Two Men - One Memorial

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To C.A. Alington.

The Berners Hotel - London.

May 5, 1916.

It is not for the boy's sake that I am glad the thing is out, but because I do quite honestly believe that the handful of people who will read 'V.b' will enjoy it: it seems like a quite definite opening of a new kind of art gallery and not that loathsome thing, an educational experiment. And if a few people like to wander through it for half an hour or so, then to the devil with the angling, and the glory, and the bait.

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To His Mother.

Royal Pavilion Hotel - Folkestone.

May 13, 1916.

You must imagine me sitting in a train, trying to look as if I were used to it and ready to leave you all and home and dear old England any or every day at a franc a time. And if you see the leave train go by, you would have seen many hundreds of men trying to do exactly the same thing, 'which is a thing no one ever succeeded in doing, and in all probability never will.'

Ah well, but we mustn't talk like this. Now, you know, there's nothing I nedd say. I tried to say what I felt when I first came out, and, thank God, I can just leave it at that still.

And the other bit of philosophy for us both is the matter of seeing the thing in short stages. This, of course, is much easier for me, for I can see the stages more clearly. But I have known what it means (like everybody out here, it's forced on me) to be absolutley free from any anxiety, on the strength of the prospect of a twenty-four hour's rest in third line trenches, coming out of others, in the salient: and if I'd 'Yae, but in twenty-four more I'll be there again', I'ld have been a fool and miserable.

All of which may sound very fine (it is tremendously true, anyway), but I'm here and you're not, may we? Never mind, all things come to an end, as the Psalmist said; even the War: and as you know, I believe it will be over about one and a half years before the pessimists expect it. And as I said before, I'm glad to be in it, and so are all of you; so we're all glad together!!

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To H.E.E. Howson.

Royal Pavilion Hotel - Folkestone.

May 13, 1916.

That (1) was very good indeed, though deplorably short. I hope to see the Man before very long, but in the ordinary course of events it will be a fortnight before I get to the billet. Already I've begun to look forward to that time; for the country will, if the weather behaves as it did when I left it, be lovely, and the Man should be within reach.

That is a very good place you are at, Man, and they are good men that live there.

(1) His visit to Shrewsbury on leave.

[marina]

This afternoon the Depute's house, not many yards up the street from where I am sitting, was heavily crumped and we were not there! Poetic justice, is it not?

Lucky indeed!

And if you see the leave train go by, you would have seen many hundreds of men trying to do exactly the same thing, 'which is a thing no one ever succeeded in doing, and in all probability never will.'

Touching thought, all being brave together.

Marina

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To M.G White.

Boulogne (returning from leave)

May 13, 1916.

Those men are good, and they live in a good place. I think they are happy, too, and you will be glad to hear that. Also, Man, one discovers that England is not as other countries are. And, in fact, it differs in so many small ways, that the real difference is not easy to seize. But perhaps I thought more than anything of the manner in which they arrange their fields there. And I thought so much of this olittle matter, as I travelled across them, that I think you might do worse than agree or otherwise with what I said to myself in the train: and it went somehow like this.

'Out there', I said 'the fields lie hedgeless, naked, inviting manoeuvre. And coming from the deep, interminable trenches of the south, I am not sure I ask anything better. Certainly I have had glorious days there; and yet, perhaps, never till I came back a few days ago did I know what it really was to worship the secluded valleys and the quiet fences of home. But I am at home now,' I continued, 'and my whole soul goes out to clustered counties, where beneath the mother-grey of a summer haze, shoulder to shoulder and safe from the remembered storm, the fields of England lie close.'

There are other differences also, but this will do to go on with. This is a very important matter, and I will thank you for further enlightenment on essential differences.

Meanwhile 'V.b' is out, though you werebad and my copy never came, and I had to be given one by C.A.A. 'King Alexander' (of 'leaves' rather) is a thing any poet might offer years of his life to have written. It is quite too amazing. The author of the good old 'L. House' (1) is apparently progressing, though he looked naturally weak.

Man, I don't want the War to stop one bit now; but you go to Shrewsbury and see if you can feel that there. Oh Man, that is a place..............

(1) A.A. Blakeway, the author of a poem in 'V.B', called 'The Lighthouse'. He was ill at this time, and Southwell had been to see him.

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To His Father.

B.E.F.

May 1916.

I see I've been promoted Temp. Capt. whilst commanding a Company: all I felt in England was a certain indignation at not being one; all I feel now is a pretty solid sense of dejection at being so appallingly unfit for the job.

Well, well, you may tell Mum she may call me Captain if she likes; but really I am not feeling particularly good about it.

[marina]

He really is a very modest man, isn't he?

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Certainly very modest as to his abilities, kind of endearing though.

Andy

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To C.A. Alington.

9th R.B.

May 26, 1916.

I have been hoping to get this letter sent ages ago, but, as you know, I waited till I could get in touch with Pitcairn Jones Company Commander, billeted a long way off; and just after doing so, I am back in the trenches again for one week in. Merewether (that is O.C. D Company - he save my life once) was not there when it all happened, but was able to tell me a good deal. Pitcairn Jones was asleep in his dug-out with another officer - it was in the morning - when a shell burst in the doorway, wounding them both; but the other officer only got rather peppered with a lot of little fragments, but poor Pitcairn Jones had the full force of the shell. He was very badly hit in the legs, and suffered, I am afraid, very much while they were getting him up and out of his dug-out and afterwards. Yet he seems, like all these wonderful people, to have been quite marvelous over it all. At least, I don't suppose it is so wonderful really, considering where he came from: but somehow I am apt to feel more and not less suprised as time goes on and proof upon proof comes along of what good Salopians really are; somehow one could understand the pioneers behaving so well; but again and again the same old magnificence shows itself, and the ball is kept rolling with just the same old speed - and all this just when one is beginning perhaps to realise what a terrible sorry kind of worm one is, and to feel the ropes are being worn a little thin all round, and that endurance herself is getting sick of war. _ But all this rigmarole proves nothing except one proposition in itself _ see four lines above.

I needn't say much how much I felt his going - it was the first news which the Quartermaster gave me on my return from leave; I gather he died about two or three days later in hospital, perhaps the very day I looked out of the train to see Shrewsbury getting nearer and thought how he would have liked to be with me. He was the only Salopian I have been with, and I had been greatly excited at meeting him.

Ah yes, these wonderful people.

[marina]

He has such reverence for the brave ones he knows; and all the time he's wondering if he will cope as well. I've come across this before - the biggest fear was so often the fear of not coming up to scratch.

Marina

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To H.E.E. Howson.

Coy. H.Q. -B.E.F.

May 30-31, 1916.

This is only a short passage on my signallers, who are great dears, though they regard me as a pencil thief of the deepest dye. (N.B. This is perfectly true.)

At the present moment they are in huge delight over 'Pip'; it seems one has been reading it ('Not Pip Emma (1) by any chance?' said one with a taste for the obvious), and he is giving them a graphic account of the love-match on the links at the end.

Certainly the present aspect of the War doesn't worry them much; they live through a door in my large H.Q., in a room 15 feet underground in terrible warmth and closeness, with an orderly or two, and the telephone to amuse them when things are dull.

It is very little that I overhear, as a matter of fact because I have too much to do; and also they are probably well aware they can be overheard, if they talk too loud; and thus it is that only fragments reach me.

'12 o'clock: all's well,' calls out one as I write. Yes. I hope it is. My communication trench is called 'Hope Street', by the way: surely the censor will not delete that comforting little fact.

(1) As 'P' and 'M' are known in the signalling force.

To be continued

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To return to the 'signals'; as we've been a bit quieter to-day - (stop that foolisheness; what is the good of machine gunning my pataoet 15 feet overhead? Doesn't he know I always keep awake at night, even when I am in?) - it is so far true to say that 'all's well': yet one never knows. (What is this talk about a 'Kimona', bellowed ont from next door? 'It's a lady's dressing-gown isn't it?' Answer and all the rest of the talk, inaudible.) Nothing much doing: one of my officers (Elliott) has just come off patrol duty in the front trenches - I shall be there myself at 1.0 - and while he is stretching his limbs and explaining about the M.G. in No Man's Land, I can still find time to write and to listen to the highly irregular (if we were in billets) humming of my H.Q. sentries overhead and outside and, in fact, to think of many things, Shrewsbury for instance.......... Oh Man, Man, shall I throw my pencil away and bury my poor bewildered head in my arms? It came all so suddenly, and I have had, between ourselves, a pretty bad week, and I thought of Shrewsbuary and nearly began to weep: never. I think, did I feel quite so much longing.

Ah well, it's all right really: we don't really do these melodramatic stunts you know; in fact, I don't often let myself think of them. Besides, please God, we're to be relieved tomorrow, and by the time we get to billets (they're within easy call of the Hun if they want to ring us up, but they don't shell them, hardly ever) - by that time, Man, it will be June. And so the Man shall have a blade of 'glancing grasses' in a half sheet of note paper, with my blessing. (Some people might say this point of view varied: I dare say my 'listening post' could do without the said grasses in the dew - though they didn't look very unhappy just now, I must say; After all, the Hun is a cad by day, but during these short nights he seldom strafes seriously - for good reasons - except when he's doing, or we're doing, a raid or something beastly, which it must be confessed happens pretty often, it would seem, though not here up to date.)

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3.0 a.m.

'Call no man happy,' or whatever it is. It seems almost to strangely ill-timed to be possible; but would you believe that, since writing above, we have had the heaviest bombardment I have yet experienced!

The trenches are messy this morning, and the wire is tired looking (I've just been messing about in it in the mist; only it lifted, unluckily), and there is work ahead before we het out to-night - perhaps more strafing; I don't know.

[marina]

He spoke too soon!

The signallers are surreal!

Marina

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To His Mother.

B.E.F.

June 5, 1916.

This time (1) everybody is again so kind and sympathetic that it becomes almost a joke. It will be one of the things that the bulletin from Sir D. Haig ought to report daily, so that everybody may know where we are. 'Cpt. S. took over the command of C Coy. 9-2-16.' 'Lt. Southwell handed over 10-2-16.' 'Capt. S. took over again to-day. 11-2-16.' 'Lt. Southwell handed over again 12-2-16.' 'Mr. Southwell retired to civilian life in disgust. 13-2-16'. Ans so on. But, as a matter of fact, it is not as bad as that, and it is perfectly true that my first thought was one of mixed regret and amusement.

(1) He wrote this on handing over his Company again to a senior officer.

[marina]

To His Mother.

B.E.F.

June 5, 1916.

' 'Lt. Southwell handed over 10-2-16.' 'Capt. S. took over again to-day. 11-2-16.' 'Lt. Southwell handed over again 12-2-16.' 'Mr. Southwell retired to civilian life in disgust. 13-2-16'.

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To His Sister.

B.E.F.

June 6, 1916.

I and Garton (my new Captain) rode over together to this village, which is a very pretty one indeed, some five miles right back, and peaceful to a degree. The object was that we should be shown some model trenches dug by the people undergoing training back there; and I must say they are pretty good. Merewether was very amusing over them. He imagined a glorious interview with the R.E. Instructor, wherein he should say, 'Yes, Sir; very nice trenches, very nice indeed. Now if I amy venture to ask, they would be dug by night, of course, as ours have to be in the line?' 'Well, not exactly,' the R.E. would say; 'in fact they would be dug by day, so that every one could see.' 'Under fire, Sir, of course?' 'Well I wouldn't say that.' 'Great difficulties, no doubt, through lack of engineering materials and skill?' 'Well, no; we arrange all that.' And so on and so on, but of course what really happened was that none of the catechisms were uttered and every one admired - in slience! And, as I say, they certainly were good, and contained several very valuable hints, which I hoped we managed to carry away with us.

And after it was over, we sent our horses away, and walked into the village and had tea, talking about Eton and Magdalen and old times generally.

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To His Father.

R sector - Coy. H.Q.

June 9, 1916. 1.30 a.m.

Before I go any farther, I'd better let loose at once the story of Captain of the -- th, whom we relieved an hour or two back. It professes to explain why the superstitious believe the War will end on June 17.

It began with an officer on a visit to Cox's. 'You're going to the Front, are you?' said the clerk; 'you'll return wounded in three weeks.' This came off, and the officers next visit was paid on going out again. 'You'll be wounded again in a month' was the prophecy; 'aslo the War will be over by June 17, but I shan't live to see it.' The officer was wounded, so runs the tale, and the clerk is dead.........Q.E.D.

Very nice and encouraging, and so we must wait and see. There seems to be no end of a lot of peace talk just now, but that may too probably be only their fun!

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To His Mother.

14th Divisional School of Instruction.

June 15, 1916.

These schools are excellent things; and I ought to do you good, I think, to know the Army is really using its brains far more than it used to do, in the instruction of its more ignorant members. I suppose I oughtn't to say too much about numbers of schools, even if I have beyond the vaguest guess how many there are. But it is at least fair to say that it is most improbable that in a few weeks (or say months at most) there will be any officers at all who haven't been sent away to some course or other out here, under people with the very latest tips from the Front.

If we can be trusted to reproduce in our men (and this is the hard part really, perhaps even harder for many people than for me; for with all my military stupidity, I think, if anyone succeeds in teaching me anything, I can make some sort of show at teaching others) - if, as I say, we can teach them half what they are all trying their hardest to teach us, we really shall be getting on.

[stiletto_33853]

To R.A. Knox.

14th Divisional School of Instruction - B.E.F.

June 18, 1916.

K. and Latin Prose.(1) Yes, it is very striking. Curiously enough, we had a terrific education arguement the very night before your letter came. It started between a certain Captain of R.E. (D.S.O. and all that, a terribly efficient man who teaches us what you wouldn'y believe a possible amount of facts about field works) and myself, following the discovery that the Colonel (one Swainson, D.S.O., of the Cornwalls) was an old Salopian. We all three got at it hard: the C.O. and I against the Captain and a Lieutenant of the Cyclists, late teacher in a London Polytechnic School. These were all for a turn-out of classics altogether, and it was very difficult going. Why is it that the only thing schoolmasters can't do is to defend themselves? At least I always feel terribly open to attack on these occasions. I rested most of my claim for the average boy (does he exist, by the way? The Times thought he did, for months, one year, I remember) on what old Bradley calls exactness of thought; and while not stressing the value of classics for the better people, I thought it best to urge Latin Prose as the most urgent thing. What these people always say is, 'Why not French and German in exactly the same way then? Then you have the exactness and also a modern language when you're done': to which the only answer I know is that the languages don't admit of it, and that's all about it. I am quite sure that is so.

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Of course the R.E. man (who is really, as I have said, terribly efficient) only said, in reply to your quotation from K., that he would have done well on any scheme, and it was no proof.

Oh, and he said that, before joining the Army and knowing as much as any man living about gabions (it's not everyone who can put up a better one than mine, by the way; but let that pass) and cubic feet and expanded metal hurdles, his one ambition was to be an artist. It is a strange world. He is very capable, very capable: he is indeed.

It is too miserable about Woodroffe.(2) It was owing to him, as much as any one, that I joined the R.B Every one of course says 'What a wonderful Family', and this is perfectly true: but his death was not wonderful at all; it was just the most miserable piece of bad luck for his Regiment, and that sort of nonsense is no consolation at all for his loss. It does remain true that those three great men made a name in the R.B. which is famous in every one of it's Battalions.

(1)This refers to Lord Kitchener's remark that Latin Prose had taught him more than anything else.

(2)Captain Leslie Woodroffe,M.C. Died of wounds on June 10. He was an Assitant Master at Shrewsbury from September 1909 to December 1914.

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To His Sister.

14th Div. S. of I. - B.E.F.

June 20, 1916.

At last the weather seems to have turned over a new leaf; for this evening, as I write, it is beautiful.

The country is pure Wiltshire. Fisherton almost stares at me from the little village on the hill opposite, over the valley, with the spire of the church standing out of the trees above the chalk: it is where 'a certain Big Man, lives (not a very, very, you understand; but a Big Man, all the same). And the weather's pure June: so that is all right.

[stiletto_33853]

To C.A. Alington.

14th Div School of Instruction - B.E.F.

June 20, 1916.

It is indeed sad news about L.W. He was of course, as you say, a man with a vast amount of friends - one meets them constantly and unexpectedly from Boulogne to - out here, in amny Battalions. He gave me very valuable help in several ways before and after joining, and (quite apart from the fact that he is undoubtedly one of a trio than which none are known better throughout the Regiment since the War) I have always felt under rather a special debt to him. Can you not imagine how gloriously placid he would be in a big bombardment? We were all distressed at the news here, in this very composite crowd (one officer per Battalion throughout the Division); and what his loss will be to the Regiment I cannot imagine. And to Shrewsbury no less, I fear. Somehow it seems always the best that are the first to go, even if only by a miserable stroke of luck such as this.

This short line is all I have time for now, as I mjust get on parade: but I thought I would jyust send a line of sympathy with you on losing one of the best men who ever put on a gown.

[marina]

Anyone know what a gabion is?

Loved the bit about the courses they keep being sent on - sounds a lot like tyh education depatment these days. There are times there is hardly a teecher to be found because theyre all away on courses which do not take accpunt of 'front lone' conditions.

He's right about the Latin too.

Marina

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To His Mother.

14th Div. s. of I. - B.E.F.

June 24, 1916.

The'village of the old ladies' back in February, where we arrived after a long journey, and got right into the most romantic and touching scene I have struck in the War (you remember 'Remember 70') would, I think, run this close. But I saw it in snow, and comparisons under these conditions are not easy. But here it is indeed lovely. I think the wood, or small copse, rather, within 1500 yards of which I sit, id the lovliest of its kind I know; you would love it, I know. A real picture from fairy land - like so many pictures in war time, do you know; many, I say advisedly (if only because the few are so unlike); and not only out of the trenches either, nor (necessarily) during the quietest of times. It all depends on one's state of mind, I suppose, at the time. Certainly my gllomiest moments have been in billets; which doesn't mean that during a strafe of any kind one always has a jolly time (because that is only silly!), but that, whatever it may be, it is not usually a tedious or depressing affair, but something less passive, as it were, in the way of feelings! This you can well believe.

No news. I am afraid this is a silly letter, all about myself.