mayn't have the guilt of their government, I think they have to bear the punishment of the crimes they commit to order.

Now I must stop as I am taking the Coy. to get baths and hope to get one myself.

Andy

[stiletto_33853]

26th March, 1917.

I've just got a letter from you.

I don't think I should like ______ . But, of course, one has to remember that a good many people's nerves do go wrong in the war, and it won't be over for them even when peace is declared. That is one of the penalties of war, I suppose. You cannot go in and kill one another and then say suddenly - "We've had enough"; though, I dare say, for the majority the thing will be nothing but a dull memory.

27th. I didn't get this letter off by yesterday's post owing to a beasje early parade combined with too much smoke in the eyes. We are too utterly foolish about these things. The Boches have standardised a small stove with funnel to take the smoke away, and have it in every dug-out (one of their jokes is to leave a bomb in the mouth of the stove-pipe when they retire), whereas we, every time we go to a new camp, just hunt about for some expensive can, knock holes in it, burn wet wood in it, and sit with smoke in our eyes and the oily grease and soot spoiling everything in the place. The cost of the stove and pipe is probably less than the cost of every can we destroy. I think Chowser is right and Picardy has the worst climate in Europe. It has snowed and sludged and sleeted for the last ten days, in spite of which I seem to keep remarkably fit.

I'm afraid I'm an Epicurean thrown among Stoics. It's rather crushing (and, no doubt, a form of Nemesis) when my stomach turns at some horrible dish to find them all smacking their lips over it. I have to be fastdious all by my lone.

You know how they say Tommies always grouse, and dismiss it cheerfully as a peculiarity of the Tommy. Personally, I think they grouse very little at the inevitable things and are as cheerful and patient as possible. What they grouse at is the unnecessary discomforts, and so do I. They can see as plainly as anyone that to sit in the cold and wet with fuel all around you is absurd; to get a bath in two months when they might have one once a week, is somebody's mismanagement. And when they grouse, somebody ought to suffer instead of the matter being lightly dismissed as a humerous trait of the private soldier; or else, after the war, they will grouse in earnest at all the want of organisation for which they were not responsible, but somebody else was. Of course some things are well done, but a lot are not.

Post goes soon, and this is written in bed after breakfast. What Luxury.

Andy

[marina]

Sounds like the Tommies has plenty to grouse about if they saw the Germans were better organised in some respects. So did Robert...so did they all.

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

30th March, 1917.

I'm writing this in a tent in the middle of a sea of mud, near a small ruined French town, weather squally - snow or rain - but tent pretty dry. We sleep on very muddy scraps of board: with a Boche stove in the middle which keeps us pretty warm - a Feld Ofen. On the table is a madonna of painted plaster - rather good - looted by one of the servants from the ruins of the church, I suppose. We also have an arm chair with a broken spring - very comfortable, and a cane chair - both collected from cellars. Very safe position so far as one can judge, but not a good place for writing letters. My servant went off three days ago to munitions, and I have instead an elderly gentleman (probably 35) of charming manners, who used to cook for us.

I have just been offered a musketry course, and I think I have evaded it.Don't expect any letters at present.

Andy

[stiletto_33853]

31st March, 1917.

Nothing has been doing to-day except hailstorms, and I've sat all day in the tent, mostly putting wood on the Feld Ofen. It's too horribly miry to want a walk: also it's not worth getting wet when one hasn't a change of clothes. I believe we move on a bit to-morrow, and I'm afraid letters will be sparse and long on the way, so you mustn't expect much in that line. It's not bad here at all: my main objection is that it's still too cold to sleep properly. One wakes up frizzed at intervals. But I suppose every day is a step further from winter, even if it isn't a step nearer summer. I don't think the men get so much of the cold as they are squeezed into tents like peas in a pod, and so warm one another even when wet through. Whether that makes for health, however, is doubtful, I should think. I would give a great deal for leave, but there seems not the slightest chance of it.

I return the Frenchman's letter: he certainly writes very well. It's the lack of self-consciousness, I imagine. Send him my congratulations on his Croix de Guerre when you write. I don't know what the attack was, but evidently a good deal east of where we are they were.

1st April. Bustling off for billetts.

Andy

[stiletto_33853]

I forgot to add that the Chowser in the letter of the 26th is Mr. Maurice Wilkinson, F.R. Hist. S., a friend of Roberts from his Oxford days.

Andy

[marina]

I begin to get a hint of the erosive nature of the weather on a man's feelings. That's WEEKS of miserable discomfort he's been talking about. And no walk today because he hasn't got a change of clothes - these small details make it all so real.

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

Marina,

It does seem that way, such a shame that Robert's last few days were spent in such conditions. The way he has been harping on about the weather leads me to feel that he was not a happy man before he met his death, such a shame.

Andy

[marina]

I expect they were all pretty low - that grinding discomfort in the cold and wet must have been a nightmare. That period January to March is a low point at the best of times, I think - to be out in the open like that must have been ghastly. And I suppose the cumulative effect of the deaths and sudden dangers in between the boring times must have taken its toll too. It is to his credit that he didn't leap at one of the cushy jobs and get out of it all.

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

4th April, 1917.

Just another line to say very filthy. We are in another village - farm kitchen with ceiling but no roof, and a large brick fireplace on which we burn rafters and suchlike - the best fires I've seen in France. We sleep on boards slung halfway down the wall and the servants sleep underneath.

The country ahead comparitively unspoilt; but every village bashed in completely - not a cottage left in places three times the size of Standon. Quite heavy snow last night, but the billet is nice and warm, unlike most places we've been in. Went for a walk with B. yesterday to see our front. I've got your beautiful cake, and it's more than half eaten at the first go. It's very fine and good. Shortbread from Frdk. and a parcel from my mother arrived at the same time, which is unusual but most useful, as we get further from our base of supplies.

Haven't time to send more this time.

Andy

[marina]

Five days to go. This is awful...

Marina

[salesie]

I expect they were all pretty low - that grinding discomfort in the cold and wet must have been a  nightmare.  That period January to March is a low point at the best of times, I think - to be out in the open like that must have been ghastly.  And I suppose the cumulative effect of the deaths and sudden dangers in between the boring times must have taken its toll too.  It is to his credit that he didn't leap at one of the cushy jobs and get out of it all.

Marina

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

It's certain that he had the chance to take a cushy job, but his own words tell us that he'd considered the alternatives and why he was where he needed to be; a true Warrior Poet.

Cheers - salesie.

The Infantryman

I wish I 'ad entered the Navy-

It's damp when the decks are awash;

But the appy A.B., unlike you and me,

Ain't always knee-deep in the slosh.

I wish I 'ad signed as a birdman-

'Taint nice to fall outer the sky;

But 'e 'as got the fun of observing a 'Un

Before he gets nicked in the eye.

I wish I 'ad gone for the cavalry-

There's yourself and a 'orse to keep neat;

But it must save some trouble if your 'orse does the double

When you're launched on a ruddy retreat.

I wish I 'ad tried anti-aircraft-

It's 'ard to get off your armchair

When a Zeppelin blows by; but I'd 'ave a good try

To drill a thick 'ole in the air.

I wish I 'ad joined the Staff Collidge-

They work at the juice of a pace

Drorin maps - reg'lar rippers - fetchin' generals their slippers;

But you can use yer brains at the base.

I wish I'd applied for munitions-

You'd should see me do 'alf weekly spells;

No unions I'd worry by bein' in a hurry-

No-I'd get the V.C. making shells.

But I've been and entered the infantry,

And live like a eel in the slosh-

"Damn fool!" did you say, lad? Well, any ole way, lad,

It's we that gets quits with the Boche.

Robert Ernest Vernede.

[marina]

The Infantryman

<{POST_SNAPBACK}>

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

5th April, 1917.

It's quite a fine day and I believe we move up a bit. Edith's parcel has arrived, very good, please thank her very much for it; and the cheroots, also very good, as is the pipe and the sweets and the handkerchief which you sent with that particularly good cake, which vanished away within twenty-four hours, large as it was.

Didn't you ask if I had any conversation with the C.O.? Well, I haven't.

Every one seems to think him extremely competent. He strikes me as far more able than any one I have yet met.

I had a nice ride yesterday over country almost unshelled on the Coy. horse, which has been clipped and goes like the wind on turf - quite a different beast from what it is on the road.

We have been most comfortable in this billet, with a fire almost too hot to sit by.

Yes, I got "The Sergeant" but haven't heard it sung yet.

Andy

[stiletto_33853]

A musical setting of his poem The Sergeant ( transcribed earlier in this thread), by a stranger, Mr. F.G. Ladds, who, having read the poem in the newspaper, had written asking to be allowed to set it to music.

Andy

[marina]

He's more cheerful todayore cheerful today on his horse which goes like the wnd.

Bet he was pleased that the Sergeant was set to music.

Marina

[stiletto_33853]

Easter Sunday, 8th April, 1917.

I suppose you have been to the early service, haven't you? And it is a fine day as it is here, after a beastje one yesterday.

We are in most luxurious quarters - more or less at the front - a farm stables practically uninjured by the retiring Boches. It has not been clent for ages, but the "nures" (manures) are nice and soft, and I have just slept on a spring mattress gathered in from the adjoining barns. We also have tables and chairs dotted among the nure-heaps and a small artificial Christmas tree, evidently left by the Boches. Our last shelter was not so good, being the ruins of the Manse in another village. The snow and wind blew through it and the chimney beam caught fire and threatened to bring the chimney on top of us, so we had to go cold - which it was. There is no exaggeration about the state these villages are left in. The Boches cut out a brick or two at intervals in every house wall, insert explosives, and bring the whole thing down, so that often you can sit under the gables as they rest on the ground with the whole house and all the contents ground to dust below.

The advantage to us of this destruction is that everywhere now there is fuel - broken beams and laths and doors and chairs with which one can mostly keep big fires burning. The military advantage to them is less than nothing.

I am glad that America is at last coming in. I suppose there is no doubt now. If so, the Boches must feel themselves coming very close to the pit they digged for others, unless their submarines can work miracles.

Send your telephoniste my congratulations on his Croix de Guerre. He has what every soldier must desire - the recognition of his valour.

I think it will be summer soon, and perhaps the war will end this year and I shall see my Pretty One again.

Andy

[stiletto_33853]

I am afraid that this last letter was the last that Robert wrote to his wife.

Andy

[stiletto_33853]

official notification

[stiletto_33853]

At this point I thought it poignant to post a couple of Robert's poems.

To C.H.V.

What shall I bring to you, wife of mine,

When I come back from the war ?

A ribbon your dear brown hair to twine ?

A shawl from a Berlin store ?

Say, shall I choose you some Prussian hack

When the Uhlans we o'erwhelm ?

Shall I bring you a Potsdam goblet back

And the crest from a Prince's helm?

Little you'd care what I laid at your feet,

Ribbon or crest or shawl-

What if I bring you nothing, sweet,

Nor maybe come home at all ?

Ah, but you,ll know, Brave Heart, you'll know

Two things I'll have kept to send:

Mine honour for which you bade me go

And my love - my love to the end.

[stiletto_33853]

To Our Fallen

Ye sleepers, who will sing you ?

We can but give our tears -

Ye dead men, who shall bring you

Fame in the coming years ?

Brave souls.... but who remembers

The flame that fired your embers ?...

Deep, deep the sleep that holds you

Who one time had no peers.

Yet maybe Fame's but seeming

And praise you'd set aside,

Content to go on dreaming,

Yea, happy to have died

If of all things you prayed for -

All things your valour paid for -

One prayer is not forgotten,

One purchase not denied,

But God grants your dear England

A strength that shall not cease

Till she have won for all the Earth

from ruthless men release,

And made supreme upon her

Mercy and Truth and Honour -

Is this the thing you died for ?

Oh, Brothers, sleep in peace !

December 1914.

[stiletto_33853]

Robert and Caroline Vernede's home in England circa 1930

[stiletto_33853]

Brief account of the 12th Rifle Brigade's actions during this period. From the Rifle Brigade Chronicle 1920.

During March the Battalion was at Guillemont, whence two tours of trench duty were carried out. It moved on the 29th to Le Transloy.

1st April. - The Battalion moved to Bus, and on the 5th to Ypres where a tour of trench duty was performed, during which 2nd Lieutenant R.E. Vernede was mortally wounded. On the 13th it returned to Bus and on the 19th it went into the line again and took part in the advance between the 20th and 25th.

Andy

[marina]

Oh, dear - lump in the throat time. Funny - I knew the death date. And the last letter is dated the 8th - but it was still a kind of shock. The two poems are poignant - a good finish to a great read. You'd wonder how it was possible to LIKE Robert so much through his writing - I suppose that is a mark of his talent and his greatness of mind.

Is there an account of exactly what happened to him? And what happened to Caroline after? And the others mentioned in his letters?

I'd like to thank you very much, Andy, for the marathon typing task. It's been wonderful to read all this - Im sure there are many others who appreciate your hard work. You're a star!

Marina

[Ozzie]

I second Marina's comments. You have been very generous with your time posting all this. Thankyou.

Cheers

Kim