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Title: 'Trusty and well beloved'
        the little record of Arthur Oscar Hornung, Second lieutenant 3rd (attached 2nd) Essex Regiment

Author: E. W. Hornung

Release date: May 31, 2025 [eBook #76201]

Language: English

Original publication: Colchester: Spottiswoode and Co., Ltd, 1915

Credits: Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 'TRUSTY AND WELL BELOVED' ***





‘Trusty and Well Beloved’




                        ‘Trusty and Well Beloved’

                           The Little Record of
                           Arthur Oscar Hornung

                            Second Lieutenant
                            3rd (attached 2nd)
                              Essex Regiment

                              [Illustration]

                                 E. W. H.

                            Privately Printed
                                   1915




‘TRUSTY AND WELL BELOVED’




I


It was the Essex Regiment because Oscar happened to be reading history
in Essex when war broke out, and from that moment he just lived ‘to have
a plug at those blighters over the water.’ The nearest barracks called
him and he went no farther, finding his own way at once into the Third
Battalion. His Commission was one of the multitude dated August 15,
1914, but not gazetted for another month, and it was other seven before
Oscar ‘went with his enthusiasm to France.’[1] His last leave was on his
twentieth birthday, and a week later he wrote:[2]

    I am waiting to go off any night now—I am longing to go—it _is_
    a chance for us chaps, isn’t it? It is the one good thing the
    war has done—to give public-school fellows a chance—they are
    the one class who are enjoying themselves in this war.

At any rate Oscar enjoyed himself, from the very hour of his departure,
on an April morning as sunny as his smile, in charge of a draft as
delighted as himself. That night they embarked at Southampton, and the
Seine was a river of roses in the morning:

    The country on each side of the river is lovely—great woods and
    ravines with large old Louis XV châteaux perched high among
    them, and then at the foot of the hills pretty little villages,
    all looking so much _cleaner_ than our English ones! Then again
    in the villages there are all the inhabitants standing outside
    their doors waving handkerchiefs and even firing off guns to
    welcome us as we speed up-river at well over 20 knots.... One
    sporting kid in a village a little way back sang out ‘Are we
    downhearted?’ and of course she got back a roar from us ‘No!’
    ... I have never seen country looking so ripping as this—at
    _such_ a time of year too....

    I sailed into Southampton yesterday and got my chaps 50 packets
    of Peters’ chocolate to keep them going in case we run short
    of Rations—which we may very possibly do. It is glorious this
    rolling up the Seine to the cheers of the French on both
    banks and our own men (of all _kinds_ of Regiments) singing
    ‘Tipperary’ for all they are worth!

At Rouen he continued to enjoy himself, even when censoring letters
at a five-hour stretch. ‘It is rather fun doing this job up to the
500th letter—then Tommy’s hand-writing and “love messages” get a bit
wearisome!’ But all his life it took a great deal to weary Oscar, and at
Rouen he found a variety of compensations for the ten days he was kept
there with his draft. There were sprees and sight-seeings, now ‘in good
company,’ duly detailed, again on ‘a bit of a “Tourist Stunt,” all on my
only oh’; there was Bon Sécours, followed by ‘a whacking big tea at a
Patisserie in the town’; the Cloche Horlogue (‘the topping big clock half
way along the street of that name which leads to the Cathedral’—itself ‘a
topping one’); also ‘a splendid little Restaurant we have discovered,’
and a certain ‘great dinner’ which ‘started on oysters and finished on
Crème de Menthe,’ not to add ‘a priceless Music Hall—awful _rot_ but very
funny.’ As a last resort there was the Divisional Mess, with its Irish
doctor (‘entertains us a bit!’), its gramophone, its ‘priceless birds’
with single eye-glasses (‘so the whole place twinkles like stars, on a
moonlight night!’) and a friend old or new at every turn.

    I told you I had met Jack Power—well, on Thursday we visited
    the Cathedral together and climbed the steeple, from the
    top of which we got a splendid view of the city. Jack is
    mad keen on bells, so we had a good look at the old bell at
    the top of the Cathedral. Then yesterday we met again, and
    visited the Church of St. Ouen—have you ever seen it? It is a
    magnificient church—one of the finest churches which is not a
    Cathedral in the world, I should think. Jack Power used to
    be a ‘Church-crank’ I remember, so he is an excellent fellow
    for this kind of thing! He is only just fit, having been in
    hospital for weeks after coming back from the front unfit.

His great new friend was young Willoughby Rooke, like himself an only
son, his own age yet a veteran of Mons, severely wounded in the winter
and now on his way back to the trenches. Somebody had brought them
together as ‘mad fishermen’; but they found they had other enthusiasms
and some friends in common, to one of whom they wrote of each other,
besides themselves exchanging letters at the front. Through them their
respective people made friends in London; and long after the light of
each home had gone out, a film from Oscar’s camera, left behind at Rouen,
produced an excellent likeness of ‘Rookie,’ laughing, with the base camp
for background.[3]

In the meantime Rouen was ‘magnificient’ (as that hard-worked word
_would_ spell itself), but it was not exactly the war, and for all his
gaiety Oscar fretted for the front. ‘Still in Rouen, worse luck!’ would
come first, like the bad news he really deemed it for all concerned:
‘It is pretty sickening for you not knowing _when_ I am going up—but it
will be one of these days.’ ‘It is the absolute edge being kept here
like this!’ ‘All very well this slacking round here ... so long as the
_men_ aren’t sent up ahead of me I don’t mind so much—that would be too
sickening.’ The men—his men—are the child’s children all this time: ‘I
have 109 Essex under me—a fine crowd,’ says one letter; and another,
‘The Essex have the best reputation for good conduct here of the whole
division. They are a very good lot, this draft of mine’; and again,
‘My men are behaving admirably—and the Adjutant told (Capt:) Mullock
yesterday that the Essex gave less trouble than _any other_ Regiment—in
the whole DIVISION, mark you!!’ And for the last time: ‘I haven’t had a
single prisoner to bring before the Adjutant—and we have been here 10
days—a jolly good record—what? The Essex have wrought their Regimental
crest in broken glass on some sand at the end of their lines—it is a
beautiful piece of work—and they got leave to have it photographed
yesterday—I will send you a print if I can get one. This sort of thing
makes them take no end of pride in themselves.’ And the same night ‘an
order came down that every available officer and man should proceed to
the front,’ whereat Oscar exulted with a ‘Hoch! the Kaiser!! “Always
merry and bright!”’ and a final scribble as he entrained in charge of
his Brigade details: ‘This is glorious—my men are so cheery—talk about
the right spirit—they _have_ got it and no mistake!! Marched through
Rouen—2000 of us with bag-pipes playing. Love to you all. Oscar.’

The immediate sequel ‘just about put the asphyxiating lid on’; it was
also ‘the l-i-m-i-t,’ and everything else that Oscar could lay his pen
to; but some foul whiff had caught him by the throat and, within sound
of the firing-line, flung him straight into No. 3 General Hospital,
Le Tréport, with a temperature and ‘throat as thick as camp water and
rasping as a German bayonet.... If only it had been a nice little
“dum-dum” I should have felt on an equal footing with these other poor
chaps—instead of squatting there in the hospital train opposite them as
untouched as a new inner tube!’ It was all the more tantalising because
nobody knew better than Oscar that he was ‘missing no end of a scrap,’ as
he lay between unforeseen sheets, in the hands of ‘topping Sisters’ (God
bless them!) who gave him in spite of everything ‘a fine old time.’

    I have just been writing some Rhymes of mine into one of the
    Sisters’ books—in return for her lending me some Kipling books!
    I get on like a house on fire with these ‘sisters.’ The ‘night
    sister’ is my great pal. We have great talks when she comes
    round of nights.

It was Rouen over again, without the revels or the sights: nothing for
it but to make the best of several more days’ unwelcome grace. This
Oscar did by sleeping prodigiously while he could, reading and writing
to his heart’s content, and presently exploring the green peace of the
surrounding country. His love of Nature, always intense, was indeed
never more demonstrative than towards the end of this involuntary rest,
when they let him roam as he liked but would not pass him for the front.
The weather was ‘divine’; more than once he took in fresh stores of
sleep ‘under the blue sky and boiling sun’ (the last thing a normal
Oscar would have done by day); finally, he heard of some fishing at
‘a charming little village’ near by, procured cheap tackle and ‘had a
perfectly heavenly time there,’ though not without martial qualms as
to the propriety of the proceeding. Twice or thrice he went, catching
nothing for his sins, till at last ‘the angelic French people insisted
on my taking a trout, which they had caught themselves that morning,
and exhibiting it at the village inn as _my_ catch! They were awfully
tickled.’ He was not, however, the only sinner; at least one C.O. kept
him in countenance (‘the old boy quite keen—had sent to good old Hardy’s
especially for a new rod!!’). Yet ‘it doesn’t look well, and ‘it seems
all wrong,’ and we were not to ‘say anything of this to _other_ people.’

    This afternoon [his last] I and a Gordon Highlander took a taxi
    down to Criel—where I spent 3 hrs. (glorious) fishing—weather
    more heavenly than ever—no fish—but one of the most delightful
    afternoons I have ever spent. Oh! it was heavenly down there! I
    have got the address for future occasions!!

    We had a top-hole drink of cider—real home-made stuff—at the
    local inn by the river—then had a big tea on the way back....

    This week will be a very happy one to look back on in one way.

It still is—to us.




II


All the actual warfare he had seen as yet was a shower of shell (‘coming
in one after the other, like cocoa-nuts on Epsom Race Course’) in a
certain market-place at the end of April. Three weeks later he found the
same thing happening at the same place, and put it in his letter with the
same gusto:

    What Ho! They are starting their evening’s shelling of —— just
    behind us. Their 15-in. come with a noise just like an express
    train—and they start on us every evening this way about 7 P.M.,
    just by way of a little diversion after the day’s labours!
    ‘Boom /r-r-r-r-r-z-z-z-z-z/ _splosh!_’—there they go. And all
    this goes on whilst the birds sing, cows moo—pigs grunt—and
    all the other ‘beasties’ of a farm-yard perform—that is the
    striking feature of it all, to me anyway.

The battalion was in billets after a very strenuous time. ‘Nearly all
the old crowd of officers are away wounded or worse,’ as Oscar put it.
His captain, his platoon sergeant, and his servant had all been severely
wounded; a second-lieutenant of his own standing had succeeded to the
command of B Company, and Oscar realised what he had missed. ‘Oh! how I
wish I had been in that scrap!’ he wrote, but added: ‘Tomorrow I shall
have my “blooding—”’ and at the thought: ‘I’m as happy as a lark and a
humming-bird rolled in one.’

       *       *       *       *       *

Nearly all the rest is in the following letters and bits of letters, most
of them written in the trenches under fire, those to us being numbered in
the order of their arrival from the time he left.


(23)

                                            The Trenches, 2/Essex Reg.
                                            1.30 P.M. May 23, ’15. Sunday.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Well—here we are in the trenches—half-made and
generally in a rotten condition. The Regiment that was here before us
seems to have done nothing at all, except leave a mess of jam-pots etc.

We marched up here last night during a violent thunderstorm—I’ve never
experienced one like it—pouring rain and fork-lightning which lit up the
whole front. My word, but I’ve been ’ blooded’ alright! There was a lot
of confusion in the trenches which resulted in the Germans waking us up
a bit. We—that is me and my Platoon—are at present in the 2ᵈ line of
trenches supporting another Coy in the 1st line. The distance between
us is about 250-300 yards—and then another 400 to the German line.
During the night one could walk about in comparative safety outside the
trenches—but it was exciting work—as I had to supply the Coy: in front
with barb-wire and sandbags—1300 sand-bags—under a cross-fire from those
wretched snipers whom they employ so much. There is an old ‘Estaminet’
up in front (200 yards off), to which we have to get up these things.
There we leave them to be called for by the others. The Germans have a
nasty trick of sending up coloured lights—very brilliant—which reveal our
whole position. When we got up there! at 1 A.M. this morning—I and 6 or
7 men—they got a bead on us, and as they have a perfect range drawn on
the Estaminet things were lively. I may now be more cheerful and say we
have had no one touched as yet—but these men are magnificient—they don’t
care a —— for shells or anything—they scuttled about like rabbits all
night—digging bomb-proof shelters etc. But those infernal lights gave
the whole position away more than once. Of course, sleep is out of the
question in this sort of game—but I feel as fit as anything—though I have
never had such a trying ½ hr in my life as just before lunch-time when
some asses on the left of the platoon showed themselves and one of their
guns got at us—My aunt! but I was in a funk! How they never actually hit
us I can’t imagine. Shrapnel in front and behind—but no one was hit. The
worst of these shells is that you hear the beastly things coming directly
after they leave the gun—_whistling_ like a train (Our own are doing so
at this moment over our heads)—so the betting is then—where is it going
to land! I am absolutely cut off from the other Companies as there is
no telephone here—so have to work entirely on my own—and have a look
round directly it becomes dark.——and the other two platoons seem to have
vanished off the face of the earth—I suppose they are somewhere. I hope
so.[4]

Yesterday we marched off at 9.30 A.M. and went to Divisional H.Q’s where
we remained until it was time to move off in here at dark. Div: H.Q’s are
situated in a glorious old château (which has escaped injury altogether)
in a park which looks perfect in this month and in this weather.

6 P.M. now—they are shelling Ypres right over our heads—we call these
15-in. shells the ‘Wipers expresses’—‘Here comes the 6 P.M. express’ with
a hum like an engine exactly.

There is a farm house—quite demolished—just at the end of my trench and
one has to run the gauntlet to get there across the road and get bricks,
wood etc: for the trench. You may say ‘where am I sitting writing this?’
Well, I am in an improvised ‘dug out’ 6 ft. long by 2 ft. broad—covered
over with corrugated-iron. Very muddy and all that—but still a shelter.

All night I am working at digging the trenches and ‘dug outs’—seeing to
the barbed-wire in front of us—and getting provisions from the H.Q’s
behind our line. In fact we get everything ready at night—either for an
attack in the morning or protection from shell and rifle fire during the
day. We get more shelled in the 2nd line than the 1st—so that we should
not send help up to the 1st line.

Of course, in case the 1st line of trenches are stormed or ‘gassed,’ I
act entirely on my own in sending up assistance to them. There is no
evidence of their having a heavy time in front at present though. We have
an infernal sniper who has got behind our lines and is firing down the
trench from one end—we shall have to fix him somehow, I’m thinking.

It is a perfectly heavenly evening—birds singing and country looking
pretty in spite of the ruins with which it is dotted. The whole thing
seems more absurd and unreal than ever to me now that I am in the thick
of it. To think that this terrific din is going on incessantly down 400
miles of line is extraordinary.

My word—my dear Mummy—you should see me _now_—my coat and breeches!!
After splashing about on all fours round the country-side last night I am
some sight! The left knee of my bags is ripped across and I am _coated_
with clay. Once we get these trenches fixed up—with dug-outs etc: the
shelling won’t be so bad and we shall be a good deal more comfortable.

Well, my dears, I am longing for a letter—but am as happy as a
lark—because I know that although this is hard to stick at first—there
are millions of others sticking it too—and I can only liken it to
‘putting your left leg to the ball’ at cricket, as W. H. C. used to say.

Write as much as possible—Love to all.

                         Ever yr own loving son,

                                                                    OSCAR.

(This will go up tonight by transport—and I hope reach you soon.)


(24)

                                                       2 P.M. May 25, ’15.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Just got your letter—and cannot tell you how
pleased I was to get it. Things have been pretty fast and furious since
I wrote night before last. Yesterday morning, having been working all
night I was just trying to get some sleep in a new dug-out which I had
had built, when there was a shout of ‘The Gas, Sir!’ Out I bounced and
was immediately aware of this Chlorine ‘muckins’ coming up the hill.
It was just getting dawn and so I knew, as we all knew, that there was
going to be an attack—and my aunt—it _was_ an attack. For 2 hrs solid
the Germans rained every calibre of shell on us in our Reserve Trenches
whilst we were also struggling with the Gas. I don’t know what happened
to the Platoon during that time—except that several swines—my servant
for one—took panic and ran. Personally I knelt down behind a parapet and
prayed. However, the Gas wasn’t a success for the Germans for it soon
blew off. They reckoned, of course, that whilst they attacked the first
line trenches where A, C, D Companies were, they could make things so
hot for us in Reserve (200 yards back) that we couldn’t send help along.
However, about 4.15 A.M. I managed to collect the remnants of my Platoon
and make a bid for the first line trenches—not by charging across the
intervening ground which would have wiped us out—but by crawling along
a very muddy communication trench which connected the French line with
us. This we succeeded in doing without a casualty—and we then joined D
Company in the 1st line trenches. From that time onwards a very fierce
artillery battle raged until the evening—and the Germans made repeated
attacks from 400 yards off—each time being knocked back into their
trenches like a rabbit down a hole. Then, last night, when we heard
that the Germans had taken 2 trenches on our left and when we expected
we should make a counter-attack—orders came that we should retire right
back to the very incomplete trenches in which we are now. We marched
back here, then, during the night—dug ourselves in—and are now awaiting
developments under a perfectly tropical sun and sky—_too_ hot almost. It
_was_ sickening having to retire like that—for we had done magnificiently
all day—A & C Companies having been almost wiped out by the German shell
fire. They are absolute fiends at that.

Anyhow—here we are always merry and bright in our new position, none
of us having had any sleep for 3½ days! I never could have believed
that our men could stick things like they have these 3 days—they are
magnificient—no other word for them. Those fellows who deserted yesterday
will probably be shot. I would have shot them myself, and been perfectly
justified, if I hadn’t been doubled up with the Gas.

If we have to reinforce the first line, if it gets hit badly again, the
Essex will pull things together—not ’alf!

For other light on what is happening here you must read the papers, if
they have anything authentic. We are just a little to the left of where
I told you in one of my letters before from hospital. We heard of Italy
declaring war last night. Good work! I am sorry about Raffles—but it is
getting on now, isn’t it?—near the end of May!

I am so glad you liked Rooke’s mamma. I am afraid I don’t know about
Carolyn—I think he has got people in town—but I will let you know if I
find out when things are quieter here! At the moment of writing there
are shells whizzing all over the place—‘Little Willies’ we call their
shrapnel shells!

I haven’t seen any papers for days—but we shall have a rest some
time—when this thing is over.

Ever so much love—I am as fit as anything—in spite of their gases.

                           Ever yr loving son,

                                                                    OSCAR.

I will write _whenever_ possible. I very nearly lost all my kit last
night—so you must expect ‘gaps’ sometimes. But a 2 day Gap at the most—I
promise you.

You should see the mess I’m in after these 4 days!!


(24A)

                                                       May 26, ’15. 6 P.M.

A quiet day to-day after our adventurous times lately—weather still
lovely—quite tropical heat in fact. The trench we are in now is in a
rotten state—no dug-outs or anything—however the Essex are always given
the ‘dirty work’ so to speak, and we have already been complimented on
our fighting by the General Staff.

I have been having a good look at the German trenches through Uncle
Charlie’s glasses to-day—They are digging themselves in like fiends—and
have dressed themselves in khaki!

We have just this moment been firing on a German aeroplane which flew
over our lines, but with no result.

I haven’t had my boots etc: off since we came up—and don’t expect I shall
until we return to billets!


(25)

                                                       May 27, ’15. 6 P.M.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Thanks for your ripping letter again last
night. We get the letters here by the ration carts which come up at
night-time, so the actual post comes in at about midnight. I read yours
this morning at 2 A.M. when we were ‘standing to’ in the grey light of
dawn waiting a possible German attack, which is in all cases preceded
by Gas here. You are splendid about everything—getting a Respirator and
all that—of course we are all dealt out special ones here, which, if
properly adapted, the Gas has absolutely no effect on. To-day has again
been quite calm—just the usual exchange of artillery-fire and rifle-fire.
This is the programme of the day at present here: Work all night at
strengthening the position (sand-bags etc:)—barb-wire—and getting in
provisions, water—etc. under cover of darkness. Day-time, 2 A.M. (dawn
about) we stand to arms for ½ hr whilst the listening posts (consisting
of 3 men and a N.C.O.) are brought in. These last are simply what they
imply—i.e. men who lie down and keep their ears and eyes open for any
movement on our front—posted well out in front of our trenches. If an
attack is to be made it is almost certain to come off then—like the other
day. From then till dark (about 8.30 P.M.) we lie very low and _sleep_ as
much as possible. This last is not always very easy—and depends entirely
on (1) the condition of the trench, (2) the activity of the German
artillery—! I have slept about 6 hrs since we came in, I should think.
You can imagine that one gets very fat, sleepy and dirty under these
conditions. Meals? Well—‘rations’ consist of bully-beef (which will go at
a German’s head before I eat it)—cheese—jam—and bacon—tea and sugar. The
last three ingredients (good word!) I find most suitable.—‘Am I _late_
for meals?’ Well—there is no fixed time—and one simply seizes a bite
when one can. The men make small fires in the corners of the trenches
and are very good at doing my bacon and tea (without milk!) for me, when
things are quiet. These trenches are, you must understand, still in the
most elementary condition—and by the time we have made them comfortable
we shall probably be leaving for somewhere else in the line. They always
seem to give the Essex the dirty work to do—and _that_ is because they
do it so well. I want you to have an idea of things—now the country is
flat—you know that—and we face slightly up hill—with the German trenches
about 550 yards away. Between the two positions are several farmhouses—in
ruins—which provide cover for German snipers sometimes. These are shelled
continuously—as they are used by both sides for distinguishing marks
to get a range off. The rest is green country—hedges and everything as
it might be found on the Sussex downs. Even _cows_ are wandering about
just behind the trench here—and we are wondering how to get rid of them!
Of course you mustn’t imagine a straight line—the firing lines of both
forces curve all over the place—so that at some points it is very hard
to distinguish between them. There is a small stream running between
the lines, from which we get some of our water, and in the evening
sometimes for 2 or 3 minutes the guns will stop and it will be quiet and
country-like except for the ominous ruins dotting the landscape and the
flames of —— in the background—where some place has caught alight.

There is very little actually to do in the trenches, except sit tight and
see that the men do so also. I can’t be bothered to _wash_ or anything
like that—though I _did_ have a shave the other day for a wonder! You
should see my puttees! and my ‘bags’ are torn to ribbons round the
knee——I have _just_ heard a typical type of Tommy ‘wit’ remark ‘Fritz is
quiet!’ I have Tommy all round and behind me here—lying in all attitudes
in a trench that is not more than 2 ft. wide anywhere! Again—this very
moment at a bullet whizzing over I hear ‘Ah! Fritz!!’ Men with such
spirit in them as this will go through H—— and come out the other side
_com_fortably! This game of lying low, doubled up in an open trench
reminds me so much of Kipling’s

    ‘Long afternoons of lyin’ still
    and ’earin’, as you lay,
    the bullets swish from ’ill to ’ill
    like Scythes among the ’ay.’

—out of ‘Piet’—I think....

Daddy—your letters are absolute life to me out here. I want to say this,
as I want you and Mummy to understand what it feels like to get a letter
like I did this morning—or rather last night—just when another day was
coming on—it is like whisky to a Scotsman—much more, because it lasts!!
I am going to write _every_ day if I possibly can—just a break here and
there you must expect. I am writing no other letters at present, and
have only had two from anyone else but you—but I really don’t require
anything but yours—just a line from either of you. I am feeling as fit
as anything—teeth and everything splendid. I’m coated with dirt, but
what does that matter? You can look like a scarecrow here for all anyone
cares! Things are very quiet this evening—and I think something big must
be going on further down the line. You _did_ get that letter which I sent
from hospital with the [_Daily Mail_] _map_ in it—didn’t you? Because
that shows you exactly where I am without my saying anything here. The
papers should tell you the rest.

Well—toodle-oo—do write, won’t you—it is just like as if one was at
Eton—letters etc:! Remember ‘always merry and bright!’

Much love to you both—and G.M.[5]

                         Ever yr own loving son,

                                                                    OSCAR.


(26)

                                                     May 28th, ’15. 5 P.M.

... Another quiet day to-day, and tonight we go into reserve
trenches—which is very tame—and from there probably to billets for rest
after about 4 days—so have no anxiety about me, my dears, for another 8
days at least.... Well—we both spent our Whit Monday as circumstances
permitted, didn’t we? I had the most thrilling day of my life, anyhow,
and the moonlight night wasn’t quite like Oxshott Woods!... I am hearing
priceless things whilst I write: such as these: ‘All change here for
Liverpool Street’ as the guards are being relieved: and ‘You want a
shave, Bill—_out_side and you’ll get a —— close one!’

... This is a wretchedly written epistle, but you must remember that I
am sitting in a very cramped position in my temporary dug-out—consisting
of a niche in the trench, 6 ft. long by 2 ft. wide! I believe I told
you this before, but there is nothing like rubbing it in! I got quite a
sleep last night, turning in here about 12.30 A.M. and sleeping till 4
A.M.—best I’ve had so far.

The routine is always—for both sides—work by night—sniping and sleep by
day. Now there is just desultory rifle-fire going on—perfectly safe as
long as you keep down. We have had no more casualties since Monday’s
affray.

... My platoon sergeant is a fine chap ... a sound fellow. Unshaven for 1
week he looks just like an old pirate with one of those ‘Swiss Caps’ on
his head.


(27)

                                                     May 30th, ’15. 7 P.M.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Got _both_ papers last night and your ripping
letter when I returned from a tedious digging expedition just in front
of the enemy lines—most welcome they were! Now I hope all letters and
parcels will behave themselves, though I must admit none of the parcels
have arrived as yet. I hope for a different discovery when we return to
‘billets’ however, which will probably be tomorrow or next day. I am
out of the trenches now and on the bonny banks of a Canal 2 miles back
from the firing-line—In _Reserve_, in fact. We left the trenches Friday
night—had a quiet day here yesterday, in which I was able to get a shave
and wash—and last night I had to go with the aforementioned digging-party
right in front of our lines, and fill up some trenches which _a_ regiment
evacuated the other day in face of the Germans. This was to prevent them
getting them for their own use. It is weird work—standing out there
between the two firing-lines in the semi-darkness—with _flares_ (which
the Germans send up continuously all night) showing one up plainly, as
they show everything else up in the vicinity. They use fire-works for
these, of course. There was a big attack going on made by the French on
our left, so all was quiet in our actual area, though you never know
when the enemy aren’t going to hear the sound of the shovels and open
fire. Then the moon shining over all makes the gutted, stark farm-houses
scattered over the fields stand out grotesquely—for all the world as if
you were standing at the Coliseum end of the Forum in Rome and looking
into it. You know the lines in which ‘Plains which the moonlight turns to
sea’ comes? I can’t find a better line to describe the appearance of this
perfectly level battlefield stretching for miles on either side—and the
dig-dig-dig—with an occasional whistle which has to be smothered. What a
chance for a budding Kipling!

It was great work getting those papers last night—_so_ quickly—That is a
top-hole wheeze in Punch—there is also a good parody (is that the right
word?) on H. Belloc.

Thanks so much for the Fishing cutting—the Canal here seems full of some
kind of fish, though _I_ have not tried my hand at them. Excellent work
re Khaki Breeches. I am in need of a 2nd pair badly now—Thoughtful
Mummy! I have discovered a weird ‘bloke’ for a servant—His name is
Crump—surely you can work a wheeze with that kick-off?? He has a
wonderful knack of getting things to eat—he has bought eggs, butter, and
milk from the town here (you should be able to guess what town) and is
altogether a useful one, I’m thinking!

I have a priceless ‘booby’ to live in here. You have to crawl in on your
‘innards’ but when you get there it is _very_ cosy with straw to lie
on. All the men have boobies to live in too—funny little holes in the
ground—all round my _big_ hole—for all the world like a rabbit-warren!

Our C.O.—Jones—has been promoted Major—he is a jolly good soldier too.

It is another heavenly evening, and with the ruins of —— against the
sky—what a picture—by heavens!—what wonderful sights there are to see
here if one keeps one’s eyes open—sights which _can’t_ have ever been
much surpassed in any war before. There! they are shelling the town
now—great 12 in: shells in the middle of it—and then at night a dull glow
will gradually appear in the sky, which will redden and spread as more
shells are poured in. Mind you I am in the outskirts of this place myself
at this moment—so I am writing with the very thing before me.

Of course, people will come in their thousands to see these historic
places in a year or more’s time—but what a sight to see _before_ the
common crowd can!! No one in the world but one or two w: correspondents
and a few Regiments like my own can see this and other wonderful sights
up here. For instance—the very fields in front of the trenches we have
been occupying have been the scene of the most famous engagements of the
war so far as we are concerned—how much more I could ‘gas’—but won’t,
because I shall be letting some cats out! I have _got_ the best part of
a 6 in: German shell which exploded just outside my ‘booby’ last night
whilst I was away—my servant had a near escape. It is beastly heavy, but
I will hang onto it somehow. I am not allowed to send it home to you
unfortunately.

Well—I love your letters—write away when you have time—everything merry
and bright as ever.

Love to G.M.

                        Ever your own loving son,

                                                                    OSCAR.

_N.B._

When are you off to Masongill—I want to know.


_To Hugh de Havilland, his Eton Tutor._

_N.B._ Couldn’t you somehow concoct a new ‘stink’ for us to apply v: the
Germans here? You have the laboratories of Eton to work in and it might
send us through to the Rhine! Why not all the Science masters put their
heads together and make a real good-un—a corker!

I can introduce the new invention to the Brigadier and be promoted on the
spot!

                                                                  A. O. H.


(30)

                                                    June 2, ’15. 6.15 P.M.

Here we are again in billets and at the same farm-house as we were at
before. This is very convenient, as we know our way about the place—the
same squalling kids, etc.!...

Another heavenly day of sunshine—the country here looks more ripping
than ever—and it is a glorious slack here after our ten days in the
trenches....

It seems queer to be back here again—in the comparative quiet of the
country. We came here by a night-march last night—arriving 2 A.M. this
morning. I slept in my barn again—topping to get out of one’s clothes for
a change—I shall have a bath tomorrow!


(33)

                                             June 5, ’15. Saturday, 5 P.M.

We go up to the trenches again tomorrow (Sunday) stopping for the
afternoon on the way at the good old château—much like the one Uncle
Innes is billeted at I fancy.

Well, the inspection went off alright today—It was the General commanding
the 2nd Army Corps (which we are in) who inspected us—and he came up
to me and shook me by the hand and congratulated me on having the best
platoon in the Company—Thereupon a man in the front rank fell almost into
his arms—fainting—and had to be assisted off. The General, however, was
a sportsman and took no heed of the occurrence—I was furious, but it was
distinctly funny otherwise. As for the hand-shake—I certainly shan’t wash
my right fist till I come out from the trenches again after that!

Before leaving the old man (extraordinarily young for his post really)
said a few kind words to the officers and left us all feeling we could
take on old man Kluck himself!


(35)

                                                              June 8, ’15.

... Funny kind of day today—as quiet as the grave—hardly a shot
fired this afternoon—our friend Fritz is never so crafty as when he
is quiet—always up to some dirty game or other—so we expect some
jollification soon!

There was a thunderstorm this afternoon which cleared the air a bit—it
has been devilish hot—‘where the ’eat would make your bloomin’ eyebrows
crawl’ our friend has it! The flies are awful now—suddenly come on—send
me some of that ‘Anti-Midge’ stuff which _Hardy’s_ sell—My face is like
St. Andrew’s golf course now—and _lots_ of bunkers at that!...

... Had a royal lunch today—potted meat and bread and butter—coffee (j:
good) and cream—and tinned peaches and cream! I wish we had some more of
the latter—just the thing in this crawling heat. We had my ‘Barrack Room
Ballads’ out this afternoon and Monypenny pored over them awhile.

My servant Crump is an extraordinary fellow—I am told he was educated at
Charterhouse and enlisted at the beginning of the war!


(36)

                                                      June 9, ’15. 10 P.M.

MY DEAREST MUMMY AND DADDY,—No post last night so I daresay I shall get
something tonight.

Another quiet day today—rained a bit this evening. Crump got me some
fresh eggs and milk from a neighbouring farm behind the Canal—priceless
servant, what? The _flies_ are awful during the day here now—‘Muscatol’
quickly please! Tomorrow night we go into the front line trenches which
are barely 70 yards from our friends—There are _no_ trenches to speak of
and we are fired on from every quarter of the globe—but _that_ is why
they are sending the _Essex_ there—remember! Tonight we are working away
at the trench just in front of us—the men are working splendidly—and the
whole place is swimming with _mud_ and water already!

... Monypenny and I and de la Mare lay and basked all day in our shirts
drinking hot tea and cursing at the flies. This evening I had my Section
Commanders up (remember—4 Sections—about 10 men—to a Platoon) and
told them a few things. It is by cursing the N.C.O’s that one gets
any efficiency out of the men—It is just like H. de H.’s at Eton over
again—House didn’t swing together if the younger members of ‘Debate’
didn’t control their juniors—who _were friends of theirs_.—So the young
N.C.O. finds it hard to drop on the men from whom he has just been raised
in rank—and ‘the backbone of the Army is the non-commissioned man.’ R. K.

Thanks to my worthy Sergeant Clarke—in charge of Platoon—my men are
learning discipline and how to keep their heads—by _degrees_—but
it is very hard work, as they are really all _very young_ and
inexperienced—straight from the home, so to speak—I am not _quite_ sure
how they would do if it was a case of ‘no one cares to face ’em but
every beggar must’—(R. K.)—however, as I told my Corporals tonight, we
shall see their worth sooner or later. Peake was wounded last night—only
slightly in the arm—will be back soon, in fact. I have got some glorious
G: shells here—but don’t know how I could ever get them on to the
mantelshelf in the Study!! Some more of that _café au lait_, please, and
condensed milk and _Menier_ Chocolate—keep you busy!

Well—I must go out again and have a look round—we shall have a great
time in this trench out in front—it is in a _swamp_ and there are fifty
Canadians in the Parapet!

Toodle-oo!

Much love to you both and everyone else at No. 7.

I so love your letters—both of you.

‘Bon Soir!’

                             Your loving son,

                                                                    OSCAR.


(37)

                                                          June 10th, 1915.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—No letter last night, but I expect something
tonight—perhaps the bed! Today has been again uneventful and we go into
the new trenches at 9.30 tonight. It is one mass of mud here now but will
soon dry up with the sun. We shall be six days in the new trenches, and
then probably straight back to billets. What was my surprise today but to
see Monypenny suddenly open a ½ bottle of champagne! He had been given it
down at Battalion Headquarters—a present from the C.O.!

Programme today has been 2 A.M.—flop into dug-out dog-tired and very
sick at getting no letters by our midnight mail (?)—2 A.M.-3 A.M. ‘stand
to arms’—i.e. all respirators ready for instant use and rifles clean
etc. whilst a mist slowly lifts from the dewy ground in front and the
enemies’ trenches become gradually visible.—Directly they are well in
sight the men are allowed to lie down and sleep—all except the sentries.
9.30 A.M. awoke in frowsy, damp booby and had some breakfast made by the
redoutable Crump. 10 A.M. had a look round the platoon: saw rifles were
clean etc: 10 A.M. onwards slept—or rather tried to, flies awful! Later
in the morning Monypenny showed us where we were going tonight and what
we should have to do there—then nothing more till tonight—just drowse and
curse at the wet and the flies and read ‘Michael Strogoff’—also listen to
the Germans shelling buildings on our right and left and wondering for
how long he is going to leave us alone!

Well—must stop now. I do hope these letters are reaching you—and not all
in _one_ batch! I still want something—and that is a _revolver holster_
to fit that Smith Wesson revolver we bought together!

Much love to you all—You will now have an idea of what I am up to during
the day—at night we simply _work_ at sandbags and barbed-wire etc: so as
to protect ourselves by day.

A rotten letter!

                        Ever your own loving son,

                                                                    OSCAR.


(39)

                                       Saturday, June 12th, ’15. 6.45 P.M.

... We have really ‘upholstered’ this ‘booby’ of ours very smartly—We
have a table and 2 chairs (ammunition boxes) and have adorned the walls
with pictures (of actresses) out of a Magazine and the photo of a
Frenchman’s ma taken out of a rubbish-heap behind! The whole concern is
only about 8 feet by 6 in dimension and de la Mare—myself—and my most
worthy Crump live in it.... We sent Crump off on an expedition for _food_
the other day and he was clever enough to buy us 18 eggs, 2 bottles Vin
Ordinaire, 2 lbs butter, 3 loaves bread, and a bottle of milk—and bring
all these up through miles of communication trench without breaking an
h’egg! Imagine him slushing through mud holding the bundle of eggs before
him!...

This is really very cosy—and if undisturbed by our friends 150 yards
off will continue to be so. We’re going to ask for leave, ‘Moneybags’
and self—to bomb these blighters out of a small trench which they have
jutting from their line—in other words a ‘salient’ in their line. This
will be more to our liking than sitting being shelled, I’m thinking!
After this rain—it will be a ‘sticky wicket,’ but a slow overhand bowler
with a hand-grenade should beat the Teuton Batsman—at any rate the
_fielding_ will be good—although I shouldn’t like to be silly-point!;
that’s my silly point!


(40)

                                                                  June 14.

For those who can look at this sort of warfare in the right way there are
enormous advantages—I feel as if I had lived a century!


(41)

                                                   June 14th, 1915. 1 P.M.

MY DEAREST M. & DADDY,—Got the Chronicle, letter and ‘Land and Water’
this morning—also all those letters which went wrong when I was in
hospital! I had a ripping letter from Auntie also and a note from
Daisy—also the fruit etc: from G.M. so I didn’t do badly. Amongst the
lost letters was one from Shane and his wife; several from you both, and
a note from Rooke. Shane seemed pretty cheery—he wrote from Salisbury.
Have you seen anything of him lately? Well—you all seem to be reading my
muckins—the whole contingent at No: 7—the ‘droppers in’ and car-riders
etc: so I will extend my descriptive efforts a bit, for as far as I can
see the papers talk a lot of rot and give people a very poor idea of the
general doings, round _here_ at any rate. Some day I am going to try
my hand at a few short stories (shut up laughing!) on the Sniper, the
‘Jack Johnson’ and several other objects of interest—when I have the
energy—which is not often. The programme is eat, sleep, and work, and
there is not much energy left for writing, though any amount of time
_and_ scope. For instance, I simply can’t be bothered to write in Pen and
ink—this is a very untidy output!

Enough of this: now let me give you an idea of what the French trenches
which we are occupying are like.

First there is a barricade of earth thrown up—about 10 ft. wide by 3
high—the cavity left being the actual trench. Between this mound of earth
and the trench is a wall of sand-bags—three to four thick by 10 high.
This gives a man 6 ft. of standing room with a stepping stone on which to
stand for firing purposes. Behind and jutting out from this parapet are
erected what we know as ‘traverses,’ or thick walls of sandbags 15 ft.
long by 12 ft. wide (about) to protect the flanks of the trench; thus:

[Illustration]

Behind all are communication trenches, the purpose of which lies in the
name and does for ‘dug outs’ etc:

This is the outline of any trench, German, French or English, so there
is no harm in showing you. Now _these_ trenches are all broken down and
in a filthy mess, and we are building them up as quick as we can. The
French seem to have had no idea of trench-work. My platoon occupies about
25 yards of trench, but it is very small—only 32 all told. Night and day
we work—only allowing a certain portion to be at work at one time, and
having another certain portion told off for sentry duty. I have been
studying the German trenches (150 yards off now) this morning with my
glasses (Uncle Charlie’s) and see they are hard at work on theirs also.
And so there you have us—a picture—two parties—150 yards apart—both
digging for all they are worth and picking each other off at every
opportunity—both entirely at the mercy of the other’s artillery—both
having their letters from home and national papers urging them (if
anything ever did) to do great things. This strikes me forcibly this
morning—quiet for the last hour as your study itself—and _isn’t_ it an
absolutely unique situation? There are many brave men over yonder just
longing for a ‘scrap’ like we are—perhaps they haven’t quite got our
spirit, but still your Bosch is no weakling. And this situation exists,
with few exceptions (I mean hand to hand struggles) for 400 miles of
frontage! Of course these are all truisms—but—dash it! do the people in
England realize that if that 150 yards was taken and a few more miles
were rushed after that by our friends across the way—_anything_ might
happen. Of course this is all ‘supposing’—but—_what_ a pity we aren’t
fighting this war on the borders of Scotland! No—the Germans will never
break our line, but neither have we broken theirs and people seem to
think that that is a foregone conclusion. However Italy, as you say, will
put matters on a more promising footing.

Last night I had to post a listening-patrol from my platoon out in
front. It was a pitch dark night, so I had a roam round (safe as houses
at night)—I got quite close to old man Fritz and only retreated quickly
because I came across the remains of a struggle between French and
German—_not_ very enticing. The men I took out with me lay down (they are
old hands at the game) close to the ground amongst the _clover_, which
abounds here and affords excellent cover—and closer still when they sent
their infernal lights up which give everyone away for a long way round.
It is exciting, in a mild form, out in front, as the Germans are just
over the lip of the hill and can creep up their side and put out their
patrols so that you have two little parties listening for each other’s
movements at only about 30 yards distance. I thought I had been and gone
and done it when I saw something jolly like a man in the grass. It was a
dead ‘Froggie’—that was all!

Since I talked of its being quiet, the Huns have started their
little game (so cheerful for the _bowler_!) of pelting us with
trench-mortars—and it is just about time our artillery got onto them.
These mortars they bring up into the first line trenches and so range
at about 200 yards—imagine the size of the projectile. Now I hope this
letter hasn’t too much ‘frightfulness’ in it—It may interest you and any
aunts or ‘droppers in’ there may be!

The C.O. (Jones) is coming along—he is a calm one—one of those trench
m’s burst just behind him just now: their effect, of course, is very
local. Just at the end of my stretch of trench are the old emplacements
where the Canadians lost and retook their guns. Truly a historic piece of
ground this—This is the very trench from which the French ran when first
the Gas was employed—that is why there is such an enormous amount of
equipment and hundreds of broken French rifles lying about.—The Germans
have been in it _also_, so there will be some pretty times when the
_ghosts_ of this place have a look in later on! Outside our booby-hutch
there is a topping little look-out place from which on sunny mornings I
try my luck with a rifle—I made Fritz keep his head down this morning
alright!

Ah! the French have got at them with shrapnel—that will help matters—(you
must excuse these little side-allusions—a little hard to keep my
attention fixed you know!).

Ah! Boom—Boom—Boom—the guns are waking up all along—now things will
probably keep alive until sundown when night will come on, each side will
send out its listening-posts, there will be a big exchange of rifle-fire
(there always is about 8 P.M.—9 P.M. when we ‘stand to’), and another day
of this extraordinary existence both sides are leading will be over.

I could rattle on like this for pages—but have run short of paper (send
me out a _big block_).

So toodle-oo pip! pip!!

Love to you all.

                        Ever your own loving son,

                                                                    OSCAR.

(Letter going to Masongill today).

       *       *       *       *       *

Another ‘scrap of paper’ for you to digest!

Rather a droll thing was told me yesterday by one of the Lancashire
Fusiliers (our Brigade)—he was taking a wounded Tommy down the
communication trenches—shot in the leg—and could only carry him by
throwing him across his shoulder—legs dangling in front. During the way
down the unfortunate Tommy got another one through the head—and when he
got him to the dressing-station he was cursed by the doctor who said
he had enough cases to deal with as it was and could do without _dead_
men—at which our Lancs hero cried ‘The —— liar! he told me he was hit in
the leg!’

_Some_body sent me a little book called ‘Aunt Sarah and the War’ the
other day. Many thanks and jolly good—whoever it was!

Send me the ‘Times’ every now and again—will you?

Must have another ‘go’ at Fritz—so once more ‘So long!’—when I am putting
out barbed-wire tonight I shall remember R.K’s

    ‘I wish me mother could see me now with a fence-post under me arm!’

       *       *       *       *       *

It was with this screed that Oscar enclosed a set of his own verses,
about which we had a little correspondence later. They had only been
jotted down, he explained, to go into his letter to me, and he would not
hear of their emerging anywhere in print. ‘Heavens! I can get something
better off my chest than that,’ he protested, ‘if it comes to “type”!’
These private pages, however, are barely in that category, and, as even
Oscar allowed that his ‘doggerel’ was ‘true to experience,’ here those
verses are:

                          ‘JUNE 13TH, 1915.’

    Two long lines of sandbags twisted and intertwined,
    With a felled tree here and a shell hole there and a ‘traverse’
        undermined;
    Fields which are dotted with men, down in the clover green;
    A rifle bent and a pouch half spent and a ruin in between:

    Scarcely a sound for token of what is taking place,
    For hardly a word is spoken and hardly sign of a face.
    Sudden—a shot outringing and—arms both backwards thrown,
    A curse at his foe outflinging, the Sniper has met his own!

    Silence again, and never a sound, but the swish of spades
    As each side makes endeavour to work ere daylight fades:
    Night, and the cover of darkness screens what the workers make,
    And Belgium in her starkness is still as a mountain lake.

    And so the day is over—the end as much in doubt—
    And Fritz no nearer Dover; and so the papers shout:
    ‘At Przmysl and Epernay heavy battles have been fought,
    But (Official) Ypres way there’s _nothing_ to report!’

This, at any rate, has been seen—if, indeed, not merely a dramatic
version of the ‘ripping shot’ mentioned in another letter of about this
date:

       *       *       *       *       *

MY DEAREST AUNTIE,—You wrote me such a delightful letter and I loved
every word of it. Thanks so much also for the Cream and Coffee—A.1.—only
in this heat it won’t keep! If I may suggest so—Condensed Milk is
better—but I loved the Coffee and have writted to M: for more. I am
keeping them fairly at it at Hornton Street—what? They seem to be mad
about my letters: I can only say that I love every word from them and
from you too. Write again if you can spare the time—You have no idea
how cheery it is to get your letters from the Ration-party (food!) at
2.30 A.M. when one is feeling pretty hard-boiled! Talking of food we are
feeding like—well, like you seem to have fed at Hornton St.! _I’ll_ tell
you what _we_ (another 2/Lt and self) have of an evening:

    3-6 eggs apiece
    Soup (sometimes)
    Tea or Coffee or Chocolate
    Bread & Potted Meat & Butter and Jam
    Vin Ordinaire! (pinched from a ruined ‘estaminet’ (pub!)
    Dessert (Chocolate and anything we can rake up—dog biscuits etc:)

and then with very distended insides we go on our several duties—as
often as not sleeping for an hour or two—or crawling out in front
among ancient Frenchmen long since deceased or shoving up barbed wire
etc: Tonight I am on the last named job—I always nearly break my neck
over the beastly stakes! Fritz is as quiet as a lamb today—a simile
one cannot often employ when speaking of him! I hit a fellow yesterday
‘somewhere in France’—in other words he will find it very painful to sit
down for a while! It was a ripping shot—I used a French Rifle which I
am going to try and bring back with me. I have some unexploded shells
too—but can see No: 7 going to ‘kingdom come’ when one day Daddy strikes
a match on one—so I think I had better leave them alone here! It is
such a magnificient evening here—not a _sound_—but the birds singing
like mad—only now and then a shot rings out to waken one up and a
trench-mortar gets to work—last named very loud and noisy, but not v:
useful, like _some_ masters I used to know at Eton!

Straight behind us is ‘Wipers,’ and every 5 mins. to the tick a great
‘Uncle Sam’ comes whistling over and makes the town more of a scrap-heap
than ever: the pity of it! It gives the lie to Kipling’s topping lines
which I will put down simply because I love them like everything else of
his:

    ‘I do not _like_ my Empire’s foes nor call ’em _angels_—still
    What _is_ the use of ’ating those whom you are paid to kill!’

Well—I could talk rot for pages about the life out here, and some day I
will let myself out on paper about it. But for ‘sensation!—sport!—sport
for sport’s sake’—do you remember Raffles at those lines in the play—3rd
Act?—that’s what one feels when crawling about at night. Every minute
one is living is a year—certainly I have learned more in 2 months than 20
years!

So long—you are a brick to write.

_All_ food mighty acceptable!!

Love to George if you see him.

                         Ever your affec: nephew,

                                                                    OSCAR.

P.S. The Gas has slain the strawberries—I fear.


(42)

                                                      June 15, ’15. 6 P.M.

... All your news so interesting—esp. of Eton—ripping you’re going down
there from _my_ point of view—I hope you saw all the old haunts—library
and all—they have a very big place in my heart here—and I try and liken
_this_ game to the old House ‘Ties’—only the odds aren’t so against us
here and we’ve more to back us up! I wrote to Tutor—did he tell you? I
want to know _all_ news about Eton....

Another quiet day here and another still more beautiful evening. Really
it is very hard to realise that anything is doing—the country looks
wonderfully pretty in spite of its ugly spots. The ruins of farms
scattered over the place look quite picturesque.

We had a few swells round the trench last night and they complimented the
Essex on our work—oh! we are ‘some boys’!


(43)

                                                   6.30 P.M. June 16, ’15.

MY DEAREST MUMMY,—What an evening! the most perfect sunset I have ever
seen—and de la Mare has just had a parcel of food—so what with eggs etc:
we shall have a fine meal tonight!

This morning at 2 A.M. there was a big attack further south[6]—we don’t
know result yet but believe we took 3 lines of trenches. We witnessed the
_whole_ fight from here—at least the _artillery_ part of it, since we are
on a raised piece of ground.

You never saw such a sight as just now—6 aeroplanes (all English and
French) up at once and one German—poor old Fritz! However he got away
alright.

Another quiet day on our part of the line. It is getting quite like a
rest-cure in our booby-hutch—nothing but food and slopping up and down
our own little section of trench—very little sleep though. Sleep is apt
to be disturbed so rudely at all hrs. of the day!

No letters this morning—but no doubt will hear from one of you tomorrow.

Much love.

                            Ever yr own loving

                                                                    OSCAR.


(44)

                                                      Thursday, 17th June.

... de la Mare and I are both living like kings on all this food.... We
are now about to have a gigantic meal before the night’s work—not much
_work_ for us officers, but having to keep awake is the nuisance—and I
find it almost impossible to sleep very well in the day. However we’re
none the worse for living like this!

On Saturday we go back to billets, where we remain for 4 days, then back
here for 10 days or so more; they are working us very hard—heaven knows
why—I suppose because we are so good at it!


(45)

                                       Saturday, 8.30 P.M. June 19th, ’15.

... You will be interested to hear I have been ‘slightly wounded’—a
mere touch under the ear[7] which made me leave the trenches early this
morning for the Dressing Station—just to take the necessary precautions,
which are _compulsory_, against poisoning.

Yesterday the C.O. wanted a bombing-party to go out from B Coy to
see what it could do. I had _bagged_ that job weeks ago—and have
been reconnoitring in front of our lines all this past week with a
view to a ‘scrap’ some night. So last night I got a party—2 N.C.O’s
and 1 man armed with Hand-grenades and myself with some of the _new
Hand-bombs_—glorious things, _just_ the size _and_ weight of a _Cricket
Ball_! Then at 12.30 this morning we got over the parapet and sailed over
the intervening 200 yards. Of course I had planned the whole direction
and spot to aim at etc: so we got up to 70 yards of the old Bosches
without difficulty—going in single file—myself at the head ... and lying
out in the long grass we could distinctly hear Fritz breathing hard over
his spade-work—they were digging. I had previously arranged with de la
Mare that he should send a series of _flares_ up to show me where exactly
I was and so beat the Bosch at his own dirty game. The difficult part lay
in getting within 20 yards of them—for the hand-grenades are difficult to
hurl much further with any accuracy. As a matter of fact I could have got
much closer up to their trench, if I hadn’t been so anxious about the men
with me—I would have done the whole job alone only the officer _has_ to
have 2 men and 1 N.C.O. with him on these occasions. If we had tried to
get any nearer than the spot which I eventually chose one of them would
have given the show away I am sure.

At any rate we waited for a few minutes whilst more flares went up, and
then after gauging the distance I led off with cricket-ball No. 1—it was
just like ‘throwing in’ from ‘cover’ (a fast long hop!)—only this time
I had ‘some’ batsmen to run out and there was a price on those stumps!
I fancy ‘things happened’ in their trench—as there were howls—and a bit
of lyddite flew back and hit me just under the ear—mere scratch—only it
spoilt my old coat for ever and ever—amen! The others then stood up and
‘threw in’—the wicket-keep put them down nicely—and we made haste back
to the Pavilion!—it _was_ a case of ‘appealing against the light’—for it
was 1.30 A.M. by then and getting uncomfortably light. ‘Fritz’ seemed so
scared that he never fired a shot—only sent up a brace of flares—during
which we lay down flat in the long grass. When I got back Monypenny said
I must go and have the scratch painted with Iodine and that sort of
rot—so I went off with Crump (who—remember—is stretcher-bearer) to show
me the way back to the dressing-station at the Canal. We just got there
before dawn. I then ‘took car’ (don’t cher know!) to a place 2 miles back
where I went to the Field Ambulance and had a sleep—then had the thing
seen to and an injection v. Poison put into me—then to our _billets_ by
Red Cross Car, as the Battalion comes back tonight and they said it was
not worth coming all the way back. So here I am—alone in our little farm
house again—and am off to sleep in the barn as usual! The Battalion won’t
arrive until early morning probably—so I haven’t done badly!

I had a little jaunt with a R. Cross Captain in his ambulance Car and
got some money from the Field Cashier, had a shave and shampoo and two
excellent meals—in which we had STRAWBERRIES!—in the town close by here.

At first I was jolly sick at having to come back, but it has really been
rather a ‘jaunt,’ starting with our escapade in the early hours—for all
the world like those early rises up at Masongill—crawling after Rabbits:
these were ‘some rabbits’!

Well—am dead tired—so good night.

I knew you would like a description of this sort of thing—but remember
that it is an every night occurrence—this bombing—and jolly sight nicer
than sitting helplessly being shelled by invisible guns. It is the _only
relic_ of the old fighting left in this war—this bombing—none of your
gas or shells—but just like our troops did at Badajoz etc: in the old
wars—top-hole....


(47)

                                            Sunday, June 20th, ’15. 8 P.M.

MY DEAREST MUMMY,—Thanks so much for your 2 lovely letters. The P.C. I
got last night—No: I letter this morning and No: II just now! I am in the
height of happiness, for I have had such a glorious lot of letters and
parcels since I came here yesterday. Last night the fruits from G.M. and
a parcel from Barkers via Daddy and your letter and a _very_ nice one
from Mr. Bryers with a 7d novel—and tonight your letter—a _very_ cheery
one from D—and a _de_lightful one from de Havilland—one that makes me
thrill with the old zest for the House I used to feel in those immortal
House-matches and all the other things which you know I held dear at
Eton—also 3 parcels of food!—more from D—more from you (?)—and still
_more_ from D with the Army & Navy Canteen thing!!! The whole mess-table
is now rocking with my things!!

Oh! Mummy, what a glorious time I am having! I mean all these letters and
parcels from you and D, the former so cheery and encouraging—and the very
life itself—in the thick of it, and _yet_ at Stone House, Eton, Masongill
and, always, No: 7. Through every one of these places I have been time
and again and yet with my feet on Belgian soil and my eyes bunged up with
sleep! Never has my imagination stood me in such stead—you will laugh,
but all the same you will understand. What _does_ it matter where one
is and how one is so long as one has these pictures behind one—I _am_
beginning to see the falseness of materialism—One can be in a French
trench and yet at Masongill with the greatest ease—I can, thank heaven.

Well—our little dinner is on the table in the garden and it is getting
dark—a beautiful evening. I have been strolling round the fields with my
mind concentrated on Masongill—that is the greatest rest one gets here
from the trenches—_Freedom_ for absent-mindedness—which of course it is!!
I presume you have had my long letter to D forwarded on to you—that has
all my news.

A kiss to G.M.—and a big one!

               Ever yr own loving and very—very happy son—

                                                                     OSCAR

I bought this little ‘souvenir’ in the town here yesterday and one for
G.M.

       *       *       *       *       *

Not a word about the bombing to his mother, who was away from home, and
not to be alarmed if Oscar could help it. At Masongill, moreover, she was
in his oldest and very dearest haunts; and in billets he had time to join
her there in spirit as he describes. The trenches may well have seemed
the farther cry, that summer Sunday evening in the farm-house garden,
with the ‘glorious lot of letters and parcels’ hot from home. Yet his
bombing adventure was on his mind; he feared he had made too much of it,
and he now went vigorously to the other extreme, incidentally assuring
me that he was ‘as timorous as a cat,’ and closing the subject in a
characteristic letter to us both.


(60)

                                                 June 29th, ’15. 7.30 P.M.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—I gather that by the time this reaches you
[you] will both be at No: 7 again. I got Land & Water and a letter from
Masongill today.—Now _don’t_ get excited at what I described to you the
other day—those little parties for bomb-throwing are constantly sent out
by every Company—there is not an officer practically here who hasn’t
been out on one. I must have given you to understand that it was an
exceptional enterprise. Not a bit of it—it was a jolly interesting one
for the first time over—but as regards danger I may as well say that
there is much more of that to be met with every day that we are shelled
to any extent than there is in going up, so to speak, to a man’s front
door bell—pulling it—and running off again—as we used to do in Pitt
St:! I want you to realize that the ‘nearer you are to the enemy here
the safer it is’—this sounds paradoxical—but anyone will tell you that
it’s true. I don’t give you long descriptions of being under shell-fire,
but believe me I would rather _live_ 20 yards in the open in front of
the Bosches than experience such a bombardment, say, as we had on the
24th May. This bombing lends itself to picturesque descriptions and
all that, but it is merely the thrill of being, as you say, on another
man’s doorstep which counts. If the risk were any greater than sitting
in the trench with bullets flying round you can be sure we should never
be allowed to go out at all—as the C.O. wants every officer he has
got—and the _effect_ on the Germans of these local scraps is merely a
moral one—makes them more careful and shows them that we still have our
initiative—so much talked of. Very seldom do we actually attempt to
destroy a certain position—machine-gun emplacement for instance—as the
artillery (when they’re awake) do that for us. Well, enough for that—but
please bear in mind that I’m _jolly_ careful about myself—recklessness
is not encouraged out here, and a fellow is merely considered a fool,
as fool he jolly well is, if he doesn’t keep himself safe for his job,
which—after all is said and done—is not to provide a shooting range but
to look after his men. Amen! Here endeth the _first_ lesson!

Nothing doing today—a good deal of artillery activity though—my word
these Bosches do waste their shells—I really don’t think they intend in
Germany to carry this war on another winter—esp: when they are on such an
excellent footing for diplomatic moves as now—with Russia well fenced in
derrière Lemberg—but will we let ’em come to any terms whatever—that’s
the question—I don’t think we shall ever be such _dolts_—do you? This
morning I was just going to have a shave and brush-up when Jones appeared
and Gen: Anley a little later—not much to say—the former—and when the
Tin-hat came to view I slid down a communication trench—not my place
among the High and Almighty! Since then I have had my spring cleaning
and a good look at the front line trenches with those very excellent
glasses of Uncle C’s. It’s funny the way they start shelling here.
All is quiet—then suddenly some wretched little spit-fire sends a few
‘Very little Willies’ over their trenches. A few mins: elapse then come
some Hairy Maries—intended for the officious little offender—which
generally plop round the reserve trenches sending up a ‘bush’ of black
acrid smoke. Then the wily dogs send in a few ‘Whiz-bangs’ (so called
since they burst before they even seem to leave the muzzle) which
make our fellows wild—then the Germans get properly into their stride
and—boom-boom-splosh-splosh is the order of the next few moments—being
answered by our fellows with sickening little shrapnels which would
hardly knock a sandbag over—You will see from this that Fritz has his own
way here _at present_—but that is merely because we are saving our high
explosive for when it is really needed—in a show.—All the same it makes
one wild with rage. When we _do_ get going of course ‘it ain’t no jam for
Tommy—but it’s kites and crows for him!’ (and heaps of ’em too!).

Well—my anxious ones—I laid it on a bit thick in my last long
effort—believe me it is possible for AOH to exaggerate!

Much love—Tinned Fruit and all your food just _the thing_! (_Watch_ ready
yet?)

                         Ever your own loving son

                                                                    OSCAR.

       *       *       *       *       *

If he would seem to have made the best of everything for our benefit, I
can only say we have been shown a good many of the letters which Oscar
still found time to write to others, and that practically all are in the
same strain of jovial enthusiasm, full of the same genial fire and the
same spontaneous fun. The only difference is here and there a grim detail
which might have shocked or harrowed us. Two examples are enough to show
his tender thought for us in this respect. In the second letter there
was perhaps an underlying sadness, but poor Crump’s death was enough to
sadden him, and was just the sort of thing that Oscar would _not_ tell us
before he need.


_To Mr. de Havilland._

                                                             June 29, ’15.

... It’s an extraordinary mixture of humour and ghastliness this whole
life—On one hand you can’t go a yard along the trenches without seeing
something which beats anything in peace-time for sheer humour—one of
our orderly men for instance stumbling along a squelching communication
trench with a couple of dozen eggs and other dainties for his
officer (me!) suddenly slips and falls headlong with arms stretched
wildly—well—you must be in a bad plight if that doesn’t make you
roar—I’ve seen it and heard it afterwards too!... And again the very
first time I was up here I went along to see my Company officer (a 2nd
Lieut like myself owing to the casualties we have had) in the front
line—and found his feet—that was all—a Jack J: had done the rest. I never
told this at home—but it will illustrate what I have been saying....


_To his Cousin Winnie._

                                                           June 28th, ’15.

... I hear from M. and D. pretty regularly—it wouldn’t be worth a week
out here if I didn’t! How is Prescott & Co:—not suffering from any
more maladies I hope ‘sincerely I hope so—I hope so sincerely!’ Do you
remember _that_ in ‘Jones of the Lancers’—priceless song! My _servant_
used to sing that—and very well too—he sang it at a Concert at the place
where we were billeted the other day—and two days ago was shot through
the brain just outside my dug-out—poor fellow.... Isn’t it wonderful
how things happen just at the most critical time? I was annoyed with
[somebody or other] for getting me up unnecessarily this morning—He
was promptly shot through the shoulder and badly cut in the head by an
infernal Trench-mortar.

It is time we had another scrap—this sort of ‘lying in state’ doesn’t
suit your Highness! The place has been as quiet as the grave—and yet
every day a few fellows get knocked out—and as R. K. says—‘There ain’t no
chorus here to give—nor there ain’t no band to play!’

A poor letter—but will get something better off my chest one of these
days—I have ‘a nasty taste in my mouth,’ if you know what I mean!

Love to you all—

                                  Yours,

                                                                    OSCAR.


(61)

                                                                June 29th.

Another quiet day—oh! these quiet days—how many more of them!


(62)

                                                            July 2nd, ’15.

... remember—_we_ are the ‘trench diggers—builders—and holders,’ _and_
therefore are put onto every dirty job the authorities can find!!...

As for George—good luck to him in that benighted corner of Europe! I
will send him a line sometime. Personally I would rather be in the Line
anywhere than serving the guns, but that is merely through my experience
of the former, _long_ as it is!...


(63)

                                                  _July 3, ’15._ 8.30 P.M.

DEAREST M. & D.,—Here we are again—in the front line this time and a bare
20 yards from the Bosches—I came up last night after dining with the
R.M.C. officers at the Dressing Station—by car of course! It was rather
funny to see them bolt when the Germans sent over some large shrapnel—to
catch the transports coming up the roads—my—they were ‘up it’! Of course
to me this was amusing after 2 solid months of much closer stuff than
that! Well—this is the old trench into which I brought my platoon on the
24th when we came up to support D Company. They have improved it some—but
the Bosches have sapped right up, as I say, to within 20 yards—rather
less—and we shall have to chuck them a few chocolates, I’m thinking!

To-night we go out hay-making—in other words the Division want us to cut
all the grass in front of our lines—they are sending _scythes_ up for the
purpose! Doubtless this is to prevent Fritz from doing ‘creepy crawlums’
up to our sandbags! We are getting quite intimate with him now—eh?

Got Punch and letter-card _and_ provisions (from you and Winnie)—so am
well-set up!

So glad the lace arrived! No—I bought it in a town near our billets—4
miles from —— Good heavens! —— is deserted now—what do you think??

Much love—am writing in the dark. ‘You should never write home in the
dark!’

                           Ever yr. own loving

                                                                    OSCAR.

_Such a nice letter from Auntie._

       *       *       *       *       *

His letters came usually by the last post of the day, and continually by
twos and threes—‘in close formation,’ as he complained when we told him,
whereas he posted them ‘in open order.’ During the war that last post
has become very late in our part, no doubt by reason of this very mail
from the front; and many a night last summer would I go downstairs again
to wait, even at the open door, even without shame in the middle of the
road, till the postman’s lantern glimmered in our darkened street. On
the night of July 7, he was later than ever, but that only enhanced the
eventual joy of two of Oscar’s best and brightest—written with all the
splendid confidence the war was giving him—even in a hand never so firm
or so decided as in the trenches under fire!


(64)

                                                     July 4th, ’15. 8 P.M.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—A stewing hot day and my booby infested by
flies! Last night I had a very full bag in letters—two from you and
several others! I was so glad to have the sermon—you know how much I
appreciate it.

The Pastie also arrived, and I spent the dull hour or two between 12
A.M. and ‘stand to’ in eating it hard! I have finished the whole 2
boxes already! I am so glad the lace arrived safely—I heard from G.M.
too—thanking me for it. I wrote to Mrs. W. days ago!

Nothing doing today—there was to have been a bombardment by our guns
this evening—but it seems to have been a wash-out! Last evening we got
hold of some rifle-grenades—explosive bombs which you shoot out from
the rifle—and I plumped several beauties among the Bosches—they had
been doing the dirty on us all day so we showed them we weren’t exactly
asleep! You fire these missiles off from the trench of course.

There is a ruined Estaminet (beer-house) between my fire-trench and
communication trench, and they keep up a rapid fire on this all through
the night to stop any of our little games—for a ruined building in the
front line is a dangerous thing to the opposing party!

Old man Clarke has just rolled in with a list of available men for
tonight’s working. Wire, bombing party etc:—We are going to give them a
few Crème de Menthes early tomorrow morning—just to stop them working.
You never heard such a row as Fritz makes opposite us of an evening!
Sawing wood and riveting bolts and goodness knows what else besides. He
has some game up his sleeve—mark you, he has sapped up to within 20 yards
of us—so one has to be canny!

I’ve got some more verses to send you very soon—so brace yourself up for
the shock!

Must cease fire now—

                            Ever yr own loving

                                                                    OSCAR.


(65)

                                                       July 5, ’15. 5 P.M.

MY DEAREST MUMMY & DADDY,—Got your cheery letter last night—They sort
the letters earlier now—before midnight. These ‘close order’ letters are
rather absurd—but it is something to do with the trains catching the
mail—or rather vice versa! You’ll have to just take them en masse!

Well—rather amusing this morning—the Bosches suddenly sent over an
extraordinary object—a _sort_ of aerial torpedo—which no doubt you know
of. This they fired from just behind their front line only 200 yards off
at most—aiming for the Estaminet which our line (my platoon) circles
round. The thing came trundling through the air—you could actually see
it rolling over and over—rolly-poly we call it! There were shouts and
the men fled from where they could guess it would drop—then the thing
dropped—and Jack J’s weren’t in it for explosion! They sent 3 of these
things over and it was really rather funny—seeing a great sausage
lolloping through the air—it takes about 5 mins. to land!

We got the artillery onto them and have had no more trouble since.

We had quite a merry evening last night: there was an attack on further
south and the dickins of a noise, and we pumped over some rifle-grenades
just to show there was no ill-feeling up our way—also I took out a
brace of my N.C.O’s and attempted to give them some more to digest.
As luck would have it both my efforts were ‘duds’—In other words they
refused to explode—the other three grenades I couldn’t get the pin out
of for firing—so I got beastly wet—lost a handkerchief and my temper for
nothing—It’s an easy job here, as we are so near them, and as I told you
before Fritz is much too busy at his game behind the barricade he has had
the unbounded cheek to erect so near our lines, to notice our little
wanderings.—It is this ‘little game’ of his that we want to discover and
to put an end to—because we have an idea that he is attempting to blow
the Estaminet up and, incidentally, us with it! However—‘ne craignez
pas—pour nous partons demain!’ Twiggez-vous?

Old Clarke was at his best this morning when they sent the sausage
over—The first landed just over his (and as it happened mine) booby—and
out he came like a shot rabbit—his language—oh! ‘priceless’ isn’t the
word!

He then lay out (in the most exposed part of the trench) and
drawled—‘Fritz can do what he jolly well likes etc: etc:!’

His sarcasm is really worthy of some of my Eton friends! He said that
they kept our guns in a glass case—he was dead on our guns—and well he
might be, considering that they never do a jolly thing up this way. If
they do wake up they unfailingly drop 1 in 6 into _our_ front line or
just in front in their fatherly way—I love to hear the remarks passed
on them—I endorse them all fully myself! Clarke’s remark that they gave
us ‘O-hello’ this morning was rather nice! Some of the officers of a
Territorial Division just come up here spent the night with us, in order
to acquaint themselves with the trench and its many vicissitudes! They
will be relieving us probably tomorrow—and it _is_ possible that we shall
go back altogether for a week or more to reorganize. We shall go behind—a
good way back somewhere and generally collect ourselves, for we want
collecting. This is only a possibility though at present.

About Crump—he was shot dead outside my booby—just when another death we
know of occurred—so I didn’t mention it in my letter—it wasn’t at all
necessary.... He was a brave fellow....

As for casualties—there have been _very_ few in our Coy: none in my
platoon since the above—over a week ago now. These flies are the
_limit_—there’s old Clarke at it again. He’s wildly excited because our
chaps have shut up one of their most officious batteries on our right
with a brace of heavy explosives—‘There’ll be a Court of Inquiry on
that,’ says Clarke!

It is a fairly placid evening—a little shelling by the Bosches—but
nowhere near our line—we are too near their own crowd to be shelled very
frequently—only when they have the exact range.

My men are cleaning their rifles and there is one of our aeroplanes doing
good business overhead—a little sniping—not much. I think it is time I
sent over a few more rifle-grenades—We’ve got a machine that puts them
in accurately to a yard and they do a lot of damage. It will stay quiet
until about 8 P.M. when there will be ‘wind up’ for 2 hours—heavy rifle
fire on both sides—then fairly quiet for rest of night unless we drop
bombs on them like we did last night. Then Fritz gets in such a funk that
he shoots off wildly in _all_ directions except the right one! I must
agree with him—it _is_ a nasty thing to be bombarded by an unseen and
unlocated enemy in the shape of me or one of my men. We only gave them 3
last night though—rather a wash-out.

The wily dogs spotted a stack of rubbish-straw etc: in the Estaminet
last evening and sent across _flares_ to set it on fire. They succeeded
in doing so, but we[8] put earth and water on it before daylight today:
so again it was Checkmate to Fritz—The ‘Jocks’ took a section of their
opposing trenches yesterday—I wish we could rush these ugly sandbags in
front of us—but I fear there is no such luck.

—— is a funny card—he comes tearing down here with drops of perspiration
streaming off his long nose, speaking at a terrific rate and expecting
you to take it all down verbatim—then whisks off again.—de la Mare comes
across him more than I of course—The rest of my conversation with Clarke
was strictly ‘business’ just now!

Much love—

                              Yr loving son

                                                                    OSCAR.

_N.B._ I had a letter from Crump’s father in answer to mine—for of course
I wrote about him—I think it bucked them up ‘some’ to hear from me.

                                                                        O.

       *       *       *       *       *

If some of the letters are more letter-like than these, surely none are
more like the boy himself! It was Oscar talking to us from his trench,
talking harder than ever while there was time, telling us all manner of
things in each eager breath! And I was to have talked back next night;
there were one or two things I was looking forward to telling him. First,
how his nine-and-a-half-months-old Commission had only just arrived in
all its documentary glory; and how it began with the King’s greeting, ‘To
our Trusty and well beloved Arthur Oscar Hornung’!

Then I had to tell him how I had just been to tea in the room where
‘Vanity Fair’ was written, after pointing out the house to people for
twenty years, as one that I never expected to have the joy of entering.
It was a last joy. Within the hour came the telegram to say that Oscar
had been killed in action on July 6.




III


The details when they came were scanty but enough. That early morning,
the Brigade on their left being engaged in a small local attack, the
Essex standing to arms had been bombarded by the enemy’s light artillery.
Oscar was threading his way behind his men, all anxiety on their account,
and had just asked Sergeant Clarke: ‘Is everybody all right?’ At that
moment a small high-explosive just cleared the parapet, but not the
opposite edge of the narrow trench, bursting close behind Oscar’s head:
he died where he fell unconscious, and was buried that night by a party
of the men he loved.

It is not for us to add one word of our own; but with a very few of the
wonderful tributes from others, we shall leave our dear son to rest in
the hearts of many loving friends.

Said the _Eton Chronicle_, in an obituary notice already quoted on the
opening page:

    Oscar Hornung came from Mr. Churchill’s at Stone House in
    September 1908 to Mr. H. de Havilland, and after six years left
    last July to go to Cambridge. His inherited love of literature
    made him an eager reader of books at all times. A Division
    Master recognised this one year when he gave him a special
    prize for English work. A good cross-country runner he was
    second in Junior and third in Senior Steeplechases. At football
    he played a hard game, and his energy as Captain of Games was
    notorious. A few days after leaving Eton, thinking that the
    best chance to get to the front was in a reserve regiment, he
    joined the 3rd Essex. At Harwich he lived until April in a
    farm-house on the marsh next the sea, and in April he went with
    his enthusiasm to France. Among other exploits he one night
    leading three others crept 200 yards to the barbed wire until
    they could hear the diggers, and then after a successful bomb
    throwing came back with his ear badly injured. On July 6th when
    behind the parapet he was struck by a shell and died in the
    trench without recovering consciousness.

    A letter from a General Officer says: ‘His platoon were wild
    with grief, as they worshipped him. The men said he was
    absolutely fearless and was employed on all sorts of jobs,
    machine guns, bombs, patrols, etc,’ Any one who knew him will
    recognise the boy at Eton. He revelled in every hour of his
    life at the FRONT just as he had in life in general. ‘He lies
    buried in a cemetery made by the Essex Regiment behind a farm
    which goes by the name of Turco Farm on the east side of the
    Yser Canal.’

    A simple-minded and religious boy he lived the straightest of
    lives, always at the top of some enthusiasm whether playing
    games or fighting Germans. His affection for the School at all
    times was intense and he wrote that Eton meant more than ever
    to him out there; every letter to the last showed the same
    spirit. Full of thought for others he was loved by all who knew
    him.

Comment, again, is hardly for us, who like to feel that this generous
writer and friend did think of Oscar as a member of his house up to the
outbreak of war; in spirit he was a most loyal member to the last; but
he had actually left Eton at Easter, in order to read for King’s, the
college of his own unhesitating choice, where the following October was
to have found him installed. He had done his Little-go, finished for ever
with uncongenial subjects; had only History, Literature, and Life before
him!

From Eton came other tributes, which should speak for themselves if space
permitted, and two that must. One was the beautiful letter from Peter
Blacker, Captain of the House most of the two years Oscar was Captain of
Games. All of it I cannot bring myself to give, but this much will show
the noble comfort given, while conveying some idea of Oscar’s Eton life:

    ... As you know, Oscar went to Eton two halves before me.
    During my first two or three weeks there, I suffered from a
    hideous form of homesickness that must have made me appear
    a very unattractive person to everyone. The first time I
    saw Oscar was my second evening, when he came into my room
    and talked to me as one schoolboy talks to another, telling
    me what to do, and explaining the somewhat complicated
    conventions of Eton, and in his jolly way giving me a few words
    of encouragement which meant the world to me then, and for
    which I have ever since been grateful. But it was only some 2
    years later that I got to know him intimately, and began to
    appreciate those fine qualities that have subsequently meant
    such a lot to the House.

    I saw that irrepressible and effervescing flow of energy, which
    appeared in everything he did, governed throughout by the
    highest principles, and directed by an indomitable moral and
    physical courage.

    While a lower boy, and during his first year as an Upper, his
    uncompromising devotion to what he considered Right sometimes
    brought him into conflict with environing—and at that time
    contrary—influences, and caused him to lead a somewhat isolated
    life, so that it was only when he reached a real position of
    eminence in the house, some 3 years ago, that his influence was
    given full play. And immediately others began to fall in behind
    him, and follow his lead.

    I tell you this with the strictest truth, that during the
    last 2 years of his Eton career, when I was thrown into close
    contact with him, and came to know him well, I never heard him
    say an unjustifiably harsh or unkind word to anyone.

    Always ready to see another’s good points in preference to
    his bad ones; always scrupulously careful never to express
    an uncharitable thought about anyone; always the first
    to own himself in the wrong should he feel that he had
    acted mistakenly; always straightforward and loyal; always
    sympathetic, unselfish and kind, he was always loved and
    admired by everyone who knew him.

    I can tell you with perfect frankness that during the whole
    time that I have known Oscar I do not once remember him failing
    in any of these qualities in the smallest degree without having
    recognized the failure immediately and without making immediate
    reparation, all personal considerations laid aside.

    What he has been able to do for the House in this way neither
    Mr. de Havilland nor I can ever make you understand.

    I feel that in Oscar I have lost that most valuable and
    treasured of possessions;—a friend upon whom one might count
    and depend, and whom one could trust. I can pay no higher
    tribute to him than this.

Our hearts go out to this dear fellow, now fighting gallantly in his
turn, and already a far heavier loser by the war than when he wrote this
noble letter. We can only thank him with our prayers.

A younger friend of Oscar’s, the friend of many happy holidays, wrote to
show us what he was away from home and from school:

    I am just sending you a line, to tell you how we all loved
    Oscar, and how deeply we feel for you. All who got to know him
    well, discovered what a beautiful character he had, and all
    loved him. I have never met, nor do I expect I ever shall meet,
    a person with such a noble heart, and so unselfish. He never
    said or did anything unkind to or about anyone.

From the front his friend and company commander, Guy de la Mare, wrote of
him as ‘a terrible loss to the company,’ and as one who ‘knew no fear
at all,’ The last letter shall be Sergeant-Major Clarke’s—for Oscar’s
affectionate belief in his platoon sergeant was very soon to be justified
by ‘old man Clarke’s’ further promotion. How glad the boy would have
been! How touched and how embarrassed by this:

    I must say, Sir, your dear son died like a Gentleman and a
    Soldier. He was always to the front and a braver man there
    never was, his thoughts were always for the men under him and
    to their comfort he was always seeing. And there was no one
    more sorry to lose him than his platoon and myself. He was a
    promising officer and if he had continued in the service he
    would have had a fine career before him. On several occasions
    he himself organised bomb throwing parties and proceeded within
    a few yards of the German trenches, and I know on a couple of
    occasions he must have done considerable damage and confused
    them as they were rather quiet afterwards for some time.

    I might mention, Sir, that your brave son lies in a quiet spot
    beside more of his comrades on the famous battlefield of Ypres.
    I served all through the South African War, but was never in
    such a place as that, and I am not sorry to say, Sir, that I
    have left that place for another along the line.

The whole battalion left that place the day after Oscar’s death; he told
us they were going to, but it was God’s Will that he should stay behind.
But if against our enemies there is one hand still lifted that we long
to grasp, one elbow to which we wish more power, they are those of the
gallant Sergeant-Major, who was our dear boy’s guide and friend in the
day of battle, and in the hour of death.

‘Trusty and well beloved’ were the words that reached us almost in
that hour; and almost in the next came a gracious human message from
the King and Queen themselves, even as it were in tender confirmation
of the stately phrase. And yet, could words apply more closely to all
our glorious boys—above all to Oscar’s ‘one class who are enjoying
themselves in this war’? In any other country, by one means or the other,
the men were to be had: it is only our Public Schools which could have
furnished at once an army of natural officers, trained to lead, old in
responsibility, and afraid of nothing in the world but fear itself. Their
teaching will not be forgotten by those of us whose strange fate it is to
inherit our sons’ great names, to follow humbly in the steps we thought
to guide. We shall remember that each was also the son of some great
school which shares our sorrow and our pride, and which perhaps did more
than we ourselves to make him what he was.

Besides Oscar, I am thinking of two who were here to mourn him last July.
Robin Blacker was his old friend’s brilliant young brother—so young that
he had once been Oscar’s fag. He had left Eton long before his time, yet
full of Eton honours. He might have been First Keeper of the Field this
very half: he preferred to play for England, and, in the Guards’ great
hour at Loos, fell most gloriously, thirty yards ahead of his platoon,
with none between him and his last goal.

In the same hour and the same attack John Kipling was last seen alive. He
was even younger than Robin Blacker, but the gap between him and Oscar,
two equally independent characters, had long been filled by the love of
brothers. It is said that after Oscar fell John’s scheme of war included
the personal vendetta, just as one younger than any of them is already
preparing ‘to avenge John as he avenged Oscar.’ John’s lot was not to
spend many weeks under shell-fire, like Oscar and his merry men; but he
lived to lead a platoon of the Irish Guards in such fighting as Oscar
never saw. God send that he is living still, and restore him even yet to
the world our dear boys loved so well, and surrendered without a sigh!

It may be remembered that in one of those last two letters Oscar promised
us more verses of his own. They came at length, among his other papers,
in scribbled, experimental fragments which I have no right to put
together here, deeply moving as they are to us who can read between the
sincere and simple lines. They were not directly about the war: they were
about Stone House, his first school and in a sense my own, but to us
both a second home. Yet they touch quite openly and naturally on Death,
and on all that might come instead to hearts deepened and strengthened
by the war. To Oscar it was Death that came before the lines were nearly
finished; yet it is from them we know, what his happy letters never
hinted, that all the time he was as ready even for that as for everything
else. He thinks of old schoolfellows who have gone before him, and only
asks, if die he must, to ‘die as they did, by their schoolboy honour
aided.’ He pictures the Chapel at Stone House, where reproductions of
the regimental colours of Old Boys killed in the Boer War hang like true
knights’ banners:

    Once again look up above
      At those flags in order hung
    To commemorate our love....

‘And there he stops,’ said Mr. Churchill in his beautiful sermon about
our boy. ‘It may be the last words he ever wrote. Some day soon we shall
have his flag to “commemorate our love.” Our love, for one of the most
fearless, one of the kindest, one of the simplest, one of the purest
boys we ever had in this school.’

And not at Stone House only is his dear name to endure, but also at Eton,
for all the hundreds she has lost. Of their own generous accord, the
boys of his Eton house are placing a tablet on the wall of his old room;
and for the tablet his revered ‘R. K.’ has written out one of his own
stanzas, adding, ‘I like them for Oscar because of the last line’:—

    He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of Earth—
    E’en as he trod that day to God so walked he from his birth,
    In simpleness and gentleness and honour and clean mirth.




FOOTNOTES


[1] _Eton College Chronicle_, July 22, 1915.

[2] To his godfather, Arthur Conan Doyle.

[3] Lieutenant C. D. W. Rooke, 1st Cameronians, was killed in action on
June 19.

[4] Presently he went to see—with a result described in his letter to Mr.
de Havilland, p. 46.

[5] = ‘Grandmamma.’

[6] Hooge, apparently.

[7] Not his last escape. A few days later: ‘A bit of a “Little Willie”
came in and struck my plate while we were having lunch.’

[8] It is said that Oscar showed the way, and that the task was more
ticklish than he suggests.


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