PART II WAR LETTERS (continued 3)

All the fellows in the new mess are amazed that I have been without leave since the beginning of May, 1916. I must not set my leave before my work, however. I have already started my new labours. Altogether I am in luck all round. I verily believe I am the luckiest man in the B.E.F. to-day. Congratulate me! You will be interested to know that an old Dulwich boy, Ambrose, to whom I gave 2nd XV Colours in my year of football captaincy, is in the same battalion, but I have not met him yet.

To his Brother.

February 17th, 1917.

I am getting on splendidly. I can't tell you how bucked I am with life. It was my third shot to get out of the "great Department," and not only did I succeed in this, but I have obtained that which I had most desired. I had really hardly dared to hope that I should succeed in getting into the Tank Corps. There are a lot of Rugger men among the officers here, including an O.A., Ambrose, who was one of the best of the 2nd XV forwards in 1914. In our company is a splendid fellow called Hedderwick, who played for Loretto and was tried for Cambridge; and a man called Saillard, who was the Haileybury full-back in that match when they beat us at Haileybury by 32 to 12 in Evans's year. You may recollect Saillard getting laid out in the second half, Haileybury continuing without a full-back—with very sound judgment as it turned out, for this enabled them to play us off our legs in the scrum and control the game with eight forwards to seven, and we never got the ball to give to our eight outsides. To sum up, I am in most congenial society and enjoying life hugely.

Naturally, I am working pretty hard, learning my new job. I am determined to make good at it, and I have the conviction that, with hard work and concentration, a man with education behind him can succeed in pretty well anything that he likes. Leave may come in the near future, provided the authorities consider I have made sufficient progress in my new studies; but I have a lot to learn, and it is not my desire to go on leave before I have mastered at least the elements of my new job—very much the reverse, in fact.

February 20th, 1917.

Am having a grand time—up to my eyes in oil, grease and mud from 8 A.M. to 5 P.M. I am finding my old hobby of engineering of the greatest value, and my enthusiasm for seeing "the wheels go round" has returned in all its old force. Even the gas-engine and dynamo of famous (or infamous) memory are proving most serviceable to me through the experience I acquired with them—demonstrating again how useful the most recherché of ideas, occupations or hobbies may become. No knowledge is to be despised.

The only fly in the ointment is that an exam. is due for me in a week's time or so—as you know, impending exams. fill me with terror. I have such an accursedly active imagination that I find it impossible to banish from my head the thought, "What if I fail?" I've always been afflicted with this, though I am bound to say that when it came to the point it did not, as far as might be judged by results, affect my actual performances. But I am, nevertheless, in a chronic state of what the B.E.F. calls "wind up" on account of this exam. I am so eager to do well that the mere thought of failing is abhorrent. I am inclined to ascribe these feelings at bottom to egotism.

There is quite a number of South Welshmen in our lot out here, including some men from Llanelly. There are also a lot of Scotsmen among the officers, fellows of broad speech and dry humour to whom I am much drawn.

You haven't hit on a book on some musical subject for me, have you? I would much like a work dealing with Wagner or Beethoven. It is music that I miss more than anything in the intellectual line. Shall we ever hear the "Ring" again, I wonder? Anyway, it was one of the supreme experiences of my life to have heard it conducted by Nikisch. I regard the "Ring" as one of the world's artistic masterpieces. It is conceived on a scale of unparalleled grandeur, and must be thought of as an organised whole.

I miss the "Proms" and the Sunday Concerts, too—both have done a real national service in popularising the greatest music.

February 28th, 1917.

In the language of Tommy, I am "in the pink" and getting on first-rate. Am delighted to say I passed well in that examination, being marked "very good indeed." I got more than 90 per cent. of marks. I never dared to hope for such success. It would be absurd to deny that I am hugely bucked at the result, but I had had a pretty strenuous training for the exam. I am still engaged in learning, but now in a different department, though of equal interest, and I am glad to say that no examination is involved this time.

Last Sunday we had a real first-rate game of Rugger—not very scientific as far as passing and outside play were concerned, but a great struggle forward. My own side had a couple of splendid Scottish forwards against it, and I had a great deal of defence to do, falling on the ball, etc. The final was 6-3 against us, but one glaring offside try was allowed to our opponents—accidentally, of course, as the referee's view was unfortunately obstructed at the time. It was a grand game to play in, though I was not in the best of training—one's first game for fourteen months is usually apt to be a bit of a strain, and I hadn't played since I turned out for the O.A.'s at Dulwich in December, 1915. It was simply great, worth living years for, to touch a Rugger ball again.

March 17th, 1917.

These days for me are crammed full of work, 8.30 A.M. to 6 or 7 P.M. as a general rule. I am enjoying life hugely, however. To me hard work has always been preferable to slack times, and I like going at high pressure. Besides, this is such a grand job that the work is a sheer pleasure. By Jove! if you only knew how much happier I am these days than in any period during the twenty odd months I had spent previously playing at soldiers in the "Grub Department." It amazes me that I could have been so long contented with work like that of the A.S.C. Well, anyway, those days are over and done with, and a new and brighter era has been ushered in. As a rule, I am now almost always in an incredible state of grease and oil and grime, which, remembering my old propensities, you will know delights me. The old gas-engine at home was nothing to it. I have had to set aside a special suit for daily use, as even with overalls on there is not sufficient protection against grease, oil, petrol and mud. I cannot tell you how supremely happy I am in my work.

Ambrose returned to his company from a course of instruction last week, and he came across immediately to see me. We discussed old times and old friends with great gusto. There are two other Dulwich men in the battalion whom I never knew well, as they were fairly senior fellows when I was only a kid, though I distinctly remember both. Their names are Trimingham and Sewell. They were in what was in those days Treadgold's House.

I am sending back by the same post a pair of spectacles which got broken recently. Will you please get them repaired? I still have four sound pairs, but I always like to keep up the set of five with which I started in the War.

The breaking of the great frost created appalling conditions on this countryside, which for some time was an absolute quagmire. Even now things are pretty bad, though the weather improves daily.

March 20th, 1917.

Well, the Boche has retreated on the Somme, as most people anticipated he would, though few imagined he would make such a considerable withdrawal. He is a cute customer, of that there is no doubt. He never does a thing without having a reason. Yet there have been occasions in the War when he has entirely misjudged the situation. Take Ypres and Verdun for example. This retirement on the Somme is clever, though it may tell on the morale of his men. On the other hand, the Boche relies, and always has relied, much more on discipline than on morale for keeping his army together. He has never developed esprit de corps as it has been developed in our army, or the French, but there's no denying that his discipline is something pretty considerable. That discipline, as far as can be gauged, has as its foundation a very efficient system of N.C.O.'s. His officers are intelligent, but nothing to write home about, but his N.C.O.'s are unquestionably very good. I have myself witnessed their influence among gangs of prisoners we have taken.

It must necessarily come about in the course of a War that situations arise when esprit de corps is equivalent to, and even produces, discipline. That is where brother Boche fails to rise to the occasion. I am not of those who think the Boche a coward, but undoubtedly an unexpected situation very often plays the very deuce with both his courage and his organisation. In his plans he allows for most possibilities, but he is nonplussed when the situation does not turn out exactly as it should on paper. Again, man for man, he loses "guts" in tight corners, because of this same lack of initiative. It is perhaps a temperamental failing. There have been moments in this War when only his incapacity to deal with a suddenly-developed situation has stood between him and stupendous success. He has assumed, let us say, that by all the rules of War the enemy must have reserves available, and has therefore ceased his attack until such time as he could muster his forces to meet the counter-attack by these imagined reserve troops, when actually his enemy had no reserves at all. Conversely, he has assumed on many occasions that his enemy must, by all the rules of War, be battered into pulp or asphyxiated, and that he has only to advance over the bodies of his foes to win an overwhelming victory; yet somehow or other from out of the indescribable débris and havoc wrought by his artillery or gas, arise survivors who, though half-dead, yet have enough life and pluck to hold him back.

Take as illustrations either the second battle of Ypres or Verdun. In the first case, after the first surprise gas attack a rent about a mile and a half wide had been torn in the Allied line. Against a vast number of German troops there was opposed only one single division of what Bernhardi contemptuously termed "Colonial Militia," namely, the Canadians. For quite a long time there were no other troops of ours (save a few oddments) in the vicinity. The Boche had five miles or so to get to "Wipers." Of these he covered just about two, and even that ground was only what he gained in the first surprise of his gas attack. Between him and the Channel coast there still stretched a khaki line. The same sort of situation was repeated several times during the second battle of Ypres (though the odds were never so great as in these first April days), yet the result was always the same.

Take Verdun again. For me this prolonged battle has a strange fascination. There is something more terrible and primitive about it than about any other struggle of the War. It was a sort of death-grip between two antagonistic military conceptions.

(The remainder of this letter never came to hand.)

March 31st, 1917.

It must be a singular experience for our troops on the Somme to miss enemy artillery fire, trench mortars, grenades, etc., from the scheme of things. What a huge relief to the Infantry to have a pause from the eternal "Whew-w-w-w-Crash" of the high explosives! I fear, nevertheless, that the British infantrymen will soon resume acquaintance with them, for the War isn't over by a long chalk yet. Meanwhile, however, the sight of an at present comparatively unblemished countryside must be a great joy to men sick of the howling wilderness created on the ground that has been contended for since July, 1916. I know those Somme battlefields—every square yard of soil honeycombed with shell-holes, all traces of verdure vanished, trees reduced to withered skeletons, blasted forests, fragments of houses, with the poor human dead rotting all around. Verily a nightmare country.

You may have remarked in the last Alleynian a poem called the "Infantryman," by Captain E. F. Clarke. It appeared first in Punch some time ago and has had a great vogue. When I read it first, before I knew who the author was, I was greatly taken with this poem. I now see from The Alleynian that it is the work of an O.A., a chap whom I held in high regard, namely, Eric Clarke, whom you cannot fail to remember as King Richard II in the Founder's Day Play, 1913—his superb acting in that rôle was greatly admired. It was he who was to a large extent responsible for my undertaking the editorship of The Alleynian. He was my immediate predecessor in the job.

The poem appeals powerfully to me. To use the words of a Canadian poet, R. W. Service, "it hits me right." It has a swing about it, it has ideas, it has atmosphere. Pervading it through and through is the atmosphere of this Western Front. I have often told you that I had yet to meet the man who could convey that atmosphere in story, book or article. Clarke's poem (along with Bairnsfather's pictures) is one of the very first pieces I have read that really gets this atmosphere. The verse is not particularly polished, but it has life and force. Its simplicity adds to its effectiveness. Such an expression as "the sodden khaki's stench" lives in the memory, for it appeals directly to the soldier's recollection of his experiences—that odour the infantryman must have noticed dozens of times in the wet dawn, when he was waiting to go "over the top." Clarke has undoubtedly made a name for himself by the poem. Decidedly he has lived up to the high reputation he had at school. It looks as if he will make a name in literature. [See p. 240, text and footnote].

These days I am tremendously busy and revelling in it, as the work is so completely congenial. I am muddier and greasier than at any other period of my existence, and gloriously happy withal.

A corporal in our Company lives in the Herne Hill district, and in civil life was a tram conductor for the L.C.C. on the Norwood section. He has been out here two years, and won the Military Medal for gallantry on the Somme. Very interesting to meet one of the "dim millions" from one's own neighbourhood in this fashion, n'est ce pas?

In April Paul Jones, as a Tank Officer, took part in the battle of Arras.

April 24th, 1917.

I am splendidly well and enjoying life hugely. If my letters for the past three weeks have been few and far between, you must put it down to War activities. It would be ridiculous to try to conceal the fact that my movements of late have, to a certain extent, been connected with the great "stunt" now in progress. For me the past three weeks or so have been a period full of incident and rich in variety—quite and by far the best period of my life up to date. There have been certain rotten incidents that have worried me at times; but, on the whole, I have been far happier during that period than at any other time since joining the Army. Thank goodness! I shall at length be able to hold up my head among other Dulwich men and not be forced to admit with shame that in this War I only played a safe, comfortable, luxurious part in the A.S.C. No! those wretched days are over and done with. Even now, I have a far easier time than thousands of fellows in the Infantry.

I have referred to certain rotten incidents. The worst of these was the death in action of one of my best friends in the Company. This chap was a young Scotsman named Tarbet. We had been thrown very much together and became warm friends. On April 9 Tarbet was killed by a sniper about 11 A.M. while out in the open reconnoitring the approach to the Boche second line. I came along to relieve him an hour later, and practically fell over his dead body—a very bad moment, I assure you. Another of our section officers was wounded in the face about the same time by shrapnel. I myself had rather a close shave, as I was alongside another man at the time he was hit in the head by a shrapnel bullet. I scarcely realised the explosion until I saw the poor fellow wounded.

On the whole, that day was an absolute picnic. The only trouble was that the Boche ran back too fast in our particular sector for us to inflict all the damage on him that we would have liked to have done. Such, however, has not been the case everywhere since. He is fighting desperately hard now.

To his Brother.

April 29th, 1917.

Circumstances are making my letter-writing increasingly difficult. It is rather a case of "but that I am forbid I could a tale unfold," etc. I suppose holidays are on just now. I want to tell you that I am confidently looking forward to your winning a great success in the forthcoming Matriculation. By Jove! it doesn't seem such a long time since I was in for that exam. myself. In my day we were able to take it at the school, now I believe you have to go up to London University. Eheu fugaces!

The more I see of life the more convinced I am of the greatness of the old school. Wherever you meet a Dulwich man out here, you'll find he bears a reputation for gallantry, for character, for hard work and for what may be termed "the public-school spirit" in its best form. Our Roll of Honour and the literally amazing list of decorations bear this out. Of my own old colleagues, there is not one who has not either been hit (alas! killed in many cases) or received some decoration, or both; and that, mark you, though we are not what is known as an "Army School" like Eton, Cheltenham, or Wellington. Ambrose, the O.A. in our battalion, has recently accomplished some wonderful things, and is sure to receive a high decoration. Yet one more up for the school!

Did you see that Scottie is now an Acting-Lieutenant-Colonel, with a D.S.O. and the M.C.? That is some achievement, if you like! C. N. Lowe, the famous footballer, has been wounded. He had transferred to the Flying Corps out of the A.S.C. Doherty, who used also to be in the "Grub Department," has now got a Company in the Infantry. You see, it isn't in the nature of a Dulwich man to be leading a life of ease when other men are fighting.

I have been having a great time of late. Work of surpassing interest, a certain amount of excitement, and a knowledge that one was more or less directly participating in the winning of the War—what more can the heart of man desire? If only poor old Tarbet hadn't been killed—he was a dear pal of mine,—there wouldn't be a cloud on the horizon. Don't let the Mater and Pater get the wind up about my personal safety. At present I am quite safe; besides, I have wonderful luck. I was only saved by a miracle from being blown into the air last September on the Somme. I may get home on leave in the near future.

May 4th, 1917.

I rejoice to say that Ambrose has received the D.S.O. for that achievement referred to in my last letter. He more than deserves it. He had a most terrible experience. The D.S.O. for a subaltern is one of the very highest honours that the Army has to bestow. We are all very bucked about it, especially the O.A. section of the battalion.

How anomalous the War has become—the world's great Land Power striving to strike its decisive blow at sea, while the great Sea Power is endeavouring to strike its decisive blow on land! This double paradox will give much food for reflection to future historians. I am coming to the conclusion that without a complete knowledge of the facts it is well-nigh impossible to derive accurate deductions from History. It seems to me you can make History prove anything. To understand History in all its significance, one must be familiar also with literature, languages and science.

Talking of science, do you see that some modern scientists are throwing doubt on the original theory of Evolution? They admit the possibility of the modification of species through natural selection, but they dispute the theory that any broad change takes place in the genera of organisms. They do not even admit the possibility of the atrophy, through long disuse, of organs of which the animal no longer has need. They are forced to admit that many species and genera have become extinct—so much is proved by the skeletons of prehistoric beasts found from time to time under the earth's surface. But what they dispute is that there is any connection between those beasts and living animals. They say, for instance, that as far back as we have records, we find the horse practically the same, organically speaking, as he is to-day. They cast doubt, that is, on the theory that the horse is descended from the pterodactyl.

It is an interesting point, though there appears to be no essential difference between this new school and the thoroughgoing evolutionists; for both admit the principle of the survival of the fittest. To me the new school's conception seems to be grotesque. According to them, the world was originally full of an enormous number of animals, organisms and what not, of which some have up to date survived, and whose numbers will decrease until only a few certain types, or perhaps one certain type, will be left subsisting. That is a view that I cannot accept. But, of course, Nature has many checks on the propagation and the multiplication of species. Natural conditions do not permit of the existence of too many species or sub-species. But it is clear that there are types, call them genera, species, or what you will, that have, by virtue of some inherent fitness and flexibility of adaptation, survived and mastered other types.

The theory or principle of Natural Selection can also be applied to nations. As far back as we have any record, man was much the same sort of being as he is to-day. The genus, in fact, has not changed. It is now established that in the long distant past there was one great Aryan race in Central Asia, which has split up since then into the peoples and nations of modern Europe, India, Arabia, and so forth. Biologically speaking, these peoples have all some traits in common, but environment has wrought great changes and has created species. Between these species there are great differences, so great indeed that various of them are to-day engaged in a good old intertribal war.

But has the genus Man always borne the same sort of characteristics as those that distinguish him to-day? Or, on the other hand, is he descended from a kangaroo-rat through the long lineage of the pithecanthropus, the ape-man, the man-ape, and so forth? And why stop at the kangaroo-rat—the first mammal to bring forth its young alive? Why not continue his lineage right back to the original bi-cellular organism—protoplasm? If these are our humble beginnings, what a progression to Man, so "noble in reason, infinite in faculty"!

Speculations about the development of life are very fascinating. I hold very strongly to belief in the survival of the fittest. Accepting this theory, you can explain most of the apparent inconsistencies that exist in the world. But I must admit that there is at least a possibility that genera are not changed by environment, time or circumstances. Perhaps they exist until they become unfit, when they vanish. The genus may remain in existence as a permanency till it ceases to become fit to survive, but the species most certainly alters. The only point in dispute is, therefore: do genera become altered by environment, etc.? Or do they exist unaltered till they become unfit, when they just vanish from this sublunary scene? However this may be, the broad principle of natural selection seems to me to be unshakably established.

May 20th, 1917.

We of the Tank Corps are having a pleasant and peaceful time in billets these days. Nature hereabouts is beginning to put on her best dress. It is some contrast between the vivid green foliage that one sees about here and the blasted trees and shell-shattered areas of the fighting zone. Only one thing indicating the living force of nature did I remark in that dreary countryside. This was the piping of a few birds now and again in the most unlikely places. Bar that, the battle zone is a blasted area, where the only difference between the seasons is noted by a change of temperature and the transformation of mud into dust. Meanwhile, I am having a very good time in billets; but I am looking forward eagerly to a real scrap with the Boche.

Thanks so much for the "Perfect Wagnerite." It is a treat to read about the "Ring" once more. I would give much to be able to hear it again.

To his Brother.

May 25th, 1917.

Just a line to wish you the best of luck in the Matric, and to express the hope that you will do really well. Put in all the work you can right up to within twenty-four hours of the start of the exam. and then take one day right off duty altogether. I am certain you will do us all infinite credit.

As to the Pater's remark that my recent letters have lacked detail, this is mainly due to the Censorship regulations, which I personally like to observe in the spirit as well as in the letter. Besides, a careless remark may be misconstrued, and it is difficult to say one thing without disclosing others that ought not to be revealed. Then there is the other consideration, that if I write fully you may perhaps get the "wind up" about my personal safety.

As regards photographs of myself, the regulations as to the possession of cameras are very stringent, and I really haven't the time or the inclination to go and get snapped by a civilian photographer out here. Again, entre nous, I regard photographs as trivialities—above all, those abominations "photos from the Front." A man who is really at the Front has neither time nor occasion to have photographs taken. No, if we must worry, let us worry first about the things that do matter.

I am frightfully sorry about the death of Felix Cohn. He was very cheerful when I saw him. We met twice in a certain large town which has of late figured prominently in the communiqués. Our talk was of Dulwich, the cases of Roederwald and Gropius, of Wagner and music; and, of course, of the War itself. He had then been "over the top" once, on the same day that I was. Felix said that he had had an easy time, as his lot took about seven lines of trenches in an hour. He had done considerable work as a translator of German documents and in the examination of captured Germans. I feel sincere sympathy for Mr. Cohn, but there is little use in words of condolence in the case of such tragedies. It is the price of the game.

To a large extent, the Pater's deductions about the work in Tanks on hot days are correct. Still, you can wear practically what you like when on duty, so one works in a shirt, shorts, puttees and boots. Although we are for the time being out of the battle line, I am really very busy; there is no slacking in the H.B.M.G.C.; but I am enjoying life hugely.

I manage to get a good deal of bathing these days, as there is a beautiful little river about a stone's throw away from our billets. By the way, I hope you are continuing as keen as ever on your swimming. As to leave, it has again vanished into the limbo of futurity. I am not particularly sorry. Leave is such a fleeting joy. Just as one is beginning to get into the way of things at home one has to go back again to the Front. I would much prefer to get the War completely over than get leave. After all, in my present job I am not worried by monotony, and I find the work of absorbing interest. Moreover, I have many friends in this battalion, and, above all, in our own Company, which contains some really splendid fellows. What I miss most is music.

June 10th, 1917.

There are few opportunities of writing, and the busy period is likely to last for a space, so I fear my correspondence for some time to come will be but scanty. Our northern push has been a first-rate success. The simultaneous explosion of those mines on the Messines Ridge must have created a terrific din, though I myself never heard a sound, being at the time wrapped in the sleep of the just.

I do hope things are going well in the old school, but I fear that in existing conditions it is a difficult period for all public schools. Owing to the War, boys leave so much younger now, and you do not have fellows of eighteen and nineteen to set the tone; and at that age they have unquestionably a far greater sense of responsibility than at sixteen or seventeen, or, I imagine, in the first years at the 'Varsity after leaving school. Ian Hay says somewhere that a senior boy at a public school is a far more serious and responsible being than an undergraduate. As there are no senior boys, it is more than ever incumbent upon the masters to keep up the esprit de corps of the school, and to help maintain the old standards in work and games.

Talking of masters, I much liked that poem entitled the "House-Master" in a recent number of Punch. It is just the case of Kittermaster, Nightingale, or Scottie, isn't it? I pray and trust that Dulwich in these difficult days will maintain its fine traditions. The welfare of the school is a very precious thing to me. I am inclined to think that my own six and a half years (1908-15) at Dulwich were about the time of its Augustan era. Among other things, this period included the year of the two Balliol scholars, the year of the crack "footer" team that never lost a match, and it was marked by a consistent average of first-class XV's throughout. It produced five "blues" and internationals, and would have produced many other "blues," and perhaps internationals, had it not been for the War—Evans, for example, as half-back, and Franklin or either of the Gilligans as three-quarters. It was also the period of A. E. R. Gilligan, unquestionably the finest all-round public-school athlete of the past decade; the period of the gymnastic records; of the sports records; with a consistent average of scholarships and other educational distinctions, such as Reynolds's B.A., direct from the school. Finally, this period was marked by a general spirit of keenness and industry, both in work and games, throughout the school. It was truly a glorious time. Oh, to have it all over again!

June 18th, 1917.

For over three weeks we have been working at exceptionally high pressure. Chief interest now centres in Flanders. Our branch did wonderfully well there, though the Boche apparently didn't offer serious resistance anywhere. I was inexpressibly shocked to hear of the death of that chivalrous Irishman, Willie Redmond. The fact that he was carried off the battlefield in an Ulster ambulance was a most touching episode, and should go far to reconcile the mutually antagonistic Irish parties. Such an incident is one of the compensations of War—few enough though they may be, Heaven knows! As it drags on, the War is becoming more and more mechanical. It is now like one enormous engine, with multitudinous cogwheels, each of which plays its part.

July 4th, 1917.

Looking at the Casualty Lists recording the death of so many brave men, and thinking of the grief in the homes, one feels that this War lies heavy on the world like a black horror. And yet I find myself ever more irresistibly (albeit wholly against my will and wishes) forced to the conclusion that War is a part of the order of things. Did you read the Russian Socialists' manifesto on the War? While, on the one hand, they ascribed responsibility for it to the capitalist classes in the warring countries, yet they admitted that Russia's withdrawal from the War would put the Boche section of capitalists in an advantageous position, and so decided to continue it. In other words, they admit that Democracy is powerless to avert War.

To my thinking, all History is made up of a series of movements like the swinging of a pendulum, from democracy (often via oligarchy) to imperialism, and from imperialism back to democracy. It seems to me that there is only one effective method of ensuring world-peace. It was the method of the Romans, by which one nation having fought its way to a position of undisputed and indisputable supremacy, imposed its will on the other nations of the world, and established the "Pax Romana." Similar efforts made by great men have proved a disastrous failure in the long run, though after meeting with temporary success. Rome's universal dominion did not endure long, and Napoleon's domination of the Continent was very brief. England seems to have almost succeeded up to date in her attempt to establish a "Pax Romana," for she gave order and peace to a large part of the world. England builded better than she knew, for many of the wise things she did were done under protest and from her devotion to the laissez-faire system. But this stupendous conflict shows that the "Pax Britannica" has not succeeded in averting wars.

I have heard it maintained that Karl Marx's theory is the solution of the question, namely, to ignore national boundaries and establish what he called "class-consciousness" among the wage-earners of the world. That is to say, Marx proposed to replace national consciousness—viz., the family, race or tribal consciousness that exists under the name of patriotism—by class-consciousness—viz., the consciousness of the workers in all countries that their interests are identical, the idea being that with the realisation of the unity of the workers wars would cease. To this theory there are, it seems to me, two fatal objections: (1) Even if this class-consciousness, or international solidarity of the workers, could be brought about, yet you would soon have the old division into capital and labour growing up again, through the ordinary laws of natural selection and because of the unequal capacity of different men to make their way in the world. (2) To my mind, the tribal instinct is much too strong to give way to a class-consciousness that ignores national boundaries and national rivalries.

Broadly speaking, the division of the world into nations is a natural division; and recent research all goes to confirm the theory that man never has "made good" as an individual. He begins his existence as a member of a family and of an association of families—thrown together (a) by kinship of blood or likeness of type; (b) by environment; (c) by chance or circumstance (as a rule for the purpose of self-protection). It is these enlarged families that are what we call to-day nations. I cannot see that it would be possible to replace the great and, on the whole, ennobling sentiment of patriotism by a broad international trades-unionism, which is practically what Marx proposes. And given the world as it is and animal and human nature what they are, I don't see how to prevent the interests of nations clashing. Ethically speaking, the trouble is that existence is a selfish thing. Stamp out competition—which, when you think of it, is not very far removed from war on a small scale—and experience shows that you stamp out the incentive to work and to progress. It is a melancholy conclusion to come to, but it's better to look facts in the face than to shirk them.

I had the experience the other day of visiting a portion of the country where the old battle front used to be, for two and a half years, before the Boches withdrew to their Hindenburg line. This section of ground is miles from the present front line, in fact you can only hear the guns rumbling in the distance. This whole countryside is a ruined waste—villages destroyed, weeds overgrowing everything; and no inhabitants except troops. It was strange to walk over the old trench systems and the broad green band between them (still thickly strewn with barbed wire) that used to be No Man's Land. One thought of the Englishmen, Frenchmen and Germans who sat for so long in those trenches, peering at each other furtively from time to time, each doing all he could to kill the enemy, and from time to time raiding one another's lines. I examined the deep, well-ordered Boche trenches. All dug-outs and practically everything of military value they had destroyed prior to their departure, but a few concrete and steel emplacements and snipers' posts still remained—beautifully made and all in commanding positions. The destruction of the villages, farms and lands by the Germans on their retirement was absolutely systematic—not a house or a structure of any kind left standing. This area depressed one much more than the ordinary zone near the lines, because it was all so deathly empty and so weirdly silent, like the ghost of some prehistoric world. Up in the battle line you have at any rate life and activity—but here nothing at all, simply destruction and a silent desert. I noticed in this area a French Military Cemetery with names dating back to 1914!

I am keeping splendidly well and am absolutely happy. By far the happiest time of my life since leaving school has been the past six months. My brother officers are a grand lot of fellows. Our own section of the Company is commanded by a young captain with the M.C., who has spent most of his life in the Colonies—a first-rate man he is. There are four other officers besides myself, all of them splendid comrades, especially one who was along with me in the old days back in April and whom I am proud to consider a bosom pal—a little Irishman, called O'Connor. He and I and poor old Jock Tarbet had always been the greatest of friends since my arrival in the Company. Alas! there are now only two of us left.

To his Brother.

July 27th, 1917.

I was charmed to get a letter from you to-day and to hear that things are progressing so well. It certainly was bad luck for you in the diving competition. However, better luck next time! I was delighted to get the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News with the photographs of the Dulwich College O.T.C. How it does warm my heart to see even a photograph of the old College and its surroundings! I note that, barring Scottie and poor Kitter, there isn't much change in the officers of the Corps. What excellent fellows they are! Give my love to them all.

Many thanks for the last parcel containing among many acceptable things a Gaboriau detective novel. I was very anxious to read this and compare it with good old Sherlock Holmes, whom I still worship as much as ever.

I have just completed two full continuous years of service in this country. Well, cheer-oh, old boy! Best luck and much love to you all!

P.S.—Have you ever reflected on the fact that, despite the horrors of the war, it is at least a big thing? I mean to say that in it one is brought face to face with realities. The follies, selfishness, luxury and general pettiness of the vile commercial sort of existence led by nine-tenths of the people of the world in peace-time are replaced in war by a savagery that is at least more honest and outspoken. Look at it this way: in peace-time one just lives one's own little life, engaged in trivialities, worrying about one's own comfort, about money matters, and all that sort of thing—just living for one's own self. What a sordid life it is! In war, on the other hand, even if you do get killed you only anticipate the inevitable by a few years in any case, and you have the satisfaction of knowing that you have "pegged out" in the attempt to help your country. You have, in fact, realised an ideal, which, as far as I can see, you very rarely do in ordinary life. The reason is that ordinary life runs on a commercial and selfish basis; if you want to "get on," as the saying is, you can't keep your hands clean.

Personally, I often rejoice that the War has come my way. It has made me realise what a petty thing life is. I think that the War has given to everyone a chance to "get out of himself," as I might say. Of course, the other side of the picture is bound to occur to the imagination. But there! I have never been one to take the more melancholy point of view when there's a silver lining in the cloud.

Certainly, speaking for myself, I can say that I have never in all my life experienced such a wild exhilaration as on the commencement of a big stunt, like the last April one for example. The excitement for the last half-hour or so before it is like nothing on earth. The only thing that compares with it are the few minutes before the start of a big school match. Well, cheer-oh!

This was our son's last letter. A few days later came a field postcard from him, bearing date July 30, the day before the battle in which he was killed. After that, silence—a silence that will remain unbroken this side of the grave.[Back to Contents]