The Project Gutenberg EBook of War Letters of a Public-School Boy, by
Henry Paul Mainwaring Jones
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Title: War Letters of a Public-School Boy
Author: Henry Paul Mainwaring Jones
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Language: English
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WAR LETTERS
OF A
PUBLIC-SCHOOL BOY
[Illustration: Lieut. Paul Jones.
(_From a Photograph by his Brother._)]
WAR LETTERS
OF A
PUBLIC-SCHOOL BOY
BY
PAUL JONES
Lieutenant of the Tank Corps
Scholar-Elect of Balliol College, Oxford: Head of the Modern Side
and Captain of Football, Dulwich College, 1914
WITH A MEMOIR BY HIS FATHER
HARRY JONES
_He was the very embodiment in himself of all that is best in the
public-school spirit, the very incarnation of self-sacrifice and
devotion._
A DULWICH MASTER.
WITH EIGHT PLATES
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
1918
CONTENTS
Page
Introductory 1
PART I. MEMOIR
Chapter
1. Childhood 9
2. At Dulwich College 14
3. Football 28
4. Cricket 37
5. Editor of _The Alleynian_ 41
6. Public Schools and the War 47
7. Tastes and Hobbies 52
8. Music 59
9. Literature and Ethics 72
10. History and Politics 85
11. In the Army 98
12. Personal Characteristics 110
PART II. WAR LETTERS
At a Home Port 121
With the 9th Cavalry Brigade 131
With a Supply Column 186
In the Somme Battlefield 202
With the 2nd Cavalry Brigade 212
With the Tank Corps 229
PART III
Epilogue 257
INDEX 277
LIST OF PLATES
H. P. M. Jones as 2nd Lieut. A.S.C. _Frontispiece_
_To face page_
Paul as an Infant 8
In his 6th Year 12
Winning the Mile, March 27, 1915 22
Dulwich College First XV, 1914-15 28
Dulwich Modern Side XV, 1914-15 32
Paul Jones in his 19th Year 110
As a Subaltern in the A.S.C. 120
WAR LETTERS
OF A
PUBLIC-SCHOOL BOY
INTRODUCTORY
_These laid the world away; poured out the red
Sweet wine of youth; gave up the years to be
Of work and joy ...
And those who would have been,
Their sons, they gave, their immortality._
RUPERT BROOKE.
In deciding to publish some of the letters written by the late
Lieutenant H. P. M. Jones during his twenty-seven months' service with
the British Army, accompanying them with a memoir, I was actuated by a
desire, first, to enshrine the memory of a singularly noble and
attractive personality; secondly, to describe a career which, though
tragically cut short, was yet rich in honourable achievement; thirdly,
to show the influence of the Great War on the mind of a public-school
boy of high intellectual gifts and sensitive honour, who had shone
with equal lustre as a scholar and as an athlete.
My choice of the title of this book was determined by the frequent
allusions made by my son in his war letters to his old school. He
spent six and a half years at Dulwich College. His career there was
gloriously happy and very distinguished. On the scholastic side, it
culminated in December, 1914, in the winning of a scholarship in
History and Modern Languages at Balliol College, Oxford; on the
athletic side, in his carrying off four silver cups at the Athletic
Sports in March, 1915, and tieing for the "Victor Ludorum" shield.
As a merry, light-hearted boy in his early years at Dulwich, his love
for the College was marked. It waxed with every term he spent within
its walls. After he left it, that love became a passion, sustained,
coloured and glorified by happy memories. Everybody and everything
connected with it shared in his glowing affection. Its welfare and
reputation were infinitely precious to him. Like a _leitmotif_ in a
musical composition, this love of Dulwich College recurs again and
again in his war letters. Every honour won by a Dulwich boy on the
battlefield, in scholarship or in athletics gave him exquisite
pleasure. The very last letter he wrote is irradiated with love of the
old school. When he joined the Tank Corps, stripping, as it were, for
the deadly combat, he sent to the depôt at Boulogne all his
impedimenta. But among the few cherished personal possessions that he
took with him into the zone of death were two photographs--one of the
College buildings, the other of the Playing Fields, this latter
depicting the cricket matches on Founder's Day. In death as in life
Dulwich was close to his heart.
Paul Jones was a young man of herculean strength--tall, muscular,
deep-chested and broad-shouldered. But he had one grave physical
defect. He was extremely short-sighted, had worn spectacles habitually
from his sixth year and was almost helpless without them. In fact, his
vision was not one-twelfth of normal. Much to his chagrin, his myopia
excluded him from the Infantry which he tried to enter in the spring
of 1915, and he had to put up with a Commission as a subaltern in the
Army Service Corps. His first three months in the Army were spent at a
home port, one of the chief depôts of supply for the British Army in
the field. Eagerly embracing the first chance to go abroad, he left
Southampton for Havre in the last week of July, 1915. A few days
after his arrival in France, he was appointed requisitioning officer
to the 9th Cavalry Brigade--a post for the duties of which he was
specially qualified by his excellent knowledge of the French language.
After 11 months in this employment, he was appointed to a Supply
Column, and subsequently, during the protracted battles on the Somme,
was in command of an ammunition working party. In October, 1916, he
was again appointed requisitioning officer, this time to the 2nd
Cavalry Brigade.
Though his duties were often laborious and exacting, his relative
freedom from peril and hardship while other men were facing death
every day in the trenches sorely troubled his conscience. Feeling that
he was not pulling his weight in the war and seeing no prospect of the
Cavalry going into action he resolved, at all hazards, to get into the
fighting line. After two abortive efforts to transfer from the A.S.C.,
he succeeded on the third attempt, and was appointed Lieutenant in the
Tank Corps, which he joined on 13th February, 1917. His elation at the
change was unbounded, and thenceforth his letters home sang with joy.
He took part as a Tank officer in the battle of Arras in April, and
when the great offensive was planned in Flanders he was shifted to
that sector. In the battle of 31st July, when advancing with his tank
north-east of Ypres, he was killed by a sniper's bullet. He seemed to
have had a premonition some days before that death might soon claim
him. In a letter to his brother, a Dulwich school boy, dated 27th
July, he wrote:
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 to the cloud.
The eagerness to subordinate self displayed in this letter was very
characteristic of its author. He was by nature altruistic, and this
propensity was intensified by his career at Dulwich and his experience
of athletics, both influences tending to merge the individual in the
whole and to subordinate self to the side. Death he had never feared,
and he dreaded it less than ever after his experience of campaigning.
His last letter shows with what serenity of mind he faced the ultimate
realities. He greeted the Unseen with a cheer.
His Commanding Officer, in a letter to us after Paul's death, wrote:
"No officer of mine was more popular. He was efficient, very keen, and
a most gallant gentleman. His crew loved him and would follow him
anywhere. He did not know what fear was."
From the crew of his Tank we received a very sympathetic letter which
among other things said:
"We all loved your son. He was the best officer in our company and
never will be replaced by one like him."
A gunner who served in the same Tank company testified his love and
admiration for our son and said that all the men would do anything for
him; even the roughest came under his spell.
A brother officer who served with Paul in the 2nd Cavalry Brigade, in
paying homage to his character, wrote: "He was a most interesting and
lovable companion and friend. He never seemed to think of himself at
all."
Among the many tributes that reached us were several from the masters,
old boys, and present boys at Dulwich College. Several of the writers
express the opinion that Paul Jones would, if he had lived, have done
great things. Mr. Gilkes, late headmaster of Dulwich, in a touching
letter, spoke of the nobility of his character and his high gifts; Mr.
Smith, the present headmaster, testified to his intellectual power,
energy and keenness; Mr. Joerg, master of the Modern Sixth, to his
sense of justice, loyalty and truth; Mr. Hope, master of the Classical
Sixth, to his high conception of duty, "his sterling qualities and
great ability." From the young man who was captain of the school when
Paul was head of the Modern Side came this testimony: "He was one of
the finest characters of my time at school; in me he inspired all the
highest feelings." One of his contemporaries in the Modern Sixth
wrote: "I owe more than I can express to your son's influence over me.
As long as I live I shall never forget him. His spirit is with me
always; for it is to him that I owe my first real insight into life."
A well-known Professor wrote: "I felt sure he was destined to do great
things; but he has done greater things; he has done the greatest
thing of all." Some of these letters are set forth in full in the
Epilogue.
Appended is a list of events in this rich and strenuous, albeit brief
life:
Born at 6 Cloudesdale Road, Balham, May 18th, 1896.
Entered Dulwich College, September, 1908.
Junior Scholarship, Dulwich College, June, 1909.
Senior Scholarship, Dulwich College, June, 1912.
Matriculated, with honours, London University, 1911.
Appointed Prefect at Dulwich, September, 1912.
Secretary and Treasurer of the College Magazine, 1913-14.
Editor of _The Alleynian_, 1914-15.
Head of the Modern Side, 1913-15.
Member of 1st XV, 1912-13, 1913-14, 1914-15.
Hon. Secretary 1st XV, 1913-14.
Captain of Football, 1914-15.
Won a Balliol Scholarship, December, 1914.
Tied for "Victor Ludorum" Shield, March, 1915.
Joined the Army, April, 1915.
Killed in Action, July 31st, 1917.
All that was mortal of Paul Jones is buried at a point west of
Zonnebeke, north-east of Ypres.
PART I
MEMOIR
[Illustration: Paul Jones as an Infant.]
CHAPTER I
CHILDHOOD
Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting:
The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar;
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness.
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, Who is our home.
WORDSWORTH: "INTIMATIONS OF IMMORTALITY."
Henry Paul Mainwaring Jones, born in London on May 18, 1896, was the
first child of Henry and Emily Margaret Jones. His grandfather, the
late Thomas Mainwaring, was in his day a leading figure in literary
and political circles in Carmarthenshire. My own people have been
associated with that county for centuries. For our son's christening a
vessel containing water drawn from the Pool of Bethesda was sent to us
by my old friend Sir John Foster Fraser, who in the spring of that
year passed through Palestine on his journey by bicycle round the
world.
At this time I was acting editor of _The Weekly Sun_, a journal then
in high repute. Later, at Mr. T. P. O'Connor's request, I took charge
of his evening newspaper, _The Sun_. After the purchase of _The Sun_
by a Conservative proprietary I severed my connection with it, and in
January, 1897, went to reside in Plymouth, having undertaken the
managing editorship of the _Western Daily Mercury_.
We remained at Plymouth more than seven years. Paul received his early
education at the Hoe Preparatory School in that town. He was a lively
and vigorous child overflowing with health. When he was in his sixth
year we discovered that he was shortsighted--a physical defect
inherited from me. The discovery caused us acute distress. I knew from
personal experience what a handicap and an embarrassment it is to be
afflicted with myopia. Regularly thenceforward his eyes had to be
examined by oculists. For several years, in fact until he was 16, the
myopia increased in degree, but we were comforted by successive
reports of different oculists that though myopic his eyes were very
strong, and that there was not a trace of disease in them, the defect
being solely one of structure which glasses would correct.
To Paul as a boy the habitual wearing of spectacles was at first very
irksome, but in time he adapted himself to them. Even defects have
their compensations. He was naturally rash and daring, and his short
sight undoubtedly acted as a check on an impetuous temperament. He
early gave signs of unusual intelligence. His activity of body was as
remarkable as his quickness of mind. At play and at work, with his
toys as with his books, he displayed the same intensity; he could do
nothing by halves. There never was a merrier boy. His vivacity and
energy and the gaiety of his spirit brightened everybody around him.
When he bounded or raced into a room he seemed to bring with him a
flood of sunshine.
From his childhood he gave evidences of an unselfish nature and a
desire to avoid giving trouble. He had his share of childish ailments,
but always made light of them and bore discomfort with a sunny
cheerfulness; his invariable reply, if he were ill and one asked how
he fared, was "Much better; I'm all right, thanks." Marked traits in
him as a small boy were truthfulness, generosity and sensitiveness. In
a varied experience of the world I have never met anyone in whom love
of truth was more deeply ingrained. On one occasion in his twelfth
year, when he was wrestling with an arithmetical problem--the only
branch of learning that ever gave him trouble was mathematics--and I
offered to help in its solution, he rejected my proffered aid with the
indignant remark: "Dad, how could I hand this prep. in as my own if
you had helped me to do it?" His generosity of spirit was displayed in
his eagerness to share his toys and books with other children; his
sensitiveness by his acute self-reproaches if he had been unkind to
anyone or had caused pain to his mother or his nurse.
Plymouth is a fine old city, beautifully situated and steeped in
historic memories. Our home was in Carlisle Avenue, just off the Hoe,
and on that spacious front Paul spent many happy hours as a small boy.
His young eyes gazed with fascination on the warships passing in and
out of Plymouth Sound, on the great passenger steamers lying at anchor
inside the Breakwater, or steaming up or down the Channel; on the
fishing fleet, with its brown sails, setting out to reap the harvest
of the sea; and when daylight faded in the short winter days he would
watch the Eddystone light--that diamond set in the forehead of
England--flashing its warning and greeting to "those who go down to
the sea in ships and do business in great waters." Always from the Hoe
there is something to captivate the eye--the wonder and beauty of the
unresting ocean; on the Cornish side the wooded slopes and green sward
of Mount Edgcumbe; on the Devon side Staddon Height, rising bold and
sheer from the water; looking landward the picturesque mass of houses,
towers, spires, turrets that is Plymouth, and far behind the outline
of the Dartmoor Hills. On the Hoe itself one's historic memories are
stirred by the Armada memorial and the Drake statue; close at hand
is the Citadel, the snout of guns showing through its embrasures; and
near by is Sutton Pool, whence the Pilgrim Fathers set forth in the
little _Mayflower_, carrying the English language and the principles
of civil and religious liberty across the stormy Atlantic.
All these sights and scenes and historical associations had their
influence on a bright and ardent boy in these impressionable years. He
soon got to be keenly interested in the Navy, amassed a surprising
amount of information about the types, engine strength and gun-power
of the principal warships, and found delight in making models of
cruisers and torpedo-boats. The Army in those days made no appeal to
him, though he was familiar with military sights and sounds--the
ceremonious displays that take place from time to time in a garrison
town, bugles blowing, the crunch of feet on the gravel in the barrack
square, and the tramp, tramp of marching men. It was to the Navy that
his heart went out. The natural set of his mind to the Navy was
encouraged by the accident that his first school prize was Southey's
"Life of Nelson"--a book that inspired him with hero-worship for the
illustrious admiral.
[Illustration: Paul in his 6th Year.]
On Saturday afternoons, whenever weather permitted, it was my custom
to roam with Paul over the pleasant environs of Plymouth. We would
visit Plympton or Plym Bridge, Roborough Down or Ivybridge, Tavistock
or Princetown, for a tramp on Dartmoor. Or we would go by water to
Newton, Yealmpton, Salcombe, or Calstock, or cross by the ferry to
Mount Edgcumbe for Penlee Point, with its marvellous seaward view. He
was an excellent walker and a most delightful little companion, keenly
interested in all he saw, and absorbing eagerly the beauty of earth
and sea and sky. No wonder he had happy memories of the West country
and that his mind retained clear images of Plymouth, the sea, and
gracious, beautiful Devon!
In the summer of 1904 I returned to London, having accepted an
appointment on the editorial staff of the _Daily Chronicle_. Paul, who
had left his first school with high commendation, was entered in
September at Brightlands Preparatory School, Dulwich Common. There he
remained four years, during which he made rapid strides in knowledge.
His first report said: "Is very keen and has brains above the average;
conduct and work excellent; extremely quick and a splendid worker.
Doing very well in Classics, and making marvellous progress in
French." From later reports the following expressions are taken: "Keen
in the extreme, and a hard worker; a marvellously retentive memory."
"His work has been superlatively good; conduct excellent; drawing
poor; written work marred by blots and smudges." "Developing very
much; thoroughly deserves his prizes; his work is neater; composition
and geography excellent; and even in mathematics no boy has improved
more; now plays very keenly in games." "He is making splendid progress
with his Greek; gets flustered in Mathematics when difficulties
appear." Paul won numerous prizes at Brightlands for Classics,
English, French, General Knowledge, Reading, Athletics, and was almost
invariably top of his form. He left the Preparatory School after the
summer term, 1908.
CHAPTER II
AT DULWICH COLLEGE
Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
BYRON: "CHILDE HAROLD."
Our son entered Dulwich College in September, 1908, when he was twelve
years of age, and remained a member of it until March, 1915. These six
and a half years had a powerful influence on the development of his
character, which flowered beautifully in this congenial atmosphere.
The most famous school in South London, Dulwich College has a notable
history. It was founded through the munificence of Edward Alleyn,
theatre-proprietor and actor, a contemporary, an acquaintance, and
probably a friend of Shakespeare. At the inaugural dinner in
September, 1619, to celebrate the foundation of Alleyn's "College of
God's gift," an illustrious company was present, including the Lord
Chancellor, Francis Bacon, "the greatest and the meanest of mankind,"
then at the summit of his fame but soon to fall in disgrace from his
high eminence; Inigo Jones, the famous architect, who in that year was
superintending the erection of the new Banqueting Hall in Whitehall;
and other distinguished men.
Since its foundation the College has passed through many vicissitudes.
With the development of building on the estate the income rapidly
expanded in the nineteenth century. In 1857 the charity was
reorganised and the trust varied by Act of Parliament. The present
school buildings were opened in 1870. The old college--including the
chapel (containing the pious founder's tomb), almshouses and the
offices of the estate governors--remains in Dulwich Village, a very
picturesque and well-preserved structure embowered in trees. At its
rear is the celebrated Picture Gallery, the nucleus of which was a
collection of pictures originally intended to grace the palace of
Stanislaus, the last King of Poland. The new college buildings have a
delightful situation. All around them are wide stretches of green
fields; here and there pleasant hedgerows; on the slopes of Sydenham
Hill charming woodlands, some of them a veritable sanctuary for
bird-life. In the spring-time the whole neighbourhood is musical with
the song of birds, and one is often thrilled by the rich haunting note
of the cuckoo. On the fringes of the playing-fields and round about
the boarding-houses are magnificent trees--chiefly elm, beech, birch
and chestnut, more rarely oak. In short, the surroundings of the
college have a thoroughly rural aspect. It is an ideal environment for
the training of boys. There is nothing in this sylvan and pastoral
beauty to suggest that we are in a great city.
Dulwich College is both a boarding school and a day school, the
boarders numbering about 120 and the day-boys about 550. When Paul
Jones entered the college as a day-boy in 1908 the Headmaster was Mr.
A. H. Gilkes, who retired after the summer term of 1914. Our son,
therefore, had the good fortune to come under the influence for six
years of one of the greatest public-school masters of our generation.
A former colleague of mine, Mr. Henry W. Nevinson, used to speak to me
in glowing terms of Mr. Gilkes, who was a master at Shrewsbury School
when he was a boy there, and I note that the Rev. Dr. Horton in his
"Autobiography" alludes to him as "the master at Shrewsbury to whom I
owed most." Undoubtedly Mr. Gilkes's best work was done as Headmaster
of Dulwich. The College has never known a greater head. Under him the
whole place was revivified. During his reign not only did a fine moral
tone characterise the school, but there was equal enthusiasm for work
and games. Thanks to a commanding personality, in which strength,
dignity and graciousness were subtly mingled, the influence of Mr.
Gilkes pervaded the whole school from the highest to the lowest forms.
Paul quickly recognised the nobility of the "Old Man," as he was
universally known to the boys. His affection for him amounted to
veneration, and however brief the leave he had from the Army he always
found time to pay his old headmaster a visit. On his part Mr. Gilkes
had a great regard for our son, whom with sure perception he described
as "fearless, strong and capable, with a heart as soft and kind as a
heart can be."
A new boy's early days in a public school are often trying. He is in a
strange world with its own laws and customs; and at the outset he has
to endure the scrutiny of curious and often hostile eyes. Our son's
marked idiosyncrasies, sturdy independence, fastidious refinement and
passion for work, singled him out from his fellows as an original. As
boys resent any deviation from the normal, he had a rough time until
he found his feet, and the experience was repeated as he moved up to
new forms. Not a word about all this escaped his lips at home; I have
ascertained it from others. Stories reached me of personal combats
from which he usually emerged the victor, and of one prolonged fight
with an older boy that had at last to be drawn. In the end Paul won
through; his pluck and strength compelled a respect that would have
been refused to his intellectual gifts. His tormentors realised that
he was not a mere "swot," that he had fists and knew how to use them.
Animosity was also disarmed by his chivalric spirit. He began his
career at Dulwich in the Classical Lower IV. In June, 1909, he won a
Junior Scholarship, which freed him from school fees for three years,
and in 1912 a Senior Scholarship of the same nature. When he was in
the Classical Lower Fifth (1909), his form master, Mr. H. V. Doulton
reported:
"He is a boy of great promise and will make an excellent scholar. He
has marked aptitude for classical work, and success in the great
public examinations may be predicted for him with absolute
confidence." "Painstaking and anxious to do well, but rather slow,"
was the verdict of his mathematical teacher.
In the summer term, 1910, Paul changed over from the Classical to the
Modern side of the school. I was averse to the change, and his
Classical form-master dissuaded him against it. But once Paul's mind
was made up nothing would break his resolution: he had a strong and
tenacious will. His main desire in transferring to the Modern side was
to study English literature and modern languages thoroughly. He never
regretted the change. As he grew older the firmer became his
conviction that Classics were overdone in the public schools. Even in
a school responsive to the spirit of the age like Dulwich, which has
Modern, Science, and Engineering sides, the primacy still belongs to
Classics, and the captaincy of the school is rigidly confined to boys
on the Classical side. My son believed that this bias for Classics was
bad educationally. He thought the prestige given to Greek and Latin as
compared with English Literature, Science, Modern Languages and
History was simply the outcome of a pedantic scholastic tradition,
which made for narrowness not for broad culture. With him it was not a
case of making a virtue of necessity, as he had real aptitude for
Greek and Latin. But he wanted the windows of our public schools to be
cleared of mediæval cobwebs and flung wide open to the fresh breezes
of the modern world.
In the report for the last term of 1910, when he was in the Modern
Upper V, he was described as "a very capable boy with great
abilities." The next report, when he was in the Remove, complained of
his "frivolous attitude" in the Physics classes, but "otherwise he has
worked well and made good progress." In June, 1911, he passed the
Senior School Examination with honours, winning distinction in
English, French and Latin--a remarkable achievement for a boy who had
only just turned fifteen. Owing to his being under age, the London
Matriculation certificate in respect of this examination was not
forwarded until he had reached sixteen. "Considering that he is only
fifteen," wrote Mr. J. A. Joerg, his form-master, "it should be deemed
a great honour for him to have passed in the First Division; it does
him much credit." Mr. Boon, who prepared him in mathematics, testified
that Paul had "worked with interest and energy" at what was for him an
uncongenial subject. He entered the Sixth Form in September, 1911,
being then fifteen and a half years old; the form average was
seventeen years. In 1912 his reports showed that he was making
all-round progress, and was applying himself with zest to a new
subject, Logic. In the summer term, 1913, he was first in form
order--1st in English, 2nd in Latin, 3rd in French, 4th in German.
Though specialising in History, he retained his position as head of
the Modern side until he left school, with one interval in the summer
term of 1914, when he had to take second place, recovering the
headship next term. In order to have a clear road to Oxford
University, he qualified in Greek at the London Matriculation
Examination, January, 1914. During his Dulwich career he won many
prizes, most of which took the form of historical works. As will
appear later, he played as whole-heartedly in games as he worked at
his books.
History was a subject to which he was instinctively drawn, and in 1913
he began preparing definitely for an Oxford University scholarship. He
read thoroughly and covered a wide field. In addition to the
systematic study of History, he touched the fringes of philosophy and
political economy. He was helped in his studies by a very retentive
memory. One of his schoolfellows said to me, "Paul has only to read a
book once and it is for ever imprinted on his mind." Among the
historical writers whom he read during his eighteen months'
preparation were: Gibbon, Carlyle, Macaulay, Hallam, Guizot, Michelet,
Thiers, Bluntschli, Maine, Froude, Bagehot, Seeley, Maitland, Stubbs,
Gardiner, Acton, John Morley, Bryce, Dicey, Tout, Mahan, Holland Rose,
G. M. Trevelyan, Hilaire Belloc and H. W. C. Davis. Two recent books
that gave him special pleasure were Mr. G. P. Gooch's masterly
"History of Historians" and Mr. F. S. Marvin's entrancing little work
"The Living Past."
His hard reading was crowned in December, 1914, by a considerable
achievement, for he won the coveted Brakenbury Scholarship in History
and Modern Languages at Balliol College, Oxford. This scholarship,
worth £80 per annum, is tenable for four years; to it subsequently
Dulwich College added an exhibition of the annual value of £20. He was
the first Balliol scholar in history from Dulwich. Not at all
confident that he had won the Brakenbury, he went up to Oxford a
second time, while the result of the Balliol examination was still
unknown, to try for a less exacting scholarship. Happily there was no
necessity for him to undergo this second test, as he found on his
arrival at Oxford that his name had just been posted as a Brakenbury
scholar.
When he went up, in the last week in November, 1914, for examination
at Balliol College, it was his first visit to Oxford. Short as was
his stay within its precincts, it was long enough for the glamour and
beauty of the venerable university to steal into his soul; and the
spell of it remained with him as a permanent possession. In spite of
examination anxieties he had a pleasant time at Oxford, as the
following letter shows:
THE OLD PARSONAGE,
OXFORD,
_December 1st_, 1914.
Everything going as well as could be anticipated. But I don't
expect to win the Brakenbury, so there can't be much of a
disappointment. I have done one paper already, the
essay--subject, "A Nation's character as expressed in its Art and
Literature." I think I got on fairly well. The papers end by
Thursday afternoon. I was round with all the Dulwich fellows in
Wetenhall's rooms at Worcester College last night, and had a
great time. Cartwright came across, and a lot of other O.A.'s.
To-night I am dining with Gover, an old friend of mine, in hall
at Balliol, and going on to his rooms afterwards. I am booked for
brekker and dinner to-morrow. Dulwich is a magic name here; if
you add "captain of football" all doors fly open to you.
Altogether I don't feel I am up for a scholarship at all--a good
thing, for it prevents my getting nervous.
Of the many congratulations on his success in winning a Balliol
scholarship, none granted him more than a letter from an "Old
Alleynian," who wrote:
My very best congratters on the fresh laurel with which you have
adorned your crown of victory. A Balliol scholarship for four
years, and this to have been secured by the captain of a public
school 1st XV that has won four out of its five great school
matches! My dear Paul, you have done splendidly. I don't remember
during my time such a happy combination of work and play.
Mr. Llewelyn Williams, K.C., M.P., himself an Oxford history scholar,
wrote: "Paul's brilliant success warmed even my old heart. Tell him
from me I hope when he is a Don he will write the History of Wales."
Paul was appointed a prefect at Dulwich in 1912. He participated in
every phase of school life and was devoted to athletics. In cricket he
was quick and adroit as a fielder, but he had no skill either as a
batsman--doubtless owing to his visual defect--or as a bowler. Very
fond of swimming, he was a regular visitor to the college swimming
bath. He had great endurance in the water, but lacked speed, and much
to his disappointment failed to get his swimming colours. His love of
swimming never waned, and in the sea he would swim long distances.
Swimming brought him an ecstasy of physical and moral exhilaration. He
could say with Byron:
I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward.
Lawn tennis is discouraged at Dulwich, but Paul became adept in this
pastime, thanks to games on the lawn attached to our house. In the
whole range of athletics nothing gave him so much pleasure and
satisfaction as Rugby football. Too massive in build to be a swift
runner, and unable owing to his defective vision to give or take
"passes" with quick precision, he was not suited to the three-quarter
line; but as a forward he made a reputation second to none of his
contemporaries in public-school football. He played for the College
1st XV in three successive seasons, during which he was not once
"crocked," nor did he miss a single match. His success in football was
an illustration of how a resolute will can triumph over a hampering
physical defect.
In the autumn of 1913 he was offered a house scholarship, which would
have meant residence in one of the boarding-houses. Without
hesitation he declined what was at once an honour and a privilege,
preferring to remain a day-boy. He dearly loved his home, and his
opinion was that the advantages of public-school training were much
enhanced when combined with home life. His custom was to ride to the
College on his bicycle in the morning, stay there for dinner and
return home in the evening between 6 and 7 o'clock, the hours
following afternoon school being devoted to games, the gymnasium, or
some other form of physical training.
In 1914 he was elected Captain of the 1st XV. No distinction he ever
won--and there were many--gratified him more. In a great public school
the duties that devolve on a captain of football are laborious and
responsible. They entail many hours of work weekly, the careful
compilation of lists of players for the numerous school teams, a
vigilant oversight of training and a watchful eye for budding talent.
But Paul loved the work, and love lightens labour. He threw himself
into the duties with all the enthusiasm of his nature. The amount of
time he was devoting to football in September and October made me
doubtful of his ability to carry off a Balliol scholarship in
December. Accordingly I suggested that he might relinquish the
captaincy temporarily, say for a month, so as to allow him freedom to
concentrate on his history reading before the examination. He would
not listen to the suggestion. He said he meant to fulfil the duties of
captain to the uttermost. If this jeopardised his chances for a
scholarship he would be sorry, but whatever the cost he was not going
to fall short in his work as captain of football. In the result he
brought off the double event, winning the scholarship and leading his
team with shining success.
[Illustration: Winning the Mile, March 27, 1915.]
His athletic career culminated at the school sports on March 27,
1915, when he won the mile flat race, the half-mile, and the
steeplechase, and was awarded the silver cup for the best forward in
the 1st XV. He tied for the "Victor Ludorum" shield with his friend
S. J. Hannaford (a versatile athlete reported missing in France,
September, 1917). These successes at the sports were a dazzling
finish to Paul's school days. He bore them, like his scholastic
triumphs, very modestly, but in his heart he was proud and happy. It
was not his nature to plume himself on any achievement. Only once do
I remember his betraying pride in what he had accomplished. It is
the custom in Dulwich to inscribe on the walls of the great hall the
names of boys who distinguish themselves on entering or leaving the
Universities and the Army. In due time the ten Oxford scholars of
1914 were walled. During his first leave from the Army Paul
revisited the old school, and I recollect his telling me that the
names of those who had won scholarships at Oxford had been duly
painted in hall. "My name is placed first," he said with a smile;
adding with emphasis, "and so it ought to be."
It was his hope that his own success would give a stimulus to the
study of history at Dulwich. In 1916, when he learnt that another
Dulwich boy was thinking of preparing for a Balliol scholarship in
history, he wrote to me from France, requesting that his notes,
memoranda, essays and books should be placed at the student's
disposal. He added in reference to a matter on which I had asked his
opinion:
The education you get from a correspondence course is of a kind
which, while useful for acquiring a knowledge of facts, is of
very little value in the development of that culture which is the
first and essential element in obtaining a 'Varsity--above all, a
Balliol--scholarship. If a boy decides to go in for a history
scholarship, the Dulwich authorities ought to provide him with
adequate tutorship as part of his school training. Were the boy
to go to an outside institution, the school would lose part of
the honour gained by the winning of the scholarship. But
remember that no one would have the ghost of a chance for an
Oxford scholarship on the knowledge gained from a correspondence
course taken by itself. Finally, any honour gained by a Dulwich
boy ought to redound to the credit of Dulwich; the school alone
should have the credit of the achievements of its members.
From masters and boys I learnt that my son's influence was specially
marked in his last two years at the College. It was an influence that
was always thrown on the side of what was lovely, pure and of good
report. Frank, free-spirited, open-hearted, his buoyancy and his rich
capacity for laughter diffused an atmosphere of cheerfulness; his
unflagging enthusiasm stimulated interest in athletics; his love of
learning and passion for work were contagious; his high ideals of
conduct helped to set the tone in morals and manners. The qualities he
most prized in boys were courage, purity, veracity. No one loved books
more, but book-learning by itself he placed low on the list. To use
his own words: "It is character and personality that tell." Purity in
deed and thought was with him a constant aspiration. He reverenced the
body as the temple of the Holy Spirit. From the ordeal of the
difficult years between 14 and 16 he emerged like refined gold. A boy
he was
With rosy cheeks
Angelical, keen eye, courageous look,
And conscious step of purity and pride.
His serene and radiant air was witness to a soul at peace with itself.
Things coarse and impure fled from his presence. It was the union in
him of moral elevation with physical courage that explained the secret
of his remarkable influence in school.
At Dulwich the school year is full and various. In addition to the
acquisition of knowledge there is much else to engage a boy's
interest--cricket, football, fives, swimming, the gymnasium, athletic
competitions, the choir; and then those red-letter days--Founder's
Day, with its Greek, French or German play, the Prize Distribution and
the Concerts. Our son bore his share in every phase of this varied
life. He had a warm corner in his heart for the College Mission, which
maintains a home in Walworth for boys without friends or relatives and
enables them to be trained as skilled artisans. The home has
accommodation for twenty-one boys; a married couple look after the
house work, and two old Alleynians are in residence. He never failed
after he left the College to send an annual subscription anonymously
to the Mission funds. An enthusiastic lover of music, he was for years
in the College Choir, singing latterly with the basses.
At the 1913 Founder's Day celebration Paul took a subsidiary part,
that of Fitzwater, in a scene from Shakespeare's _Richard II_, on
which occasion the King was brilliantly impersonated by E. F. Clarke
(killed in action, April, 1917). On the same occasion Paul was one of
the voyageurs in the scenes from _Le Voyage de Monsieur Perrichon_,
his amusing by-play in that modest rôle sending the junior school into
roars of laughter. At the 1914 celebration of Founder's Day he took
the part of Fluellen in a scene from _Henry V_, and sustained a very
different rôle, that of Karl der Sieberite, in a scene from Schiller's
_Jungfrau von Orleans_. Reviewing the performances, _The Alleynian_
said of the former: "In this piece Jones was the comedian. He was
clumsy and not quite at home on the boards, but his Welsh was
delightful."
Of his performances as Charles VII in Schiller's play the critic
wrote:
The scene chosen is one of the most powerful scenes in the play.
It is that in which the King, sceptical of the divine
inspiration of the Maid, determines to test her by substituting a
courtier upon his throne.... When she is not only not deceived,
but proceeds also to interpret many of the King's innermost
thoughts, the surprise of the monarch, passing into hushed
reverence, calls for a studied piece of careful acting. H. P. M.
Jones sustained this part, and sustained it well. He gave it the
dignity which it needed, and if his natural gift of physical
stature helped him somewhat, so also did the smooth diction and
easy repose which he had evidently been at pains to acquire.
Of the performance as a whole: "It says a very great deal for the
German in the upper part of the school, that a scene can be enacted in
which both accent and acting can reach so high a level."
The school year at Dulwich always closes with a concert at which the
music, thanks to the competent leadership of Mr. H. V. Doulton, is of
a high order. The solos of the two school songs on 19th December,
1914, were sung by H. P. M. Jones and H. Edkins, both of them Oxford
scholars who have since been killed in action. Edkins, who had a rich
baritone voice, sang the song in praise of Edward Alleyn, the pious
founder. My son, as captain of football, sang the football song, the
first and last verses of which are appended:
Rain and wind and hidden sun,
Wild November weather,
Muddy field and leafless tree
Bare of fur or feather.
Sweeps there be who scorn the game,
On them tons of soot fall!
All Alleynians here declare
Nought like Rugby football.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Broken heads and bleeding shins!
What's the cause for sorrow?
Shut your mouth and grin the more,
Plaster-time to-morrow.
Young or old this shall remain
Still your favourite story:
Fifteen fellows fighting-full,
Out for death or glory.
After each stanza the choir and the whole school rolled in with the
chorus, proclaiming in stentorian voices that "the Blue and Black"
(these being the Dulwich football colours) shall win the day. My wife
and I were present at this concert, and there is a vivid image before
us of our son, a tall, powerful figure in evening dress, standing on
the platform in front of the choir, his eager face now following the
conductor's bâton, now glancing at the music-score, now looking in his
forthright way at the audience. The reception that greeted him when he
stepped on to the platform must have thrilled every fibre of his
being; another rapturous outburst of cheers acclaimed him as he
retired to his place in the choir. Those cheers, loud, shrill and
clear, with that poignant note that there often is in boyish voices,
still resound in our ears. We had heard that Paul was popular at
Dulwich: we had ocular and audible testimony of it on this
unforgettable night. Those had not exaggerated who told us that he was
the hero of the school.
CHAPTER III
FOOTBALL
Play it long and play it hard
Till the game is ended.
DULWICH FOOTBALL SONG.
The earliest reference to Paul as a footballer appears in _The
Alleynian's_ report of a match, "Boarders v. School," played on
September 25, 1912, when the School won by 32 points to 21. "Jones,"
says the reporter, "presented an awesome sight." His first appearance
in the 1st XV was against London Hospitals "A" in October. Singling
him out for honourable mention, the critic says: "Jones displayed any
amount of go." He was awarded his 1st XV colours after the match
against Bedford School at Bedford in November. In this hard-fought
game Bedford led at half-time by 15 points to 5, and 25 minutes before
the close of play the score was in Bedford's favour by 28 to 5. Then,
by a wonderful rally, Dulwich scored 23 points in almost as many
minutes, the match finally being drawn 28-28. In _The Alleynian_ for
February, 1913, Paul is thus described in the article, "First XV
Characters":
A young, heavy and extremely energetic forward. Puts all he knows
into his play, and is a great worker in the scrum. In the loose,
however, a lot of his energy is somewhat misdirected, and he has
an alarming tendency for getting off-side.
[Illustration: Dulwich College 1st XV, 1914-15, of which Paul Jones
was Captain.
_From left to right, top Row_: H. C. Jensen, M. Z. Ariffin, E. A. F.
Hawke, R. L. Paton, J. Paget, J. F. G. Schlund, J. M. Cat, G. H.
Gilkes. _Middle Row_: A. H. H. Gilligan, L. W. Franklin, H. P. M.
Jones, L. Minot, R. S. Hellier. _On Ground_: C. A. R. Hoggan, S. H.
Killick.]
In the 1913-14 season, a daily newspaper, describing the hard-fought
Sherborne _v._ Dulwich match, said: "H. P. M. Jones worked like a
Trojan for the losers, his Pillmanesque hair being seen in the
thick of everything." That season Paul had charge of the Junior games.
He had a way with small boys, and soon fired them with his own zeal.
In an article in _The Alleynian_ for December, 1913, giving counsel to
the juniors, he wrote:
You must not gas so much on the field, but play the game as hard
as it can be played. Except in rare circumstances, the only
players who are to shout are the captain, the scrum-half, and the
leader of the forwards. Forwards must learn to pack low and shove
straight and hard. Three-quarters must remember not to run across
too much, and never to pass the ball when standing still.
There are other useful hints. Looking upon the junior games as the
seed-bed for future crops of 1st XV players, he devoted a great deal
of time and patience to teaching the youngsters how to play. In
addition to matches with other schools and clubs, a feature of the
football season at Dulwich are the side-games. Paul played in three
seasons for the Modern Sixth and Remove, and was captain of the
victorious team in the side-contests, 1914-15. House matches of which
he was only a spectator he often reported for _The Alleynian_.
It was at a meeting of the Field Sports Board on July 28, 1914, that
Paul Jones was elected captain of the 1st XV, being proposed by A. W.
Fischer and seconded by A. E. R. Gilligan. At the same meeting R. B.
B. Jones was elected captain of the gymnasium. Fischer, Basil Jones
and my son have been killed in the War. In a report of a meeting of
the Field Sports Board held on September 29 appears the following: "H.
P. M. Jones then submitted a code of rules to regulate the management
of the school games. These were unanimously approved." In a survey of
the prospects of the 1914-15 football season which appeared in the
October _Alleynian_, Paul paid tribute to the magnificent work done
for football in Dulwich by one of the masters, Mr. W. D. Gibbon, an
old International, who joined the Army shortly after the outbreak of
war and is now Lieutenant-Colonel. Paul wrote:
The loss of Mr. Gibbon is a staggering-blow. He it is who, more
than anyone, has given us the very high place we hold among
Rugby-playing schools. To lose his services is disastrous. Still,
it would be shameful to grouse over his departure considering
that he goes to serve his country. Rather let us congratulate him
on his captaincy in the Worcestershires.
A reformer by temperament, my son was determined to improve the
forward play during his captaincy, as he believed that not enough
attention had been given to the forwards for several seasons at
Dulwich. It was inevitable that the War would derange the football
programme, but though there would be few club matches, the new captain
thought that the "school games" might benefit from this very lack.
Anyhow it was "a unique chance to build them up on a sound basis." He
believed in doing everything to encourage in-school football, meaning
by that the half-holiday games, the side-matches, cup matches, and
such games as Prefects v. School, Boarders v. School, the House
matches, etc. He realised that the first three XV's only include 45
boys, and that there were 600 others whose claims to consideration
were equally great. Moreover, good in-school football would produce a
succession of players for the first XV. Having all this in mind, in
his article in _The Alleynian_ he exhorted the game captains to instil
"a general keenness" and to do their duty unselfishly and
enthusiastically. His survey then proceeds:
Now as to the teams. In the first place, let it be said at once
that the outsides are going to be fine this year. Franklin and A.
H. H. Gilligan, the "star" wings of last year's team, and Minôt,
undoubtedly the best of the centres, remain to us. Franklin is
faster than of yore, and still goes down the right touch-line
like a miniature thunderbolt, brushing aside the opposition like
so many flies. If he is the thunderbolt, Gilligan, on the other
wing, is undoubtedly the "greased lightning"; we have not seen so
fast a school wing for years, and his newly acquired swerve makes
him all the more dangerous. Minôt has quite mastered the art of
passing; we have rarely seen "transfers" made so accurately and
so artistically. He can cut through when required, and altogether
should make Gilligan a splendid partner. All these three defend
stoutly. We are also fortunate in retaining the services of Paton
(2nd XV) for the other centre position; he only wants a little
more judgment to be quite first-class.
At half, Evans and A. E. R. Gilligan have left a terrible gap.
But again fortune is on our side, as we have in Killick (2nd XV)
a worthy successor to the latter--very quick off the mark, and an
excellent giver and taker of passes; while Jensen (2nd XV) shows
promise of becoming a really "class" scrum worker. At present his
chief fault is inaccuracy of direction, but that will soon
vanish. Both these halves are excellent in defence. Again, Hooker
(3rd XV) is a very useful scrum half, but slow in attack. For the
full-back position we have that wily old veteran Ariffin (2nd
XV), whose kicking has distinctly improved since last year. He
tackles as well as ever. Sellick (3rd XV) is a useful back, but
weak in defence.
So, gentlemen, outside the scrum all is well. But what of the
scrum itself? This, we don't deny, is going to be a difficult
problem. It is not that there isn't plenty of good stuff. Hellier
and Gilkes (2nd XV), Hoggan, Schlund, Cat and Fischer (all 3rd
XV)--here is the nucleus of a fine pack, not to mention a host of
hefty and keen fellows as yet without colours. But the difficulty
lies in the traditions of the past. Since 1912, our forwards have
steadily deteriorated as our backs have got better and better. It
was always the way last year that, if we had a ground wet to any
degree, we were as good as beaten--look at the Easter term, for
example. Also, the helplessness of the forwards threw a lot too
much work on the outsides. This has got to be stopped. You can't
always get weather to suit your team's outsides. We must learn
how to play a forward game when it's necessary. We must learn
to screw, to wheel, to shove and to rush. We repeat, the
individuals are there, but they have to be trained into a
combination. The outsides are so brilliant that they can be
trusted faithfully to fulfil the work of passing and open-side
attack.
Our chief efforts this year must be directed to the training of
the forwards: (1) to play a truer forward game; (2) and not to
forget how to attack and adopt open-side tactics when necessary.
Once the teams have re-learnt these lessons, the games will
automatically do so. In the days of Jordan, Mackinnon and Green
we won as many matches by our forwards as by our outsides. It is
fatuous to develop one division at the expense of the other. The
outsides are going this season to receive all possible attention,
_but so are the forwards_.
Paul carried out thoroughly the policy here foreshadowed. As a
consequence forward play at Dulwich was absolutely transformed, and
the impulse he gave to it survives to this day. Under his captaincy
the 1st XV had a brilliantly successful season, winning four out of
five of the great school matches, viz.:
Dulwich v. Merchant Taylors; won 6 points to 5.
" v. Sherborne, won 39 points to 9.
" v. St. Paul's, lost 16 points to 28.
" v. Bedford, won 30 points to 16.
" v. Haileybury, won 36 points to 2.
With the exception of 1909-10, when Dulwich won all its school
matches, this 1914-15 record during Paul's captaincy was the best for
a dozen years. Of the football in the school generally the captain,
writing in the December _Alleynian_, said: "Such a uniform standard of
keenness has rarely been witnessed. For this I have to thank the Games
Captains most sincerely. They have done their part most loyally and
unselfishly. The next few years will prove the value of their work."
[Illustration: Dulwich Modern Side XV, 1914-15, Captained by Paul
Jones.
_From left to right, Top Row_: C. F. N. Ambrose, W. B. Jellett, B. A.
J. Mills, G. Walker, C. R. Mountain. _Second Row_, J. C. Corrie, R. W.
Mills, G. Roederwald, L. Paton, H. V. Morlock. Seated: R. L. Paton, A.
H. H. Gilligan, H. P. M. Jones, C. A. R. Hoggan, J. F. G. Schlund. _On
Ground_: L. A. Hotchkiss, R. A. Mayne.]
In a review of the 1st XV characters in _The Alleynian_ for February,
1915, appeared the following:
H. P. M. Jones (captain) (1912-13-14-15) (12 st. 6 lb.).
Forward.--One of the keenest captains Dulwich has ever produced.
An untiring and zealous worker both in the game and organisation,
from which he has produced one of the finest packs Dulwich has
seen in recent years. He uses every ounce of his weight to
advantage, and his knowledge of the game is beyond reproach. He
is sound in defence, and in the open wherever the ball is you
will find him. We shall all greatly miss him, but will remember
that his valuable work for the forwards will mean much to the
school in the future. (Forward Challenge Cup.)
On February 6 he had the gratification of avenging the defeat by St.
Paul's in the previous November, Dulwich this time being victorious
over the Paulines by 39 to _nil_. With this victory he regarded his
work as captain of football finished, though he played in the
side-games until March. In spite of the difficulties caused by the
war, the season had been a triumphant one. An old member of the 1st
XV, Lieut. A. E. R. Gilligan, writing from his regiment, congratulated
Paul on "the magnificent record of the team--a record which reflects
the utmost credit on its captain. Without your keenness and energy the
side would have been a poor one." Lieut. Gilligan added: "To have
beaten St. Paul's was absolutely a crowning effort. All the 'O.A.'s'
here are overjoyed at our victory. It is simply splendid, and makes up
for the defeat of last term. Best congratulations to all the gallant
team and to its victorious captain."
Paul's football enthusiasm inspired him on one occasion to attempt a
metrical description of a match between Bedford and Dulwich. The
nature of this poetical effusion may be gauged by the following
quotations:
In November, month of drabness,
Month of mud and month of wetness,
Came the red-shirted Bedfordians,
Came the lusty Midland schoolmen,
Skilled in every wile of football,
Swift to run, adept to collar,
'Gainst the Blue-and-Blacks to battle.
Know ye that this famous contest
Has from age to age endured:
Thirty years and more it's lasted
'Twixt Bedfordians and Dulwich,
'Twixt the Midlanders and Southrons.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Behold the game now well in progress;
See the dashing Dulwich outsides,
Swift as leopards, brave as lions,
Down the field come running strongly--
See the fleet right-wing three-quarter
Darting through the ranks of Bedford,
Handing off his fierce opponents,
Scoring now 'mid deaf'ning uproar,
'Mid wild shouts of "Well played, Dulwich!"
'Mid the sweetest of confusion.
He followed with close attention the exploits of the chief Rugby
clubs, especially those hailing from South Wales. His sympathies were
with Wales in the international games. These international matches
enthralled him, and he was a spectator whenever possible of those that
were played in the vicinity of London. One of his ambitions was some
day to don the scarlet jersey with the Prince of Wales's plume and
play for Wales in international contests. To achieve that distinction
and to win his football "blue" for Oxford--these were cherished
ambitions which but for the War would doubtless have been realised.
In the spring of 1915, interviewed by a London football editor, he
explained how Dulwich had built up its great football reputation. Much
of the success he attributed to the system of training.
We do not divide the school into so many "houses," as they do
elsewhere, but into "games." We have no fewer than eight senior
games, which means eight groups of players, about thirty in each
group; and these are selected so that boys of about the same age
and weight will meet each other. When we have arranged our games,
one of the Colours--1st XV men--is told off to coach. Sometimes
we play as many as nine XV's in one day. With the first team we
practise what are called "set-pieces." One day we will take the
forwards, get the scrum properly formed, practise hooking,
heeling and screwing. We have devoted a lot of attention to
wheeling. We also practise hand-to-hand passing among the
forwards.
My son held that brain as well as muscle was needed in athletics.
"Rugby football," he wrote, "tends more and more to become an ideal
combination of scientific actions. Haphazard, clumsy battering is
useless. Your footballer has to be a thinking and a reasoning factor."
He believed that games properly played are invaluable as a training in
character. "They make," he wrote, "not only for courage and
unselfishness, but also for clean living: a sportsman dare not indulge
in excesses."
Nobody could have found greater happiness in a game of football than
did Paul Jones. He revelled in a hard-fought match and seemed
impervious to knocks and bruises. One of his merits as a captain was
that he never lost heart; he would fight doggedly to the last, even
against adverse conditions. He knew, too, how to adapt his tactics
skilfully to varying conditions of play. It was an intoxicating moment
after a victory, for the boys would sweep into the field of play and
carry the captain in triumph shoulder-high from the arena. In
public-school football no animosities are left, no matter how keenly
contested the game. Victor and vanquished dine together after the
match, the best of friends, and the home team escort their visitors to
the railway station. How well I recollect Paul coming home on Saturday
evenings about eight o'clock after a victorious match; his firm, quick
step, and the eager joy that shone in his face! His mother and I
often watched the games at Dulwich, and he would go over every phase
of the play with us, inviting comments and contributing his own. He
was always severe in his condemnation of anything in the shape of
"gallery play," his constant maxim being that the player should
subordinate himself entirely to the side. It was his conviction that
unselfishness was stimulated by football. The amateur athlete, who
forgot himself in the team of which he was a part, and who played and
worked hard for the honour of the game, and without thought of
personal advantage or reward, was the god of his idolatry. Fond as he
was of sport, and highly as he appreciated it as a discipline for
character, he held that the cult of athletics could be overdone, and
that to make a business of what should only be a pastime was a grave
blunder. In an essay which he wrote on "Sport," he characterises the
professional athlete as a man who is engaged "in the vilest of
trades." "Life," he wrote, "is made up of varied interests, and man
has serious work to do in the world. Excess in sport--or in anything
else--puts the notes of the great common chord of life out of
harmony."
CHAPTER IV
CRICKET
_Your cricketer, right English to the core,
Still loves the man best he has licked before._
TOM TAYLOR in _Punch_.
Though, as has been said, Paul had no skill in cricket, he was jealous
of the cricket reputation of the College. He knew the game thoroughly.
His cricket "Bible," if I may use the expression, was Prince
Ranjitsinhji's excellent "Jubilee Book of Cricket." He often
accompanied the 1st XI for out-of-town matches, to act as scorer or
reporter. His cricket reports in _The Alleynian_ make racy reading.
The following is taken from a picturesquely-written account of a
victory over Brighton at Brighton in May, 1914:
When A. E. R. Gilligan appeared at the wicket things became more
than merry. He was in fine fettle, and from the first made light
of the bowling, hitting all round the wicket with immense vigour.
The gem of the day was his treatment of D. S. Johnson's fifth
over. We seem to recollect reading in our childhood a work of P.
G. Wodehouse's, in which he remarks that "when a slow bowler
begins to bowl fast, it is as well to be batting if you can
manage it." Well, Johnson was--we think--originally a slow
bowler, and he tried to bowl fast. The result was that traffic
had to be suspended on the road running past the school. First
Franklin--who had replaced Shirley, brilliantly caught at
point--smote Johnson for a three. This brought Gilligan to the
batting end, and a horse passing outside the ground nearly had
its life cut short. The next ball just missed the railings, and
the next almost smashed the fanlight in a house across the road.
It was then that the police suspended the traffic. Gilligan
finally played inside a good length ball, and was most
unfortunately bowled when within two of his century. Hard luck!
He had been missed twice--once, we admit, badly--but on the whole
his smiting was admirably timed and placed. He hit three sixes
and fifteen fours. Franklin had meanwhile been busy, and scored
22, with three fours. Finally, Brown and Wood put on some 30
runs, the former being not out for a useful 16, and the latter
getting 13. Our score was 326 for eight when Gilligan declared.
Appended is a passage from his account of the match with Bedford on
June 6 (in which Dulwich were victorious by 81 runs), describing a
record achievement by A. H. H. Gilligan, one of three brothers who
distinguished themselves in athletics in Dulwich:
A. H. H. Gilligan was now well over the 170 mark, and had
therefore beaten the previous school record for the highest
score. At 190, however, he just touched a short fast ball from
Cameron, and put the ball into the hands of Dix at second slip:
283-9-190. The innings closed for 284 in the next over, Paton
being run out. To score 190 out of 284 is an almost superhuman
performance. For a man who was only playing his second match this
season it was a positively marvellous achievement. Gilligan's
innings was a masterpiece, and at no time did he seem to be in
the slightest degree troubled by the bowlers, yet the latter were
distinctly good, as they proved by the fact that they got nine
men out for 94 runs or less. Gilligan's innings included a six
and thirty-two fours. The previous best score--against a weak
scratch side in 1911--was 171 by C. V. Arnold. Gilligan was at
the wickets in all only two and a quarter hours or so.
The following is from his report of the Sherborne match, which Dulwich
won handsomely:
Had not the last few wickets been able to put on a few more runs
all earlier efforts might have been wasted, and certainly all
would have been altered had it not been for the amazing bowling
of Paton. His analysis was five for 6--a wonderful achievement.
The wicket was, indeed, to a certain extent favourable to him,
but he was able to make the ball swing with his arm and break
back in a fashion that was quite astounding. A. E. R. Gilligan
worked with his usual energy and bore the brunt of the bowling.
While he did not have the success of Paton, he bowled extremely
well, taking four for 30. All our team fielded so well that to
specify individuals would be unnecessary. The Sherborne team
brought off some excellent catches, though their ground-fielding
was not quite so good. Wheeler bowled very well, and Westlake was
in splendid form behind the wicket. After the match there were
the usual handshakings and so forth, and we started back for
London at five-thirty, getting to Waterloo at about eight
o'clock. Our visit was quite delightful, and we send our very
best thanks to our Sherborne friends for their kindness and
hospitality.
Of the match with St. Paul's School in July, 1914, in which Dulwich
were badly beaten, he wrote:
We would have given much to win this match, in particular, but at
least there is the consolation that we lost to a really great
side which could hardly have been beaten by any school in the
country. The St. Paul's batting was so splendidly balanced that
every man could be sure of a 10 or 20, while Skeet and Gibb were
always certain of really good knocks; and in bowling the wizardry
of Pearson was in itself enough to conjure any team out.
St. Paul's knocked up 188 in their first innings. Dulwich were
disposed of for 67, largely owing to the bowling of Pearson.
The Pauline "demon" had now got all our men into a terrible
"funk," and the result was that wickets began to fall at both
ends like ninepins: 44-9-3. Then came the best batting of the
game. Gilkes joined Brown, and quickly showed that he was not the
man to hide his head before foes, however strong. After smiting
Roberts to the leg boundary, he did the same to the off, and with
Brown playing his usually steady game--being particularly smart
in short runs--the 50 and 60 soon went up. But it could not go
on, for at 67 Brown, avoiding Scylla, fell into the jaws of
Charybdis--in other words, keeping Pearson out, was bowled by
Skeet: 67-10-11. His 11 was a most valuable piece of batting.
Gilkes, with 12 not out, was top scorer on our side--except for
Mr. Extras. He had really done extremely well, and played with a
straight bat at everything--therefore he did not get out. A most
plucky and useful bit of work this.
But what of our innings as a whole? Let the heavens fall in
confusion on us! We decline to discuss the matter. Pearson took
five wickets for 17, Skeet three for 21, Roberts two for 13. St.
Paul's fielded well, especially Skeet, Hayne and Gibb. It was
Pearson's cakewalk-tango bowling that undid us. Note, however,
that in a second innings we quite redeemed ourselves, Rowbotham
(31 not out), Paton (29), and Brown (29 not out) playing really
excellently. Why, oh, why! didn't we do it in the first innings?
His detailed and graphic reports were greatly appreciated by the
members of the 1st XI, and read with relish by the whole school.
Whenever opportunity offered Paul would visit the Oval for a great
cricket match. Lord's not being so accessible, he seldom went to the
M.C.C. ground. Though a poor cricketer himself, he loved the great
summer game and admired those who excelled in it.
CHAPTER V
EDITOR OF "THE ALLEYNIAN."
_True ease in writing comes from art, not chance._
POPE: "ESSAY ON CRITICISM."
To the school magazine, _The Alleynian_, which is published monthly,
Paul began contributing in 1912. His success in essays having shown
that he had facility in writing, he was asked by those in authority to
report the lectures for the magazine and help to liven up its
contents. His first contribution deals with a lantern lecture on the
"Soudan," delivered before the Science and Photographic Society by
Major Perceval on November 23, 1912. A summary of the lecture is
enlivened by such observations as these:
A large and very distinguished audience was present. On the back
benches in particular was a great array of Dulwich "knuts." The
lecturer was, however, undaunted, though there can be no doubt
that he felt much awe at the number of mighty men in his
audience.
From the report of a lecture delivered on January 31, 1913, "The Land
of the Maori," the following quotation is made because of its
allusions to then topical events:
The lecturer said that in New Zealand the interests of labour
were so well safeguarded that the country is called "the
working-man's paradise" (loud cheers), while the women there had
votes. At this an unparalleled uproar broke out. Cheers and
hisses were commingled in one tremendous cataclysm of sound.
Certainly we heard shouts of "Bravo" countered by shrieks of
"Shame." The lecturer seemed dazed by the dreadful din.
A report of the "Servants' Concert" (28th July, 1913) is in rollicking
vein:
Success was in the air from the very start. The crush at the
doors was like Twickenham on the day of the England v. Scotland
match--we had almost said the Crystal Palace on Cup Final Day. It
is evident that there is a tremendous amount of talent for the
stage and the music-halls in the school. To hear Gill give the
tragic history of "Tommy's Little Tube of Seccotine," or the duet
on the touching story of "Two Little Sausages," by Savage and
Livock, would have brought tears to the eyes of a prison warder.
Then there were F. W. Gilligan to relate his horticultural, and
brother A. E. R. his zoological reminiscences--works of great
value to scientists and others. To hear Killick dilate upon the
dangers of the new disease, the "Epidemic Rag" (which seems to be
quite as catching as the mumps), Gill upon the risks of the
piscatorial art, or Savage upon an original Polynesian theme,
"Zulu Lulu," was to feel like Keats's watcher of the skies, "when
a new planet swims into his ken." For the admirer of Spanish
customs there was A. E. J. Inglis (O.A.) to sing, as only he can,
the Toreador's song; while for the Cockney there was Killick to
give, in his own inimitable fashion, that really touching little
ballad "My Old Dutch," Ould Oireland being well catered for by
Livock in "A Little Irish Girl." The pianoforte solos by Nalder,
Jacob and Shirley were all excellent and thoroughly well
appreciated, as was our old friend, "Let's have a Peal," by the
First XI.
And now for the "star" performance of the evening. Positively for
one night only, the Dulwich College Dramatic Society were down to
give us W. G. O. Gill's one-act farce, "The Lottery Ticket." This
fairly brought down the house. It went "with a bang," as actors
say, from the very start. The great point about it was that all
the performers forgot that they were acting, and were so
perfectly natural. There was not a hitch. Killick, as a withered
old Shylock, gave a really masterly representation of ancient
villainy. Evans was admirably suited with the rôle of a dashing
young man-about-town. The way he took his gloves off was worth a
fortune in itself. We felt that there must be many degrees of
blue blood in his veins. His back-chat repartee was far better
than that of Mr. F. E. Smith, K.C. If Gill and Waite are in the
future ever in need of a berth they should, judging by their
performances in this play, apply to Sir Herbert Beerbohm Tree for
parts as a dilapidated charwoman and unwashed office-boy
respectively. The topical allusions in the play were all
thoroughly well made and appreciated. We might suggest that it is
not the custom "in polite circles" to open and read other
people's telegrams, but for a hardened old reprobate like Mr.
Grabbit we can feel no pity, while we can forgive anything to a
Principal Boy like Mr. Knowall.
It is an open secret that the concert was organised by Killick.
We take this opportunity of congratulating him heartily. From
what rumour says, we take it that the Powers-that-be are very
pleased with the concert. So are we. It was a complete success
from start to finish. It is to be hoped that it will become a
regular institution, especially considering the object it has in
view--to give pleasure to those who have not often the chance of
it.
In 1913 he was appointed secretary and treasurer of the magazine, and
a few months later he became one of the editors. Throughout 1913 and
1914 he was the chief contributor to its pages. Reporting a lady's
lecture on Tibet (October 17, 1913), he wrote:
But, at least, the Tibetans can teach us something--simplicity in
ceremonies. For when Miss Kemp went to see the palace of the King
all the decoration she saw there was a simple table and chair. A
Tibetan kitchen was a very popular slide. In that country they
apparently use a golf-bag to brew tea in, and cast-off bicycle
wheels for plates. There prevails in Tibet some element of
democracy, for Miss Kemp's cook was also a J.P., a Civil Servant,
and held other such offices of fame. One of her assistants was a
positive marvel--a human carpet-sweeper. If the floor was to be
brushed he would simply roll over and over on it and clean it
with his clothes! The Tibetans have no motor-bikes and no S. F.
Edges, their fastest conveyance being a yâk, a species of ox,
which moves at an average speed of two miles an hour (with the
high gear in), and can slow down to an infinite extent. However,
the nature of the country would make high speeds rather
dangerous, as constantly you find yourself in danger of falling
over precipices, down crevasses, or of being overwhelmed by
falling boulders, for the mountain lands are covered with great
glaciers. It was these mountain views that were especially
magnificent. They were, for the most part, taken with
tele-photographic lenses at a distance of fifty or sixty miles.
To the November _Alleynian_ he contributed a racy and rattling parody
of the modern sensational drama entitled _Red Blood: a Western Drama
in Two Acts_, in which the dramatis personæ are an English cowboy
(heir to a million dollars without knowing it), an Indian chief (his
friend), a wicked uncle, a murderer, and a New York detective. His
historical tastes peep out in his report of a lecture delivered 7th
November, 1913, on the famous mediæval doctor, Pareil (1510-1590).
From this report the following is extracted:
Much interest attaches to the historic associations of Pareil's
life. As a famous surgeon he was in constant attendance on
figures renowned in history, personages like Coligny (who was
murdered by the mob of Paris while recovering from an amputation
of Pareil's), Erasmus, Servetus, Leonardo da Vinci, and Catherine
de Medici. Like Chaucer's doctour of physik, Pareil knew well the
works of "Olde Ypocras," Galen, Avycen, etc., the famous
physicians whose names have come down from history, but he was no
pedantic scholar, preferring to do his own thinking. A stout
Protestant, his last act was to beseech the Catholic Archbishop
of Lyons, who was holding Paris against the assaults of Henry of
Navarre (with the result that the population of the city was
perishing by thousands), to open the gates and save the
inhabitants, but he beseeched in vain.
Altogether a remarkable figure, this old Pareil. Looked at in
perspective, and in his era, it is clear how great a man he was.
For he, first of all men in medicine, freed the world from the
influence of pedantic tradition, and paved the way for modern
medical science. Then all honour to his name, for, as the Master
put it in proposing the vote of thanks to Mr. Paget, the art of
healing is the greatest boon which man can give to the world.
The last lecture he reported was delivered by Mr. F. M. Oldham, chief
Science Master at the College, on "Primitive Man," on 3rd April, 1914.
From this report the following extract is taken:
Our main knowledge of man in the earliest stages of his existence
comes from the examination of river mud. Mr. Oldham showed how
different strata are built up by the river on its bed, and how in
the lowest of these strata there will be found the oldest relics
of man. In this way we are able to declare that the difference
between the earliest man and his immediate followers lay in the
question of polishing his flint instruments. That is to say, the
earliest or palæolithic man had his implements unpolished; his
successors polished them, often to a beautifully smooth surface.
This Mr. Oldham illustrated with a series of films--your pardon,
slides--of the arrow-heads made by palæolithic and neolithic man.
It was a natural step, once man had learned to polish his
instruments, and when he was advanced enough to try to form
conceptions of beauty for himself, that he should draw or scratch
pictures on stone. Several of these Mr. Oldham showed on the
screen; some of them are extraordinarily well executed and show
real artistic feeling. We would particularly mention one such
representation of a reindeer, and another of a man stalking a
bison.
After the cave-dwellers' epoch comes that of huts, wood and
bronze. Man in this stage is really but little different from
what he is to-day. He has even the wit to construct himself
lake-dwellings, consisting of huts placed on rafts and secured
temporarily with large stones sunk in the lake-bed.
Characteristic of this period are the great tolmens and monoliths
found all over the world. Neolithic man had, indeed, sometimes
constructed for himself a hut of stone, as Dartmoor will testify,
but the tolmens are of quite different origin, and indicate a
distinctly greater mental development, in that they are usually
put up as monuments to great men or events. Of the same nature
are the great mounds or "barrows" that abound in Ireland; inside
there was a sort of crypt in which chiefs were buried. The
monoliths were constructed, as doubtless the Pyramids also were,
by rolling the great stones up an inclined bank of earth
previously built up.
Throughout 1914 Paul was the mainstay of the magazine. The May number
contains from his pen exhaustive reports of two house matches
(football), a shrewd commentary on the Junior School Cup matches, and
a long report of a lecture. For the July number he wrote ten pages of
cricket reports, and an account of the swimming competition. He was
also responsible for the finances of the magazine, continuing to act
as secretary and treasurer. All this time he was preparing for his
Oxford scholarship. If he owed much to Dulwich, the College also owed
something to him. No boy ever worked harder for it, or consecrated
himself with more entire devotion to its welfare.
CHAPTER VI
PUBLIC SCHOOLS AND THE WAR
_Now all the youth of England are on fire._
SHAKESPEARE: "HENRY V."
To _The Alleynian_ for October, 1914, Paul contributed an editorial
article on the War that had then begun to rage in its destructive
fury. Taking the view that "this war had to come sooner or later," he
wrote:
When one nation has a world-wide Empire embracing a fifth of the
globe, founded on principles of absolute liberty for all whom it
contains, and when another, built up by the force of
circumstances on a basis of military despotism, also aspires to a
different sort of world-power, and challenges the first nation,
whose principles it abhors as much as its own are abhorred--in
these circumstances it is hopeless to talk of reconciliation till
one or the other is down. Actually, Germany's monstrous conduct
in violating the neutrality of a small, industrious and
inoffensive Power--a neutrality to which, be it marked, Germany
was as much a partner as England or France--has put her
hopelessly in the wrong with the civilised world. But that does
not alter the fact that the War is primarily one for political
existence. Either the despotism of Potsdam or the constitutional
government of Westminster must survive. We, more even than Russia
or France, are fighting for our very existence.
Things are, indeed, very favourable to us and to our Allies.
Through the brutal but clumsy blundering of Prussian diplomats,
Europe has been long awaiting the conflagration; every move in
the game has been brought out long ago. Besides, Germany
undoubtedly counted on our domestic troubles and our pacific
tendencies to keep us out of this conflict. They imagined France
could easily be wiped out while Russia's vast bulk was slowly
mobilising, and that the Russians would then be held up by the
victorious legions pouring back from Paris. Then in, say, ten
years they would turn on England and wipe her from the map. Our
entrance into the War now has not only braced the whole moral
fibre of France, Russia, Belgium and Serbia, but has strangled
German commerce and held up her food supply by means of our
command of the seas. Thus all the enemy plans have been thrown
into confusion. We would be indeed foolish if we did not realise
our position--what it means to ourselves, to Europe, and to the
world. Having won the toss on a hard wicket, we are not going to
put Germany in. We must fight to the death. The law is "Eat or be
eaten."
In these circumstances we call on Dulwich College to realise its
duties to the State. Nothing--not work nor games--must be allowed
to stand before the Corps till the War is over. Special drills
and parades, extra route marches, all these must be and ought to
be looked forward to cheerfully and willingly. The splendid
number of recruits shows that the school is not going to fail in
its duty here. We are not going to indulge in theories and
jingo-patriotism, but call on you with deadly seriousness--the
British Empire, the British principles of liberty, all are at
stake. If we go down now we go down for ever. Germany is said to
have called up every male between the ages of fifteen and sixty.
If they can do that, surely we ought to be able to reply. Let
that voluntary system which is the glory of our armies and navies
carry us through now! We call on every one in the School to join
the Corps at once.
Nothing was finer in the first months of the War than the rally of the
manhood of Great Britain to the call of the country in its time of
need. All classes, rich and poor, patrician and peasant, employer and
workman, were uplifted by the great occasion. Through the influence of
patriotism, the recognition by all sorts and conditions of our people
of the honourable obligation of fidelity to the pledged word of
Britain, combined with a chivalric desire to champion the cause of
weak, unoffending Belgium against the Teutonic bully--there was
released in this country a flood of noble idealism and pure emotion,
the memory of which those who lived during that spiritual awakening
will never forget. No section of the community rose more finely to the
height of the occasion than the athletes and scholars from our public
schools and universities. Nobly did they respond to the call voiced by
one of their number, R. E. Vernède (an old Pauline, now sleeping in a
soldier's grave in France):
Lad, with the merry smile and the eyes
Quick as the hawk's and clear as the day;
You, who have counted the game the prize,
Here is the game of games to play.
Never a goal--the captains say--
Matches the one that's needed now;
Put the old blazer and cap away--
England's colours await your brow.
Man, with the square-set jaws and chin,
Always, it seems, you have moved to your end
Sure of yourself, intent to win
Fame and wealth and the power to bend.
All that you've made you're called to spend--
All that you've sought you're asked to miss--
What's ambition compared with this:
That a man lay down his life for his friend?
Exulting in the response of the athletes, Paul Jones found his faith
in the value of games confirmed by this memorable rally to the Flag.
His last contribution to _The Alleynian_ was inspired by it. Shortly
after he joined the Army he wrote to the magazine a letter (published
anonymously in May, 1915) under the caption "Flannelled Fools and
Muddied Oafs." In this contribution he sings a pæan in praise of the
amateur athlete. After reminding his readers of pre-War denunciations
of "the curse of athletics," he asks, "What of athletics now?"
At present, we see that the poor, despised athlete or
sportsman--call him what you will--is coming to the front,
practically and metaphorically, in a way which makes one wonder
if, for the higher purposes of duty, athletics are not really the
very best of all systems of training. When we look at the matter
in the broadest light, the explanation shines forth clearly. All
learning and all business are in the end simply and solely
_selfish_. For example, you work hard for a scholarship at Oxford
or Cambridge--why? So that you can obtain _for
yourself_--(underline these words, Mr. Printer, please!)--the
advantages of 'Varsity life and culture, and to the ultimate end
that you may be better fitted to make _your own_ way in life. Of
course, this is necessary, but life is always very sordid in its
details, and the more civilised we become, the more apparent is
that sordidity. In fact, it is only on our amateur playing-fields
that we become really unselfish. For here we play for a team or a
side; and for the success of that side--which success, by the
way, is in no sense material or selfish--we are prepared to take
all sorts of pains, to scorn delights and live laborious days. It
is the clearest manifestation of the simple, unsophisticated man
coming to the front and tearing aside for a brief moment the
cloud of materialism with which civilisation has been enveloping
him.
Nothing but athletics has succeeded in doing this sort of work in
England. Religion has failed, intellect has failed, art has
failed, science has failed. It is clear why: because each of
these has laid emphasis on man's _selfish_ side; the saving of
_his own_ soul, the cultivation of _his own_ mind, the pleasing
of _his own_ senses. But your sportsman joins the Colours because
in his games he has felt the real spirit of unselfishness, and
has become accustomed to give up all for a body to whose service
he is sworn. Besides this, he has acquired the physical fitness
necessary for a campaign. These facts explain the grand part
played by sport in this War; they also explain why the amateur
has done so enormously better than the professional.
"Let us therefore," is his injunction, "take off our hats to the
amateur athlete, who is one of the brightest figures in England
to-day. Let us indeed not forget that it is not in any sense only the
athletes who have gone, but let us remember that in proportion no
class of men has seen its duty so clearly, and done it so promptly,
in the present crisis. We suggest that this War has shown the training
of the playing-fields of the Public Schools and the 'Varsities to be
quite as good as that of the class-rooms; nay, as good? Why, far
better, if training for the path of Duty is the ideal end of
education."
Here, as always, Paul distinguished between the amateur athlete and
the professional athlete. For the latter his scorn was unmitigated,
and he could not endure Association football with its paid players. He
also loathed the betting element that defiled the Soccer game.
This letter was his last contribution to _The Alleynian_. Its
strictures are far too sweeping; it has the dogmatism and the note of
certitude to which youth is prone. But it is animated by a fine
spirit. Very characteristic is the emphasis placed in it on the ideas
of duty and unselfishness. The passion for sacrifice was in his
blood.
CHAPTER VII
TASTES AND HOBBIES
_Variety's the very spice of life._
COWPER: "THE TASK."
Many of our son's vacations were spent in Llanelly, South Wales,
where his mother's and my own kindred dwell. Llanelly is not a
beautiful town--industrial centres seldom are--but Paul loved every
aspect of it--the busy works, the spacious bay with its great
stretches of sandy beach, the green and hilly hinterland, dotted
with snug farmhouses and cheerful-looking cottages. Accompanied by
his cousin Tom, for whom he had an intense affection, and under the
guidance of his uncle, Mr. Edwin Morgan, a consulting engineer of
high repute, he visited in process of time every industrial
establishment in the neighbourhood--steel works, foundries,
engineering shops and tinplate works. His insatiable curiosity, his
desire to know the reason for everything, his alert interest in all
the processes of manufacture, were noted with smiling admiration by
managers and workmen. His last visit to Llanelly was in the summer
of 1914. We joined him there in the third week of August. Clear in
recollection is an incident that took place during our stay there.
One sunny afternoon we were out in Carmarthen Bay in a little
tug-boat and hailed a large four-masted vessel that had dropped
anchor and was awaiting a pilot. She had just arrived from Archangel
with timber. Her crew, athirst for news about the War, were most
grateful for a bundle of newspapers. Paul thrilled at this meeting
at sea with a vessel that had come direct from Russia, and he
followed with fascinated interest the conversation between the
tugboatmen and the crew of the barque. Little did any of us think
then that the War was destined to claim Paul's life!
Celtic on his mother's side and mine, he was proud of the fact that he
sprang from an "old and haughty nation, proud in arms." On many of his
school books he wrote in bold lettering: "Cymru am byth!" ("Wales for
ever!") His instinctive love of Wales was strengthened by his visits
to Llanelly and by holidays on the Welsh countryside, where, amid
romantic surroundings and far from the fret and fever of modern life,
he obtained an insight into rural ways and things. Welsh love of music
and Welsh prowess in football also appealed powerfully to him.
Like most boys he went through the usual run of hobbies: silkworms,
carpentry, stamp-collecting, photography, parlour railways.
Thoroughness was his quality even in his hobbies. He had the
note-taking habit in marked degree. Even as a small boy on a long
railway journey he would carefully record in his notebook the name of
every station through which the train passed, and then, on reaching
his destination, would work out the distances by maps and books, and
finally draw an outline showing the route with the principal stations
and junctions marked. The same passion for classifying facts made him,
as soon as he began to follow cricket closely, compile tables showing
the batting and bowling averages of the leading players. Similarly
with football. He was familiar with the record of the leading Rugby
clubs and the characteristics of the principal players.
Machinery had for him the fascination of life in motion. He would gaze
with rapture at the rhythmic movement of a flywheel and was thrilled
by the harmonious movement of cogs and eccentrics, pistons and
connecting-rods, all "singing like the morning stars for joy that they
are made." As a child visiting a printing office he used to clap his
hands with delight at the sight of "the wheels all turning." For
engines of all sorts he had a passion. At Plymouth he loved to watch
the great G.W.R. locomotives steaming into Millbay terminus, and would
often engage the driver or stoker in conversation. After our removal
to London he spent part of one vacation in an engineering shop. When
he was fifteen we bought for him a small gas-engine which was fixed in
an upper room. Clad in overalls he spent many a happy hour with this
engine, generating electricity which he used sometimes for lighting,
sometimes for driving the engine and train on his miniature railway.
Here are extracts from one of his vacation diaries:
JANUARY, 1912
_January 1._--Went with Mother to first night of _Nightbirds_ at
the Lyric. Workman and Constance Driver excellent; Farkoa also
very good.
_January 2-5._--Busy making switchboard at home. At the
engineering workshop I am starting on a steel rod; cutting with
hack saw, cutting 5/16 standard Whitworth thread; grooving it.
All this on a Drummond 3-1/2-inch lathe.
_January 6._--Heard of 4 v. 20 a.h. accumulator for 10s. 6d. I
must buy it. Splendid acc. it is. Finished switchboard; all
correct; polished up meters and instruments. [Here is diagram of
connections.]
Evening.--At _Tales of Hoffmann_, Opera House, with Mother. Good
performance. First and third acts excellent; second ("Barcarolle"
act) poor. Orchestra superb. Felice Lyne, Pollock, Victoria
Fer--artistes of great promise. Renaud a master.
_January 7._--Wrote Economic Electric for new dynamo. Received
letter from "Humber" recommending motor bike. I will probably buy
one later on, or a "Triumph."
_January 10._--Took my old accumulator to electrician. To my
great pleasure he said there was nothing wrong, only wanted
filling and charging.
_January 11._--Tried my acc. on the train, running through
switchboard; a great success. Engine runs very well. All
switchboard connections absolutely correct; the reading when
running: volts 3.5 to 4.25, amps. 1 to 2.5.
_January 12._--To Bassett Lowke's and bought wagon; yellow
colour, red lettering; splendid model.
_January 13._--At matinée _Orpheus in the Underground_, at His
Majesty's. Exceedingly good show. Courtice Pounds, L. Mackinder
and Lottie Venn--all first rate; good voices and not afraid to
use them.
_January 15._--To Hippodrome. The feature two amazingly clever
Chimpanzees. Leo Fall's _Eternal Waltz_ a pretty operetta.
_January 16._--Final golf match between Dad and myself. Dad wins
match and rubber by 1 up.
_January 17._--Got back my P.O. bank book. Total now £6 3s.
Discovered slight leakage at joint between the cylinder and
combustion head of the gas engine, owing to wearing away of
asbestos washer, so causing a very small but appreciable
diminution of compression. Made a temporary stopping with
vaseline.
Evening.--Dad and I to _Tales of Hoffmann_, at the Opera House.
This time a magnificent performance.
_January 19._--Dynamo arrived. A beautiful machine.
_January 20._--Went with Dad to International football match,
England _v._ Wales, at Twickenham. Score--England, 8 points;
Wales, _nil_. A splendid game. Wales beaten chiefly owing to
their very poor three-quarters. Little to choose between the
packs.
_January 31._--Having re-started music with a good teacher, a
pupil of Professor Hambourg, I have practised very hard on the
piano these last few days.
In his enthusiasm for engineering he devoured books like "Engineering
Wonders of the World," "How it Works," "How it is Made," "Engineering
of To-day," "Mechanical Inventions of To-day"; also books on wireless
telegraphy and aviation. A great lover of books, he liked on off-days
to visit London bookshops and rummage their shelves. Very proud he was
of his purchases during these excursions. From time to time he would
have a run round the museums and picture galleries of London or take a
trip to Hampton Court--Wolsey's palace and William III's home--a spot
dear to him for its links with history and for the beauty of its
surroundings. He was always enthralled at the British Museum by the
Rosetta Stone--that key by means of which Champollion unlocked for the
modern world the long-hidden secret of Egypt's ancient civilisation.
A subject which he pursued keenly for a couple of years--from fifteen
to seventeen--and which held him in fascinated wonder, was Astronomy,
a branch of knowledge that happens to be strongly represented among my
books. Often on starry nights he would be a watcher of the heavens.
Many a night from yonder ivied casement,
Ere he went to rest,
Did he look on great Orion, sloping
Slowly to the west.
Many a night he saw the Pleiads, rising
Thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fireflies, tangled
In a silver braid.
It has been stated that most of Paul's vacations were spent in Wales,
but in 1913 he went farther afield, accompanying his mother, his
brother and myself on a tour in Germany. He was enraptured with this,
his first visit to the Continent. On our outward journey we halted at
Brussels, in those days a bright and happy city with nothing in its
cheerful, prosperous air to suggest that in less than a year there
would descend upon it the baleful shadow of the Great War. Much in the
old Germany appealed powerfully to our son, and even of the new
Germany, with its energy and its zeal for learning, he was something
of an admirer. But he hated in modern Germany its brazen materialism
and boastful arrogance. He attributed the change in the spirit of the
German people to the hardness of their Prussian taskmasters, whose
yoke was submissively borne because of the glamour of the military
victories achieved since 1866, and the rapid growth in wealth that had
followed the attainment of German unity. He read and spoke German and
was familiar with the literature and history of the country. Two great
Germans, Goethe and Wagner, he intensely admired. It so happened that
we were at Frankfort on the centenary of Goethe's death. Paul visited
the Goethe house and spent a couple of hours examining its souvenirs
with loving interest. He liked to see the places and the houses
associated with the names or lives of great men. On our homeward
journey down the Rhine he left us at Bonn to visit the house where
Beethoven was born, joining-us subsequently at Cologne.
This holiday in the Rhineland and the Black Forest brought deep
enjoyment to him. His enthusiasm at his first sight of the Rhine was
unrestrained, and the morning after our arrival he plunged into its
waters for a swim. Professor Cramb, writing of the love of Germans for
the Rhine, quotes a letter from Treitschke, in which that fire-eating
historian said on the eve of his leaving Bonn: "To-morrow I shall see
the Rhine for the last time. The memory of that noble river will keep
my heart pure and save me from sad or evil thoughts throughout all the
days of my life." Paul in a marginal note writes: "Wonderful
attraction of the Rhine. I have felt it myself, though not a German."
He got on excellently with the German people. One Sunday afternoon,
doing the famous walk from Triberg to Hornberg, he had a long and
friendly talk with a German reservist in the latter's native tongue,
about the relations of Germany and England. Both agreed that war
between the two nations would be madness, and both dismissed it as to
the last degree improbable, but the German said significantly that he
feared the Crown Prince was a menace to peace.
In the spring of the following year (1914) Paul spent Easter week with
me in Paris. Never had I seen the French capital more beautiful or
happier-seeming than in that bright and joyous springtime. Who could
have dreamt then that war was only three months distant? Paris was a
revelation to Paul. He crowded a lot of sight-seeing into half a dozen
busy days. All that was noble or beautiful in Art as in Nature
appealed instinctively to him. I can see him now at the Louvre gazing
rapt from various angles at that glorious piece of statuary the Venus
of Milo. His knowledge of history made his visit to the glittering
palace of Louis XIV at Versailles an undiluted pleasure. Fascinated by
the genius of Napoleon, he spent a long time at the Invalides gazing
down on the sarcophagus within which the conqueror of Europe sleeps
his last sleep.
Later in the year he and two other Dulwich boys arranged to spend
three weeks of the summer vacation in the house of a professor at
Rouen. They were to have left London on the second week in August.
This hopeful project was frustrated by the rude shock of war.
CHAPTER VIII
MUSIC
_Music is a kind of inarticulate, unfathomable speech, which leads us
to the edge of the Infinite, and lets us for moments gaze into that._
CARLYLE.
Paul began the study of music at an early age. He had natural aptitude
for it and an unerring ear. As a little boy he used to sing with much
expression in a sweet, clear voice. He received great assistance from
his mother in his musical studies. After he had turned fifteen, music
became one of his main interests. Indeed, if we except football, it
was his master passion, and, unlike football, it could be pursued
throughout the year. Whenever his scholastic studies and his athletic
activities permitted, he would spend his leisure at the piano. With
characteristic thoroughness he studied the lives as well as the works
of the great composers. During the Grand Opera season he was a
frequent visitor to Covent Garden Theatre and the performances of the
_Nibelungen Ring_ were for him a fountain of pure delight. He was also
a regular attendant with his mother at the Queen's Hall and Albert
Hall concerts. Ballad singing did not appeal to him in the same degree
as operatic and orchestral music. Thanks to instinctive gifts and
assiduous practice he became a scholarly and an accomplished musician.
A brilliant pianist, his playing was marked by power and passion, and
the colour and glow of an intense and sensitive personality. He could
memorise the most intricate composition, and would play for hours
without a note. Music was almost a religion with him: he found in it
solace, joy, inspiration.
Above all other musicians, he reverenced Beethoven and Wagner. For
Beethoven's music, with its spiritualised emotion and divine
harmonies, his admiration knew no bounds. Of the famous symphonies he
assigned first place to that in C minor, No. 5, which he thought stood
alone in the art of musical expression, peerless and unapproachable, a
unique emanation from the soul and mind of man. "It holds us in its
grasp," wrote Wagner of this composition, "as one of the rarer
conceptions of the master, in which Passion, aroused by Pain as its
original ground-tone, raises itself upward on the stepping-stone of
conciliation and exaltation to an outburst of Joy conscious of
Victory." Paul loved to play the Fifth Symphony as well as to hear it
performed by an orchestral band. When playing it he seemed to lose
touch with earth and to be transported to celestial heights. In his
marginalia he compares the methods of expression of Shakespeare with
those of Beethoven. That able critic, the late Professor Dowden, in
some penetrating observations on Shakespeare's works, wrote:
In the earliest plays the idea is at times hardly sufficient to
fill out the language; in the middle plays there seems a perfect
balance and equality between the thought and its expression; in
the latest plays this balance is disturbed by the preponderance,
or excess, of ideas over the means of giving them utterance.
After underlining this passage Paul made the comment: "An
extraordinary coincidence occurs to me in that the same thing happens
with Beethoven, the greatest of the absolute musicians. Anyone must
see that in the last symphony (No. 9 in D minor) he seems often at a
loss how to put his feelings into shape (or sound), as though musical
style up to his time could not express the intensity of his ideas.
Hence in this symphony there is a distinct lack of balance--a defect
which is absent from the works of his middle period (_e.g._, Symphony
No. 5 or No. 7)."
Another Beethoven work that he loved was the Third Symphony in E Flat,
with its epic opening; the mournful beauty of its funeral march, now
sad, calm, solemn like a moonless, starless night, now shining with
gleams of hope and faith; its crisp and lively scherzo; and the
triumphant finale, a veritable ecstasy of divine joy. My son as an
historical scholar found a peculiar attraction in this symphony by
reason of its association with Napoleon Buonaparte, for it was
inspired by Beethoven's belief--formed in those days when the soldier
of the Revolution was regarded as the liberator of peoples and the
enemy only of the old feudal order--that Napoleon was marked out by
destiny to realise Plato's ideal of government. One recalls how the
act of Napoleon in proclaiming himself Emperor shattered this
illusion; how Beethoven erased the fallen hero's name from the
title-page of his score, withheld the "Eroica" for a time, and then
gave it to the world in 1805 as "An Heroic Symphony composed in memory
of a great man." When Beethoven heard of Napoleon's death at St.
Helena, he said he had already composed his funeral ode 17 years
before. Of this _marche funèbre_ M. Ballaique wrote: "It owes its
incomparable grandeur to the beauty of the melodic idea and also to a
peculiarity of rhythm. At the first half of each bar there is a halt,
a pause, which seems to punctuate each station, each painful slip or
descent on the way to the illustrious tomb."
Of Wagner, Paul was a whole-hearted worshipper. He was familiar with
the myths, legends and folk-poems from which Wagner drew his themes,
and he exulted in the master's superb treatment of them. Never, he
thought, had music and ideas been more felicitously blended than by
Wagner, whatever the theme--the storm-tost soul of "the Flying
Dutchman," to whom redemption came at last through loyalty and
compassion; the conflict between sensuality and love fought out in the
arena of Tannhäuser's mind; the cosmic glories of the Ring with the
resplendent figures of Siegfried and Brunhilde; the self-dedication of
Parsifal, the Sir Percival of our Arthurian legends, whom "The sweet
vision of the Holy Grail drew from all vain-glories, rivalries and
earthly heats." Into the glowing music of Wagner my son read lessons
in renunciation, the sordidness of the lust for gold, the sublimity of
pure human love, the redemptive power of self-sacrifice. The
occasional voluptuousness of the music was so transmuted in the
alembic of his temperament that for him the sensual element was
eliminated. An incident illustrative of his devotion to Wagner is
worth recording. In the summer of 1913, during our holiday tour in
Germany, we had for part of the time our headquarters at
Assmannshausen, a smiling village sheltering snugly at the foot of
vine-clad hills on the right bank of the Rhine. That great river is at
its best at Assmannshausen; the broad current here flows swiftly over
a stony bed. Day and night one's ears are filled with the music of the
rushing waters hastening impetuously to the distant sea as though
eager to lose themselves in its infinite embrace. One evening the
guests at the hotel arranged a concert, and to our surprise--for we
knew how diffident he was--Paul, evidently moved by the _genius loci_,
volunteered to take part in it. When the time came he advanced to the
piano through the crowded room and, with an elbow resting on the
instrument, astonished the audience by a few explanatory words. He
said he was going to play the "Ride of the Valkyries," and explained
what Wagner meant to convey by that wild, stormy music. Then seating
himself at the instrument, he proceeded to play the "Ride" from
memory. His execution had a verve whose charm was irresistible. It
was a lovely summer night. Through the open windows of the
concert-room one caught glimpses of the moonlight quivering on the
waters of the swift-flowing Rhine. Nothing could be heard save the
river's melodious roar softened by distance, and this enchanting music
interpreted by one who was saturated with its spirit, both sounds
blending harmoniously like the double pipe of an ancient Greek flute
player. All of us felt the spell of the scene and the occasion.
Everyone listened tense and silent until the descending chromatic
passage at the end when the "Valkyries" vanish into space, the echo of
their laughter dies away, and the "Ride" ends in a sound like the
fluttering of wings in the distance. When Paul rose from the piano the
pent-up feelings of the audience found expression in enthusiastic
applause.
In the spring of 1913, just after he had turned 17, he wrote the
following appreciation of Wagner for the _Llanelly Star_:
The 22nd of May, 1913, marks the centenary of an event of supreme
importance in the annals of music. To-day just one hundred years
ago was born at Leipzig Richard Wagner, king of the music-drama,
who towers above all other operatic composers like some lofty
mountain rising from the midst of a dull and featureless plain.
Such a colossal revolution as was effected by Wagner in Art can
hardly find a parallel in any walk of life. What, in brief, was
the scope of Wagner's reforms? To answer this question it is
necessary to glance at the state in which the opera stood in
pre-Wagner days. From the days of Scarlatti the opera had
consisted of a number of semi-detached solos, duets or choruses
to which tunes were set. These pieces were joined up by any
jumble of notes sung by the characters on the stage, usually with
no artistic meaning whatsoever, known as the recitative. In a
word, the opera was a mere ballad concert. The recitative was so
utterly foolish and meaningless, as a rule, that men like
Beethoven and Weber, when they composed music-dramas, abolished
it altogether, and composed what is known as "Singspiel"--that
is, a number of ballads connected simply by spoken words. (The
well-known Gilbert and Sullivan operettas are really Singspiels
in a lesser form.) Thus it is obvious that the meaning of the
opera--that is, a drama whose significance is made more clear by
the aid of music suitable to the situation in hand--had been
entirely lost sight of.
In the average French or Italian opera, or in the singspiels, all
that matters is a number of songs, ballads or arias--call them
what you will--entirely disconnected and quite destructive to the
continuity that must be the essence of every drama. This
continuity is an absolute necessity to every spoken play; imagine
the effect if Shakespeare or Ibsen had written little pieces of
rhyming verse joined up by any jumble of nonsensical prose!
Neglect of this fact led every opera composer before Wagner
astray. We can imagine a pre-Wagner composer telling his
librettist, "Now, mind you arrange that in certain parts the
words will allow me to put in arias or choruses." In short, the
situation was summed up in Wagner's famous phrase, "The means of
expression (music) has been made the end, while the end of
expression (the drama) has been made the means." Now this state
of affairs is clearly wrong. If there is no dramatic idea kept as
end to work to, then what is the use of writing opera at all? Why
not be content with song-cycles or ballads, or lieder like
Brahms's and Schumann's?
There are no divisions into aria and recitative in Wagner's
operas, but dramatic continuity is retained by the voices of the
characters singing music the succession of whose notes is
determined by the emotional requirements of the moment.
Meanwhile, the orchestra forms a sort of musical background by
giving forth music which exactly suits the dramatic situation.
The orchestra, in a word, as Wagner himself said of _Tristan und
Isolde_, forms an emotional tide on which the voice floats like a
boat on the waters. The essential relevance of the music to the
dramatic situation is obtained, as a rule, by means of what are
known as "leading motives." These form the basis of all Wagner's
reforms. A leading motive is simply a musical phrase suggestive
of a dramatic idea. Wagner's motives are marvellous in their
descriptive and soul-stirring power. They seem to indicate not
only the pith, but the utmost depths of the heart of the ideas
which they represent. It is this that makes Wagner so very like
Shakespeare. All can appreciate him, yet he is above all
criticism, universal in his appeal.
Who but Wagner could make us feel the awful tragedy of
Siegfried's death, the calm of the primeval elements, the pompous
yet somewhat venerable character of the Mastersingers, the agony
of Tristan's delirium, the superb majesty of Valhalla, or the
free, noble nature of Parsifal? Even when Wagner uses motives
comparatively little, writing rather "freely," as in _Tristan und
Isolde_, he always has the power of imprinting an idea with the
utmost clearness upon our souls. He will sometimes make a slight
change in a motive, or make a development of it, that gives us an
entirely different psychological impression of the idea
represented by the motive, as indicating some new aspect of it in
which the motives are all dovetailed together into a compact
whole that is simply marvellous. If one considers the "Ring,"
that gigantic web of motives, and at the same time, in the words
of that able critic, Mr. Ernest Newman, "beyond all comparison
the biggest thing ever conceived by the mind of a musician,"
colossal yet logical, gigantic yet compact, the power of the
Bayreuth master will become even still more evident.
Wagner's first work, _Rienci_, composed frankly in the blatant
Meyerbeerian style, has no artistic significance. _The Flying
Dutchman_ marks a great advance. _Tannhäuser_ and _Lohengrin_ are
milestones of progress, but in all these works Wagner's full
ideal is, generally speaking, but little perceptible. The really
great Wagner operas are his later works, _Tristan und Isolde_,
_Parsifal_, _Die Meistersinger von Nürnberg_, and, above all,
that gigantic tetralogy (a complete musico-dramatic rendering of
the Icelandic Saga put into English verse under the title of
_Sigurd the Volsung_ by William Morris) which consists of four
stupendous operas, _Das Rheingold_, _Die Walküre_, _Siegfried_,
and _Gotterdämmerung_. These marvellous works, the consummation
of the Bayreuth master's principles, undoubtedly stand with
Beethoven's symphonies as the greatest achievements in music.
For the rest, it may be mentioned that Wagner was in private life
a most kindly man, albeit at times quick-tempered, a great lover
of children and animals. His philosophy was a somewhat variable
quantity; he fell under the influence first of Feuerbach, then of
Schopenhauer, and to some extent possibly of Nietzsche. But
still, throughout all his works runs the doctrine of the Free
Individual, of which Siegfried and Parsifal are perhaps the most
striking impersonations.
Like Browning, Wagner believed in redemption by means of
sacrifice. In his richness and strength Wagner typified the
abounding vitality of the new Germany. To the Fatherland he is
what Shakespeare is to England. One may apply to him the noble
words Milton wrote of Shakespeare:
"Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thyself a livelong monument.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die."
H. P. M. J.
I found among my son's papers a sketch in manuscript of Wagner's life
and work. It begins with some observations on Romanticism and
Classicism.
Whereas in the Classical style the spirit is held in restraint by
certain forms, in the Romantic it refuses to acknowledge these
forms and breaks away to give the soul entirely free play. It
necessarily follows that the Romantic style makes the wider
appeal, for it touches chords of the heart that the Classical
cannot. Also the Romantic is rather more definite and less purely
intellectual than the Classical, though the ideal may be equally
high in the one as in the other. In short, the Romantic style is
human in its appeal, while the Classical is superhuman. The best
examples of men great in these two forms of art are Shakespeare
in the Romance and Milton in the Classic.
Returning to music, he thought that Bach, "immortal though many of his
works are," was fettered by his servitude to rules.
The Classical may become too cold, may lose all connection with
the warmth of humanity. Such a fate does Haydn seem to have met
in many of his works. Beethoven, the mightiest classicist, also
to some extent Mozart, saw that the soul must not hold entirely
aloof from humanity. Hence it is that Beethoven broke
deliberately several, though not indeed very many, of Bach's more
enchaining rules, while Mozart, in his operas at least, had a
large amount of Romance worked into his music. On the other hand,
by its very nature the Romance style is occasionally apt to slip
into what is pre-eminently Classicism.
He confutes the argument that because base things have to be expressed
in the Romantic style therefore that style degrades Art, for "base
things handled artistically excite pure emotions of anger or
indignation."
Wagner, though he broke every rule set up by Bach, though he
abolished all the ideas of Classicism, produced with his later
works (_i.e._, _The Ring_, _Die Meistersinger_, _Tristan_, and
_Parsifal_) music which reveals infinitudes of art to quite as
great an extent as any classicist has done.... Wagner gives us
Nature's message, Beethoven the message of the incomprehensible
Empyrean, and it is for no one to say that the one message is any
greater or less than the other.
Necessarily the opera must be more romantic than the symphony.
"Composers who have given the world both opera and symphony such as
Beethoven, Mozart, Weber, Spohr, Berlioz, always wrote Romantically in
their operas and Classically in their symphonies." Of the development
of opera he wrote:
Opera was fast degenerating into a sort of collection of ballads,
with hardly any orchestration at all, when a strong man rose to
check these abuses. Gluck was the forerunner of the earlier
German school of opera composers, which includes such men as
Beethoven, Mozart, Weber and Schubert. Gluck had studied
carefully the progress of non-operatic music since Bach's time,
and seeing what vast strides the art had made in this direction,
tried to bring into line with the opera its improvements. He was
the first composer to show the immense and inestimable necessity
of properly orchestrated music in opera. Gluck's rich scoring,
beautiful melodies combined with dramatic connection between
action, voice and orchestra, entirely revolutionised the opera.
Fortunately, he had a still greater contemporary to carry on his
reforms. Gluck has himself explained how he set out to avoid any
concession of music to the vocal abilities of the singer; how he
had tried to bring music to its proper function, _i.e._, to go
side by side with the poetry of the drama--a clear forecasting of
Wagner's own reforms.
Whereas in Monteverde's operas the dramatic significance was
kept, but only at the expense of the music, which had absolutely
no signification at all, in the works of Gluck, Mozart and
Scarlatti the musical part is elevated, but entirely at the
expense of the dramatic idea, which is quite lost. A Mozart
melody, rhythmic, square-cut, is as different as possible from a
Wagner theme, for whereas the former suggests nothing the latter
is very rich in suggestion. It is clear that Gluck and Mozart,
though they performed an inestimable service to the musical art
by the raising of the orchestra to its proper position with
regard to the voice and the music, yet failed to keep in view the
continuity of the drama in opera. Hence it was that Weber and
Beethoven frankly abolished the recitative that joins the formal
melodies of the arias and melodic passages and composed
Singspiel, having their works built up of airs and melodies
joined by spoken dialogue. Such is Weber's _Der Freischütz_ and
such Beethoven's _Fidelio_.
After discussing Meyerbeer, Scarlatti, and Rossini, Bellini and
Donizetti, my son comes to Wagner and the revolution in music he
accomplished:
Wagner was a man of ripe culture, who was equally familiar with
Beethoven's symphonies, Shakespeare's dramas, Kant's philosophic
writings and Homer's epics. All the great works of literature and
philosophy were well known to him. Thus he brought to bear on his
music a mind singularly well equipped in every direction. He was,
too, essentially a Teuton, with all the German massiveness of
conception and depth of soul. A lesser man must have fallen
before the prospect of attempting such a colossal reform. What
was that reform in its essentials? It was this--to compose opera
in which the idea of the drama was made the ruling conception; to
attain this end by a wedding of suitable poetry to music of such
a kind as should reflect by its themes what was happening on the
stage or in the minds of the characters. There was to be no aria
or fixed form of ballad, but continuous melody, in which the
voices of the characters are regarded as extra instruments of the
orchestra, with just that element of personality included....
To have succeeded entirely in this bold design he would have had
to be a Shakespeare in poetry and knowledge of human nature, as
well as a musician of equal ability. How could any one man fulfil
both of these rôles? In the matter of the music Wagner is a very
Shakespeare. But if we take his own writings as evidences of what
he meant to do, then his librettos must necessarily be
unsatisfactory. They keep the dramatic idea in sight so much as
almost entirely to lose sight of poetic beauty. Wagner was
pre-eminently a musician; he was not a poet, as he wished also to
be. Whatever his poetical achievements, the main fact is
unaltered. The dramatic idea and the musical expression are kept
so indissolubly close by Wagner as to be one for all intents and
purposes.
Of Wagner's treatment of the vocalist he says:
The melody sung is modelled upon the way in which the speaking
voice rises and falls in accordance with the feelings of the
moment. With marvellous skill the master of Bayreuth has made the
music sung reflect as clearly as any oration what are the
thoughts and feelings of the character. The orchestra makes, as
it were, a tide or ocean, over which the voice, in this manner,
floats, now rising high on the crest of the wave, now sinking
into the trough of the seas. Sometimes for added poignancy,
Wagner makes the voice sing the _leitmotif_ of some idea
connected with the idea of the moment. This is constantly
occurring in _Die Meistersinger_.
After scornful allusions to French and Italian opera, he shows how
Wagner re-fashioned opera on new and nobler lines. Replying to those
who say "You must have lightness sometimes," he wrote:
Yes, but never triviality. If we want lightness of touch and
wittiness, have we not _Die Meistersinger_, the greatest comedy
in the world, or a merry piece like Mozart's _Nozze di Figaro_?
Here is all the wit that one wants, yet the level is kept high
throughout. It is the same in literature. We have absurd, banal
pieces, said to be humorous, such as _The Glad Eye_, which really
contain not one-millionth the humour that there is in a noble
comedy like Shakespeare's _Twelfth Night_, or _As You Like It_,
or a Shavian play like _John Bull's Other Island_. Man is too
great a thing ever to be of his nature low and banal. We have in
life farce sometimes, comedy very often indeed, but never
banality.
The essay thus concludes:
If we have been flooded with rag-times and musical comedies, the
fault lies in the first place with the French and Italian
composers of the period 1790-1850. Pre-Wagner opera is as low a
concoction as can possibly be conceived. It took all the genius
of the great Bayreuth master to turn things back into their
proper channel. But he has succeeded, and the old style is
moribund. Anyone who glances over the list of living composers
must see that they are all enormously influenced by Wagner's
principle. The last of the old style was Massenet, and he is
dead. We see Richard Strauss, an extreme Wagnerian, only without
the master's full powers; Engelbert Humperdinck, who is a user of
the _leitmotif_ and a most skilled orchestrator, though his
motifs are not so powerful as Wagner's or even Strauss's; Pietro
Mascagni, a Mozartean composer; Bruneau, an extreme Wagnerian;
Glazounov and Mossourgsky have combined Wagner's ideas with
Tschaikovsky's; Puccini at least is a very strong supporter and
admirer of Wagner. It will thus be seen that, with the exception
of Mascagni, Wagnerian ideas have been paid tribute to by all the
leading opera composers of the day. In a word, the Man is here.
Opera, as represented by Richard Wagner's music-dramas, takes its
place on a level with the absolute music of which Beethoven's
work is the noblest example.
Paul found keen pleasure in the Gilbert and Sullivan operas, liking
the witty libretto as much as the bright, tuneful melodies. For the
work of Cæsar Franck, a gifted Belgian musician who died on the
threshold of manhood, he had profound admiration, and was of opinion
that had he lived Franck would have taken rank with the great masters.
As was to be expected, my son had for Welsh music a strong natural
sympathy. He held that "Men of Harlech" was one of the greatest of all
battle hymns, and that "Morfa Rhuddlan," the ancient Cymric dirge, had
never been surpassed as a piece of funereal music. Some of the old
Welsh hymn tunes he regarded as unique in their wistfulness and devout
aspiration; and as for Welsh choral singing, he thought it was
matchless for richness, fire and harmony.
CHAPTER IX
LITERATURE AND ETHICS
_Without the blessing of reading the burden of life would be
intolerable and the riches of life reduced to the merest penury._
GLADSTONE.
_The taste for reading stores the mind with pleasant thoughts,
banishes ennui, fills up the unoccupied interstices and enforced
leisures of an active life; and if it is judiciously managed it is
one of the most powerful means of training character and
disciplining and elevating thought. To acquire this taste in early
life is one of the best fruits of education._
LECKY: "THE MAP OF LIFE."
From his childhood Paul Jones had been a voracious and an omnivorous
reader. He read with amazing rapidity. The first book he enjoyed
whole-heartedly was Mabel Dearmer's "Noah's Ark Geography," one of the
best children's books written in the past twenty years. He read and
re-read this book as a little boy and used to talk lovingly of Kit and
his friends, Jum-Jum and the Cockyolly Bird. Alas! Kit (Mrs. Dearmer's
son Christopher) and his gifted mother have been claimed as victims by
the World War. Paul revelled in "Æsop's Fables," "Robinson Crusoe,"
"The Swiss Family Robinson," "Don Quixote," "Treasure Island," "The
Arabian Nights," "Gulliver's Travels," and classical legends. As he
grew older he passed on to "The Mabinogion," "The Pilgrim's Progress,"
Lamb's "Tales of Shakespeare," and writers like Henty, Manville Fenn,
Clark Russell, W. H. Fitchett and P. G. Wodehouse. He followed with
delight the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, whose charm never faded for
him. He made a point of reading everything written by Conan Doyle. But
he gave first place among living writers to George Bernard Shaw, and
next place to H. G. Wells. He would never miss a Shaw play. His
delight at the first performance he saw of _John Bull's Other Island_
was boisterous. He loved to read that play as well as to see it
performed. The glimpses of Ireland and the portraits of Irish
character enchanted him. Broadbent--typifying the self-complacency of
the well-meaning but Philistine Victorian who had solved to his own
satisfaction all mysteries in earth and heaven--he regarded as a
masterpiece of creative art. For Kipling his admiration was qualified;
but he loved "M'Andrews' Hymn," and often recited lines from the
"Recessional." Of the great novelists Dickens was easily his first
favourite; a long way behind came Scott, Stevenson and Jules Verne.
Dickens he knew and loved in every mood. Pickwick like Falstaff was to
him a source of perennial delight. He loved and honoured Dickens for
his rich and tender humanity, the passion of pity that suffused his
soul, the lively play of his comic fancy. Endowed with a keen sense of
humour, he read Mark Twain and W. W. Jacobs with gusto. As a
relaxation from historical studies he would sometimes devour a bluggy
story, and as he read would shout with laughter at its grotesque
out-topping of probabilities. He tried his own hand at sensational
yarns. I recall one of them, rich in gory incidents, with a villain
who is constantly leaping from a G.W.R. express to elude his pursuers.
Among his papers I found the manuscript of a detective story,
vivaciously written after the Sherlock Holmes and Watson manner.
At one time Paul liked to read Homer and Thucydides, Virgil and
Tacitus; but as soon as he was at home in the wide realm of English
literature he thrust the old classics from him, and subsequently his
hard historical reading gave him no opportunity, even if he had felt
the desire, to revert to Greek and Latin writers. But he was fully
conscious of the world's debt in culture to Greece and in law and
government to Rome. He wrote: "The influence of Greek thought, Greek
form, Greek art, is universal and eternal."
Of all names in literature he reverenced most that of Shakespeare, in
whom he saw "the spirit of the Renaissance personified," and whom he
described "as romantic, philosophic, realistic, and as varied and
impersonal as Nature." He was never weary of reading the tragedies and
historical plays. He resented any word in disparagement of
Shakespeare, and could not understand the inability of a supreme
artist like Tolstoy to appreciate his greatness. Though he has written
a noble sonnet in homage to Shakespeare's genius, Matthew Arnold once
permitted himself to say that "Homer leaves Shakespeare as far behind
as perfection leaves imperfection." Paul wrote in a marginal note,
"Bosh! to put it bluntly." He would say with Goethe, "The first page
of Shakespeare made me his for life, and when I had perused an entire
play I stood like one born blind, to whom sight by some miraculous
power had been restored in a moment." Paul and I often exchanged ideas
on Shakespeare. He was lost in wonder at Shakespeare's creative power,
his inexhaustible fertility, the universality of his range, the
perfection of his portraiture, his mastery over all moods, his cunning
artistry in the use of words, his exuberant imagery and effortless
ease. He made a pilgrimage to Stratford-on-Avon to see with his own
eyes the spots and scenes amid which Shakespeare's youth and declining
years were spent. The smiling beauty of Stratford and the rich rural
charm of its surroundings left on his mind a delightful impression
that was never erased.
Next to Shakespeare his admiration flowed out to Milton. When he went
into the battle-line he took with him only two books--his Shakespeare
and his Milton. With Milton's character he had some marked
affinities--the virginal purity of Milton's youth, his love of
learning, his hatred of all tyrannies, secular and spiritual, making a
strong appeal to the sympathies of my son. "Milton," he wrote, "is
perhaps the very grandest figure in English history." "In Milton the
spirit of Puritanism is combined with a purely Hellenic love of
beauty." "'Paradise Lost' may be regarded (1) as a reflection of the
Puritan point of view; (2) as a poem pure and simple; (3) as an epic
of the classical school."
Profound as was his admiration for "Paradise Lost," he could not
forbear smiling at Taine's quip that the Miltonic Adam is "your true
Paterfamilias, a member of the Opposition, a Whig, a Puritan, who
entered Paradise via England."
Paul extolled Pope's ingenuity and metrical felicity--he has
thoroughly annotated the "Essay on Man"--but was acutely conscious of
aridity and the absence of rapture and vision in Pope as in Dryden. He
singled out as "the finest passage in the 'Essay on Man'" the eight
lines in which Pope contrasts the majesty of the Universe with the
insignificance of man, beginning:
Let earth unbalanced from her orbit fly,
Planets and suns run lawless through the sky.
He had not much respect for Pope's philosophy, and, commenting on one
passage in the same poem, writes: "Pope, like many other unsound
reasoners, when his position becomes dangerous, seeks to vindicate
himself by insults."
Above all nineteenth-century poets he loved Wordsworth, the revelation
of whose richness and glory only came to him after he was seventeen.
There were no bounds to his admiration for the Wordsworth sonnets.
Many a time since the War he would recite the glorious sonnet which
proclaims that
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake, the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held. In every thing we are sprung
Of Earth's first blood, have titles manifest.
The magic of Keats and his adoration of beauty struck a responsive
chord in Paul's nature. Tennyson did not stir him to the depths of his
being like Wordsworth. "Ulysses," "The Revenge," and "Crossing the
Bar" were the only Tennyson poems that he cared for. In an essay
written when he was eighteen he defined poetry as "the soul of man put
into untrammelled speech, the voice of angels, the music of the
spheres." He read with critical discernment, sometimes agreeing,
sometimes disagreeing, with the author. It was his habit when reading
a book to mark passages that impressed him and make comments in the
margin. Some of his _obiter dicta_ shall be given. In judging them it
should be remembered that they were all pronounced before he was
nineteen.
How aptly said that Dante seems to have tried to write a poem
with a sculptor's chisel or a painter's brush.
Froissart observes clearly, but his observation is limited to the
world of nobles and chivalry; he ignores the life, the sufferings
and the joys of the people.
Ben Jonson, master of dignified declamatory drama, was the
greatest of the post-Shakespeare school. We may justly say
post-Shakespeare, though Jonson was nearly contemporaneous with
the Bard of Avon, because the influence of such a man clearly
belongs to an age in which the freedom and romantic magnificence
of Shakespeare have been forgotten.
Gibbon is the first of historians. The "Decline and Fall of the
Roman Empire" runs its course like some majestic river.
Burns is a microcosm of Scotland.
Burke--a stainless and beautiful character. A theorist in
practice; a practical man in theory.
Burke's view of Rousseau was biased and unjust.
Though contemptuous of Wordsworth, Byron himself is a romantic of
the romanticists. He was the guiding star of rebels the world
over.
In the calm purity of his verse, Shelley is more classic than
romantic. What ecstatic melody in his lyrics!
Dickens is often mawkish and often portrays oddities; but these
oddities do exist, especially in London (_e.g._, Sam Weller, Mrs.
Todgers, Jo, etc.), and Dickens unearthed them for the first
time. How his heart warms for the poor and the wretched! He is
the great poet of London life.
Macaulay is not a philosophic writer; but then the English genius
is certainly non-philosophic.
Froude in his essay on Homer says: "The authors of the Iliad and
the Odyssey stand alone with Shakespeare far away above mankind."
Paul's marginal note: "Add to them Milton, Goethe, the author of
the Nibelungen-lied, Browning."
Froude, I think, has misunderstood the Nibelungen-lied entirely.
There is really much savagery and much glory in both the German
and the Greek epic.
How strange that men like Rabelais and Swift, Goldsmith and
Dickens, who have done so much to make the world laugh,
experienced in their own lives great unhappiness.
Browning is always an optimist. His manliness and vigour are
unfailing:
I find earth not grey but rosy,
Heaven not grim but fair of hue.
Do I stoop? I pluck a posy.
Do I stand and stare? All's blue.
Paul considered that Macaulay lacked ideas and vision. He liked the
lilt and swing of the Lays and Ballads, and enjoyed the Essays with
their superb colouring. Disputing Macaulay's dictum that neither
painters nor poets are helped by the advances in civilisation, science
and refinement, he wrote: "This argument disproved by the examples of
men like Shakespeare and Goethe, like Browning and Kipling. And did
not Leonardo da Vinci become a student of anatomy in order to learn
how to depict the human body properly on his canvas?"
Macaulay in his Essay on Mackintosh's "History of The Revolution"
describes the condition of England in 1678, after eighteen years of
Charles the Second's reign, in graphic words, beginning "Such was the
nation which, awaking from its rapturous trance, found itself sold to
a foreign, a despotic, a Popish court, defeated on its own seas and
rivers by a State of far inferior resources, and placed under the rule
of pandars and buffoons."
Paul's comment reads: "This superb passage is one of the most inspired
of Macaulay's utterances. Contrast with it in the same Essay the vivid
sentence beginning 'In the course of seven centuries,' in which he
pronounces a magnificent panegyric on the greatness of Britain."
He thought the music of Macaulay's prose had often a metallic sound,
and that it suffered from excess of epithet and addiction to
antithetical phrases. In pithiness of style, sureness of touch and
dispassionate judgment, he contrasted Acton as an historical writer
with Macaulay, to the latter's disadvantage. He found every page of
Acton packed with thought, every essay richly freighted with ideas.
Moreover, Acton was sternly impartial and impersonal in his judgment
of persons and in his estimate of influences. Paul wrote:
There has never been in historical writing such inexorable logic,
such compact phraseology, so much pith and point, as are to be
found in Acton's Essays.
His view of Carlyle was thus expressed: "Take away his style and half
his greatness vanishes. Carlyle's works are not English in spirit, nor
have they any point of resemblance to those of any other English
writer." As for his views: "he has, alas! no love for democracy."
Carlyle's habit of apotheosising heroes and his worship of the Strong
Man made Paul pose the familiar problem: "Is the great man the
fashioner of his age, or its product?" He thought something was to be
said on both sides, and that it was impossible to lay down a positive
proposition on what he called "this terribly difficult question." But
he agreed with Guizot that "great events and great men are fixed
points and summits of historical survey." He emphasises the fact that
in his "French Revolution" Carlyle, in spite of his hero-worship,
accepts the evolutionary view of history.
Among essayists he had a special liking for Froude, Matthew Arnold and
Edmund Gosse. He often turned for refreshment to Froude's "Short
Studies," and felt the fascination of his "Erasmus." In his essay on
the Book of Job, Froude writes: "Happiness is not what we are to look
for; our place is to be true to the best which we know; to seek that
and do that." On this my son comments: "I don't hold with this idea;
for, while happiness is not the end, yet it always in its purest and
brightest form comes to the really good or great man in the
consciousness of the work he has done." Froude in his essay on
"Representative Men" enlarges on the importance of educating boys by
holding up before them the pattern of noble lives. By picturing the
career of a noble man rising above temptation and "following life
victoriously and beautifully forward," Froude thinks you will kindle a
boy's heart as no threat of punishment here or hereafter will kindle
it. On this Paul writes: "A noble plea for an education of youth far
more effective than the cursed nonsense of forbidding this or that on
penalty of hell-fire."
Matthew Arnold, whom in some moods he admired, occasionally got on
his nerves. I find this footnote on a page of "Culture and Anarchy":
"This is self-satisfied swank." On another page: "Matthew Arnold
himself often wanting in sweetness and light." On another: "Admirably
put; here I do agree with M. A." He liked Arnold's essay on "The
Function of Criticism," although he differed from some of the author's
judgments. "The French Revolution took a political, practical
character," wrote Arnold; on which my son's comment is: "Surely the
French Revolution was only one aspect of a great world-movement of
liberation! One side of it is Romanticism; another the Revolution
itself; yet another, the Industrial Revolution. No movement has ever a
character _sui generis_." On Joubert's remark: "Force and Right are
the governors of this world, Force till Right is ready," his comment
is: "A regular German theory." Paul's final note on "The Function of
Criticism" reads:
I consider that Matthew Arnold insists too much on the
non-practical element of criticism. After all, it is the lesson
of life that the practical man wins in the end. When we are
brought face to face with the realities of things--as in a war
like the present one--all thought of art and letters simply
vanishes. How is it that the mass of the world is always
inartistic? How is it that the one people in the world--the
Greeks--who built up their State on what Arnold regards as ideal
conditions, collapsed in headlong ruin before the inartistic but
practical Romans?
This comment illustrates one effect of the War on Paul's mind: he was
becoming less of an idealist and more of a realist.
For Mr. W. H. Hudson's "Introduction to the Study of Literature" he
had high esteem. This book he has carefully annotated. Of Mr. Hudson's
remarks on the contrast between the style of Milton and that of
Dryden, between Hooker and Defoe, he writes: "A comparison of
remarkable discernment. The difference between the Miltonic and
Drydenic styles, _i.e._, pre-1660 and post-1660, was simply due to the
change in ideas caused by the reaction against Puritanism." Agreeing
with Hudson that there is much poetry which is prosaic and much prose
which is poetical, he cites as examples: "Prose in Poetry: Pope,
Dryden, Walt Whitman. Poetry in Prose: Carlyle, Macaulay, Goethe." He
did not concur with Hudson's remark that the "full significance of
poetry can be appreciated only when it addresses us through the ear,"
and that "the silent perusal of the printed page will leave one of its
principal secrets unsurprised." Paul's comment on this:
Too sweeping a statement. Take, for example, poets like Milton
and Browning, where every line is fraught with some deep
philosophic meaning and must be pondered over for some time
before the whole of the greatness of the poetry is realised. In
these cases reading aloud is not nearly so good as private,
silent study.
He demurred to the proposition that while the function of Ethics is to
instruct, that of Art is to delight. "I hold," he writes, "that Art's
duty is to instruct as much as, if not more than, that of Ethics. Art
to be great must elevate and edify." Hudson wrote: "The common view
that the primitive ages of the world were ages of colossal
individualism is grotesquely unhistorical; they were, on the contrary,
ages in which group-life and group-consciousness were in the
ascendant." "Quite true," notes Paul. "See Maine's 'Ancient Law,'
where he points out that ancient history has nothing to do with the
individual but only with groups." Another annotated book is
Maeterlinck's "Wisdom and Destiny." To Maeterlinck's remark, "It is
often of better avail from the start to seek that which is highest,"
he adds: "Always, not often." He heartily subscribed to Maeterlinck's
doctrine that our attitude to life ought to be one of "gladsome,
enlightened acceptance, not a hostile, gloomy submission."
His philosophy of life was expressed in that beautiful passage in
Carlyle's essay on "Characteristics":
Here on earth we are as soldiers fighting in a foreign land; that
understand not the plan of the campaign and have no need to
understand it; seeing well what is at our hand to be done, let us
do it like soldiers, with submission, with courage, with a heroic
joy. "Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with all thy
might." Behind us, behind each one of us, lie 6,000 years of
human effort, human conquest. Before us is the boundless Time,
with its as yet uncreated and unconquered continents and
Eldorados, which we, even we, have to conquer, to create; and
from the bosom of Eternity there shine for us celestial guiding
stars.
My inheritance, how wide and fair!
Time is my fair seed-field, of Time I'm heir.
The ethical side of Paul's character is reflected in the appended
quotations from some of his essays:
Sacrifice is always the lot of the divine man.
What is "to do good"? It is to think of other people.
Joy only comes to Faust when at last he is labouring for others.
As Wolsey puts it in _Henry VIII_: "Love thyself last," and "bear
peace in thy right hand."
The Epicurean idea is vile and detestable. If everyone thinks
only of his own indulgence, how can the wherewithal for that
indulgence be forthcoming? What is the use of man having all his
glorious gifts of character and intellect if he does not use
them? Why is man made so different from the animals if he is to
be the mere slave of his passions?
Stoicism finally degenerates into mere pessimism.
The great defect of Puritanism was its hostility to Art; for Art
glorifies and ennobles Life.
"What is the final cause of the Universe?" This is the old
problem of the philosophers. Goethe's lines leap to the mind:
"How, when and where?
The Gods make no reply;
To causes give thy care,
And cease to question why."
Carlyle in "Heroes and Hero Worship" shows the folly of
condemning a man for the faults noted down by the world about
him--by those blind to the true inner secret of his life. "Who
art thou that judgest thy fellow?"
Naturalism is illogical because it postulates Nature without
mind.
If you do not place faith in humanity, what really is the use of
any philosophy of life?
Let us remember St. Paul's injunction, "Bear ye one another's
burdens."
It is a thought to make one ponder, that by far the finest Life
of Christ was written by an agnostic, Renan.
Action is a great joy in life.
When prehistoric man took up a flint and laboriously beat it into
a shape that his brain told him would be of use to him, he laid
the foundations of all civilisation. Man's progress is the story
of brute force laid low by Thought--which is the one really
irresistible influence in the Universe:
"In the world there is nothing great but Man;
In Man there is nothing great but Mind."
It is a perplexing reflection that there is no absolute moral
standard. The moral law appears to vary with environment and
according to conditions of time and place. I am reminded of
Pope's lines:
"Where the extreme of vice was ne'er agreed.
Ask where's the North? At York 'tis on the Tweed;
In Scotland, at the Orcades; and there
At Greenland, Zembla, or the Lord knows where."
The greater a man is in one direction, the more prone he usually
is to weakness in another: that is why we must never condemn
indiscriminately.
The laws governing the Universe, so far from being mechanical
and dead, are elements filled with Truth and Beauty.
Materialism is fatal to the higher instincts, because it
introduces that most sordid element--earthly pomp, circumstance
and recompense.
The Universe, History, Life are before us. Why should they not be
investigated? It is not true that science leads to Atheism or
Fatalism. What science does is to destroy that fabric of
_Aberglaube_ or superstition which chokes and asphyxiates the
best parts of religion. What science does is to set up a new,
purer creed based on certainty and truth.
Of French writers Paul liked most Taine, Sainte-Beuve, and Victor
Hugo. His love of reading he took with him into the War. A box of
books returned to us with his other effects from France included "The
Meditations of Marcus Aurelius," Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason,"
Macaulay's "Essays," Saint-Simon's "Memoirs," Sainte-Beuve's
"Causeries," "The Imitation of Christ," Lecky's "History of European
Morals," and works by Goethe, Victor Hugo, Dumas the elder, Flaubert,
Maurice Barrès, and Mrs. Humphry Ward.
CHAPTER X
HISTORY AND POLITICS
_History is philosophy teaching by examples._
BOLINGBROKE.
_The science of Politics is the one science that is deposited by the
stream of history, like grains of gold in the sand of a river._
ACTON.
Reared in the home of a political journalist, it was natural that Paul
Jones should be attracted to public affairs. He followed with lively
curiosity the progress of the two general elections of 1910, and from
that year was an interested observer of political events. As he grew
older his bent towards politics became more pronounced. A youth
familiar with Roman, mediæval and modern history could not fail to be
fascinated by the political drama unfolding before his eyes. He
watched history in the making with the same eagerness that he read the
history of the past. The prevailing tone at Dulwich, as at most public
schools, is Conservative. Paul was a perfervid Liberal. In school and
out of school, not only did he not disguise, he gloried in his
advanced opinions. The extent of his political knowledge and the
ripeness of his views were astonishing in one so young.
From the moment he began to think for himself his sympathies flowed
out to the wage-earning classes. What he remembered and what he had
heard of his Puritan grandfather, William Jones, a grand specimen of
the Victorian artisan, who died in December, 1905, on the verge of 80,
deepened his regard for them. But his own broad and sympathetic nature
would have drawn him instinctively to their side. In his judgment it
was on and by the working-classes that the wheels of the world moved
forward. He had nothing but contempt for the sparrow-like frivolity of
fashionable Society, and was repelled from the middle classes by their
servitude to conventions, their prejudices social and political, and
their non-receptivity to ideas. He for his part must breathe an ampler
air. He was wont to speak disdainfully of the Victorian era, because,
in spite of all the advances it witnessed in the physical sciences and
of Britain's rapid growth in wealth between 1850 and 1890, it did so
little for social welfare.
For feudal magnates and the _nouveaux riches_ he had scant respect,
holding that both the aristocracy and the plutocracy had used their
political power for selfish ends. Old feudalism in some respects he
regarded as better than new Capital, for the landed aristocracy did at
least recognise some obligations to those under their sway, whereas
Capital was so concerned with its rights that it forgot altogether its
reciprocal duties. His view was that, under shelter of the
_laissez-faire_ system, with its false presumption that employers and
employed were on a parity in bargaining power, Capital had
scandalously evaded its obligations to Labour. He regarded the
conditions of life in some of our industrial districts as a grave
reproach to the nation. The lust for wealth and other unlovely aspects
of competitive commercialism were most repugnant to him. He knew that
Nature cares not a rap for equality and lavishes her gifts with a
strange caprice. But though there is inequality of natural gifts, he
thought it was the duty of the State to ensure equality of opportunity
to all its citizens. His ideal was a co-operative commonwealth, in
which the competitive spirit would be held in check by communal needs
and aims, and where every career would be opened freely to talent. In
one of his essays he deplores the fact that political economists had
fallen into the delusion of applying the laws that govern the
exchange of commodities without any variation to Labour, and leaving
out of account intangibles and imponderables like moral forces and
other expressions of the delicate and mysterious human spirit.
Political economy, he thought, would have to be recast and humanised.
"The economists," he said, "have entirely ignored the human factor."
Paul's conviction was that when the rule of enlightened democracy was
established wars would cease. "The peoples never want wars," he wrote;
"under a pure democracy wars would be impossible." Because of the
associations clustering around it the word "Imperialism" jarred on
him, but he took pride in the greatness of the free and liberal
British Empire, with its rule of law, its love of peace, its humane
ideals. He had the historical sense in highly developed degree. The
story of human progress stretched before the eye of his mind in a
series of vivid pictures. Surveying the immense and imposing fabric of
recorded events woven by the ceaseless loom of Time, he had an
unerring instinct for the shining figures, the salient characteristic,
the determining factor. Away from a library he could have written a
quite tolerable essay on any century of the Christian era. Historical
characters in whom he was specially interested were Julius Cæsar,
Octavius, Charlemagne, the Emperor Charles V, Queen Elizabeth,
Cromwell, Louis XIV, the elder Pitt, Frederick the Great, and
Napoleon; and among the non-political Roger Bacon, Erasmus, Luther,
Sir Thomas More, Isaac Newton, Faraday, and Darwin. The Elizabethan
age had for him a magnetic attraction, because of the Queen with her
enigmatical personality, marvellous statecraft and capacity for
inspiring devotion, and of the brilliant galaxy of great men,
statesmen and sailors, poets and scholars, who enriched her reign with
so much glory. Another epoch he loved to study was that of the French
Revolution. I have already referred to his habit of annotating the
books he read. From notes he made on political books and from some of
his essays I have culled the following:
Man's tool-using power is simply a symbol of man's unique
reasoning gifts. Its connotations may be extended to mean the
entire intellect.
The savage using his language with joy like a child, gives us the
wealth of beautiful mythology about all natural objects.
It is wonderful to think that Julius Cæsar's imperial system was
handed right down to the nineteenth century, until one not unlike
Cæsar himself set his foot upon its neck in 1806. But long before
it fell the Holy Roman Empire had really ceased, in Voltaire's
words, to be holy, or Roman, or an empire.
Froude holds up to admiration the "serene calmness" of Tacitus,
and says he took no side. But I ask anyone who has read the
sarcastic remarks about Domitian and the Emperors in the
"Agricola" whether he thinks Tacitus took no side in writing
history.
Nothing can alter the fact that Mohammedanism has done a vast
amount of good. Compare Carlyle's appreciation of Mahomet with
Gibbon's acrimonious insinuations.
Much that is strange in human history is explained if we remember
that aristocracies in the West were political, while in the East
they were religious.
Hildebrand, who boldly declared that the Church compared to the
State was as the sun to the moon--the State only shining by light
borrowed from the greater orb--was now on the papal throne. His
giant intellect and tremendous personality had overawed Henry IV
into ignominious capitulation at Canossa. With Europe at his feet
Hildebrand cannot but have desired to assert his authority over
the island-State across the Channel. William the Conqueror and
Hildebrand were rarely-matched antagonists--the one determined to
set bounds to the Pope's scheme of world-domination; the Pope
equally determined to bend the stubborn Norman to his will. It
was the Conqueror who won.
The conception of the Norman Conquest has shifted from the
grotesque over-estimate of Thierry to the under-estimate of
Freeman and Maitland. To the moderns the Conquest is now little
more than a change of dynasty. A juster estimate would be that
the very change of dynasty gave the Conquest its vital
importance.... The effects were really immense. The Conquest
substituted for the degenerate race of Anglo-Saxon kings a virile
dynasty able to give to England what it needed--a vigorous
central administration--and brought the English people into the
stream of European civilisation.
It was the hope of Erasmus that Catholic forms could be blended
with the Greek spirit.
Luther's songs express the very soul of old Germany; above all,
the great hymn "Ein feste Burg ist unser Gott."
Though the Reformation in freeing the mind of man from
ecclesiastical tyranny made eventually for political liberty, its
whole tendency in England for the time being was in favour of
absolute monarchy. Its first outcome here was to set up a secular
monarchy, supreme in Church and State, founded on the theory of
the divine right of kings, based on an aristocracy made loyal by
the instinct of self-interest.
Commerce and national wealth were at stake in the war between
England and Spain in the sixteenth century, and not merely,
perhaps not even mainly, religion.
Drake was a very great sailor, but he was undoubtedly a
buccaneer.
Many Ministers had been sent to the block for offences far less
rank than those of Charles I; nevertheless, his execution was
absolutely illegal and a fatal mistake in policy.
Few men experienced such hard treatment at the hands of fortune
as Cromwell. In every case, save the rule of the major-generals,
his constitutional experiments were wise, far-seeing and
well-conceived. It was the perverse conduct of those who
professed to be his followers that ruined all.
There has never been a shrewder king on a throne than Charles II.
In the popular view, James II will always be regarded as the
tyrannical despot, the subverter of the religious and political
institutions of England, while his brother, Charles II, will be
looked upon as a kindly and amiable gentleman, who oppressed no
one and treated everyone kindly. Yet in the view of the student
of history Charles becomes the tyrant and James an honest though
bigoted fool.
To compare the age of Cromwell with that of Charles II is to see
the Dorian and Lydian spirits respectively in their most
contrasted lights.
The difference between Richelieu and Mazarin is the difference
between the creator and the developer.
The political revolution of 1688 was contemporaneous with a
revolution in physics, shown by Harvey's discovery of the
circulation of the blood; with a revolution in astronomical
thought, shown by Newton's "Principia"; with a small revolution
in literature, shown by the rise of English prose; with a
revolution in popular feeling all over the world, as shown by the
riots against excessive taxation in France and the ejection of de
Witt in Holland. All the different threads of life seem to run
interwoven, and one cannot be disturbed without disturbing the
others.
The character of Frederick the Great was stained by many infamous
deeds; he was in many ways unscrupulous, yet he was never petty,
and he was devoted to his country. He was the greatest genius in
practical reforms and in the art of war that the eighteenth
century produced.
Frederick the Great has had a far stronger and better influence
on history than a selfish, callous person like Louis XIV.
Of all the benevolent despots there is only one, Frederick the
Great, to whom can be fitly applied what Johnson said of
Goldsmith: "Let not his faults be remembered: he was a very great
man."
Under a despotism the aristocracy loses all its powers, and,
except for the bureaucracy and "King's friends," there is no
privileged class unless the King is a weak man and under the
thumb of his court (e.g., contrast the France of Louis XIV with
that of Louis XV).
Carlyle in his "French Revolution" paints a wonderfully vivid
picture of the idle, voluptuous noblesse of the eighteenth
century: compare the views of de Tocqueville.
Carlyle in his grim account of the death-bed of Louis XV writes:
"We will pry no further into the horrors of a sinner's
death-bed." Paul's comment: "cf. the episode of the death of
Front-de-Boeuf in 'Ivanhoe.'"
Lord Chesterfield saw clearly the symptoms of the coming
Revolution in France. Only two other men in Europe foresaw that
immense event: Goldsmith and Arthur Young. Note Gibbon's
complacent attitude _in re_ France to illustrate the general lack
of vision on the subject.
Voltaire's summing up of the consequences of Turgot's fall may be
expressed in Sir Edward Grey's phrase: "Death, disaster and
damnation."
If Louis XVI had been wiser and more capable, would he have
averted the French Revolution? I think not. It is to be doubted
whether even a strong king, after so many years of tyranny which
had generated such hatred of the ancient regime, could have
checked the flow of forces making for the Revolution. Apart from
the effect of the old tyranny, new ideas of democracy were
arising. Witness the contemporary failure of a great benevolent
despot in Joseph II.
There was no idea of nationality in the foreign policy of the
younger Pitt.
Hilaire Belloc's description of the guillotining of the
Dantonists forms a picture among the most thrilling, enthralling
and agonising that I know.
Fox stands out as one of the most brilliant failures and one of
the most ineffective geniuses in history.
Before war broke out in 1870 the world believed in the military
superiority of France. Only that grim trio, Bismarck, Moltke and
Roon, knew the contrary.
William the First, grandfather of the present Kaiser, was an
absurdly overestimated character. He owed all his success to his
great Ministers.
Treitschke writes: "The territories drained by great rivers are
usually centres of civilisation.... Our Rhine remains the king of
all rivers, but what great thing has ever happened on the
Danube?" Paul's comment on this:
"I know of only three great events on the Danube. One, the
capture of Vienna by the Turks; two, the Battle of Blenheim;
three, the Battle of Ulm."
The Jews are a truly extraordinary race. Though they have for
centuries been persecuted, despised, outcast, so far from being
crushed by their sufferings, they seem actually to have been
toughened in fibre, and to-day they exercise a commanding
influence in the world.
England's geographical position does not fit her for the rôle of
a Continental Power. Her home is on the sea; her empire
world-wide.
Each race, each nation, has its own characteristics, its own
peculiar type of civilisation. Attempts to destroy these inherent
qualities have time and time again been baffled--as the examples
of the Jews, Poland and Alsace-Lorraine clearly demonstrate....
As Treitschke puts it: "The idea of a world-State is odious. The
whole content of civilisation cannot be realised in a single
State. Every people has the right to believe that certain powers
of the Divine Reason display themselves in it at their highest."
Patriotism may indeed be but a larger form of selfishness, but it
is a larger form. It does involve devotion to others. As long as
men are men, it is so unlikely as almost to be impossible that
patriotism will ever be replaced by cosmopolitanism.
A great point in favour of the rule of democracy is its
character-building power.
It is customary in a certain class of society to abuse
trade-unionism. People talk of the tyranny of trade-unionism; it
would be as easy, perhaps more justifiable, to talk of the
tyranny of Capital. The trade union has its counterpart in what
are termed the "upper classes." For example, the British Medical
Association is nothing but a trade union under another name. The
trade union is an absolute necessity to the worker in modern
society.
_Laissez-faire_ has advantages up to a point; State control has
advantages up to a point. The most successful nation will be that
one which succeeds in making a judicious mixture of the two
systems.
The Englishman in his devil-may-care way does not trouble to
persecute or oppress; his tolerant spirit, aided by the splendid
devotion of a few great men, has, in the words of Seeley, built
up a glorious free Empire "in a fit of absence of mind."
You will never make the English people idealistic, but you will
never conquer them on that very account.
While the German talks and dreams of world-Empire, the Englishman
smiles, puts his pipe in his mouth and goes off to found it by
accident.
The modern system of diplomacy is as vile as anything can be.
Even in England it is the negation of popular government.
Man's duty to his neighbour ought to be observed as well as the
harsh and pitiless laws of trade and competition.
The social conditions of our industrial towns to-day are a
standing indictment of the _laissez-faire_ system.
The great warrior is no more important than the humble toiler.
Gladstone's finance was governed by the determination to spend as
little as possible. It does not seem to be so good as that of
Lloyd George, viz., to be prepared to spend a great deal provided
you are sure it is for the benefit of the people.
On a remark of Dr. Sarolea's _in re_ the alleged inherent
antagonism between Europe and America on the one side and Asia
and Africa on the other: "Absurd! If we are to be good Europeans
we must first of all be good world citizens. The Asiatic is as
much our brother as is the Belgian or the American."
It is not the case that England has checked Germany's Colonial
development. Germany has herself to blame--herself and destiny.
But I must say that Germany had to some extent right on her side
in the Morocco dispute.
The Germans ignore the fact that wherever we British go we throw
our ports open to the commerce of the world.
In the autumn of 1914 my son read General von Bernhardi's book,
"Germany and the Next War." In his notes on this book he drew
attention to Bernhardi's frequent self-contradictions and his false
philosophy. From these notes the following excerpts are taken:
Here Bernhardi flatly contradicts the biological argument he uses
earlier in the chapter. Biology knows nothing of States; it sees
only human beings.
Look at the intimate connection between Darwinism and the
political and economic views of the Individualist Radicals of the
mid-Victorian era.
Bernhardi assumes that mere material existence is always to be
man's destiny. But the perpetuation of existence beyond the
immediate present cannot be guided by the instinct of grabbing.
The modern theory is that good and bad as abstract considerations
do not exist, but that they are what experience shows to be best
for us in the end. The animal knows this subconsciously; man
consciously to a certain extent.
Emphatically No; mere brute force is not the law of the universe.
Bernhardi may as well talk of conquering the moon as of
conquering the U.S.A.
Man's true development consists above all in the negation of his
selfish elements for the good of humanity.
Bernhardi's proposition, "Only the State which strives after an
enlarged sphere of influence can create the conditions under
which mankind develops into the most splendid perfection," Paul
counters by asking: "How does this theory fit in with the case of
the Greeks, who, politically so weak, were yet intellectually so
great that to-day, after 2,000 years, their influence in Europe
is as great as ever? Which would you rather have been, tiny
Greece or vast Persia?"
On Bernhardi's remark: "No excuse for revolutionary agitation in
Germany now exists."
No excuse? When the people have no power at all, and can at any
moment be led to the slaughter by a pack of Junkers--"all for the
good of the State"; in other words, to give the military caste
more wealth and dignity. In a few years Bernhardi will see
whether the people have any cause for revolution or not.
The Germany of philosophy, poetry and song will rescue the German
people from the abyss into which the War Lords have plunged them.
Germany was indeed unfortunate in entering the world as a great
Power so late. But she will not make any progress by perpetually
brandishing a sword before Europe.
I do think that Prussia's policy in the past was largely
determined by her geographical situation.
The Entente with France was the price we paid for Egypt. Germany
never entered our thoughts at all.
On Bernhardi's allusion to India, Paul wrote: "Curiously enough,
the very day I read this I heard in the House of Commons the
wonderful story of the gifts presented to the British Government
for war purposes by the Indian princes. Such a passionate
outburst of loyalty has never been equalled. This gratitude and
devotion we have won not by the rule of force, but by that of
justice and kindness."
In regard to Bernhardi's prediction that our self-governing Dominions
would separate from the British Empire:
Our policy toward them nobly justified. Now in our time of need
the Colonies have flown to our side.
God help civilisation when the Bernhardis set to work on it!
Strange that people so far apart as Bernhardi and we Socialists
should yet be at one on this question of checking selfish
individualism by measures of State Socialism.
A frequent visitor to the Lobby and Press Gallery of the House of
Commons, my son was known to many members of Parliament and political
journalists. Thanks to his free, affable manner, he was on terms of
cordial regard with several of the attendants and police-constables on
duty in and about the House of Commons. His last visit to the Press
Gallery was in May, 1916. He was stirred by the life and movement of
the House and enjoyed a good Parliamentary debate, but he had a
feeling that politicians were apt to mistake illusions for realities
and to think that words could take the place of deeds.
In the last three years of his life, though his democratic sympathies
never waned, some of his opinions underwent a change. He was
disappointed at the indifference of the masses of the people to their
own interests, at their low standard of taste, at the ease with which
they could be exploited by charlatans. I remember his telling me once,
in 1915, _apropos_ of the blatancy of some noisy patriots: "I now
realise for the first time what Dr. Johnson meant when he wrote,
'Patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.'" He disliked the
squalor of the political game and the glibness of tongue and tenuity
of thought of the mere politician. A generous-minded youth of high
ideals, he had not learnt to make allowances for political human
nature, or for the fact that the mass of mankind are necessarily
occupied with _petits soins_ and apt to be dulled by the mechanical
routine of their daily lives. Latterly he often told me that, after
all, there was a great deal to be said for the rule of the enlightened
autocrat. "But," he said, "the mischief is that you can't guarantee a
succession of enlightened autocrats; so we must make the best of the
rule of the majority." The backwardness of England in education used
to make him wring his hands. To lack of education he attributed the
tawdriness and vulgarity of popular taste. I thought my own political
and social views were advanced: to Paul I was little better than a
Whig with a veneration for Mr. Gladstone. He had a bold,
forward-looking mind, and was in favour of root-and-branch changes. He
was only 21 when he died, and his views on social and political
questions would doubtless have been modified in one direction or
another had he lived. But his passion for liberty of thought and
action and his deep sympathy with the unprivileged multitude would
have remained, for these things were inherent in his character. He
would have said with Ibsen: "I want to awaken the democracy to its
true task--of making all the people noblemen by freeing their wills
and purifying their minds."
Literature, athletics, music, politics did not exhaust the interests
of this strong and eager mind. He was a good chess-player, and
followed with lively curiosity the new developments in mechanics and
aviation. Very fond of dogs, between him and our little fox-terrier
there was a tie of deep affection. As indicative of the catholicity of
his tastes I may mention that, going over his papers after his death,
I discovered in the same drawer a manuscript appreciation of Wagner,
"Football Hints," memoranda on "Pascal and Descartes on Method," and
the outline of an essay on "The Norman Conquest and its Effects."
CHAPTER XI
IN THE ARMY
_Ever the faith endures,
England, my England:
"Take and break us, we are yours,"
England, my own._
W. E. HENLEY.
In the first flush of enthusiasm for the War in 1914 Paul wanted to
join the Public Schools Battalion, but I induced him to postpone doing
so, pointing out that he had been preparing hard for an Oxford
Scholarship, and that there would be ample time for him to join the
Army after the examination early in December. My reasons were
reinforced by his own desire to carry out his duties as Captain of
Football. After winning the Balliol Scholarship, and with the
knowledge that the number of recruits for the Army at that time was
far in excess of the provision of equipment, he was persuaded to stay
at Dulwich College till the end of the football season. But he became
very restless in the early months of 1915. He had never cared for
military exercises, much preferring free athletics, but in 1914 he had
joined the O.T.C. at the College. He assiduously applied himself to
drill and took part in many marches and several field-days. Meanwhile
he followed every phase of the War with fascinated interest. He read
all the War books he could get and began a War diary, which he entered
up every week-end, giving a succinct account of the War's progress on
land and sea and in the air. This diary he continued until he entered
the Army, and at his request I have kept it up since.
From copious entries by my son under the dates named the appended
excerpts are taken. They indicate with what intelligence and
comprehension he followed every phase of the War.
_August 18, 1914._--The British Expeditionary Force has landed
safely in France: embarkation, transportation and debarkation
carried out with great precision and without a single casualty.
Our men have made a magnificent impression on the French people
by their athletic demeanour, cheerfulness and orderly discipline.
Their arrival a source of great moral strength to France.
The Belgian King and Staff have left Brussels for Antwerp.
_August 30._--News filtering through of the retreat from Mons.
After the battle of Charleroi and the collapse of the French on
our right, the British troops fought stubbornly, but had to fall
back before enormous forces of the enemy, which sought to
annihilate them by sheer weight of numbers. In most difficult
circumstances the ten days' retreat was carried out with
wonderful skill.
_September 3 and 4._--The Germans now within forty miles of
Paris. Note, however, these important considerations: (1) The
German losses are terrific; (2) the whole Allied forces are
absolutely intact and in good order. The situation is very
different from that of 1870, when the French field armies were
destroyed before the war had been in progress a month.
The French Government has quitted Paris for Bordeaux.
_September 14-16._--It is now evident that the battle of the
Marne was a great victory for the Franco-British forces. On
September 6 the German advance southwards reached its extreme
points at Coulommiers and Provins. This movement was covered by a
large flanking force west of the Ourcq watching the outer Paris
defences. The southward movement left the enemy's right wing in a
dangerous position, as the Creil-Senlis-Compiègne line, by which
the Germans had advanced, had been evacuated. The Allies attacked
this wing in front and flank on September 8, and a French Army
was hurried from Paris to attend to the flanking force. The
frontal attack carried out by French and British. The enemy
retreated skilfully to the line of the Ourcq, and from here tried
to crush the French by a counter-attack. This failed utterly,
and the enemy right wing-fell back over the Marne on September
10, pursued by the French and the British. Large captures of
German prisoners and guns.
_September 16._--Official report of the Belgian Commission on
German atrocities too awful to read. The horrible things done by
the Kaiser's brutal soldiery in Belgium must remove every vestige
of respect for the Germans.
_September 19-21._--Conflict on the Aisne continues. No decisive
advantage to either side: both armies now strongly entrenched.
_September 29-Oct. 2._--The pater came in very gloomy one night
this week saying he had got information that could not be
published to the effect that Antwerp must fall in a few days, and
that the military situation in Belgium is as bad as it can be.
_October 12-15._--Ostend evacuated by the Belgian Government,
which has moved to Havre. Germans have occupied Ghent and Bruges
and are attempting a sweeping cavalry movement to and along the
coast. This coincident with an infantry advance on Calais, which
was skilfully checked by a British force that had lain concealed
near Ypres.
_October 18._--German troops in Belgium are now in contact with
von Kluck's army; that is, they are on the right of the force
that invaded France, roughly on a line drawn from a point a few
miles north of Lille to Ostend. The Allies still occupy part of
Belgium including Fleurbaix, Ypres and the surrounding portion of
the right bank of the Lys. It was feared that the German force
liberated by the fall of Antwerp would be able to combine with
von Kluck, so as to effect a great turning movement on the
Allies' left. Thanks, however, to the excellent railways in
north-east France, skilful disposition of British and French
forces, and the stubborn courage of our troops, this danger was
averted. We have not only checked the movement, but have
ourselves advanced, and the Allies' line to the sea is secure.
_November 15-22._--Lord Roberts died of pneumonia. He breathed
his last at St. Omer in sound of the guns. He had gone to France
to greet his beloved Indian soldiers. A fitting end for this
really great man.
_December 13-20._--On Wednesday morning, December 16, German
warships bombarded Scarborough and Hartlepool. This incident of
no military value, but (1) it is a distinct "buck-up" for the
Germans, as no hostile shots had struck any part of English soil
before since the days of de Ruyter; (2) it may arouse unpleasant
misgivings among unthinking people as to the functions and
efficiency of our Navy. A tip-and-run bombardment only possible
because the Germans can concentrate on any selected point of our
coast, whereas we have to guard its whole length. Scarborough an
undefended town, and the bombardment a gross breach of
international law; but we are getting used now to that sort of
thing.
England has formally taken over Egypt, which hitherto had only
been in our occupation, Turkey's suzerainty being recognised. The
old Khedive, who is absent from the country and intriguing with
the enemy, deposed, and Hussein Ali appointed Sultan.
_December 20-27._--Full story of the Falkland Islands victory now
published. This swift, clean and sure naval stroke appears to
have been planned from London by Sir John Fisher, the First Sea
Lord. Von Spee, the German Admiral, with his two sons and other
officers, went down on the _Scharnhorst_, refusing to surrender.
_January 3, 1915._--A rather blunt note from the U.S.A.
complaining that American merchant vessels have been stopped and
searched by our warships without justification, that serious
delays have been caused, and that American commercial interests
have suffered. Specific instances quoted, and freedom of American
ships from molestation in the future demanded. It is the old
question of the right of search come up again.
_January 17-24._--On Tuesday the famous Zeppelins made their
first appearance on the English scene. Several of the airships
appeared over Yarmouth, King's Lynn, Sheringham, and Sandringham.
Many bombs dropped, but absolutely no military damage; total
result, a number of innocent people killed and injured. This
marvellous achievement said to have given vast joy to Berlin.
Well, they are easily pleased. The destructive power of the Zepps
has been greatly overrated.
_February, 1-8._--Early in the week von Tirpitz avowed Germany's
intention to torpedo or otherwise destroy every British ship on
the sea, whether a vessel of war or a merchant trader--this to
be done without warning. Our Admiralty countered this declaration
by announcing their intention of using neutral flags for
non-combatant British vessels--a permissible _ruse de guerre_.
Thus the _Lusitania_ has set sail from New York flying the
American flag. "Diamond cut diamond" with a vengeance!
_February 8-14._--U.S.A. warn Germany that any attack on a vessel
flying the American flag before it is ascertained whether the
flag is or is not fictitious will be "viewed as a serious
matter."
_February 14-21._--The Germans have gained an immense victory
over the Russians along a front extending from the Niemen to the
Bzura, and Warsaw is as much in danger of capture as Paris was
last September. With marvellous accuracy and skill Hindenburg
seized the opportunity of using his railways in East Prussia to
outflank the Russians on both sides. One fact stands out clear in
the war--the British are the only troops who have as yet held
their ground against the Germans. Of what use are our Allies?
_March 14-20._--Neuve Chapelle battle not the success for us that
the first reports suggested. I fear some disagreeable facts are
being concealed. The reticence imposed by the Censor is
deplorable. We have suffered heavy casualties in winning a sector
of two miles wide by one mile long: our gains disproportionate to
our losses. We ought to have shaken the German position right up
to Lille.
_March 21-28._--Fall of Przemysl to the Russians after a siege of
203 days. The garrison that surrendered comprised nine Generals,
ninety-three superior officers, 2,500 subalterns and officials,
117,000 rank and file. This great success frees a large Russian
force for active work elsewhere.
Our Commander-in-Chief in France, Sir John French, in his last
communiqué talks of a protracted war and warns us against
over-sanguineness. "The protraction of the war depends entirely
upon the supply of men and munitions. Should these be
unsatisfactory the war will be accordingly prolonged."
In Alsace the French have captured the position of
Hartmannsweilerkopf; they have penetrated twelve miles into
German territory.
_March 29-April 4._--The Dardanelles operations are fizzling out
in melancholy fashion. Owing to the fact that we began the naval
bombardment before our land forces had arrived, the Turks have
been able to repair nearly all the damage. However, now that Ian
Hamilton has arrived to direct operations in Gallipoli, things
ought to begin to move.
_April 5-12._--The French have gained a position which overlooks
and commands the whole of the Woevre Plain; they are now fighting
like demons. This district (Lorraine) is very near to the French
heart. The first substantial advance that the French have made
since the battle of the Marne.
No official news of any value from the British front (the Censor
is hard at work), but for the last six days our casualties have
been terrible. It is maddening to see this long catalogue of
brave men killed or wounded and yet to have all information
withheld.
The Americans, having fallen out for a short time with us, are
now quarrelling with the Germans, the cause being a very insolent
message to the White House from the German Ambassador. In frantic
tones Count Bernstorff demands that America shall cease to supply
munitions of war to England and her Allies, his object being to
neutralise the effect of our sea-power.
Paul joined the Army on April 15, 1915, within a month of his 19th
birthday. His application for a commission in the Infantry was refused
point-blank because of his defective vision. The War Office
authorities, much impressed by his school and athletic record, had
requested him to undergo a special examination by an oculist; and on
receipt of the oculist's report showing how extreme was his short
sight, wrote to me on March 26, "It is quite impossible to think of
passing him for a commission, as his sight is so very much below the
necessary standard." Subsequently at an interview at the War Office he
admitted that if his spectacles were lost or broken he would be
helpless; but he said he would equip himself with several pairs to
provide against such emergencies. It was pointed out to him that in
wet weather rain-spots on the lenses of his glasses would obscure his
vision.
"I am willing to take the risk," was his reply.
"Yes," came the rejoinder, "but as an officer you would be
jeopardising other lives and not merely your own."
He was constrained to admit the force of this reasoning. Nevertheless,
his rejection for the Infantry was a grievous disappointment to him.
Eventually he obtained a commission in the Army Service Corps. He was
very proud to don the King's uniform. On April 15 he reported himself
for duty at a home port which is the principal centre of supply for
our armies abroad. There he remained for over three months. As his
nature was in taking up any work, he got absorbed in his new duties,
and, I am informed, executed them with the utmost efficiency. To keep
himself physically fit he gave some of his leisure to golf and to long
walks, some days tramping twenty miles and more. Looking forward
impatiently to the prospect of going abroad, he used to worry himself
by the thought that he, an athlete, had no more useful work to do than
to superintend the unloading of railway trucks and the loading of
vessels and seeing that supplies were up to specification. At
Whitsuntide his mother, brother and I spent a week-end in the vicinity
of the port where he was employed. One day we visited a little country
town, where he had arranged to join us after his duty was done. Near
to the town was a huge camp, also a hospital for wounded soldiers. We
met Paul on his arrival by train and walked with him to the hotel. On
the way he was kept busy acknowledging the salutes of soldiers who
passed us. At tea he was grave and preoccupied--for him a most unusual
mood. I rallied him on it, and asked whether he was in trouble with
his C.O.
"Certainly not," was his reply, "I get on excellently with the
Colonel."
Then a moment or two later he exclaimed with emotion, "Dad, I simply
can't stand it."
"Stand what!" I exclaimed.
"I can't stand receiving the salutes of men who have fought or are
going out to fight while I spend my time about wharves and
warehouses."
As he spoke his eyes filled with tears. To appease him was not easy.
This outburst was indicative of something more than a fugitive mood.
To his intense delight he received orders to go abroad a couple of
months later. On July 27, 1915, he left England for France, in which
country and Flanders the next two years of his life were to be spent.
His first appointment abroad was that of Requisitioning Officer to the
9th Cavalry Brigade of the 1st Cavalry Division--a Brigade that took
part in the severe fighting of the early months of the War and was now
waiting eagerly for a fresh opportunity to display its prowess. Our
Cavalry officers are a distinct type, with traditions and modes of
life and thought of their own. Paul, to whom nothing human was alien,
studied them with keen curiosity. He found them gay-hearted,
chivalrous gentlemen, and soon shared their enthusiasm for horses. His
experiences with the 9th Brigade are described in his letters. The
psychology of the French peasantry and tradespeople with whom he came
into contact also vastly interested him. It was very responsible work
he had to do for a lad of 19, but he did it ably and zealously. He
liked the work for its variety; it involved a great deal of riding on
horseback and much motoring, and gave opportunities for practising his
French.
Yet from time to time he heard voices from the trenches calling him.
He was always contrasting his lot with the hardships that were being
patiently endured in the front line by, as he would say, "better men
than myself." He received his promotion to lieutenant in the spring
of 1916. His pleasure at that step upward was soon dashed by his
appointment to a Supply Column. This "grocery work," as he
characterised it, was most distasteful to him; he thought of throwing
up his commission and trying to enlist as a private, but finally
decided to seek a commission in the Royal Field Artillery. After two
unhappy months in the Supply Column he was appointed in command of an
ammunition working-party at an advanced railhead in the Somme
battlefield. How he enjoyed this work his letters will show. It
involved, however, the hanging up of his application for transfer to
the R.F.A. In October, 1916, he was appointed Requisitioning Officer
to the 2nd Cavalry Brigade. He rejoiced at his escape from the
inglorious, albeit necessary, work of the Supply Column, and was soon
at home with his new comrades.
As time went on, it became more and more evident that our cavalry
would not have much opportunity in the War. The enforced inaction
preyed upon Paul's spirits, and in December he determined to do his
utmost to exchange into a unit in the front line. In his application
for transfer he put his preferences in this order: 1st, Infantry; 2nd,
M.G.C., heavies; 3rd, Artillery. The authorities, realising that his
extreme short sight disqualified him for the Infantry, assigned him to
the Tank Corps, which he joined on February 13, 1917.
Paul's delight at the change of employment was unbounded. His letters
from the time he joined the Tank Corps sing with happiness. Having
pushed all obstacles aside in order to walk the sacrificial road, he
found great gladness in breasting its steeps. A singular change is
discernible in his letters in the last seven months of his life. No
longer was there any reference in them to political affairs at home or
to international events. He who used to follow the progress of the
world with so much intentness had not a word to say about the change
in the Premiership of Great Britain, or any comment to offer on such
momentous events as the overthrow of the Tsardom in Russia, and the
entry into the war of the United States of America. He was either too
absorbed in his new duties to continue his old habit of observation
and comment, or else his gaze was now turned otherwhere, and he was
following the gleam.
A few weeks before his death I wrote to him suggesting that, as he was
then twenty-one, a joint banking account in his name and my own might
now be transferred to him so that he would have the money under his
own control. His reply was: "I have a large number of serious
questions, coupled with much hard work, engrossing my attention at
present and would prefer to leave all subsidiary matters severely
alone." This letter was a sign, and not the only one, that he was
liberating himself from mundane ties.
Brother officers have told me of my son's happiness in the Tank Corps.
His youthful love of engines had returned in full measure. For his
Tank--a "male," carrying Lewis guns and two six-pounders--he had a
positive affection, and would spend hours pottering about it after his
crew had knocked off for the day. Captain Gates, M.C., who had charge
of the section to which Paul's Tank belonged and who was wounded in
the battle in which my son was killed, came to see us in London in
September. From him we had a full account of the last three months of
Paul's life. Among other things, Captain Gates spoke of his _joie de
vivre_, infectious gaiety, hearty appetite, liberal contributions to
the mess funds. Paul, he said, was the life and soul of the section.
When they were out of the battle-line he used to begin his day by a
plunge in the adjacent river. He would come into breakfast looking
radiant, and even then was ready for a frolic. "Some of us would be a
bit down at times," said Captain Gates, "but Paul never. He was
always merry. He had immense strength. In frolicsome moods he would
lift a brother officer in his arms like a child, hold him helpless,
and then drop him gently on the ground; but it took three or four of
us to get him down. To see him come down a village in his Tank was a
sight; his gaiety was so great, and he had a shout or a greeting for
every passer-by. A braver boy I have never met; he was quite calm and
unruffled under shell-fire. If anything, he was too keen. He always
wanted to be in the danger zone, and was most eager to get into
personal touch with the Boches. I told Major Haslam that whenever Paul
would be in battle it would be a case of the V.C. or death; for him
there could be no medium course. On the morning of 31st July, when he
was thrilling at the prospect of the coming attack, I said to him
before we set out: 'Now, don't be too rash; remember that the lives of
your crew are in your keeping.' Unfortunately he was killed quite
early in the fight by a sniper's bullet. His death cast a gloom over
the whole company. In our own mess we shall miss him dreadfully."
On New Year's Day, 1918, Gunner Phillips, of "C" Battalion, Tank
Corps, called at our house in London, and told us a great deal about
Paul from the standpoint of the men in the battalion. Mr. Phillips, a
young craftsman of high intelligence, spoke with intense affection of
our son, whom he knew almost from the first day Paul joined the Tanks.
He said: "Lieutenant Paul Jones was sociable and most considerate. He
was a grand officer and treated his men like brothers. He would never
ask the men to do what he would not do himself. The result was that we
would all have done anything for him. There are a few rough chaps in
our battalion--men who know the guard-room--but even these yielded
gladly to his influence, and liked him very much. No officer in the
battalion was so loved and respected by the men. One day last summer,
when a number of Tanks had assembled in a wood, our whereabouts were
discovered by the Germans, who at daybreak simply peppered the place
with shells. The order was given to go to the dug-outs. Lieut. Jones,
aroused from sleep, came out half-dressed, but he was as cool as if he
was on parade, and insisted on every man going into the dug-outs
before he himself would take shelter. His merry spirits made him a
great favourite with us all. My own relations with him were
particularly cordial, because I was a Welshman and an athlete."
It was comforting to have these accounts at first-hand of our son's
unalloyed happiness in the last seven months of his life. Countless
brave men, gifted and simple, eminent and obscure, have sacrificed
their lives in this War, none with more complete self-surrender than
Paul Jones. In War as in Peace, he bore himself like Wordsworth's
"Happy Warrior."
Whose powers shed round him in the common strife,
Or mild concerns of ordinary life,
A constant influence, a peculiar grace;
But who, if he be called upon to face
Some awful moment to which Heaven has joined
Great issues, good or bad for humankind,
Is happy as a Lover; and attired
With sudden brightness, like a man inspired.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,
Nor thought of tender happiness betray,
Who, not content that former Worth stand fast,
Looks forward, persevering to the last,
From well to better, daily self-surpast:
Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth
For ever, and to noble deeds give birth,
Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame
And leave a dead, unprofitable name--
Finds comfort in himself and in his cause:
And while the mortal mist is gathering, draws
His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause.
CHAPTER XII
PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS
_Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,
Not light them for themselves._
SHAKESPEARE: "MEASURE FOR MEASURE."
_Man he loved
As man; and, to the mean and the obscure
And all the homely in their homely works,
Transferred a courtesy which had no air
Of condescension....
A kind of radiant joy
Diffused around him._
WORDSWORTH: "THE PRELUDE."
Paul Jones was a prodigious worker. What he accomplished in his brief
life is proof that he did not waste his time. He had an abnormal
capacity for prolonged exertion, whether at work or at play. Such was
the vigour of his physical frame that he was usually fresh even at the
end of a hard-fought game of football. In fact, he hardly knew what
physical fatigue was; and only once, when he was suffering from a
chill, and had to sit for his senior scholarship examination, do I
recollect his exhibiting any sign of mental fag. He found rest in
change of employment. Athletic exercises were a natural antidote to
his strenuous intellectual work; and music lifted him into the region
of pure emotion and soothed his soul with the concord of sweet sounds.
[Illustration: Paul Jones in his 19th Year.]
Though he had read widely and reflected much on human life and
destiny, he wore his culture as lightly as a flower. Even after he had
left college, he retained the sunny outlook, the gladsomeness and the
bloom of boyhood. Wherever he went he carried with him an
atmosphere of joy. Fresh ingenuousness and glowing enthusiasm were
part of his charm. There was a rich vein of the romantic in his
character, but the cast of his mind was philosophical. He had no
patience with superficiality masquerading as wisdom, and was quick to
detect a fallacy in reasoning. A shining trait in him was
truthfulness. He would never compromise or palter with the truth,
either by way of suppression, or exaggeration, or casuistical
refinement. What Carlyle said of John Sterling applied with remarkable
exactitude to Paul Jones: "True above all one may call him; a man of
perfect veracity in thought, word and deed; there was no guile or
baseness anywhere found in him. Transparent as crystal, he could not
hide anything sinister if such there had been to hide."
Affectations in speech or manner, and what schoolboys call "side" or
"swank," he abhorred. His free-ranging mind loved to explore and
inquire, and he would not be hindered from questionings by the weight of
any convention, or the force of any authority. He obeyed Emerson's
maxim: "Speak as you think; be what you are." From the vice of envy he
was entirely free. His generous spirit loved to praise others, and he
was rather prone to self-depreciation. A lenient judge of the actions of
other individuals, he was a stern and exacting critic of his own. He had
a lofty sense of his personal duty and responsibility; and if ever, or
in anything, he fell short of his self-prescribed standard he would, so
to say, whip himself with cords. From his boyhood he was distinguished
by an extreme conscientiousness. "His chastity of honour felt a stain
like a wound." To him conscience was to be reverenced and obeyed as
"God's most intimate presence in the soul, and His most perfect image in
the world." He had a passionate hatred of injustice, and the very
thought of cruelty to human beings or to dumb animals made him aflame
with anger. A master or a games captain who allowed himself to be
influenced by favouritism he despised. Naturally quick-tempered and
impatient, he tried hard to curb these propensities, not always with
success; but if he had wounded or wronged anybody, he was eager to
atone. Quiet and self-contained in strange company, he was joyous and
witty among kindred souls. His manners were cordial and considerate.
Servants--how he hated the name!--adored him, and he was always at ease
among the working-classes. He was essentially a man's man. To women his
attitude was reverential, but he was shy and embarrassed in young
feminine society. He used to say apologetically, "I have no small talk,"
and from the vacuity of the average drawing-room chatter he would
silently steal away.
For religious dogmas he cared nothing, but he bowed in reverent homage
before the Christ. From some marginal notes he has made on Froude's
essay on Newman's "Grammar of Assent," I take these quotations: "After
all, what matter what our dogmas if we really follow the example of
great teachers like Christ, who had nothing to do with creeds or
ritual?" "Every man should be his own priest." The Sermon on the Mount
was his religion. One of his favourite Scriptural texts was the
familiar one from the Epistle of St. James (i, 27): "Pure religion and
undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless
and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the
world."
Froude in one of his essays writes of the necessity for a campaign
against administrative incapacity, against swindling and cheating,
against drunkenness and uncleanliness, against hunger, squalor and
misery. "Hear, hear," is Paul's comment; "this should be England's
war." His tastes were extremely simple. He disliked luxurious modes
of living, and really enjoyed roughing it. During his twenty-seven
months in the Army he never uttered a complaint as to the conditions;
discomfort and hardship seemed only to heighten his cheerfulness. He
was a non-smoker, and virtually a teetotaller, but in France, when
pure drinking water was unobtainable, he used to take wine at dinner.
Though he set no store on money, he was so frugal in habit and spent
so little on himself that he always had money at his command. Giving
was a joy to him. Blest with perfect health, he was not absent from
duty through indisposition for a single day in his two years'
campaigning.
Paul had in eminent degree the gift of personality. There was
something magnetic about him, and in any company he compelled
attention. His whole being conveyed an impression of exuberant energy.
Strength of will, serenity and good temper were expressed in his
countenance. Wherever he went he attracted responsibility to himself.
Sometimes the burden assigned to him was uncongenial; none the less,
he would shoulder it manfully.
Except for the defect of short sight he was a splendid example of the
_mens sana in corpore sano_. On one occasion, in 1911, returning from
a visit to Canterbury Cathedral, we had as fellow-passenger in the
train a medical practitioner of the old school with whom my wife and I
had an agreeable conversation. I noted that from time to time he was
closely observing Paul, then a boy of fifteen. Presently he asked him
to stand up, passed his hands over his back and shoulders, tapped his
chest, and noted his big bare knees. "Heavens!" exclaimed the old
doctor, "what a magnificent boy! He will grow to be a glorious man. I
have never seen such physique or such vitality." This expert opinion
was borne out by our son's physical growth in the next three years.
Athletic exercises assisted in the development of a physique that was
naturally strong. In his nineteenth year he was six feet in height,
and measured thirty-nine inches round the chest. He had exceptionally
broad shoulders. Not an ounce of superfluous flesh weighed on the
sinewy, supple frame. There was about him the fragrance, radiant
vitality and ease of poise that are characteristic of the athlete in
the pink of condition.
Though moulded on a big scale, he was very alert in movement, and had
an easy swinging carriage. The head was large, hair rich and abundant,
complexion fair, the face round and full, forehead high and spacious,
cheeks ruddy with the glow of health, the mouth firm and kind,
revealing when he smiled a perfect set of teeth; the aspect bold and
noble; grey eyes shone like stars behind his gold-rimmed glasses. A
smile of enchanting sweetness often played about the strong, handsome
face. His voice had a caressing note; his laugh was loud, hearty and
musical. Thanks to his abounding health, neither appetite nor sleep
ever failed him. He had only to place his head on the pillow and sleep
came to him on the instant, and he would not stir for eight or nine
hours. As an infant he often slept twenty hours a day. This precious
gift of sleep remained with him to the end; and in a letter to me in
June, 1917, he humorously remarked that though not far away at the
time, he slept undisturbed by the earth-rending explosion that
preceded our capture of the Messines Ridge. His outstanding
characteristic was massiveness--he was massive in physique, in
intellect, in character. He had the ingenuous simplicity that is often
associated with a big physical frame. In him a modest, unpretending
nature was linked to a great soul. In judgment he was very sagacious,
and for all his idealism there was a shrewd practical side to him. A
boyish zest remained to the last one of his principal characteristics.
In the winter of 1916 we moved into a new house which my wife planned
with special regard to the tastes of our two boys. Alas for these fond
plannings! Paul never saw our new home, never worked in the pleasant
library arranged specially for him, never entered the cosy little room
garnished with his athletic trophies and adorned with those engravings
of Beethoven and Wagner which he so much loved. His last visit home
was in May, 1916. He declined leave at the end of 1916 from a fear
that if he took it he might lose the opportunity of transferring from
the A.S.C. The same spirit of devotion made him, when he was appointed
to the Tank Corps, elect to be trained in France, instead of coming to
England. I think that at last he almost dreaded taking leave lest a
visit home might weaken his resolve to walk the sacrificial road. It
was only after his death that we learnt from his brother officers in
the 2nd Cavalry Brigade that he had often told them he was convinced
he would not survive the War. That conviction seemed only to
strengthen his determination to get into the fighting-line. A voice
within told him his place was in the heart of the combat and he obeyed
its monition with joyful alacrity. From the time he joined the Tank
Corps a sort of divine content filled his soul.
Paul found and gave great happiness in his own home. Never moody or
despondent, his sunny disposition made him like a glory in the house.
He enjoyed nothing better than a frolic with his younger brother, of
whom he was devotedly fond. A racy and witty talker, he loved an
argument. Many a verbal joust he and I had together. Our views did not
always concur. We differed in opinion on many matters, including our
estimates of eminent men, alive and dead. For example, my son did not
share my contempt for Rousseau; nor could I share his admiration for
Frederick the Great and Napoleon, those ruffians of genius who wrought
so much evil in the world. Paul, however, adored men of action, and he
forgot the crimes and moral defects of Napoleon and Frederick in
contemplating the splendour of their achievements. Austere though his
own morals were, he nevertheless held that a man capable of great
service to the State ought not to be debarred from performing it by
his religious opinions or the lack of them, or by the nature of his
private life. He felt that you must take genius on its own terms.
What Paul was to his mother and to me I dare not write. Let it suffice
to say that no parents were ever blessed with a richer treasure. His
love for us flowed through the channel of his being like a river
singing on its way. How proud we were of his nobility of soul, his
heroic temper, his many triumphs! Young as he was we found in him a
firm stay and a sure support, and we felt ourselves more secure in
life under the shelter of his strong and radiant personality. We had
cherished high, and I hope not unworthy, hopes of his future--hopes
which, but for the War, would assuredly have been fulfilled. He had
not settled in his mind what profession he would adopt. Law attracted
him once, then repelled him; and I strongly dissuaded him from
Journalism. Politics had a fascination for him, but in no
circumstances would he have become a professional politician, and he
had resolved to earn an income independently. I am inclined to think
that eventually he would have become a professor and a writer of
history. Though it was a quality of his nature to do thoroughly
whatever he put his hand to, he was not ambitious in the ordinary
sense. He had no lust either for riches or fame. Duty, Honour,
Service--these were his watchwords. His desire was to make his life
worthy and gracious, and to use it in the service of humanity. That
ideal he realised. If he had lived to old age he could not have made a
greater thing of his life. Out of the warp and woof given to him by
the Creator he has woven a noble and beautiful pattern. Words cannot
express what his loss means to us. God alone knows the desolation of
our hearts. But Paul has left us glorious and inspiring memories and
we know he has gone to his reward. We feel, too, that though absent
from us in the body, he is with us in the spirit. His mother and I,
after the first stunning effect of our grief was passing, compared
notes about our inner experiences, and we found that the image of our
beloved son in our eyes was the same: Paul looking divinely happy,
standing before us with that enchanting smile we knew so well, and
cheerily enjoining us to "Carry on; carry on!"
Our love involves the love before;
Our love is vaster passion now;
Tho' mix'd with God and Nature thou,
We seem to love thee more and more.
Far off thou art, but ever nigh;
We have thee still and we rejoice;
We prosper, circled with thy voice;
We shall not lose thee tho' we die.
A few weeks after Paul was killed I opened a volume of Froude's "Short
Studies." Our son's early death lends significance and pathos to
passages he has marked in this book. Froude, in the essay on
"England's Forgotten Worthies," speaking of honoured old
age--"beautiful as the slow-dropping mellow autumn of a rich glorious
summer"--says: "It is beautiful, but not the most beautiful." Then
comes the following sentence which Paul has heavily underscored:
There is another life, hard, rough, and thorny, trodden with
bleeding feet and aching brow; the life of which the Cross is the
symbol; a battle which no peace follows this side of the grave;
which the grave gapes to finish before the victory is won;
and--strange that it should be so--this is the highest life of
man.
Our son has written on the margin, "The best kind of life that of
constant struggle." Froude goes on to refer to the work in the
sixteenth century of the servants of England, whose life was a long
battle, either with the elements or with men, and who passed away
content when God had nothing more to bid them do. The following
passages are again underlined:
They did not complain, and why should we complain for them?... An
honourable death had no terrors for them.
"Seeing," in Humphrey Gilbert's own brave words, "that death is
inevitable and the fame of virtue is immortal, wherefore in this
behalf _mutare vel timere sperno_."
Paul's marginal note to this is, "Compare Browning's 'Prospice.'" I
turn to "Prospice" and I read:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
And with God be the rest!
PART II
WAR LETTERS
[Illustration: Paul as a Subaltern in the A.S.C.
(From a Photograph by his Brother)]
AT A HOME PORT
From April 15, 1915, to July 26 in the same year Second Lieutenant H.
P. M. Jones was employed at a home port which was, and is, one of the
principal centres of supply for the British Expeditionary Force. He
was glad of the opportunity of obtaining an insight into the methods
of supplying the British Army in the field, and was impressed with the
thoroughness, efficiency, and businesslike promptitude of the Army
Service Corps. He took the earliest chance of quitting this routine
work and applying for service abroad.
_May 15th_, 1915.
You London folk seem to have been having high times with the
enemy aliens. It is quite startling and quite pleasant to see
English people roused to do things at last. I see from the photos
in the papers that the rioting was done for a great part by men
of fighting age who ought to be in the Army. It stands to reason
that it is always the dregs of the population who show their
patriotism by this sort of behaviour. Still, it is refreshing to
see someone taking some sort of action. Everybody here is cursing
the Government for its remissness with regard to Germans and
Austrians resident in this country. There are exceptions, such as
Germans who have absorbed the British spirit, but, generally
speaking, Germans, even if naturalised, must retain their
patriotic feelings towards their Fatherland, and the patriotic
German is, of course, England's enemy. Therefore he will try his
best to do us all the harm he can.
Personally I think we ought to take stern action in regard to the
internment of all Germans in this country. My argument is not
based on trivial ideas of retaliation or punishment, but it is
based on facts such as the following: (_a_) I am a Britisher,
Britain is fighting; so I fight for Britain and wish to see her
everywhere victorious: (_b_) In Nature the strongest survive and
the weaker go to the wall, and in this war Britain must prove
herself either the stronger or the weaker: (_c_) Our policy must
be guided by the idea of proving ourselves the stronger in deeds,
not words--not by talk of justice or right, because invariable
universal abstract standards of justice and right never existed,
and never will exist, in this world. The ideal never was anything
but a dream--that is why the poet can never be a politician, and
vice versa. We must not let sentimental considerations stand
between us and victory. Sounds just like a German talking,
doesn't it? Yes, I do agree with the German point of view--except
as regards frightfulness, which is really folly and does not
achieve its end--but I transfer the point of view to England. Why
should England allow any rival to stand in her way? In any case,
are we not the world's greatest political people and the best
colonisers? Leave the realms of Art to the other nations if you
like--England never will be artistic, I fear--but Art is not
politics. Politics--I mean primarily foreign policy--signifies
the adaptation of a nation to environment of time, place and
circumstance, and it is that which is the ruling fact of life.
I am now quite converted to the doctrine of facts. Though
passionately idealistic in many respects, I realise that the
_Facts_ of life are in cruel but deadly opposition to the
_Ideals_ of life, and that while the Ideal remains a dream the
cruel Fact remains the reality.
This pseudo-philosophy arises from my having read Arnold
Bennett's article in to-day's _Daily News_, and also from a
perusal of Hudson's "Herbert Spencer." Bennett is just an
idealist, but in dealing with those cruel realities of which I
have spoken, he seems to me a child. Any attempt to dissociate
the acts of the German Government from the views of the German
people--in other words to assume that a great part of the latter
want peace--is absurd. Look at France in 1870. When the Second
Empire was overthrown and the Third Republic set up in its place,
did the Republicans seek peace? No, they proceeded to prosecute
the war to the utmost and tried to drive the invader off the soil
of France. And even if in this war a succession of defeats should
overthrow the German Kaiser and his Government, do you think the
Germans would submit forthwith, and throw themselves on the mercy
of the Allies? No, they will fight to the last man, woman and
child to prevent the Rhine being crossed. So we should realise
that, for our own safety's sake, we must reduce the German
military forces to a position of helplessness--in fact, utterly
destroy them, if we are to have any settlement. It is Germany or
ourselves; and till one or the other is up or down, the war will
go on.
To crush the Germans we must put every ounce into the struggle.
Are we doing so? I cannot think it when I see Parliament taking
such a disgraceful line on the question of drink. Small wonder
that Lloyd George exclaims, "What an ignoble spectacle the House
of Commons presents now!" I had thought the British Parliament to
be a great and potent institution. Now I think it is a
convocation of old apple women. What we want is a Cromwell or a
Napoleon to knock together the heads of political parties and
declare, "No more drink." What will history say when it is
recorded that in the midst of this great struggle the British
people refused to give up the drink that was poisoning their
lives and hindering the work of the nation, and that the
influence of a few brewers and capitalists was sufficient to
prevent any serious reform being passed in that House which is
supposed to be the people's representative?
As for the recent anti-German riots, they seem to me to have been
organised by those slack loafing elements of the population who
lounge about refusing to enlist. Still, I suppose this is a
necessary product of our type of national civilisation. Yet that
system--the English or insular, I call it--has done, as it will
do, marvels. So perhaps all is for the best, but I am grieved
beyond measure at the collapse of L. G.'s scheme for drastic
treatment of the drink evil. He at least is a man.
Do you realise what a fine part amateur sportsmen are playing in
this war? I really doubt if there will be many great athletes
left if things go on as they are doing. On the same day I read
that Poulton-Palmer and R. A. Lloyd are gone. Only last year, I
remember seeing those two as Captains of England and Ireland
respectively, shaking hands with each other and with the King at
the great Rugby Football match at Twickenham. I see news is to
hand also of the death in action of A. F. Wilding, a great
athlete who neither drank nor smoked. So in three days we have
lost the most brilliant and versatile centre three-quarter in
Poulton, the cleverest drop-kick in the world in Lloyd, and the
world's champion tennis-player in Wilding!
_June 6th, 1915._
Lloyd George in his two last speeches has said more than anyone
else during the war. He is an extraordinary man, and at his
greatest when rallying the workers. I see that the Tory Press is
enthusiastic about him, and also about Winston Churchill's speech
of yesterday. L. G.'s remark that "conscription is not
undemocratic" has set a new train of thought stirring in this
country. Up to now, in the view of the average Englishman,
democracy and conscription had been set at opposite poles.
Personally I am not exactly a democrat, an aristocrat, a
monarchist, a socialist, or a constitutionalist, but a sort of
combination of them all, and a firm believer in the Will to Power
and in the Strong Man. But the point is that England certainly
inclines to democracy--meaning by democracy _laissez-faire_.
Hence what is needed in a crisis like this is to bring into
operation a system which, while partaking of a democratic nature,
and so not being repugnant to the national type (as developed by
geography, circumstance and history) may yet bring into play the
advantages of military training and national organisation. If you
can persuade the stolid Englishman to adopt a sort of
semi-voluntary military system, which is voluntary or appears so
to him, yet puts him under discipline, well then you have an
ideal system for England to win this war by. Of course, there is
an alternative scheme, namely, for some man of outstanding
personality to come along and say, "Look here, I am master, and
by my force of character I will compel you to bow to a system
which I know to be good for you and which will in the end benefit
you." Lloyd George might be even such a man--a Cæsar, a
Charlemagne, a Cromwell, or a Napoleon.
But I confess that this amazing English race is hard to bend,
even when a man of outstanding personality arises. Did not Oliver
himself--a superman if ever there was one--fail in his efforts to
make better those whom he ruled? Still, as Goethe says,
"Personality makes the man," and perhaps even in England a great
man might force our stubborn nation to his will. But I confess I
doubt it. Besides, I fear the system would break down as soon as
the immediate need for it had vanished. We must have regard to
the evolution of our type of race-species when trying to frame
measures for its advance to victory over another type of
race-species, for the simple reason that, if we do not, the
system we are trying to set up will remain in the air, and never
come to anything until the people have become sufficiently
educated in our way of thinking to accept such a scheme. It seems
to me that you could never make a British Army on a German model,
or a German Army on a British model, because of the difference
between the types of the two nations--the only exception being
where you have a superman with a wonderful mind and personality
to plan the pattern and enforce its adoption.
Our problem in England is to organise the very individualistic
British race without letting them imagine that they are being
organised. This sounds like the problem about the irresistible
force up against the insurmountable obstacle. But seriously if
you have followed my train of thought you will agree with me that
what is wanted is to frame a system of military service and
national organisation which yet conforms to the national
predilection in favour of _laissez-faire_. This would not be so
difficult if there were two or three centuries to do it in; the
difficulty is that we must do it at once. Perhaps it is
impossible; perhaps the influence of our insular environment will
be too strong ever to allow a general military system to grow up
here--I don't know, but I hope not. Anyway, it is Lloyd George to
whom we look to turn the wheels, because he has personality and
that almost uncanny Celtic gift of seeing into the future.
Is it not clear that the Germans have developed to the full a
system of organisation in harmony with their national character?
Geography has rendered necessary to them a certain type of
national policy, and I consider their methods were the only
possible ones for them, though they badly needed a clever
diplomatist to deceive Europe in these latter years. Now
Bismarck, if he had lived until to-day, would probably have
secured for Germany a leading place, not by directly fighting
England--who is, of course, the natural rival of Germany--the old
story of the first and the second boy in the class--but by
embroiling her at some suitable moment with other Powers. Then,
when all would have been weakened by the war, Germany would step
in and take the spoils. Fortunately for us the Prussian is a
thoroughly bad diplomatist; and he has preferred open force to
policy. Last year the Germans really played their cards
astoundingly badly. Did we? Well, in one sense, yes, in that we
failed to have a force ready to give the Germans a swift blow as
soon as they ventured on an invasion of Belgium. On the other
hand, no, because Edward Grey, acting openly, and in accordance
with British traditions, yet succeeded by some extraordinary
means in duping our enemies and making them rush into a war never
expecting that we would participate in it. By accident Grey
blundered into a marvellous stroke of diplomacy. Of course, we
know that all his actions were governed by an honest desire to
preserve peace, but the facts show that he really deceived the
Germans more than Machiavelli would have done. (The Prussian, in
the average, is very prone to misunderstand his enemy.) The
Germans thought we would not come in; we did come in, just when
they were not expecting it; in effect, that was a master-stroke.
Where we failed was that we were not ourselves ready with an
adequate force. Though we strangled German commerce at sea and
helped to save France, we were deficient in many elements of an
army, and are still woefully so. That is the natural result of
insularity.
Now if through the folly of Ministers we lose this great chance
of settling with our rival, we shall be cutting our own throats.
You see, I have led you, by a devious path, back to the old
problem--the necessity for organising England to win this war and
to establish her national type as supreme. We must take any and
every step necessary to set this great nation of ours even higher
than it stands now. Some nation must be political leader of the
international polity; why not England, whose extraordinary
colonising and governing ability is so well known? I am tired to
death of talk about "crushing militarism" and of wild dreams of
"a union of small States." If you want to see the latter process
in operation, look at the normal state of the Balkans! States may
have all the "rights" in the world, but if they are not strong
enough in a political and military sense, they will never be able
to maintain them. Since England--great and wise nation that she
is!--has the sense to use her power benignantly, what harm would
there be if she were to assert it over weaker national organisms,
as man has done over the beasts? This would certainly not be
possible without repeated wars. Subject nations may be treated as
easily and as freely as you like when under our sway, but they
must be conquered first, and we must keep our power over them
even though it is hidden.
But I am dreaming myself now, for there is nothing eternal in
Nature except conflict and change; and as our Empire grew, so, I
fear, it must some day decay. Evolution is no respecter of
persons. Anyway it is our duty to postpone that day of decline as
long as we can. In my view England's claims are above all others.
Our Allies are just so much use to us as we can make of them.
They, too, have their national ambitions and interests, and, of
course, if these clashed with ours, they would go off on their
own. I blame them not at all. It is as well, however, to be
prepared for contingencies. For example, four or five sparrows
will combine to attack a larger bird which has a piece of bread.
As soon as they get the bread the sparrows themselves begin to
squabble for its possession; and perhaps two or three will set on
the one that has hold of it and force him to give it up. Such is
Nature--a theatre of vast, unceasing conflict. Men and nations
all come under the great immutable law.
_July 19th, 1915._
This coal strike in South Wales is a baffling business. As usual,
English lack of system is to blame. The Government ought to have
taken over all the mines, as they did the railways, right at the
start of the war. But _laissez-faire_ said "No." Now see the
result. Undoubtedly men, employers and Government are all to
blame--the Government for not organising the system and failing
to stop the increased profits of the owners due to the rise in
prices; the owners for taking those profits and making all sorts
of unkept promises during the past year about meeting the men to
discuss what should be done with war profits; and the men because
they are imperilling the whole fate of the Navy for the sake of a
few more pence a day, and for failing to show that generosity of
spirit which they ought to exhibit in a national crisis like
this. What gives the lie to those critics who denounce the
unpatriotic conduct of the miners is the astounding proportion of
recruits from the affected areas, and the fact that thousands of
strikers have sons, brothers and other relatives in the trenches.
The whole thing is almost a judgment on English haphazard
methods, though I know those methods are only the product of our
insular position. After all, we fought Napoleon with almost a
revolution going on in Ireland. And do you remember the Six Acts?
So history repeats itself.
The Germans are still astounding the world. This move on Russia
will, I think, be ranked by military historians in the future as
one of the most immense things in the story of the war--a
parallel, but on a far larger scale, with the French and our own
advance from the Marne to the Aisne. Unfortunately, I am afraid
the Germans will be more successful than we were on that
occasion--for we only drove them back 20 or 30 miles, but the
Germans now seem to be menacing two great cities, half a dozen
first-class fortresses, and four vital railway lines. There is no
doubt that they, at least, are not playing at war. And to think
that it should be Wales that may be half-crippling the Navy when
we are matched with such a foe! If the Navy fails, then Heaven
help us! I don't think we can lose even now, but I doubt now if
Germany can lose. It may be 1793-1815 over again!
Don't imagine that economics end war. Nations can easily do
without trade if they will. To win a war, in ninety-nine cases
out of a hundred, you have to beat the enemy's forces decisively
in the field and put large bodies of his troops permanently out
of action, or capture important tracts of territory such as corn
land or mining districts, without which he cannot wage the war.
Nothing has done us more harm than all this talk about
"attrition." People say, "Oh, it's all right, we can strangle
Germany by means of our Navy, and only time is wanted." As a
matter of fact, Germany is so well prepared by environment,
history, and her own endeavours for such a war that were Berlin
itself in our hands, I would not like to say we should have won.
Berlin has in the past been entered by the enemy, and yet the
Germans have defeated their foes. Look at Frederick the Great--he
won his wars with half his own country in the enemy's hands. Make
no mistake, we shall have to cut the German Army to pieces if we
are to win. And we shall not succeed, at least not for any
practical purpose, unless we put every man into his right place
to win the war. We want the shell-makers at home, the soldiers in
the field, the mere politician on the scrap-heap, and capable men
at the head of affairs. There must be no more of this muddling
War Office policy, no more of this defective control of vital
industries and these scandalous deficiencies in equipment.
WITH THE 9th CAVALRY BRIGADE
On July 27, 1915, Paul Jones left Waterloo Station for service abroad.
Shortly after his arrival in France he was ordered to proceed to the
Headquarters of the 9th Cavalry Brigade (1st Cavalry Division), having
been appointed Requisitioning Officer to the Brigade. His thorough
knowledge of French was the determining factor in securing him this
appointment, a very responsible one for a youth of 19.
_August 5th, 1915._
At length a chance to write a letter home. I seem to have been
travelling for weeks, and I had no time for anything but hasty
postcards. My address may not convey much geographically, but I
will take the risk of saying that I am very far up country,
and--which of course pleases me immensely--not many miles from
the real Front. My work involves a great deal of French
conversation and much riding and motoring. I am, in fact, a
Requisitioning Officer, a title which almost explains itself.
The journey up from the base seemed absolutely endless, but was
never lacking in interest, so much was there to see. The glorious
spirits of our men would be a lesson to the Jeremiahs at home.
Never had I expected, never could I believe possible, that such a
wonderfully jovial spirit could prevail among men going to
certain danger and hardship and possible death. I saw a lot of
Welshmen on the way, and wherever one met them they were singing
in those gloriously rich Welsh voices.
How kind-hearted our soldiers are I realised on my journey up.
Frequently alongside the railway line were groups of French
kiddies shouting, "Souvenirs!" "Souvenirs!" In response our
fellows were chucking out to them from the train all sorts of
things, bully beef, bread, biscuits, etc., and laughing and
chatting at the windows. What a diversity of tongues and accents
among our soldiers! Cockney, Lancashire, Scotch, Welsh and West
Country were easily recognisable. For cheerfulness and kindness
you will never match the British Tommy.
I don't see so very much difference between the new and the old
France, except for the greater number of uniforms; the same gay
old café-life goes on as always.
Only four out of the fifteen A.S.C. officers who left London on
Monday last came up-country, and I was one of the four. Eureka!
also Banzai! There ought to be a chance of some excitement,
anyhow. I am in glorious health and spirits and feel very pleased
with life. Isn't it fine that my desire to be really close to the
thick of things should be so fully gratified? Tell Hal I had two
delightful swims at the base.
_August 9th, 1915._
My mare is temporarily _hors de combat_ with a cut on the hock.
This is a nuisance, as I have now to rely on the hospitality of
other officers in lending me either their horses or their
motor-cars, or, alternatively, go about on a push-bike when I
have to travel far afield, which happens almost daily. Before the
week is out I am expecting to go right up into the firing-line.
One is astounded at the off-hand manner in which officers who
have been in the trenches take the most hair-raising adventures.
An artillery officer was telling us to-day with the utmost
sang-froid of the difficulty he and his comrades had in eating
their dinner when poison-gas was blowing about. The gas made
their eyes water to such a degree that everybody at the mess
seemed to be weeping bitterly. He also told us that for a long
time they had had no need of réveillé, as the Boches had a habit
of dropping a Jack Johnson near by every morning at 6.15
punctually. In the short time I have been out here I have been
struck with the glorious English coolness and the steadfast
refusal to get flurried that marks all our tribe.
In our relations with the inhabitants of the countryside we show
consideration and strict honesty. Every bit of damage done is
compensated, every blade of grass is paid for, although
necessarily we have first to investigate the validity of claims
for damage. The whole thing is very characteristic of British
integrity. I am going very strong and gradually getting the hang
of my work, which is decidedly interesting.
We had a remarkable concert the other night. The whole
thing--stage, paints, wigs, orchestra, curtains, scenery,
everything--was got up by the 1st Cavalry Division Supply Column,
and most of the performers were A.S.C. men. The most popular
vocalist turned up on his own, however, viz. Captain the Maclean,
of Lochbuie (of the 19th Hussars), who is quite an artist in his
way. This gay, debonair Scotsman is simply worshipped by the men.
One of the latter (himself holding the D.C.M. and the French
Médaille Militaire for conspicuous bravery at Landrecies) told me
Maclean was the bravest man he had ever seen; he is always at the
head of a rush whether on horseback or on foot, and invariably
goes into action with a hunting-crop.
A French Territorial Infantry Regiment marched into the town
yesterday. They all wore the new grey uniform that is superseding
the red trousers and blue tunics of the old days. Quite an
interesting spectacle! But for sheer beauty you should see our
cavalry on the move. A wonderful sight, I assure you, even
without all the gay accoutrements of the Military Tournament. In
fact, to my mind, the field-dress makes the affair even more
impressive. The horses are simply beauties, and every one of them
is in perfect condition.
I have met an old Bedfordian among the cavalry. We have had many
a chat comparing notes as to the past, especially in regard to
the fierce-fought struggles of old between Bedford and the
Blue-and-Blacks. We hope to get some sort of Rugger up when the
winter comes, though of course a very great proportion of the
cavalry officers are men from Eton, Harrow, Winchester and other
schools where, I regret to say, the game of games is not played!
They will have to be taught.
_August 13th, 1915._
A lot of cavalry men are up trench-digging and I have had my
first experience of being up really close to the firing-line. It
doesn't take one long to get from here to the thick of things,
and we were soon apprised of the fact by heavy and ponderous
crashes. Just above us a British aeroplane was winging its flight
towards the German lines. Presently one saw small flashes of
flame in the air all around it, followed by curious little puffs
of smoke; then came the sound of exploding shells; you know that
light travels faster than sound. The Boches were potting at the
'plane. However, the British airman was easily able to clear
away. After this, a Taube came in our direction and our artillery
was having pots at it. Pursued by two British 'planes the Taube
turned tail and skedaddled, passing exactly over our car. I
wonder it didn't buzz a bomb at us, for the road was crowded with
cars, lorries, waggons, and columns of marching soldiers. But it
didn't, and went off as fast as it could lick.
We soon reached a village which, during the previous day, had
been subjected to a mild bombardment. The results even of a few
shells were staggering. A large number of the houses and the
village church were shattered into atoms; nothing left but heaps
of bricks, with here and there a wall standing amid the débris.
To me it was a remarkable spectacle, though my companions assured
me that this village was in a positively palatial condition
compared to other places farther up. Just as we reached the
troops we were destined for, an appalling crash rent the air, and
went echoing away like a peal of thunder. It was the British
heavy artillery at work, though we couldn't see any batteries.
Meanwhile the Boches were aiming at our aeroplanes which were
flying above us continually. Amid all this our fellows were quite
unmoved, and an exciting game of Soccer was in progress, every
successful effort being cheered to the echo by the soldier
spectators. And that, mind, though only last night the Boches put
twenty-eight of our men out of action not far from this very
spot, landing three shells on top of them at midnight, killing
one and wounding twenty-seven others, not to mention several
horses.
Our route now lay along a road roughly parallel to the
firing-lines, and only a few miles behind them. We passed several
camps, where all sorts of regiments were quartered. Then we came
to quite a big town, which was packed with lorries and field
ambulances, and with columns of British soldiers, always
cheerful, though in many cases much fatigued. Finally we came
back to our quarters. To me the whole experience was most
interesting and exciting, and I am eagerly looking forward to a
repetition of it. Next time I shall go right up to the real
centre of things. It is great to be so near the scrapping, and I
only hope a chance of real fighting does come my way. Anyhow, I
am ready to do my duty, whatever it may be.
Well, the Germans have got that Petrograd-Warsaw railway.
Apparently some people anticipate an advance on Petrograd itself.
The war is assuming a phase very like that of the Napoleonic
struggles. I hope 1812 repeats itself, but candidly I don't think
that the Boches will put their heads into the lion's mouth by
risking an advance into Russia with winter coming on.
TO HIS BROTHER
_August 18th, 1915._
I am very busy, but my work is becoming more and more
interesting, and I am about in the open air almost all the time.
To-day I have had a twenty-mile horse-ride. My little mare ran
like clockwork. She is a gem of a horse. I am hoping also to get
some motor driving. There is no speed limit here. Talk about
express trains! No; Rugby football is not much appreciated by the
9th Brigade. Cavalry officers swear by polo. To see them play a
polo match is a sheer delight, for they are the best horsemen in
the world.
Many men of our Cavalry Division are at present employed in
making a reserve line of trenches some distance behind the real
article. Our own brigade is digging vigorously in the grounds of
a fine old château. The Supply Officer and I, as his understudy,
go up continually in a car conveying special supplies and to do
various other duties. The château grounds are well within enemy
gun range, and most of the neighbouring buildings have been blown
to atoms. Yesterday the first news that greeted us from the
trench-diggers was that they had been bombarded that morning by
gas shells, among other pleasant surprises. While we were
pursuing our duties I heard a boom, followed by a long, sighing
screech, then a violent crash about fifty yards off. It was a
German shell. Another and yet another followed. Suddenly an
R.A.M.C. man came running up to fetch a stretcher--someone had
been knocked out. As the nearest man at hand I joined him in
carrying the stretcher, and we doubled our fastest for the trees
where the first shot had pitched. We found that an R.A.M.C. man
had been struck above the ankle by a piece of shrapnel. The wound
was small, but deep and ugly, and the leg was broken. The poor
chap was in terrible pain. We conveyed him as carefully as we
could to the field ambulance. There had been other casualties
hereabouts in the morning.
More and more shells, and then a lull. After this exhibition of
afternoon hate, we took tea with some officers of the 15th
Hussars in a tent in the château grounds. It was a delicious
meal, and was not interrupted, though enemy shells from time to
time shot over our heads and exploded some distance away in the
woods behind. The ineffectiveness of the enemy shelling was
greeted every time there was an explosion by cat-calls, shouts
and whistling on the part of our imperturbable soldiers. Then the
enemy diverted his guns to a village through which our return
road ran. On our approaching this place we found our way barred
by military policemen, who informed us the traffic was
temporarily held up, and that we would have to seek our
destination by another and a more devious route. Looking back,
one is amused at the nonchalance of this tea in the open with the
Hussar officers, while German missiles were shooting over our
heads and crashing to earth a couple of hundred yards away. Had
the enemy shortened the range we should all have gone up among
the little birds.
Did you see that splendid joke in _Punch_--an old man talking to
a very badly wounded Irish soldier swathed in bandages from head
to foot? The former says, "This is a terrible war, isn't it, my
man?" Pat replies, "Yes, sorr, it is that; a rale tirrible war.
But faith! 'tis better than no war at all." Capital, and so
deliciously Irish!
_August 23rd, 1915._
Excessively busy days these--out sometimes from nine in the
morning till about ten at night, often missing meals perforce. A
few days back I was in the city whose name practically sums up
the character of British fighting--Ypres. Never have I seen such
a picture of desolation. Not a house standing; only skeletons of
buildings, shattered walls, and gaping window openings, from
which all vestige of glass has long since disappeared. The Church
and the Cloth Hall are simply piles of débris. To walk along the
streets is like a kind of nightmare, even when the Boches are not
indulging in a spell of hate against the place. Talk of
Pompeii--why, this puts it quite among the "also-rans." What a
pathetic spectacle to see a whole city in ruins! Stupefaction and
sadness at the wholesale destruction is my impression of this
melancholy ruin of an historic town.
Having seen my rations delivered to our regiments, I and my
companions (two Hussar officers) visited a battery of 5-inch
howitzers at work not far off, through the medium of a friendly
Artillery officer. Their headquarters have been amazingly lucky
in not being hit up to date. They told us that there was going to
be great "strafing" that night, that the Boches were very good
gunners, but that they and the French sometimes became
quarrelsome and loosed off at each other like fury for a short
time, both sides doing very little real damage. As we were
chatting a long whistle-blast betokened the presence of a Taube,
and our companions quickly dragged us out of sight into a
dug-out, lest the enemy airman should spot men about and send
back the range. You must understand that the guns are so
concealed that it is almost impossible to see them even when you
know where they are located. After the aerial visitor cleared
off, we had a great tea, with all the ground about us shaking to
the reverberation of the battery discharges. Presently a
long-drawn-out screech in the distance, and a fearful crash in
the middle distance. "That's Percy again!" said the Artillery
officer. We found that "Percy" is the name for a German
17-incher, which frequently drops shells ten miles behind our
lines. The smallest crater made by his shells would accommodate a
locomotive engine with ease. "Percy" is no doubt "some gun," as
the Yankees would say. It was a curious sensation to walk about
the fields with shells from both sides flying over one's head.
Some gas shells had been discharged that day, and the air in
places was quite heavy with the odour of them--not unpleasant to
smell, but most mephitic, and apt to make your eyes water.
Whom do you think I met on the main road up to-day? None other
than Reggie Lloyd, who was one of my best pals at Dulwich. Our
car was moving very fast and overtook his. I stopped and jumped
out, and we exchanged a firm handshake and a few words before we
had to be moving on again "in the cause of duty." He is a second
lieutenant in the R.E., and looked thundering fit. To-day I saw
him again. On this occasion he was moving about fifty miles an
hour on a motor-bike, and we only had time for a hand-wave as
we passed. What a thrill to meet an old pal like that out here in
the fire zone!
_August 28th, 1915._
To go up the road from here to the firing-line is a great
experience. You see, as you pass along, all the multifarious
items of army organisation--long lines of lorries, horsed-wagons,
limbers, guns, columns of marching men, motor-cars by the score,
French soldiers, British soldiers, aeroplanes spinning merrily
overhead--truly a wonderful spectacle. You have no conception of
the abominable state of the main roads out here. The _pavé_ road,
peculiar to these parts, is always a bone-shaker at the best of
times, but now, after the passage of so much heavy traffic, it is
simply appalling. A curious feature is the extraordinary
straightness of the main roads, down which you can literally see
for miles. The by-roads, on the other hand, seem to abound in
right-angled turns, and it is not an easy matter to drive a car
along at any considerable rate of speed.
My knowledge of French has come in very useful indeed, but for
these outlying country districts a knowledge of Flemish would be
even more valuable. Many persons about here speak not one word of
French, and Flemish is almost always used by the people _en
famille_. It is a kind of mixture of low German and middle
English. I can usually get at people's meanings, and even make
them understand mine, by a jargon embracing sometimes words from
Chaucer and sometimes a little German. Listening to the language
when spoken one is reminded of rather nasal Welsh. There is a
distinct resemblance between the general sound of Welsh and
Flemish in conversation.
These parts constitute one of the most Catholic districts in
Europe; the people are quite as devout as those of the south of
Ireland. Wherever you go on the roads you are confronted with
shrines--little structures with an altar, holy images, etc., that
can be seen through a glass window barred across with slender
pieces of iron. Above the door is an admonition urging the
passer-by to stop and say an "Ave" or a "Pater." All the
dedications to saints and the Virgin are in Latin. For example,
this is a very common heading for a shrine, "_Ave, Maria, gratiæ
plena._" I have also seen shrines dedicated to some of those old
chaps that Dad is so interested in--Antony of Padua, Francis of
Assisi, etc. All over the place you meet, stuck in boxes with
glass fronts and mounted on poles, tiny waxen images of various
saints, or Christ on the Cross, the Virgin Mary, etc., etc. When
a native comes to one of these shrines or images, he pulls off
his hat, crosses himself, repeats a prayer, and passes on,
probably confident that his sins are forgiven. Everybody goes to
Mass at the church of his commune at seven o'clock each morning,
and often in the evening as well--on Sunday about three times.
Church spires are about the only landmarks in this very flat and
rather uninteresting country. The towers vary between the square
and the spire. The church itself is always large and quite
imposing. You don't see churches of anything like the same size
in English villages of corresponding population. A common sight
as you ride along these roads is to see the curé, dressed in a
long black surtout and a huge wide-brimmed hat just like "Don
Bartola," the music-master in the opera of _Il Barbiere de
Siviglia_. The curé gravely salutes you as you pass by, "Bon
jour, mon ami!"
I am billeted with very decent folk, extremely devout Catholics.
The old man is the secretary to the Mayor. He spends his spare
time learning English, and can read an English newspaper quite
well. My room is of the kind I like--plain, with two huge windows
opening like folding-doors, and only a tiny carpet to attract the
dust; the rest clean, bare boards. In the room are two waxen
images, one of the Virgin and Child, and one of Christ carrying a
child in His arms; also a waxen model in a case of glass of the
Virgin and Child, besides no fewer than three crucifixes. This is
only characteristic of the whole village: every room I've seen
hereabouts seems crowded with images. There are lots of these
images, chipped and smashed, lying about the streets of Ypres. I
suppose where you are at present [Scotland] everybody is a
Presbyterian and very much against all ritual. There is at least
this resemblance between Scot and Flemish: they both call the
church "kirk" or "kerque." It is rather amusing to think that,
according to the ideas of some English Churchmen, both Scottish
Presbyterian and Flemish Catholic are lost for ever; while the
Baptist of Llanelly is equally convinced that all three of them
are; and each imagines the other to be hopelessly wrong. The war
has this advantage: that it cuts athwart of all such ridiculous
distinctions--for have we not among the Allies English Churchmen
and Nonconformists, Catholics, Mohammedans, Hindus and secular
Frenchmen, all fighting on the one side against another side
which includes Catholics, Protestants and Mohammedans? I say what
matter what a man believes if he does his duty?
The last two or three days I have spent in more or less local
work, meaning by that districts within about ten miles of
headquarters. I have been in the saddle all day, from 9 _A.M._ to
7 _P.M._, the only interval being for lunch. Riding is glorious
sport. I don't think I shall ever be able to live without a horse
in the future. I have been using here one of my own mares, and
a fine charger belonging to a 9th Lancer employed at H.Q. (you
remember it was this regiment that made the famous charge at Le
Cateau back in October). It is a glorious steed this, full of
"devil," and a bit bad-tempered. My own big mare is a rather
quiet horse, very good at trotting long distances; my other one
is smaller but more fiery. I prefer to ride whenever possible a
horse that really takes some managing.
_September 8th, 1915._
I am glad you are invigorated and pleased with your trip to the
land of Burns and Harry Lauder. The Scottish Highlands are the
exact opposite of these flat plains. Never in my life have I seen
a district so absolutely level as this. There are but three hills
in these parts, and these are the only landmarks for miles and
miles. Otherwise every road is like every other, every field and
every clump of trees the same. The roads are all either dead
straight or, in the case of side roads, full of right-angle
bends. There is nothing of that sinuous curving which
characterises English country roads. As you get nearer the
firing-line the roads become worse owing to the passage of Army
traffic, till finally they end up in mere broad tracks full of
holes and humps. When the weather is bad the mud is
appalling--even the Dulwich footer-ground variety comes a bad
second--added to which there is, in the case of main roads, the
nuisance of a most unlevel _pavé_, which, it is true, keeps free
from mud, but to travel along which in a motor-car is torture.
The way the Army lorries go bumping along--many of them old
motor-buses with the top parts discarded--is stupendous. It is a
strange sight occasionally to see approaching you a real
motor-bus, painted grey and full of Tommies. I almost stopped
one the other day, near the fire zone, and asked to be taken to
Oxford Circus; it all seemed so familiar.
The news from Russia isn't very inspiriting. It looks as if Riga
and Rovno will follow in the wake of Warsaw and Novo-Georgievsk.
Not that the mere capture of a town means anything in itself, but
the Boches must be getting a store of ammunition and guns through
their successes. Still, it might be that 1812 would repeat
itself, though I fear the Germans have studied history too well
to fall into the pit that destroyed Napoleon. _Nous verrons._
I went down the other day to an advanced Field Supply Depôt. I
often think of the steady flow of goods across the Channel from
the home port where I began my Army experience, and the vastness
of the silent work behind the scenes that is needed to keep the
Army going. You would be amazed to find how little is known even
in the A.S.C. itself of that which I have been privileged to see.
It has a spice of romance about it, this moving of vast stores
from England to the trenches. Out here one gets fresh bread and
meat regularly. There are also ample supplies of preserved meat.
As for "bully" beef, it is rare good stuff, and I am by no means
averse from the hard Army biscuit.
It is the chief part of my duties to make local purchases or
requisitions of goods as they are needed. Local resources are
always used to the utmost, though G.H.Q. is careful to insist on
all goods being duly paid for, or an official requisition-note
being handed to the seller. You will realise that in this sort of
work I get a lot of practice in French. The French spoken in
these parts is very thick, quite different from the metallic
French of Paris.
I am told that when we are moving in the field, cavalry go twice
as fast as any other branch of the Service. When we begin to
move, my job will be really most exciting and interesting, as I
shall have to be right on ahead with a store of supplies, bought,
requisitioned, or obtained somehow, to keep things going till the
ordinary service of lorries and horsed wagons adapts itself to
the new conditions. Whatever happens I hope to see some sport.
I get on excellently with the cavalry officers. They have a
bright charm of their own and are absolutely fearless. Most of
them are descendants of the old English and Scottish chivalry.
They are intensely Conservative in opinion, not over
intellectual, but men with fine traditions and noble instincts.
They have a passion for horses and all things equine.
_September 16th, 1915._
So you have had an experience of the Zepps. I am glad London bore
it philosophically. I never imagined that it would be possible
seriously to perturb the people of England by this species of
frightfulness. As Dad puts it, "Curiosity quite mastered every
sense of fear," but if the Zepps. are to continue paying visits
to our suburb, you may have to evacuate 198 and dig yourselves in
in the garden with communicating trenches leading from your
dug-outs to Croxted Road and Herne Hill.
It is splendid how our fellows keep rolling up to fight, for,
believe me, the war is no joke out here. Very few people who have
been out think it's all a death-or-glory sort of business. On the
contrary, it is a steady and persistent strain, a strain under
which the strongest nerves are apt to give way after a time--I am
talking, of course, of the trenches. When the cavalry go into
action as cavalry, they are bound to suffer fearfully, being so
exposed, but there's no doubt that they will do their job, and
put a still greater number of the Boches out of action. This is a
war in which there is nothing picturesque or romantic. It takes
all the cheerfulness of the British Tommy to overmaster the
grinding strain of trench warfare, though as man is by nature a
fighter, he presently begins to throw off the trammels of
civilisation and live _à la naturelle_. The British soldier has
done marvels in this war. Nothing but his irrepressible spirits
and lion-hearted courage would have held up this great host of
Boches armed with new and strange implements of war and with
every weapon known to science.
_September 18th, 1915._
In an interval of relaxation, our division gave a Horse Show
to-day. To these cavalrymen, horses are as meat and drink, almost
the one topic of their conversation, at once their delight and
their business. A lot of notabilities from various places in
France came up to see the Show. It was the most magnificent
display of horseflesh I have ever seen. It was held in a large
open field. The programme included competitions for officers' and
troopers' horses (light and heavy), driving for the limbers of
the regiment, work by machine-gun sections, races, jumping,
turn-out of A.S.C. wagons, and what-not. A wonderful display was
that of the officers' chargers, in which the long line of
competitors rode, trotted and galloped past the General who was
judging. Some of the men's horses were also very good, and really
ran the officers' chargers close for merit. The first three
prize-winners would be worth a clear £450 apiece. To describe the
efficiency of the wagon-driving, the smartness of their turn-out,
the quickness and neatness of all their manoeuvres, is beyond me.
There was no lance or sword play. The whole business had been
arranged to see that everything was as efficient as possible, and
to promote a spirit of healthy rivalry among the different
regiments. It was an extraordinary spectacle, not fifteen miles
from the firing-line, with the big guns booming in one's ears the
whole time--very characteristic of the Englishman's love of sport
and its value to the nation. This is one of the things that the
Boches never can, or will be able to, understand. They cannot
realise how these "mad English" can forget the War when in the
middle of it, and when any minute their "sport" might be
interrupted by a "Jack Johnson." I was with our Brigade
Veterinary Officer, who, of course, is an equine expert. It was a
treat to hear him telling off the points of the magnificent
chargers passing in front of us, pawing the ground and snorting,
full of dash and fire. To me the whole affair had a profound
interest. I have never enjoyed myself more, and really its
psychological significance was immense.
On the morning of 25th September, 1915, the 1st and 4th Corps of the
British Army delivered an attack on the enemy line between La Bassée
Canal on the north and a point opposite the village of Grenay on the
south. There were subsidiary simultaneous attacks east of Ypres by the
5th Corps, and north of the La Bassée Canal by the 3rd and the Indian
Corps. Our main attack was made in co-operation with the French
offensive on our right. The British Cavalry Corps was posted in the
neighbourhood of St. Pol and Bailleul-les-Pernes, in readiness to
co-operate with the French Cavalry in pushing home any success which
might be attained by the combined offensive.
_September 23rd, 1915._
I am about to leave on an official mission, the nature of which I
cannot disclose to you for the time being. My kit has had to be
sent away, and I am only equipped with things I can carry about
me or in my saddle-wallets on the horses. Revolver, haversack,
official books, map-case and respirator are slung about my body.
It is fine to be independent of trunks. Last night I bivouacked
in a field, and one day I was quartered in a mining village which
before the war must have been a busy place. It reminded me very
much of the outskirts of Llanelly. I am feeling better in health
and spirits than ever before.
An article by a Liberal M.P. that appeared recently in the _Daily
Chronicle_ annoyed me very much. Previously I had imagined the
writer to be rather a sportsman and a game fighter; but his
insulting references in this article to the "good fellows" in the
trenches, who are "excellent in their time and place," etc.,
simply set my teeth on edge. I know full well that the type of
thing that he calls "a voice from the trenches" is only an
exploitation of sensational newspapers, as Tommy never by any
chance in my experience of him talks of subjects like
conscription. But the sheer cruelty of this M.P.'s patronising
talk of the men who are dying by thousands to keep him and his
kind safe at home absolutely surpasses everything. The suggestion
that the man at the Front knows less of how to run wars than
M.P.s who have, in all probability, never seen a drop of blood
shed or a gun fired in anger in their lives, is, on the face of
it, ludicrous. We have heard a lot about the Army not interfering
in politics. Well and good; but let the politicians cease to
meddle with military affairs, unless, of course, it is manifest
that the most sacred civil rights of the people are being
sacrificed to a caucus of officers, like those who tried to hold
up the Home Rule Bill.
To-day a big detachment of German prisoners was brought into the
village. They were well dressed and equipped, and in reasonably
good spirits.
_October 3rd, 1915._
Life continues to use me well, though in the last week or two I
have been all-ends up with work. I have usually managed to keep
fairly dry, but the weather is awful, and despite mackintoshes
and greatcoats galore, I have been absolutely soaked on more than
one occasion, especially one night about four days back, when I
had to sleep in the open on a heath in pouring rain, and with a
bitter wind blowing. However, one thinks but little of that sort
of thing when campaigning, and I have never been better in
health.
I wish I could describe to you some of the scenes I witnessed
during the past week, above all, on that never-to-be-forgotten
day before the great attack was made. We found ourselves moving
along the same road as the Guards--Grenadiers, Scots, and
Welsh--who were going up to the attack (the Welsh Guards had
never been in action before, having only recently been
constituted, but I hear they did great things). Never had I seen
such a sight as that evening before the attack. On one side of
the road our cavalry, on the other the Guardsmen, all moving
forward to the accompaniment of the sound of guns booming
sullenly ahead. We halted for a time beside a detachment of Life
Guards, among whom I recognised an old Alleynian named Kemp, whom
I had not seen since last October. We had a few minutes' pleasant
conversation before passing on with our respective columns.
A day or two ago I was to have gone right up to the battlefield
with supplies, but a sudden change in orders made it impossible.
However, a number of our lot were up there. They tell me it was a
fearful scene--the ground littered with corpses, and all the
débris of a battlefield scattered around. I was bitterly
disappointed at not getting right up, but duty is duty, and I
had orders to do other things. We all hope that the day of the
great move forward has now begun to dawn, but there's no doubt it
will be a devil of a job, as the Boches are fighting like hell to
regain the lost ground. All yesterday, last night and this
morning the guns have been rumbling away with more than usual
vigour.
One day last week I visited a soldiers' cemetery; it was chiefly
used for men who have died of wounds at a casualty clearing
station near by. A most mournful and yet most impressive
spectacle it was. As I returned I saw long strings of ambulances
coming down from the Front--a sight that spoke eloquently of the
toll that this war is taking of our best. I note you say that the
new Welsh Division will be going out presently, either to France
or to the Dardanelles. I hope that they will prove worthy of the
great name that the Welsh have made for themselves in this war.
Yesterday I chatted with a Welshman from Pontypridd, a Regular in
the First South Wales Borderers. He had been out here right from
the very start, had been twice wounded, and, except for one
convalescent period of a fortnight, had had no leave at all.
Chris Fowkes, who was wounded some time back, was in the same
company as this sturdy Welshman.[1]
[Footnote 1: Fowkes was a contemporary of Paul's at Dulwich.]
_October 6th, 1915._
The general impression here now is that the advance is proving a
very tough proposition. The casualty list is of colossal
dimensions. All the signs point to a long war.
A French interpreter is attached to each battalion of British
infantry, or regiment of cavalry, with a liaison officer, or
interpreter officer, attached to each brigade in addition.
Personally, I have never found any need for an interpreter's
services. I am able to make almost any of my requirements
comprehensible to the inhabitants, and I think I may describe
myself as being really fluent in French by this time. It is
perfectly amazing how few of our people can talk any other
language than their own.
That was a piquant incident at the College as described by Hal. A
little dash of unconventionality like that is wanted in Dulwich
and in all Public Schools. They, like other national
institutions, are terribly prone to get into a groove. Though
that groove be a good one, yet an occasional lift out of it can
do no harm. But there's no doubt about it that, conservative
though they may be, our Public Schools have done marvellously in
this war. The system has proved its value ten thousand times
over, and never so much as on these gory plains of Flanders and
the hilly crags of Gallipoli. Of late the officer casualties have
been fearful, and most of them these days seem to be killed, not
wounded.
So Bulgaria seems determined to come in against us. If this means
that Roumania and Greece join us, I don't see why the Germans
should be so keen on enlisting the Bulgars on their side. Funny,
isn't it, how all Europe is falling into the whirlpool of war?
Every one of the little States finds that the war is a chance for
it to get something out of someone else--hence its decision to
join in. I hope our Government won't go sending big forces out to
Albania or Salonika, or such places, unless and until they are
sure it would be to England's benefit. For the life of me, I
can't see why we should carry these footling little nations on
our shoulders. All they do is to turn on you as soon as your back
is turned, as _vide_ the Bulgars themselves. The end of it all is
that everyone is scrapping against someone else for some selfish
aim, and the main object and high ideals for which we entered
the war are wholly forgotten.
I cannot describe to you the muddy conditions out here. Mud lies
inches thick on the roads, and is kept damp and slimy by the
continual passage of limbers, horses, guns, wagons and
lorries--the final result being a veritable swamp. The other day
a man of the 19th Hussars was watering two horses when he got
himself and the two animals hopelessly bogged beside the pond in
a swamp which he mistook for dry ground. Eventually we tugged him
and the two horses out with ropes. They were all soaked with
slime and mud from head to foot. As for the infantrymen, when
they come out of the trenches, they are caked in mud all over. In
these parts mud is the great feature of the war.
_October 11th, 1915._
I continue to be very busy. You must understand that it is my job
to supplement the ordinary supplies that come up on the Supply
Column from the railway with supplies obtained locally. These
latter are frequently as essential as the former. Especially is
this the case with cavalry, who are naturally apt, when moving,
to get separated from their supplies, owing to the rapidity of
their progress. Then comes the Requisitioning Officer's real
task. That is not to say that this is the only case in which he
has to work. On the contrary, the work is absolutely continuous.
The men always want all sorts of things that the Supply Column
does not provide, and it is up to me to get those things, and
what is more, in most cases, to transport them also. I am in
charge of a number of wagons, limbers, etc., to carry out this
latter job, and I am responsible for the care and transport of
the ordinary supplies for our Brigade Headquarters after they
leave the Supply Column. I have also to do the following jobs:
(1) Distribute pay to the large number of A.S.C. men attached to
Headquarters; (2) when we are in billets, to see to the billeting
arrangements for the brigade, and adjust the relations between
the troops and whatever inhabitants there may be.
You must not imagine that there are no inhabitants in these
districts. On the contrary, it is my experience that people cling
to their homes and lead their ordinary lives right up into the
fire zone. Our authorities take the greatest care not to offend
the inhabitants. Let me give you an illustration. Recently we
were at a small village, now quite blown to atoms, and considered
a hot spot even out here, and which really has no inhabitants.
Well, on the occasion of entrenching operations our chaps found
it necessary to take some doors from ruined houses. They wanted
the timber for planks for trench supports and dug-outs. Though
all the inhabitants had fled or been killed long before, and the
village was little better than a dust-heap, yet a solemn and
portentous court of inquiry was held on those doors: were we
justified in taking them, and should payment be made for them to
the old inhabitants or their representatives? Eventually it was
decided that, as the doors were taken to help to make trenches,
they might be considered as destroyed by a _fait de guerre_,
which, I believe, corresponds to an "act of God" in the civil
courts, and payment ought not therefore to be made for the doors.
It was, however, pointed out that if the said doors had been used
to make a road, not a trench, they would not be _faits de
guerre_, and in such case payment would have had to be made to
the Mayor of the destroyed commune!
"Business as usual" is the motto they try to live up to
throughout these parts, and every effort is made to persuade
people that the war is only a sort of accident. Money remains
money, and there are people selling and buying right up to
places where many lives are lost every day. The position is
really almost that described in a _Bystander_ cartoon, depicting
a peasant standing above a line of our trenches amid a hell of
shot and bursting shrapnel, and saying, "Messieurs, I am
desolated to trouble you, but I must request you to fight in my
other field, as I plough this one to-day." By the way, _The
Bystander_ has succeeded, as no other paper save perhaps _Punch_
has done, in catching the atmosphere that exists out here.
I assure you that just behind the firing-line people are minting
money out of our occupation. Not only do they get paid regularly
if British troops are billeted on them, but they can name their
own prices for milk, beer, eggs, etc., and all those other things
that Tommy is anxious for, and for which he can afford to pay. He
is, I think, paid three times as much as either the French or the
Boche soldiers. True, I have met some pitiful cases of
refugeeism, but to a very large number of people in Northern
France the war is nothing but somewhat of a nuisance. Of course,
where they do feel it is in their own terrible casualty lists. I
have known family after family in the little villages who have
lost one or two sons. In many communes one finds that the Mayor
has been killed while serving at the front, and a deputy acts in
his stead. The Mayor of the place where we are now stationed has
three sons fighting, one at Verdun. I had an agreeable chat a few
days back with the local schoolmaster, who was home on short
leave from the trenches.
It is curious that only _The Bystander_ and _Punch_ should have
succeeded in catching the atmosphere of "Somewhere in France."
Many of the war correspondents, brilliantly though they write,
have missed it altogether. John Buchan is not so bad, when he
writes soberly, but he will let his imagination run away with
him. Talking of writers, what a delightful thing was that article
of Zangwill's in the _Daily Chronicle_ on "The Perils of Walking
in War-time"! Its brilliant satire, firm grasp of facts, lively
humour and racy style quite took my fancy.
I have had some interesting chats with some of the old soldiers
in our division about Mons, the Marne and the Aisne, and all
"those brave days of old." One chap, now acting as a clerk at
Headquarters, wears the ribbons of the D.C.M. and French Médaille
Militaire for swimming a river (on the retreat from Mons) amid a
tempest of shot and shell, and giving warning to a party of our
people on the other side who were in the greatest danger of being
surrounded--and quite oblivious of the fact--by the Boches who
had forced the passage of a bridge some way off. This brave
fellow led his menaced comrades to another bridge, and so enabled
them all to get clear.
The Supply Officer of one of our brigades is F. P. Knox, a
Dulwich man, who captained the old school at cricket back in 1895
or so and I believe led Oxford to victory after that. His brother
you may know--N. A. Knox, the famous fast bowler.
I was horrified to see in a recent casualty list among the killed
the name of Second Lieutenant H. O. Beer. I remember him as a
rather clever, quiet, inoffensive, distinctly popular fellow in
Doulton's House. He left at the end of July, 1914, without
getting any colours, but after doing quite well in all games. He
won a Junior Scholarship, but failed to get a Senior. He was made
a School Prefect in September, 1913, and you will see him in the
very middle of the back row of the photo of the Prefects that we
have--a markedly good-looking fellow, with light hair brushed
across his forehead. What a wealth of tragedy and yet also of
honour is expressed in the last line of his obituary notice in
_The Times_--"He fell leading his platoon, aged twenty years."
Only yesterday, as it were, we were at school together--I
remember handing him off with great vigour on the football
field--and now! It was just the same with poor Reynolds[2] and
Bray.[3] But I mustn't go on in this strain.
[Footnote 2: James Reynolds, head of the Modern Side for two
years. The first Dulwich boy to take the London B.A. degree
while still at school. Born, 1893. Killed in action in
Belgium, May 2nd, 1915, while serving with the London Rifle
Brigade.]
[Footnote 3: Frederick W. Bray, only son of Mr. W. Bray, West
Norwood. One of the keenest members of the O.A.F.C. Quitting
his engineering studies, he joined the 1st Surrey Rifles at
the outbreak of war. Born, August 26th, 1895. Killed, May
25th, 1915.]
_October 15th, 1915._
The Balkan business is a startling knockout for those enthusiasts
who see in the development of small States salvation for the
world! If people would only accept the fact that this is a
material world they would not be surprised at the situation.
Myself, I consider that our diplomacy has failed, probably
because it did not offer tempting enough bribes to Bulgaria and
Greece. No matter; what is the fate of a few tuppenny-ha'penny
Balkan States, who have never done a thing worth doing, beside
that of the British Empire! Why should we always play the
philanthropic idiot towards all these wretched little nations? As
if any of them--or anyone else, for that matter, in international
politics--knows the meaning of the word gratitude! However
righteous our policy may have been, it doesn't seem to have
worked in South-East Europe, and the Boches appear to have got
home first there. I don't think it is so much a triumph for their
diplomacy as a judgment on the blundering stupidity of ours. But
when all's said and done, the alliance or hostility of a few
Bulgars, Greeks or Roumanians doesn't count for so much, anyhow.
"Come the three corners of the world in arms, and we shall shock
them. Naught shall make us rue, if England to herself do rest but
true."
Have you seen the obituary notices of Captain Osmond Williams,[4]
of the Welsh Guards? His funeral took place not half a mile from
the spot where we were at the time. The 19th Hussars was once his
old regiment, and as he was simply idolised by the men, crowds of
them went to the burial. He had a most romantic career--a career
that might have stepped out of the pages of Scott or Dumas.
[Footnote 4: Son of Sir Osmond Williams, Bart., formerly M.P.
for Montgomeryshire. Served in the South African War, and in
his day was regarded as the most brilliant cavalry subaltern
in the British Army. A severe accident in the hunting-field
compelled him to leave the Army. When war broke out in 1914
he offered his services to the War Office, but was rejected
because physically unfit. He then enlisted as a private
soldier, and by repeated acts of gallantry in the field won
his captaincy.]
Yesterday I played Soccer for Headquarters against the 15th
Hussars. We beat them 2 to 1. However, I can't work up any
enthusiasm for Soccer. Oh! for a real game of Rugger. Still, the
Tommies--the English ones, at least--think Soccer the only game,
so one must cut one's cloth to one's opportunities. It is
something to get a game of any sort out here. Is the October
number of _The Alleynian_ out yet? I hope they keep their war
list up to date. Our Roll of Honour is as good as anybody's, and
should be carefully attended to.
_October 20th, 1915._
Whom do you think I met the other day leading a column of motor
lorries up to our brigade H.Q.? No less a person than G. P. S.
Clark, the centre three-quarter who scored that wonderful try
against Haileybury in my first year in the team--running and
feinting his way through right from his own line. He is a motor
expert, and has been gazetted to the M.T. branch of the A.S.C.
Is there any chance of my getting the post of A.D.C. to a Welsh
brigadier? If the Welsh division is due out presently it would be
rather a good job. But if it involved my coming back to England
for any length of time I wouldn't take it. I am perfectly
satisfied with my present work, but still would very much like to
become a real combatant. Against the defect of short sight I can
put the following points:
(a) Three months of Active Service, almost invariably in the
neighbourhood of the firing-line; on several occasions right up
in it.
(b) I have always been attached to the Headquarters of a Cavalry
Brigade, have been in the closest contact with the Brigade
Staff, and have taken my orders from the Staff Captain direct--a
very large proportion of those orders about real Staff work.
(c) I have now a real linguistic fluency in French; pretty
useful German also.
(d) I have been acting under the supervision of a Supply
Officer, whose work I do when he is away, and I know the system
of transport and supply backwards.
(e) I have a thorough knowledge of how to make up supplies by
requisition and purchase on the countryside.
(f) On the march I move at the head of the limbers which form
the Cavalry Divisional train, and am second in command of them
all, so I know something about that branch of work, too.
(g) I am quite a useful horseman.
You may say on reading the above list of virtues that a glass
case is the right place for me, but I know to the full that if
one wants one of these "knutty" jobs one has to represent oneself
as a sort of little tin god. Now don't imagine that I am
dissatisfied with my present job. I am more than pleased with it;
still I am very keen to become a fighting soldier.
_October 25th, 1915._
My present quarters are in a mill. I have a fine large room, also
first-rate stabling for my horses. Brigade Headquarters are in
one of those magnificent châteaux that are dotted over this part
of France. A gorgeous place it must have been in time of peace,
and so it is now except that it is beginning to show signs of
war-wear and constant use.
I am very bucked with life. All that we would like now would be a
stupendous advance. This nibbling policy is all very well, but it
doesn't suit cavalry.
My horses have just been clipped. It is the customary thing at
this time of year, as horses' coats get very thick, and in
consequence they sweat heavily when on the march. The effect of
clipping is curious in the extreme, as the animal no longer
appears of its original colour, but of the colour of its skin,
i.e., mouse-grey. My mare was originally chestnut; now she is a
dark grey. Horses are much happier with their thick coats off.
The hair will have grown again in a couple of weeks, but it won't
be thick for some time. My mare is a grand horse for steady,
continuous work, also quite a good galloper. I had a gallop for
two furlongs or so the other day with the Staff Captain and the
A.D.C., each mounted on a crack cavalry charger. My mare came in
with the first of them, and had more left in her at the end than
either of the others.
There is no greater mistake than to suppose that the function of
the horse has vanished in modern war. On the contrary, even in
the transport, horses are quite as much used as motors. Horse
transport is not confined to roads, and can pass much more easily
than motor vehicles over rough ground. When you get up near the
front, where the roads are badly cut up, horse transport is not
only desirable but essential. Of course, the motor is absolutely
invaluable for speedy transport. But on the whole one can say
that, except for motor-buses, which sometimes take the men right
up close to the trenches, and except for the ammunition park--a
collection of powerful and very speedy lorries loaded up with
munitions, which has always to be in readiness to dash up to the
front in view of an emergency--except in these cases, it is safe
to say that motor transport ends some miles from the actual
fighting-line, and all the remaining transport is horsed. True,
motor-cars containing Generals on inspection, Supply officers,
etc., go all over the place, often right up behind the
firing-line. Also there are the motor machine-gun cars, and the
armoured cars, which are fighting units proper. But don't for
goodness' sake imagine that the horse is done with in modern war
because of the advent of the motor.
What the motor has done is to alter the whole face of things
because of the extraordinary rapidity with which it enables you
to fling troops or supplies up to the Front or transport them
from point to point. But for the effective use of motor vehicles
you need pretty good roads. You will remember how in the earlier
months of the War, ourselves, the Germans and the French effected
big troop movements simply by motor transport. You will recall
the occasion on which the French flung a force across the suburbs
of Paris and attacked the Boches on the right, thus beginning the
movement known as the Battle of the Marne. Then there was the
occasion when Hindenburg attacked the Russians in October, 1914,
feinting at their left and striking at their right at Tannenberg
with a force of armoured cars, cavalry, and infantry conveyed in
motors. Neither of these movements could have been achieved
before the advent of motor transport. As this war progresses, the
need for really capable and cool-headed motor drivers will
steadily increase. But it will be none the less invaluable to
know how to manage a horse--whether to ride it, drive a wagon, or
ride-and-drive in a limber. One of our limber horses is a grey
captured from the Germans last year. He is a very good worker and
doesn't seem to mind being a prisoner in the least.
I must tell you of a funny incident. That night when we were
sleeping on the heath, which I referred to in a previous letter
(p. 149), our Medical Officer was awakened at 2 A.M. by a frantic
signaller, that is, one of the R.E. motor-cycle dispatch riders.
It was pouring rain at the time and bitterly cold. The signaller
solemnly handed the M.O. an envelope marked "Urgent and Special."
The M.O. opened it, his mind full of visions of men mortally
stricken awaiting immediate attention and of other tragic things.
Judge his astonishment when he found inside the following note
from his O.C.: "Kindly render your monthly inoculation return to
Headquarters before the end of the week." What the M.O. said is
unprintable, as this return had already been sent in, and, in any
case, is just a formality of no importance to anybody.
My affection for the British soldier deepens the more I know of
him. To a student of human nature it is an everlasting joy to get
Tommy to tell you his experiences in his own inimitable language,
interspersed with all sorts of gory adjectives. It is so
different from and better than the sort of thing you read in the
Society papers. Human nature as it really is comes out strongly
in these splendid men at the Front. A talk with Tommy is of
intense interest to a chap as keen as I am on psychology.
_November 5th, 1915._
Still much occupied; out almost all day and every day, either on
horseback or in a motor. Much interest has been displayed in
these parts in the visit of the King. I have passed the château
where he is staying almost every day this past week.
The district where we are now quartered is filled with refugees,
among them some orphans from Loos. Some people about here have
been terribly hit by the war, but some are reaping enormous
profits out of it. Such is the caprice of fortune. All over this
neighbourhood you see the names of Life Guards, Royal Horse
Guards, Grenadiers, etc., carved on doors and panels. We are
close to a large town which is an important point in the scheme
of things.
Events seem to be taking a remarkable turn. Who, at the start of
the war, would have thought that we would have been able to land
a military force in the Balkan Peninsula? It is really a
remarkable position all round. Asquith's speech was frank if
nothing else. There appears to have been discord in the Cabinet,
so now we are about to have something like a "Committee of Public
Safety." Marvellous race, the English! Lord Derby seems to be an
outstanding personality just now. Have you noticed how each month
of the war is marked by some new phase of public opinion?
Optimism, pessimism, spies, Zeppelins, economy, pink forms,
voluntaryism, conscription, munitions--each of these has been for
a time the centre of public interest, and each has swiftly fallen
from its pedestal to be replaced by some other phase. Curiously
enough, the talk at home has not been influenced in any direct
way by the real progress of the war, but by the effect on the
popular imagination of trivial incidents, magnified out of all
proportion by sensational journals. The war goes on,
nevertheless, showing that the great British spirit is something
far too strong and deep to be really influenced by the caprices
of public opinion.
It is amusing to see how the views of certain newspapers vary
from month to month, and even more diverting to observe how all
the amateur strategists claim that they had really predicted
every phase of the military operations. Believe me, however, the
war has been and is quite different from any ideas entertained in
regard to it in the early weeks and months. It is a blend of
grotesque incongruities that would be humorous were not one side
of them so tragic and terrible. No one here seems to know
anything definite about what is going on. One has considerable
local knowledge but very little general information. Probably the
latter is impossible to get in this sort of mix-up--the scale on
which the war is being waged is so vast.
You will see roughly from Sir John French's latest dispatch the
part played by the cavalry in the advance of 25th September-5th
October. You will not, of course, be able to glean much of what
actually happened, but I can tell you we had a most interesting
time.
How tiresome is the tosh written in the papers and spoken in
Parliament about the war! One wonders if it would not be a good
plan to shut up Parliament for a time, though I suppose it is a
good thing to have a place where men can vent their foolish
thoughts. But I am thoroughly weary of "Statements by the Prime
Minister" which state nothing, and of mere denunciations by Sir
Arthur Markham and Sir Edward Carson; also of the shrieking of
the Yellow Press, the wishy-washiness of the Liberal Press and
the _Spectator_, the impenetrable Conservatism of the _Morning
Post_, and the noisy sensationalism of the Bottomley--Austin
Harrison crew. Thank goodness the strong broad stream of British
spirit runs deeper and is much purer than would appear from this
froth and scum on the surface.
Recently it has been a period of Catholic festivals about here.
Some days there have been processions and bell-ringing from morn
to eve. The other day was the Fête des Morts, and lately there
was the French All Saints' Day. It is a singular sensation to
hear the chime of church bells blending with the thudding of the
guns.
_November 18th, 1915._
Yesterday I rode twenty-five miles. A delightful experience it
was, too;--in crisp winter weather and with the surrounding
country covered with snow. It has become very cold of late, but I
am fond of cold weather, especially when it keeps dry. Assigned
some special work by the Staff Captain, I had permission to move
when and how I liked, instead of accompanying the Column as I
usually do. The result was that I was able to join up with the
Veterinary section attached to the brigade. We moved at our own
pace, resting our horses where we wanted to and giving them a
good drink and feed _en route_, instead of jogging on
monotonously with the Column. Our horses were thoroughly fit and
full of life when we reached our destination, and good for
another twenty-five miles if necessary. You would not believe how
much horses benefit from care and attention as to food and rest.
The time you lose in watering, resting and feeding, you can
always more than make up through the consequent freshness of
your animals. Obviously, when speed is absolutely vital, you
can't choose your time to rest the horses. For example: on those
never-to-be-forgotten days, 23-26 September last, we used to move
at a rapid trot for hours on end--for the expectation then was
that the Boche line might be broken. This latest "trek" had not
the urgency or the wild excitement of that, and we were able to
take our own time.
I had a ripping game of Rugger a few days back, playing for the
19th Hussars against the Bedford Yeomanry. The latter, who
included some old Bedford School boys, beat us, though only by
one point. I played forward in the first half of the game, and
scrum-half in the second. It _was_ a treat to handle a Rugby ball
again!
Things are becoming rather mixed in English politics, what with
Asquith's contradictory statements about conscription, Carson
resigning and Winston flinging up politics for the Army. His
resignation is creditable to Winston, and at a moment like this
he would naturally want to do his bit at the Front. Everybody in
the cavalry that I have spoken to considers him a good sportsman.
Myself, I regard Churchill as a man with a real touch of genius.
The Haldane controversy seems to have started afresh. How
terrible is the ingratitude of the masses! If Haldane had done no
more than create the Territorials and the Officers' Training
Corps he would have had an everlasting claim to fame; but when
one considers also his creation of the General Staff, and his
arrangements for mobilising, equipping, transporting and
supplying the B.E.F.--well, one begins to realise that the man is
a Colossus. And yet the wretched Jingoes continue to bespatter
him with mud, and I suppose the nation in the mass regards him as
a species of highly-educated spy! But perhaps the majority of
the people have never heard of him--Charlie Chaplin is a far more
living personality to most of them, I make no doubt.
I referred in a recent letter (p. 162), to the fluctuating phases
of opinion in England in regard to the war. A new phase would
appear now to have arisen and taken the place of the Lord Derby
boom. This new phase is one of criticism of past military and
naval operations--Neuve Chapelle, Loos, Suvla Bay, the Narrows,
Antwerp, etc. etc., all of which are being discussed with equal
zest and ignorance. Mark my words, there will soon be a new phase
or an old one will recur.
TO HIS BROTHER.
_November 23rd, 1915._
I am so sorry Dulwich got done down by Bedford. Of all our
matches, that is the one we are most keen on winning. Still, we
can't expect to win always, and we have not lost to Bedford for
three years till now. I had perhaps the unique experience of
being in a team which never lost a Bedford match. In 1912-13,
when I got my colours, we drew 28 points all; in 1913-14 we won,
16 to 15; and last year, 32 to 16. Well, I would have given
anything for the School to have got home a fourth time against
old Bedford, but it was not to be.
The sudden drop in temperature during the last fortnight has
affected most people here. I have escaped without any sort of
cold, though nine-tenths of the officers and men have been down
with chills.
My mare has developed a devil of a temper of late, and bites and
kicks like anything--a sign of exuberant vigour. Fortunately she
gets on well with my other horse, and they don't "strafe" each
other in the stable. To get horses in the same stable on good
terms with each other is largely a question of feeding them at
the same time. My second horse, which my servant rides when we
are on the move, is a jolly little chestnut, very strong and
hardy, with a magnificent long tail. I ride him and the mare on
alternate days. Horses are ridiculous creatures. They will eat
all sorts of things, even wood, mud, and pieces of coal, as if
from sheer cussedness. It can't be because they are hungry, as
they get plenty to eat in the way of oats, hay, dry clover, etc.
Sometimes, as if from devilment, they will roll in the mud a few
minutes after they have been nicely groomed. Some of our
regiments have a lot of mules, which are given to fearful
brayings--a sound which is a cross between a horse's whinny, a
donkey's hee-haw and an elephant's trumpeting. Mules bite and
kick each other continually, but they will do any amount of work
when so inclined.
_November 29th, 1915._
I see that the Welshmen are coming out. May they strafe the
Boches to the wide! I hope the Cymry will prove themselves worthy
successors to Owain Glyndwr and all the other grand old chiefs
who have given us such a name in arms. Times have changed, and
to-day, instead of smiting your foe with a club or a sword, you
"strafe" him with gas-shells and machine-guns. The old way was
the best, but the natural instinct of all things animate to fight
remains, as it always will remain.
We have received some of _The Times'_ broad-sheets. I don't
exactly know whether they are good or not. It is undoubtedly a
benefit to have "bits" from great writers to skim over when you
haven't the time, or the inclination, to wade through a volume.
On the other hand, it is intensely aggravating to experience the
feeling of incompleteness that naturally results from having your
reading suddenly cut off.
_December 3rd, 1915._
The other day I was ordered to visit a certain battery in the
firing-line. No one had a ghost of an idea as to their present
location, but I discovered where their supplies were being drawn
from--a spot two miles from the line, which was being "strafed"
daily. Off I went to this place in my car, but nobody there knew
a thing about the people I wanted, so I had to go up to the
railway station and crave the loan of a telephone. After a great
deal of bother I got on to some genial soul who knew where the
Brigade Headquarters were of the lot I was after. He told me
where they had gone to, but whether they were still there or not
he didn't know. Anyhow, it was a clue. So, like Pillingshot (in
P. G.'s story), I worked on it.
After consulting my maps, and chatting with dozens of military
police, interpreters, etc., I took my car forward by a certain
road. By this time it was pitch dark, except for star shells and
gun flashes. The road was crammed with traffic. We took a wrong
turning, and eventually found ourselves on an apology for a road
that ended in a swamp full of shell-holes, and had to retrace our
steps gingerly. After blundering about in the dark for some time
we struck the village we were looking for, a hopeless sort of
place crammed with Scotsmen, all exceedingly grimy, but gay and
cheerful. In one house the men were waltzing to the strains of a
mouth-organ, though the boom of the guns was shaking the house
every second or so.
Having reached the Headquarters I was in quest of, I ascertained
from them that the battery with which I had business to do was
now at a spot two miles away down a main road which was the scene
of such desperate fighting not long back. The O.C. strongly
advised me not to take the car down there, as if I did "it was
likely that the car would stop some pieces of metal." There was
nothing for it but to walk down the road leading to the recently
captured village. It was very dark, but star-shells, with their
weird green light, would illuminate the countryside every five
minutes or so. In the darkness one could vaguely discern the
shape of the first-line transport wagons taking up rations to the
trenches, and small columns of silently marching men, and now and
then a motor lorry belonging to some ammunition park. Presently,
after what seemed an interminable walk, I found the battery, who
themselves had only just arrived, and executed my job in a
half-ruined house. To get back to my car I borrowed a horse and
rode part of the way with a number of led horses, which, having
brought up the guns, were going back to the wagon line.
On getting to my car I decided that my best road to return would
be to go straight along into a certain large town, instead of the
route we'd come by. As we spun along a voice from the darkness
hailed us: "Have you room for an officer?" We at once pulled up
and told him to jump in. Poor devil! he was almost in a state of
collapse and talked wildly. He had been six months in the
trenches, and had just come out of them in a half-hysterical
state. I had to speak to him pretty firmly before he could pull
himself together. We took him to his destination, and he was most
grateful for the lift.
It was an uncanny experience, this wandering about in the
darkness in desolate regions a few hundred yards from the
trenches. In this grim struggle there is none of the glory and
pomp of war as exhibited in the days of old, when rival armies
met amid the blare of trumpets and the waving of standards. The
pageantry of war is gone. We have now war in all its fierceness,
grime and cold-bloodedness without any picturesque glamour or
romance. Can you wonder that in such conditions civilised human
nature out here swiftly changes and is replaced by elemental
savagery?
In December, 1915, Paul Jones had short leave, and spent six days at
home. He took advantage of the opportunity to have a game of football
on the familiar arena in Dulwich, playing for the Old Alleynians
against the College 1st XV.
_December 21st, 1915._
All well after a pleasant crossing. The blundering authorities
kept us and three other leave trains six hours in ---- station,
no one being allowed to leave the platform! We eventually reached
---- at 7 P.M. The two first men I met on the boat were old
Dulwich boys, W. J. Barnard and Bobby Dicke. Barnard is a
field-gunner, and Dicke is in the 1st Royal Fusiliers. I also met
another O.A., named Corsan, who is captain in Barnard's battery.
How well I remember ragging with him in choir practices! We had a
thrilling chat over old times. Both Barnard and Corsan went
through the Battle of Loos. On reaching France we found there was
no means of getting to our respective destinations until next
morning, so we all dined together with a couple of other subs.,
one in the K.R.R.s, a mere boy in appearance but a veteran in
experience. How delightful to meet old pals, and what splendid
fellows these old public-school men are!
Everything is very festive about here just now. Officers and men
are making ready to pass Christmas in the old-fashioned way.
_December 28th, 1915._
We had a very jolly Christmas. The revellings have, in fact, only
just begun to subside. Our Brigade Major spent his Christmas in
the trenches along with his brother, a V.C. In that part of the
line there was a truce for a quarter of an hour on Christmas Day,
and a number of Englishmen and Germans jumped out and started
talking together. A German gave one of our men a Christmas tree
about two feet high as a souvenir. It is of the usual variety,
covered with tinsel and adorned with glass balls.
_January 4th, 1916._
I was indescribably grieved to read of the death of
Nightingale.[5] Himself an O.A., he was in the Modern Sixth about
1900. He was a master at the dear old school from 1907, or
thereabouts. I regarded him as one of my best friends among the
masters. The year I took on the captaincy of the Junior School
"footer," he gave me immense help as master in charge of the
Junior School games. But really cricket was his game; he was a
splendid bat on his day, a useful slow bowler and a fine
fieldsman. He was such an enthusiast for cricket that he would
take any and every chance of playing, no matter whether against
the 1st XI or against the Junior School. In character he was
extremely simple and unaffected--not a great scholar, but a
shrewd thinker with a serviceable knowledge of history and
literature, and a fine taste in reading. Personally he was one of
the kindest of men and so easy to get on with. Though in no sense
a professional soldier, yet from a strong feeling of duty he
joined right at the start as a private in, I believe, the Rifle
Brigade, with whom he served many months in France. He then got a
commission in the 7th Lincolns, with whom he was serving when
killed.
[Footnote 5: Lieutenant F. L. Nightingale. Born, 1881. Killed
in action in France, December 19th, 1915. A master at
Dulwich, 1906-1914. A man of ripe culture and a splendid
cricketer.]
Here was a man who threw up all to take up soldiering, not
because he had the military instinct, but from sheer patriotism
and sense of duty. It was just like him--at school he would
always put himself out to play in a game if a team was a man
short. He was always called "Nighty" by the boys. Can you wonder,
with the example of such a man before me, that I should be
longing to get into the Infantry? Heavens! A man would not be a
man who did not feel as I feel about this matter.
Well, Sir John Simon has resigned. Rather a pity that such a
career should be cut short. Still, at best he was a mere
politician, and to tell you the truth I don't like politicians
much. All the same, I do think Simon did some valuable work as
Home Secretary, and earlier as Attorney-General.
For once the British Government appears to have acted with
vigour--I mean by occupying Salonika and telling the Greeks
politely to "hop it." Result, the Greeks have hopped it. How much
more simple and effective this than to jaw about "the rights of
neutrals," the "sanctity of small nations," etc., etc.! No! take
a strong line in this world, and you're more likely to get what
you want than by cajolery.
_January 26th, 1916._
One day last week I mounted my horse at 2.15 P.M. and rode in a
south-easterly direction. For the first couple of miles things
were as usual--crowds of soldiers about, of course, and lots of
transport on the move. One village I found populated half by
civilians and half by troops. Thereafter the country becomes
barer and grimmer, and the fields for the most part are
uncultivated--in itself a remarkable thing in France. The next
village I came to bore signs of having been shelled, but was
still habitable. Originally it must have been quite a pleasant
little place. Not many of the native inhabitants remained, and
the houses for the most part were filled with Scotsmen and
sappers.
Passing on, with the roar of the guns getting more and more
distinct, we come to a place that leaves no manner of doubt that
there is a war on. There are graves by the roadside, and
shell-holes. Lines of trenches and coils of barbed wire arrest
your attention. Now there comes into view the battered remnant of
what was once a busy mining village. The great slag-heap towers
up on our right hand, its sides scarred and smashed by
shell-fire. Not a house is left standing. There are only
shattered walls and heaps of bricks. Over all hangs that curious
odour one gets at the Front--a sort of combined smell of burning
and decay. A grotesque effect is produced by a signboard hanging
outside a ruined tenement and bearing the words: "Delattre,
Débitant," or, in other words, "Delattre's Inn." On the right a
gunner is standing on what was once a house roof, hacking away at
the beams with a pickaxe; he is getting firewood, no doubt.
Solemnly a general service wagon rolls by, carrying a load of
fuel, and a limber crashes past at a trot. A little single-line
railway from the colliery crosses the road, and even now there
are standing on it two or three trucks, strange to say quite
intact. The machinery at the pit-head is all smashed, bent and
broken. You are impressed with the strange, eerie silence, when
suddenly there is an earth-shaking crash. One of our heavies has
been fired. You hear the shell whirring away on its journey of
destruction, and finally a faint, far-distant crash, perhaps
marking the end of a dozen men, five or ten miles off.
Resuming my journey I reached another village, where the
destruction had been simply terrible, surpassing even that of
Ypres. This village bears a name famous in the annals of British
arms, for it was from here that the Guards charged on that
memorable day, September 25th. I saw a line of old trenches just
behind the village, and rode over to examine them. Perhaps it was
from this very line that our men advanced. I tried to picture to
myself what it must have been like--valour, endurance, turmoil,
destruction, death, a great forward rush by brave men that spent
itself, and fizzled out just on the eve of triumph. Why?
On the left there was a large cemetery. Many of the crosses had
soldiers' caps hung on them, and in one case the man was
evidently a Catholic, for crucifix and image had been taken down
from a post on the roadside and laid on the grave. I tried to
find if there was any trace of the names of two O.A.s who fell in
this battle, Crabbe and Beer, but failed to discover either name.
It was now getting late, so I retraced my steps and cantered
homewards. In this war-scarred region I actually met an old
French farmer driving his horse and trap along the road leading
towards the trenches just as if there was no war raging; and near
the one habitable house of the district small boys were playing
merrily, while their parents were calling them in and scolding
them in shrill voices. In some ruined houses were yet more
Scotsmen, most ubiquitous of peoples. I halted to chat with an
old military policeman who used to be with the 9th Cavalry
Brigade. Then home. A very interesting afternoon's work, which
gave one a real insight into "the conduct and results of war" as
waged in these cynical days.
During another visit I paid to this desolate region there was a
"strafe" of some magnitude on. As I rode I could hear the long
whistling and heavy crump of high explosives that the enemy were
dropping into a village about a mile to the left, and could see
the flame and smoke of the explosion. Our own guns soon began to
chime in. It was quite a cheerful little show, what with the
long-drawn whining of approaching Boche shells, the crash of
explosions, the thud of our guns replying, and the weird,
fluttering noise of our shells going over. Presently the gun duel
became more and more violent. The fearful crashes of our
"heavies," the groans, shrieks and whines of the shells on their
message of death, the tremendous thuds of Boche explosions, and
the whistling hum of shrapnel pieces flying around--all this made
up a pandemonium of noise. My further progress along this road
was barred by a thud amongst some ruined houses about a hundred
yards in front of me, showing that the "strafe" was veering round
to my direction. Deviating from this road I met some old
acquaintances in the Gunners, and had tea with them in their
dug-out, my horse being put up in what in pre-war days had been
somebody's sitting-room. I cantered home at dusk. All this
evening there has been a "hate" on--the sky alive with
gun-flashes and lit up by star-shells, and the air resounding
with bangings and thuddings.
_February 1st, 1916._
Hereabouts we seem now to be doing ten times as much "strafing"
as the Boches. This afternoon I saw at fifty yards' distance some
60-pounders (the old "Long-Toms") being fired. First, there would
come a flash of flame from the muzzle, followed by an
ear-splitting bang. Then the whole gun seemed to hurl itself
bodily forward and slide back into position again. Meanwhile you
could hear the shell tearing its way through the air with the
curious shuddering, or fluttering, noise that shells make in
transit.
Riding north the other day I came to a place where the only
sounds that could be heard were the intermittent crackle of
rifle-fire mingling with the shrill tones of a woman haggling
over the price of bread with an old chap who had driven out with
his pony and cart from an adjacent town to sell his goods. The
roof of the woman's house had mostly vanished and some of the
walls were non-existent, being replaced by sandbags. A notice
proclaimed that there was coffee and milk for sale within. Is it
not extraordinary to encounter this sort of thing right up in the
battle zone? It shows how human nature can adapt itself to the
most uncustomary things. I suppose we should be the same--stick
to the old home so long as there was a brick left standing.
I ran across an O.A., named Tatnell, who holds a commission in
the Motor Machine Gun Corps. He told me he had met lots of O.A.s
out here. Some of the fellows he mentioned are mere boys of
seventeen and eighteen still. One of them, Williams, I remember
last year as a drummer in the Corps. Honestly, the old school has
done splendidly. Every one of the fellows I used to know from the
age of seventeen onwards is serving, and they were all serving
long before there was any talk of Derby schemes.
TO HIS BROTHER.
_February 10th, 1916._
I went into the trenches a few days back--not in the front line,
but as far as Brigade Headquarters, which is a sort of series of
caverns in the ground, and is approached by a long communication
trench. Nothing much was happening; and, anyway, this particular
trench is so deep that there is nothing to be seen save a strip
of sky above your head. In a few places you can get out and stand
on the open ground without much danger. The spectacle is
curious--practically nothing visible to indicate that there is a
war on. No soldiers in sight, only a lot of shell-holes and
barbed wire, and a general sense of desolation, with an
occasional crack of a rifle bullet, the whistle and crash of
Boche shells and the bang of our own guns from just behind.
I suppose that the Army class at Dulwich are hot favourites this
year for the Form Cup, and the Engineers for the Side. Our star
on the Modern Side has, I fear, waned. I shall never forget that
final Side match last year, when, with a team much the weaker on
paper, we (the Modern Side, captained by Paul Jones) snatched a
victory by sheer tactics. It was the best game, or rather, one of
the four best games, I remember--the other three being the
Bedford match in 1913, when A. H. Gilligan shone so brilliantly;
the famous 28-28 draw at Bedford in 1912; and the Haileybury
match of the same year. In every one of these games the football
reached a high standard, and the result was a pretty fair
indication of the run of the play, except perhaps in the second
game, in which it was the personal brilliance of the Gilligans
and Evans that snatched an almost lost game out of the fire.
Great Scott! What wouldn't I give to be starting my school career
again? Make the most of your school days, my son, for you'll
never have such a time again!
_March 2nd, 1916._
A few days ago I went up to see Elias--Captain T. Elias,
son-in-law of Dr. MacNamara, M.P.--and had tea with "C" Company,
1st London Welsh. To my amazement I discovered that Percy
Davies--now Major Davies, son of Mr. David Davies, Mayor of
Swansea, 1917, and editor of the _South Wales Daily Post_--was in
the same village at the time. So I went along to his mess; we
were overjoyed to meet one another. He introduced me to his
messmates, a ripping set of chaps, who included Sir Alfred Mond's
son, and one Parry, whose brother played for Dulwich, inside to
Harold Gilligan, in Evans's year. Amazing coincidences, what? At
the invitation of these fellows I went with them to a concert
they had got up in the village. It was quite the best show of its
kind I have seen out here, and there are lots of concert-parties
in these parts. The Welsh have a gift of music that is peculiar
to them alone. There was some first-rate singing at the concert;
and a private soldier--a Tommy, mark you!--played Liszt's "No. 2
Rhapsody" and Schubert's "Marche Militaire" almost flawlessly.
And the way the audience appreciated it! Then we had some
first-rate comic work--really refined, not cheap and coarse--by a
man whom I am sure I've seen at Llandrindod. Altogether it was a
first-rate show--by miles the most interesting, intellectual,
refined and capable performance I've seen out here.
They have shows of various kinds every night of the week--boxing
contests, trials by jury, concerts, etc. What enterprise and
intelligence our countrymen have! Percy Davies himself looks
after the boxing, and he made quite a telling little speech in
announcing his plans for the coming week. Mond is a good chap,
very jovial, boyish and unsophisticated. In fact, all these
fellows are of the very best, and of outstanding intelligence.
Would that I were with them! I was struck by the remarkable
difference between these officers and the cavalry officers with
whom I am in daily association. Each type is wholly admirable in
its own way, but they have not many characteristics in common.
_April 14th, 1916._
I derive great pleasure and interest from watching the methods of
these French peasants with their horses. It is nothing short of
marvellous. They never groom their horses and never clean the
harness or bits, yet the horses keep fit as fiddles and look
really well too. Their intelligence is extraordinary. Almost
every night I see the old chap, at whose farm I keep my own
horses, come in with four or five horses from ploughing--riding
on one, not in the orthodox fashion, _i.e._, astride, but with
both legs hanging over the horse's near side, something like
ladies' style of riding, but without saddle, braces, or stirrups.
He is leading no fewer than four other horses on one rein--a
remarkable thing in itself. When he gets into his farmyard he
slides off and gives some sort of a weird shout that sounds like
"Ooee-ee-ee!" The moment the horses hear this off they go to the
pond in one corner of the yard and drink their fill.
Meanwhile the farmer has gone into his house. Presently he
reappears at the door and utters something like "Oy-eh!" He may
be fifty yards from his horses and never goes near them, but as
soon as they hear this call they leave the pond and troop off
into their stable, where each horse takes up his own place and
stands still there ready to be tethered. They all know exactly
where to stand, and the old chap unharnesses them, hangs up the
harness for use next day, chucks a few handfuls of oats into the
manger, shoves some hay into the rack, and leaves them for the
night. He never troubles about drying their legs and hoofs after
their immersion in the pond. Probably if you treated one of our
horses in that fashion he would be likely to get a "cracked heel"
and go lame. But these French farm horses never seem to mind in
the least. Well, one lives and learns. Our grooms are vastly
amused at these methods of horse-managing. The baffling thing is
the wonderful health enjoyed by the French horses. It is very
rare for any of them to go lame or sick, or even lose condition
despite their--to us--extraordinary _mode de vivre_.
_April 27th, 1916._
I see that poor Kitter[6] has been killed. It is too horrible;
first Nightingale, now Kittermaster. At Dulwich Kitter was always
looked upon as a prototype of K. of K. He was a very silent man,
who nevertheless took a very real interest in the affairs of the
school, his form, and his "House." He knew a lot about military
tactics, and his chief hobby was the Corps, for which he worked
and slaved in school-time and out. He taught us fellows more
about military discipline and training than you could get from
months of study. He was always having little field-days, extra
drills, and so forth, and while any movements were on he was
always explaining and talking to you, showing why this, and why
that, and so forth. He had a fund of dry humour. One of the best
men at Dulwich, I always thought! Poor chap! Well, well!
[Footnote 6: Captain Arthur N. C. Kittermaster. Born, 1871.
Killed in action in Mesopotamia, April 5th, 1916. A master at
Dulwich, 1896-1915. An accomplished scholar and athlete, who
was C.O. of the Dulwich O.T.C.]
In May, 1916, Paul came home on leave. He spent a very enjoyable week
in London and had the satisfaction of meeting many old College
friends. On 12th May I saw him off by the 8.10 A.M. train from
Victoria. There is a clear picture of him in my mind's eye standing on
the platform before taking his seat in the waiting train, cheerily
greeting this friend and that, conspicuous in the throng of officers
by his massive physique. He looked the incarnation of young manly
vigour, courage and hope, and there was about him a fresh and
fragrant air like the atmosphere of that delicious spring morning. The
future is mercifully veiled from man. Little did either of us think
when saying farewell, clasping hands and gazing lovingly into each
other's eyes, that we would never meet again on this earth.
_May 15th, 1916._
Had a pleasant crossing to France. I dined in an hotel with a
gunner lieutenant, who in civil life was a Professor of
Literature, a charming and cultured man. We discussed some of our
respective pet theories on Art and Life, the Novel and the Drama,
etc., and found many points of agreement.
Well! it was a great leave. There is no countryside to compare
with the English. If you had lived among the flats of Flanders
you would find the tamest English scenery beautiful. Not that we
are situated at present in unbeautiful surroundings. In fact, the
downs about here are very pleasant, and there are many trees in
the valleys; but give me the English countryside. Then there is
London! Dear old London! to me the one town in the world. Our own
home, too, with its happy blend of urban and rural. And then the
old school----! Yes, it was a great leave, there can be no
possible doubt about it. Would that it had been twice as long!
On arrival at our quarters I found my horses very well. They are
looking perfectly beautiful just now, their coats shining, smooth
and glossy like silk. My big one really blazes on a sunny day,
and my cob is not far behind him. I shall have a very busy time
in the next ten days, arranging for a supply of about 30 tons a
week of green fodder to be purchased in weekly instalments in the
neighbouring countryside. All the troops are going to bivouac in
the fields shortly, as they always do this time of the year,
remaining under canvas until September, or even October if the
weather permits.
_May 18th, 1916._
Thanks so much for the "Shakespeare"; it was exactly what I
wanted. I am making a careful study of the Bard's works again,
and with an enthusiasm that has not one whit abated; rather it
has augmented. I only wish it had been possible to see some of
his plays whilst on leave.
What a superman Shakespeare was! The interest of his plays is
absolutely perennial. Perhaps the most extraordinary feature of
his work is the astonishing consistency of the characters in his
_dramatis personæ_. His characters invariably behave exactly as
people of that type would and do behave in real life. Thus we
have the illusion that the characters conceived by his mighty
imagination are themselves real. He has hit with marvellous
accuracy on the points in human nature that are common to almost
all ages, and, _mutatis mutandis_, his plays could be staged in
the nineteenth or twentieth century without losing any of their
power.
Men of the type of Hamlet are doubtless rare, yet we all know the
sort of genius who is so much a genius that he is incapable of
action and does nothing but reflect. Hamlet seems meant to show
how vain it is to be merely a philosopher in this world. Hamlet
is always pondering, thinking of the abstract rights and wrongs
of the case. In the result, though he does eventually avenge his
father's murder, his introspection and vacillation have led to
the death of himself and no fewer than three other innocent
persons--Ophelia, Polonius and Laertes. Yet Hamlet was at least
twice as brainy as the rest of them, and he was also a good
sportsman; for instance, he refuses to kill Claudius when he
finds him at a disadvantage--that is, when Claudius is praying.
To me the lesson of the play seems to be this--the only policy
that really works in this world is to "go in and get the goods,"
as the Canadians say. The philosopher usually causes more trouble
than his philosophy is worth. It is the old lesson of the
Girondins and Jacobins over again. No one doubts which of them
had the purer and loftier ideals. Equally no one doubts that the
Girondins, despite all this, were hopelessly outmanoeuvred by the
practical Jacobins, who had not a tithe of their brains.
To change the subject, I have been getting a lot of swimming
lately. At a big cement works in a neighbouring town there is an
enormous pond in a quarry. The water is about 15 feet deep all
round and not at all stagnant, and there is a splendid place for
diving. Yesterday I was down at a neighbouring seaport on
business and got a delightful swim in the sea. A swim means to me
almost as much as a Rugby match. I am going down to the
cement-works pool every day, and whenever possible I shall have a
swim in the sea. The weather just at present is wonderful, the
sunshine simply glorious. Do not imagine that I am neglecting my
work. In fact, I have been tremendously busy buying and arranging
for green fodder for about 2,000 horses at the rate of 4 lbs. per
horse per diem. By to-morrow noon I shall have contracts
concluded to keep the brigade supplied until further orders.
_May 21st, 1916._
Thanks so much for congratulatory messages. It certainly was
gratifying to get the second pip, and a particularly pleasant
coincidence that it should be gazetted on May 18th [his
birthday].
The weather in "this pleasant land of France" remains wonderful.
The sun is really shining. In the height of summer I have never
known more beautiful weather. This, on the whole, is a
picturesque part of France, and everything looks at its best just
now. The lanes and wooded downs here might be in Surrey.
I was seven hours in the saddle yesterday. The General himself
commented the other day on the splendid condition of my horses.
They certainly are looking extraordinarily well.
_May 28th, 1916._
I note that Winston Churchill suggested in the House of Commons
the other day that the Cavalry should be turned into Infantry.
With due respect to him, I think that he is all wrong. Whenever
the "Push" comes, cavalry will be not only desirable, but
absolutely and vitally essential. The day of cavalry charges may
have gone, but I agree with Conan Doyle that "the time will never
come when a brave and a capable man who is mounted will be
useless to his comrades." You might, indeed, mount them in motor
cars, but a man with a horse has three times the freedom and the
scope for scouting and independent action that a man has who is
brought up in a motor and then dumped to shift for himself. I
entirely agree with Churchill, nevertheless, about the large
number of able-bodied men employed behind the fighting-lines. I
only wish I were in the trenches myself, I can tell you. My
rejection for the Infantry was a bitter blow!
Everybody here is grieved at the death in action of Captain
Platt, ---- Hussars, attached Coldstream Guards. I knew him quite
well, and we were great friends. He was a chivalrous gentleman,
and very clever intellectually, quite a bit of a poet in his way.
_June 2nd, 1916._
We are now in bivouacs in a big field. I have rigged up a
first-rate tent, made out of cart-cover, with a sort of enclosed
dressing-room for washing, etc., attached. We've got a fine
mess-tent, 30 feet long by 20 feet wide, made out of
wagon-sheetings. It is not only much more pleasant, but a good
deal cheaper, to live in the open like this.
So Churchill has once again leapt to the fore as a critic of the
Army. Mind, I have a lot of sympathy with some of his arguments,
but in general this last speech seemed to me mere wild and
whirling words. I note that L. G. now appears in the rôle of
Conciliator-in-General to Ireland. If anyone can settle this
miserable Irish question, he will.
The war drags wearily along on its monotonous course. Are you
reading Conan Doyle's review in the _Strand_ of the early stages
of the war? The style is not so good as John Buchan's, and
perhaps he is inclined to miss the broad issues of the conflict.
But for details, and for pictures of incidents that go to make up
war, Conan Doyle's narrative is very good indeed. The story of
the heroic fight of "L" Battery R.H.A. at Le Cateau, when the
whole battery was wiped out save for an odd man or two, is
admirably told. War was war in those days, not like this
earthworm war that has replaced it. Still, no doubt the trench
phase will not last for ever.
_June 9th, 1916._
The school cricket XI seems to have been doing badly. It was
undoubtedly hard lines to go under by only four runs to Bedford,
but our bad season is only a tribute to the patriotism of the
school, for I can see from the names of the eleven that we have
no one playing over the age of 17. Our system of training the
young idea in cricket is very much inferior to the training for
footer. The consequence is that in Dulwich cricket a young team
is probably destined for disaster, whereas I know from experience
that whenever we've had a young footer team it has had quite as
much success as teams exclusively composed of fellows in their
last year at school.
To speak of bigger matters, it seems to me impossible as yet to
put together any connected story of the Battle of Jutland. The
only facts that seem certain are that both sides lost heavily
(the Boches worse than ours, I expect), and that British
superiority on the seas, and consequently the maintenance of the
blockade, remains _in statu quo antea_. I am quite prepared to
find, when the true facts come out, that it was a deathless story
of heroism on the British part, and that in a fight with a foe
about six times his strength Beatty covered himself with glory.
Lord Kitchener's death was terribly tragic. There ought to be
stringent inquiries as to the ways and means by which the Boches
were enabled to sink H.M.S. _Hampshire_. On the other hand, I can
see that it is possible that the whole thing was a woefully
unfortunate accident. To have one's name coupled with
"Kitchener's Army"--a title alone which should pass K.'s name
down to posterity--is no small honour.
WITH A SUPPLY COLUMN
In June Lieut. Paul Jones, much to his chagrin, was transferred from
the 9th Cavalry Brigade to the Divisional Supply Column. His letters
will show how much he resented this change. (Certain words and
figures omitted from the following letter are the result of excisions
made by the Press Bureau censorship. They do not appear to have been
made on any intelligible principle.)
_June 12th, 1916._
I have been transferred from my old post of Requisitioning
Officer to Supply Officer, Cavalry Division Supply Column. I am
frankly and absolutely fed-up with this change! They tell me it
is promotion. Well, as I told my colonel, promotion of that kind
was not what I wanted. I loved my old job with its facilities for
exercising my French, and its comparative variety. Now I am
dignified with a job whose main element is seeing to the rations
being loaded on to the motor lorries that feed the division. I
have not even a chance of exercising my special faculty--that of
speaking French. I told my colonel I didn't want the job and
beseeched him to leave me with my brigade. He was adamant. My
late General wrote a personal letter to the A.S.C. colonel,
urging in the strongest terms that I should be left with the
brigade. Even to his appeal the only answer vouchsafed was: "The
change is equivalent to a promotion for the officer," and it is
"necessary for the satisfactory rationing of the division." The
colonel told me he was moving me (1) because I was good at
figures--me!; (2) because I was hard-working. They don't seem to
realise that, if what they said was true, I would have been a far
greater asset as a Requisitioning Officer. Oh, it does drive me
wild!
We had a brilliantly successful Divisional Horse Show last
Saturday. It proved a real triumph for the ---- Hussars of our
brigade--to my mind the best cavalry regiment in the Army. They
romped home easy firsts for the cup presented by the G.O.C. to
the regiment that got the greatest number of points in the
competitions. The classes for heavy and light chargers brought
out some magnificent horses. The well-known C.O. of the ----
Hussars was very much in evidence in all these classes. He is a
striking personality. With his hard, shrewd, red face, his
wonderfully thin legs, light-coloured breeches, beautifully-cut
tunic and high hat cocked over his left ear, he looked the
personification of the cavalry officer as we read about him in
novels. It would seem as though these cavalry officers had been
fashioned by nature to sit on a horse. I suppose it is heredity.
Certainly they are all of a type.
An interesting unofficial incident was provided by a man in the
4th Dragoon Guards producing a fine bay horse which he wagered 30
to 1 against any officer riding. It was a real American
buck-jumper. This challenge was enough for the dare-devil
subalterns of the ---- Hussars, and one of them, Beach-Hay, a
splendid horseman, promptly closed with the offer. For twenty
minutes or so he tried to mount, without succeeding; finally he
muffled the horse's head in a cloak and got on his back. Then he
dug his spurs in and set off at a gallop over the wide plain
where the show was being held. All went well for some time until
suddenly, without any warning, the horse put his feet together,
arched his back, and leapt several feet into the air, at the same
time turning to the left sharply. This the horse repeated several
times, up hill, down hill, sideways. How Beach-Hay managed to
keep his seat no one could tell; it was marvellous the way he
stuck on. At last the spirited animal contrived to get the rider
well forward on his neck, and then Hay slipped off and the horse
was away over the plain at full gallop, riderless. He was chased
and caught at last after a long run. Then up stepped a wily old
trooper of the 5th Dragoon Guards who used to be a jockey. He saw
that the horse was now tired out and got on his back without
difficulty, and as the animal by this time was utterly fagged, he
found little trouble in keeping his seat. All the honours,
however, belonged to the young subaltern.
Did you see that wonderful record of R. B. B. Jones[7] of
Dulwich? He shot no fewer than fifteen Boches in a scrap in the
craters on the Vimy Ridge before himself being killed. I remember
him more than well--a short, sturdy fellow, a very good shot, and
an excellent diver and gymnast. He did not go in much for cricket
or for football. Poor chap! Yet such a death, I think, is far
more to be coveted than an ignoble life far from danger and risk.
I often think of those lines of Adam Lindsay Gordon:
No game was ever yet worth a rap for a rational man to play,
Into which no accident, no mishap, could possibly find its way.
[Footnote 7: R. B. B. Jones. Born, 1897. Killed, May 21st,
1916. In the shooting VII, 1913-14; captain of gymnasium,
1914. Lieutenant, Loyal North Lancashires. His heroic bravery
on the Vimy Ridge recognised by bestowal of a posthumous
V.C.]
_June 16th, 1916._
I have had another fit of the blues over this wretched transfer.
Why should it be given to all the fellows I know to be in the
thick of real fighting--a life which anyone should be proud to
live--while to me, aged twenty, standing six feet, about forty
inches round the chest, Rugby footballer, swimmer, fluent French
speaker, and Balliol scholar, it is given to load up rations?
Loathing this Supply work, I have already applied for a transfer
to the Horse Transport Section. Oh! that I had only obeyed the
dictates of my own conscience and enlisted in the H.A.C. at the
start of the war, instead of staying on at school to get a
paltry scholarship which the odds are 10 to 1 on my never being
able to use! What I pray for is a job in which the following
elements are constantly present: (1) hard work; (2) real brain
work, employing, if possible, my knowledge of languages; (3)
constant danger, or, at least, the constant chance of it; (4) if
possible, horses to ride. For such a job I would willingly give
ten years of my life.
_June 22nd, 1916._
I am glad to say that I'm not finding my new job so absolutely
hopeless as I expected. It is in many ways not at all
uninteresting to be attached to a Supply Column. After a long
time with men whose one interest in life is horses, I now find
myself with men who eat, drink, live and breathe motors. My
experience has already taught me that England has a splendid
system of mechanical transport. Our column numbers no fewer than
150 lorries, 6 motor-cars, and 20 motor-bikes, and about 600
personnel, not to speak of a big travelling workshop and two or
three break-down lorries. When you consider that this is merely
the means of supplying one single division, you will faintly
realise what a part mechanical transport plays in this war. There
is no horse-train to a cavalry division, and the lorries deliver
rations direct to the regimental quartermasters, so you stand a
good chance of seeing all the fun if with the M.T. My duty is to
make arrangements for translating the ration figures rendered
daily to me by the Cavalry Brigades into terms of meat, bread,
biscuit, forage, etc., and arrange for these to be loaded at
railhead on to the lorries; then, in company with the M.T.
officer of the day, to take these rations up to the units, at the
same time obtaining the next day's feeding strength from the
Brigade Supply Officers.
This particular M.T. column delivered rations in the front line
trenches back in 1914, and once a portion of it was captured by
the Boches and recaptured by the 18th Hussars.
The M.T. officers are a very efficient lot, and know their job
from A to Z. Among them is Captain Hugh Vivian, a member of the
famous firm of Vivian & Son, of Swansea and Landore, so near to
our ancestral home. He is O.C. to the section of lorries to which
I am attached--a most intellectual man of charming manners, who
has travelled all over Europe and speaks French and German
fluently. He is one of the ablest men I have met in the Army and
I find him one of the best of fellows. He may have to leave us
shortly, because his thorough knowledge of the metal trades has
marked him out to the authorities as a man invaluable for the
production of munitions at home.
You have to be with a Supply Column in order to get some idea of
the vast quantities of food that are sent up daily to the Front.
Never have I seen such quantities--innumerable quarters of meat,
tons of bully, crates of biscuits, and cheese, butter, jam,
sugar, tea galore. When you remember that all this food has been
transported across the Channel, and much of it previously
imported from foreign countries into England, you begin to
comprehend the value of sea-power.
I am told that the Cavalry Brigade have had to fix up a special
interpreter to assist in the requisitioning work since my
departure! "Verbum sat sapienti"! Why the authorities should give
a man nearly a year's training in one job and then shift him to
something else, without reference to his faculties, experience,
or wishes, I simply can't tell. Still, there it is, and we must
assume that they know best.
* * * * *
Early in July began the great battles of the Somme, when our New
Army displayed before an admiring world its magnificent fighting
qualities.
_July 9th, 1916._
Things have been moving "a few" (as the Yanks say) on this front,
haven't they? Let no one, however, delude himself with the belief
that the business can be done in five minutes. Things in general
in this war have a habit of moving slowly; also the enemy is
undoubtedly well defended. Some of his dug-outs are 30 and 40
feet deep, with machine-guns on electric hoists, etc. The wily
Boche has not wasted his time during his twenty odd months on
this front. But what a relief it is to get back to action after
so many months of sitting still!
I have seen numbers of wounded go through the various railheads.
These cases were comparatively light wounds, the serious cases
being removed by motor ambulance. But many of the gallant chaps I
saw seemed in considerable pain. They were sent off in batches as
soon as possible to a seaport, the returning supply trains being
utilised for this purpose. Every one was in an incredible state
of grime. It is the griminess of modern warfare that strikes me
as its most characteristic feature.
For a whole fortnight I have lived, moved and had my being in a
motor-lorry. I found it quite comfortable, though it was not
inside the body of the vehicle that I had my dwelling. You see
the lorries are almost always full of rations ready for delivery;
so I slept in the driver's seat, and found it quite tolerable. It
is just like the driver's seat on a motor-bus; in fact, many of
the lorries are old London General omnibuses converted.
Personally, I never wish for anything better, least of all on
active service. There was a cushion and I had my blanket bag.
What more could a man want?
The Ulster Division did remarkably well in the recent fighting. I
am not surprised, for I saw them training in England, and was
impressed by their toughness--hard-bitten, short, powerfully
built men, who took things very seriously.
I can't tell you with what joy and pride I learnt that Lloyd
George had been made Minister for War! I regard him as the
outstanding personality of the age. Granted that he is sometimes
rash, granted that he does not always master the details of the
problem he is dealing with, granted that he sometimes propounds
schemes before they are ripe; yet against that place (1) his
wonderful personality, (2) his boundless vitality and energy, (3)
his heartfelt sympathy for the downtrodden ones of the world, (4)
his wonderful ideas and ideals, (5) his quickness of
intelligence, (6) his ardent patriotism, (7) his remarkable
powers of oratory, and (8) his almost uncanny gift of seeing into
the future--and you have a man whose superior it would indeed be
hard to find. Nietzsche would have welcomed him as his superman
incarnate! I have never wavered in my admiration for L. G. Even
when he was in hot water over Marconis, I stuck to him. Anyhow,
was there ever a man who was absolutely perfect? Let us, for
Heaven's sake, judge a man on his great points, and not "crab the
goods" by always emphasising his weaknesses. Lloyd George is the
man whom the Germans have more cause to fear than all the rest of
the Cabinet or any of our authorities, civil or military.
_July 17th, 1916._
In that mysterious quarter known as the back of the Front the
motor-lorry is omnipresent, especially at a time like this.
Wherever you go you see motor-lorries carrying food, ammunition,
telegraphic appliances, barbed wire, gas cylinders, clothing,
coal; in short, every sort and kind of article necessary to the
service of an army in the field. Sometimes they are even used to
carry up troops and to bring down wounded. During the Loos push,
for instance, this column was hurriedly requisitioned to take up
a Yorkshire battalion to the Hohenzollern Redoubt.
I was much interested in Kittermaster's last letter published in
_The Alleynian_--a very characteristic bit of writing. There were
very few fellows or masters either who ever got at Kitter's inner
nature. He was always somewhat of a mystery to most people. This
was accentuated by his taciturn temperament, his rather distant
manner, and short, brusque way of speaking. But he certainly was
one of the very best masters I can remember at Dulwich, and of
the Corps he was a wonderful O.C. There have been many tributes
to Kitter, but I scarcely think that people have done full
justice in the obituary notices to Nightingale, the other Dulwich
master who has given his life in the war--a sterling chap if ever
there was one.
So Howard,[8] as well as R. B. B. Jones, now figures in the death
roll! It seems but yesterday that we three were ragging together
in the swimming baths, of which both these chaps were great
habitués.
[Footnote 8: C. C. Howard. Born, 1897. Killed, May 23rd,
1916. Held an exhibition in science at Trinity College,
Cambridge. Lieutenant, Loyal North Lancashires.]
I am very sad, too, at the death of A. W. Fischer.[9] He and I
got our 1st XV colours together in Killick's year, and were the
best of friends throughout his last two years at school. He was a
smallish, active forward of the Irish type, a splendid hard
worker all through the game. He and I never on any occasion got
crocked, and we played in every 1st XV match for two consecutive
seasons, 1912-1914. He was a shrewd fellow, too, and well read,
particularly in the classics. He had a very deep, rich voice, and
used to do well every time in the competition for the Anstie
Memorial Reading Prize. As a soldier he would have been almost
ideal, as he was a rare good leader, and a devil-may-care chap
who feared nothing. It is inexpressibly sad that he should have
been taken away thus. And I haven't even seen him since we parted
at the end of the summer term, 1914, just before this holocaust
started. We shook hands on saying "Good-bye" on the cricket
ground, he proceeding towards the school buildings, and I towards
the pavilion. He was to have gone to Cambridge the ensuing
October, and we had been talking of his chances of a "Blue," and
if we would be able to play against each other in the coming
season. But what use to raise up the vanished ghosts of the past?
It only makes the tragedy more heart-breaking. It is up to us to
see that these lives have not been laid down in vain.
[Footnote 9: A. W. Fischer. Born, 1895. Died of wounds, May
12th, 1916. In the 1st XV, 1912-13-14. Held the Tancred
Studentship for Classics and Science at Caius College,
Cambridge. Lieutenant, Devonshire Regiment.]
_July 25th, 1916._
I was up yesterday in the region where we won ground from the
Germans, seeing to a dump of rations. The chief impression I
brought away with me was one of all-pervading dust. I have
witnessed a few scenes of destruction in my time out here, but
nothing to match a certain village in this area. Vermelles was
bad enough, but this place is even worse. Everything in it has
been razed to the ground. Except for an occasional square foot of
masonry protruding out of the earth, there is nothing to suggest
that there was ever a village here at all. In one old German
trench I saw a cross with the following words written on it:
"Hier liegen zwei Franz. Krieger," which interpreted would be:
"Here lie two French warriors," a tribute by the enemy to two
Frenchmen buried here earlier in the war before we took over this
portion of the line.
Alas! another old pal of mine has been killed, namely W. J.
Henderson,[10] a captain of the Loyal North Lancashires. In the
old days at Dulwich he did well in football. He got into the 2nd
XV under Evans, and frequently played for the 1st XV. He was also
decidedly clever, and won a classical scholarship at Oxford. The
war is taking a frightful toll of the best of our race.
[Footnote 10: Captain W. J. Henderson, M.C. Born, 1895.
Killed in action, July 6th, 1916. A senior classical scholar
at Dulwich. Won a classical scholarship at Corpus Christi
College, Oxford. Joined the Army, September, 1914.]
_July 27th, 1916._
I should like to have your permission to apply for a transfer to
the Royal Field Artillery. The procedure will be quite simple. I
will send in my application to the O.C., who will forward it with
the Medical Officer's health certificate to the higher A.S.C.
authorities; then it will go forward in the usual course. If the
people in charge think my record satisfactory and my eyesight
good enough they will take me. I want to give the authorities a
chance to take or refuse me for a really combatant corps. In this
way, whether refused or accepted, I shall have satisfied my
conscience. After all, the doctor will state on the medical
certificate exactly what my vision is. So there will be no
question of trying to deceive the authorities. They will have
before them all the facts _re_ my record and my eyesight. If they
then refuse me, well and good. I shall accept the inevitable. If
they take me, so much the better. I have had several chats with
the Officer Commanding the Supply Column on the subject, and
explained to him that I was utterly fed up with grocery work.
The scenes I have witnessed during and since this great
attack--the Somme battles--have confirmed my resolution to go
into the fighting line. You who have not seen the horrors of a
modern campaign cannot possibly know the feelings of a young man
who, while the real business of war is going on at his very elbow
(for we are not far from the centre of things), and who is
longing to be in the thick of the fighting, is yet condemned to
look after groceries and do work which a woman could do probably
a great deal better.
Oh! it is awful. And all this, mind you, with the knowledge that
all the chaps one used to know are in the thick of it.
To sum up, I recognise that I have a serious physical defect. I
shall not attempt to conceal it from the authorities; it would be
wrong to do so. But I have also many physical, and I think some
mental, advantages over the average man. Moreover, I am young and
exceptionally strong. I give you my word of honour that in making
my application I shall not conceal the facts about my short
sight. Having lodged my application for transfer, it will be for
the authorities to say whether they will take me or leave me.
Please, please, give your approval to my putting in such an
application. Occasions come to every man when he has to make up
his mind for himself and by himself--as I did about my move to
the Modern side of Dulwich. Was that a failure?
_August 8th, 1916._
I am more thankful than I can say to have your permission to
apply for transfer to the R.F.A. Since I wrote to you a circular
has come from G.H.Q. stating that officers for the artillery are
wanted urgently. They propose to send home two hundred officers a
month till further notice for training at the Artillery School. I
want, if possible, to avoid going home to train. I would like to
go through my training course here, but I fear beggars can't be
choosers, and in the case of a highly technical arm like the
gunners the training may have to be done in England. Everybody
with us is feeling restive; the inaction that prevails is getting
beyond a joke.
As for the A.S.C., I consider that my particular branch of the
service is overstocked. In itself the mere fact of the work not
appealing to me (though I absolutely loathe it) would not be
decisive. It is because I am convinced that I could do better
work in other directions that I am longing for a transfer. Even
the transport side of the A.S.C. I would not object to. It is the
Supply, or grocery, side that I loathe. Had I remained in the
post of Requisitioning Officer, with its variety of work and the
possibility of exercising my linguistic gifts, I would have been
moderately content. But in my heart and soul I have always longed
for the rough-and-tumble of war as for a football match. What I
have seen of the war out here has not frightened me in the least,
but rather made me keener than ever to take part in the fighting.
It is all very well to be an "organiser of victory," but it does
not appeal to me, even if I had the particular type of mind
necessary for success at it. But I am not a good business man,
and the details of business bore me stiff. On the other hand, it
is my passionate desire to share the hardships and dangers of
this war.
It is not only my own desire and my own temperament that
influence me, but the example of others. I pick up my newspaper
to-day, and what do I see? Why, that a fellow that sat in the
same form-room as I did two years back has won the V.C., paying,
it is true, with his life for the honour. But what a glorious
end! I mean, of course, my namesake, Basil Jones, the first
Dulwich V.C., of whose achievement one can scarcely speak without
a lump in the throat. Likewise I see my friend S. H. Killick, to
whom I gave football colours, has been wounded. And think of the
men who have fallen! Men of the stamp of Julian Grenfell, D. O.
Barnett,[11] Rupert Brooke, Roland Philipps, R. G. Garvin, and W.
J. Henderson have not hesitated to give up for their country all
the brilliant gifts of character and intellect with which they
would have enriched England had it not been for the war. The
effect on me is as a trumpet call. All the old Welsh fighting
blood comes surging up in me and makes me say, "Short sight or no
short sight, I _will_ prove my manhood!" If it should be my fate
to get popped off--well, it is we younger men without dependants
whose duty it is to take the risk. You will get some inkling of
my feeling when you read in Garvin's father's article how his
son, when sent off to the Divisional H.Q., lost all his spirits
and begged to be sent back to the old battalion, and how, when he
did get back to it, "his letters recovered their old clear tone."
How well I can understand that!
[Footnote 11: Lieutenant D. O. Barnett, killed in action,
1916, was a distinguished scholar and athlete at St. Paul's
School. His career there presents a striking similarity to
that of Paul Jones at Dulwich. Both won junior and senior
scholarships; both ended their school career by winning a
Balliol scholarship; both shone in athletics; Barnett was
captain of St. Paul's School; Paul Jones was head of the
Modern Side at Dulwich.]
My application for a transfer to the R.F.A. has now gone in. If I
am refused I shall be broken-hearted, but my conscience will be
clear. If I am accepted, it will be the happiest day of my life.
A few words now about some personal experiences. At a certain
village not far from here are a number of Boche prisoners. Every
day they go out to shovel refuse into army wagons, and then
unload these wagons elsewhere on to refuse heaps. It is a daily
occurrence to see a Boche mount up on the box beside the English
driver, and off they go--if the Boche can speak English--chatting
merrily as if there had never been a war. I have even seen Tommy
hand over the reins to his captive, who cheerfully takes them and
drives the wagon to its destination, while the real driver sits
back with folded arms. That will show you how far the British
soldier cultivates the worship of Hate. It is small incidents of
this kind, unofficial and even illegal though they may be, that
make one realise the true secret of Britain's greatness--her
magnanimity and her kindliness.
_August 14th, 1916._
The Dulwich Army List makes very interesting reading, though I
notice some omissions and errors in it. Everyone seems to be
doing something. It is as good a record as that of any other
school or institution of any kind in the country. I have not yet
had any news about my move to the Gunners, but the application
has only been in a comparatively short time, and these things
have to take their course. I know that my application was duly
forwarded and recommended by my C.O. to the Divisional
authorities. I shall be very much surprised if I don't get the
transfer. By Jove! if I only can. You cannot imagine anyone being
so fed up with anything as I am with my present job. Loathing is
not the word for the feeling with which I regard it.
I am reading Burke on the French Revolution. It is brilliant
writing, to be sure, but Burke is too biased and has not complete
knowledge of his subject. You would think from the way he writes
that the "Ancien Régime" was an ideal system of government which
brought to France nothing but prosperity! Had he possessed the
knowledge of Arthur Young, who had examined social and economic
conditions in France with piercing eyes, he would doubtless have
modified his views. Moreover, Burke forgets the maxim he himself
laid down in his speeches on the American Revolution--that large
masses of men do not, as a rule, rebel without some reason for so
doing. It seems to me that Burke's heart and his inborn
prejudices have run away with his head. Though he scoffs at
people who try to work out systems of government on the lines of
idealism, yet his own views are often purely idealistic,
especially on the subject of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, whom
he apparently regarded as a pair of demigods!
The style of the book is splendidly oratorical, sometimes too
much so, but there are passages in it which it would be difficult
to match even in the splendid realm of English prose--for
example, his great panegyric on the State. On England, too, he is
very fine. Many people to-day might do worse than read his
defence of the British Constitution, though I personally disagree
with some points in his argument. One sentence from this passage
might be addressed to our Allies very appropriately
to-day--"Because half a dozen grasshoppers under a fern make the
field ring with their importunate chink, whilst thousands of
great cattle reposing beneath the shadow of the British oak chew
the cud and are silent, pray do not imagine that those who make
the noise are the only inhabitants of the field."
Unfortunately the British people do bear a strong resemblance to
great cattle, and it requires a Lloyd George to awaken the
sleeping animals and galvanise them into movement.
Recently I got hold of a volume of de Musset. There is some
beautiful verse in it, especially the "Ode to Lamartine," in
which he has a great tribute to Byron.
Could you send me out the programme of the coming Promenade
Concert season? I would give anything to hear Wagner and
Beethoven once more. My allegiance to these giants, as to
Shakespeare and Milton, grows stronger every day. The appalling
tawdry trash that passes for music nowadays, and the degradation
of art and literature which seems to be the feature of the
twentieth century, intensify my loyalty to great musicians and
noble writers. What is the cause of this decadence? There is
surely enough inspiration for genius in this colossal war, when
every day the spirit of man is winning new triumphs and deeds of
extraordinary heroism are being performed.
IN THE SOMME BATTLEFIELD
In August, 1916, Paul Jones was relieved of his uncongenial duties
with the Supply Column and appointed to command an ammunition
working-party located at an advanced railhead in the terrain of the
Somme battles.
_August 21st, 1916._
I am delighted to tell you that I have been temporarily posted to
a job of real interest and responsibility, having been given the
command of a working-party composed of infantry, artillery, and
A.S.C. men, whose function it is to load and unload ammunition at
an important railhead not far from the Front. We are about 150 in
all, and a very happy family. We live in tents and work under the
orders of the Railhead Ordnance authorities. There is a vast
amount of work, and it goes on continuously, at present from 4
A.M. to 9 P.M. daily, and sometimes throughout the night as well.
It is a revelation to see the immense quantities of explosives,
etc., that are sent up. I have nothing further to report about
the R.F.A. transfer, but my C.O. has assured me that if my
application is not successful I shall be able to return shortly
to the Cavalry Brigade in my old capacity as Requisitioning
Officer.
This working ammunition-party of which I am in command is located
in a little town well in the swirl of war, with the guns booming
in the near distance most of the day and night. The "unit under
my command," to put it in official language, lives in a field by
the railhead. We have a pair of first-rate sergeants (R.H.A. and
Infantry) and various very sound A.S.C. n.c.o.s in charge.
Everything goes merrily as a wedding-bell. A gunner officer looks
after the administrative welfare, pay, etc., of the artillerymen,
but the discipline and command of the unit as a whole devolve on
yours truly.
Next door to us across the line there is a concentration camp of
Boche prisoners. They work on the railway all day shovelling
stones in and out of trucks and lorries. To the eternal credit of
England the treatment the prisoners receive, the food supplied to
them, and the conditions under which they live are all of the
very best. They have their being in tents within a barbed wire
enclosure, not too crowded, and have excellent washing facilities
(hot baths once a week), good food and conveniences for its
preparation, including huge camp kettles for cooking--in short,
every comfort possible. The work they do is hard, but no harder
than that many of our own fellows have to do in the normal course
of events. The considerate way in which our prisoners are treated
is a great tribute to British chivalry. An old French soldier,
watching them one day in their camp, said to me: "Vous les
traitez trop bien ces salots." I replied: "Oui, mais c'est comme
ça que l'Angleterre fait la guerre--avec les mains toujours
propres."
I was grieved to hear of the death of Lieutenant Ivor Rees, of
Llanelly. He was a great friend of Arthur and Tom. It is awful,
there is no doubt about it, the sacrifice of these lives cut
short in their prime, but they are not wasted; of that I am
convinced. Besides:
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.
Lloyd George's Eisteddfod speech was very stirring. I like that
phrase, "The blinds of Britain are not drawn down." I see the
papers are discussing Ministerial changes. I hope whatever
happens that Lloyd George will remain at the War Office--it is
the place where his personality is wanted. I am reading two
interesting French books: Émile Faguet's "Short History of French
Literature" and Dumas' "Vingt Ans Après." I wish you would send
me Kant's "Critique of Pure Reason," or one of Hegel's books.
This evening I listened to Beethoven's "Egmont" overture--what a
glorious work it is! Keep your eye for me on any books dealing
with Beethoven or the immortal Richard.
_September 2nd, 1916._
I am still in command of the ammunition working-party, and,
entailing as it does real work and responsibility, am enjoying it
hugely. All our men seem very happy. Their rations and living
conditions are excellent. We have our own canteen, which does a
great trade. It is a bad day if the canteen fails to take 250
francs, although it is open only from 12 to 2 and from 6 to 8 as
per regulations.
We get our stuff from the nearest branch of the Expeditionary
Force canteens, a military unit which does a colossal business at
the back of the Front. It has depôts almost as large as those of
the A.S.C. A sergeant-major of the nearest branch of the E.F.C.
tells me that they calculate that at one depôt they take more
money in a day than Harrod's Stores do in a week. The place is
chock-a-block from morning to night, and outside there is always
waiting a string of lorries, mess-carts, wagons, limbers, from
all over the place. The part played by the E.F.C. in the war is
by no means unimportant. It is a regular military unit, with
officers, n.c.o.s and men (in khaki, of course), run under the
authority of the War Office and subject to military law. Profits
on sales go to the purchase of fresh stock, and I believe, in
part, to the Military Canteens Fund at the War Office. The whole
thing is run by the Director of Supply and Transport at the W.O.,
and is commanded out here by an A.S.C. major. It is difficult not
to make profits on canteens; even in our comparatively small one,
we constantly find ourselves saddled with more money than is
required, and this although the prices charged to the men are the
lowest possible. One great merit of the canteens is that they
prevent the men from being "rooked" by unscrupulous civilians,
who, I regret to say, are to be found in force in some of these
French towns and villages.
The military canteen movement on its present huge scale has only
been possible to us because of (1) the comparatively high rates
of pay in the British Army; (2) the command of the sea, making
transport from England simple and easy; (3) the inexhaustible
reservoirs of supply and manufacture that exist within the
British Empire. There can be no doubt about it that the path of
the British soldier in this war has been made as easy as it is
possible to make it--an incalculable advantage to a nation that
has had to create a great voluntary Army in a comparatively short
space of time. Whatever faults the military authorities may have
committed in other directions, they have kept steadily in view
the Napoleonic maxim, "An army moves on its stomach."
The Boche prisoners round about here work energetically. They
must, I fancy, be amazed themselves at the manner in which they
are treated--the abundance of food, the entire absence of rancour
on our part, and the general conditions under which they work and
live. Actually, they get their Sunday afternoons off. Some of
them have been given a little plot of land close to the
internment camp, where they are busy gardening in their leisure
time. In the camp they have all sorts of work-tables and tools,
and you often see some of them doing carpentering after their
day's work is done. The prisoners stroll about the camp and its
environs at will, and the men on guard are continually chatting
and joking with them. The ration of the prisoners includes fresh
meat and bread every day, and a supply of tobacco and cigarettes
once a week. It is much to the credit of Britain that her
captives in war should be treated with so much generosity. Don't
let the Government abandon this policy of broad magnanimity
because of the noisy clamour of armchair reprisalists at home. By
the way, these Boche prisoners observe the rules of discipline
even in their captivity, and when British or French officers pass
by they stand respectfully to attention. Most of the prisoners
are big chaps.
If you have not read it, let me recommend to you a book by John
Buchan called "The Thirty-nine Steps." To my mind it is the
cleverest detective story I have read since the exploits of
Sherlock Holmes. It is in a way a sort of enlarged version of an
earlier story by Buchan that appeared in _Blackwood's Magazine_
called the "Power House." As in the "Power House," the chief
villain is merely hinted at; he is only fully revealed in the
last page. Throughout the rest of the story he is one of those
genial, cheery old men who are always puffing cigars and drinking
whisky. The incidents take place in England and are connected
with a series of events that precipitated the present war. I
enjoyed the book and admired the ingenuity with which the plot is
worked out. The writing is vigorous and there is no sloppy
sentimentality.
_September 6th, 1916._
Yesterday my working party had orders suddenly to shift its
quarters to a spot farther up the line. Having struck camp we
started off about 2 P.M. in motor char-à-bancs and lorries. After
about two hours' plunging about in roads that were like quagmires
we arrived at our destination, a newly formed railhead, not far
from the battle line. It is situated on a sort of plateau. The
surrounding country is thick with guns. In the past twelve hours
there has been a terrific bombardment, the guns booming
incessantly. Even Loos, which wasn't so bad while it lasted,
pales into insignificance in comparison. At night the sky reminds
one of the Crystal Palace firework show in its palmiest days. It
is a fine place this from the point of view of health, being high
up and open to the fresh air and the sunshine. I am feeling
absolutely splendid both in health and spirits. It is a treat to
be up where things are happening.
_September 12th, 1916._
Pursuant to orders from the Division, I marched my party up to
join another working party that is engaged on duty whose scope
extends as far as the most recently gained ground. We are
quartered along with a lot of cavalry at a point in the area
captured, and are just in front of our big guns. The country all
around is a veritable abomination of desolation. Its surface is
intersected at innumerable points with ditches, in which much
splendid English blood has flowed. Here and there, looking very
forlorn, are stark and blasted stumps that used to be woods.
Above and around the ceaseless voice of the guns fills the air
with its clamour. Steel helmets and gas helmets are the standing
order for us when on duty.
Whom do you think I met this morning to my great delight? No less
a person than Peaker,[12] now an officer of the K.R.R.s. He was
just back from a certain spot in the line, where his lot had
"gone over" with good results. The story of his experiences
occasioned heartburnings to myself as regards the part I've been
playing in the war behind the battle line. He had recently met
Cartwright, G. T. K. Clarke, and the elder Dawson--all old
Alleynians, who have had the privilege of participating in the
"push." On the advice of the Divisional A.A. and Q.M.G., I am
reluctantly leaving over the question of transfer to the R.F.A.
till things get more settled. At present I am away from the
Division, and it is difficult, almost impossible in fact, for me
to arrange the interviews with the Medical and Artillery
authorities that are necessary as a preliminary to transfer.
Still, as I am getting plenty of interesting work at my present
job I don't mind waiting.
[Footnote 12: Captain A. P. Peaker, M.C., of the K.R.R. (son
of Mr. F. Peaker, of the _Morning Post_), who was a
contemporary of Paul Jones's at Dulwich, and won an Oxford
classical exhibition in December, 1914.]
_September 14th, 1916._
Last night I was detailed to go up with a working party engaged
in operations on the very site of the last great battle. The
whole business took place under cover of darkness. After an hour
and a half's trudging, up hill and down dale, we got to the
allotted spot and began our work. The night was alive with
noises--ear-splitting reports of big guns, the shrieks and
whistles of shells in transit, and the rat-tat-tat of
machine-guns. Now and again the darkness would be illuminated by
the glare of star-shells. I think I mentioned to you before the
mournful desolation of this war-scarred countryside--land without
grass, without trees, without houses, nothing more now than a
wilderness, with yawning shell craters innumerable, and here and
there blackened and branchless stumps that used to be trees. We
were near the site of a village famous in the annals of British
arms. A single brick of that village would be worth its weight in
gold as a souvenir. As we worked in the darkness the air was
polluted by a horrible stench, and as soon as one's eyes got
accustomed to the gloom there became visible silent twisted forms
that used to be men. But enough; I dare not tell you of the
ghastly scenes on that historic battlefield; it would give you
nightmare for weeks to come if I did.
Out here one gets into a callous state, in which these things,
while unpleasant, are scarcely noticed in the whirl and confusion
of events. Personally at the time, in traversing this
battlefield, I was slightly horrified at first, but chiefly
conscious only of the frightful odour of mortality. It is on
thinking the thing over in retrospect and with cold blood that
the real sense of horror begins to creep into one's soul. Such
is the so-called "ennobling influence of war"! As I went over
this grim battlefield, with all its tragic sights, I reflected
bitterly on the triumph of twentieth-century civilisation.
Our work occupied us about five hours, and we trekked for home
before dawn. Through the night there was movement and
activity--ration parties, walking wounded, stretcher-bearers,
reliefs, all moving silently in the darkness like so many
phantoms. I have picked up a number of souvenirs from the old
Boche trenches, including a Boche steel helmet, with a shrapnel
hole in the side as big as a crown-piece. Its wearer must have
"gone West" instanter.
_September 21st, 1916._
In the last few days two other officers and myself have been in
charge of working parties. Starting out at 8 A.M., it is our
habit to proceed on foot to places distant anything up to three
and four miles, returning in the late afternoon. Yesterday we got
to our destination about 9 A.M., and found the Boche "crumping"
with fair regularity the vicinity of an apology for a road.
Though little more than a muddy track, and only recently captured
by us, this road is full of traffic most hours of the day. The
"Hun" knows this and acts accordingly. As we were marching gaily
up about 9 A.M. he began a "strafe" of the district with pretty
heavy shells at intervals of a couple of minutes. Suddenly came a
bang about thirty yards in front of us on the road, and he put a
beautiful shot almost under the wheels of a lorry, digging a huge
crater in the road, into which the crumpled-up chassis subsided
with a crash. Fortunately the driver was not there, or for him it
would have been a case of "kingdom come." I was at the head of
our lot, along with my friend Lieutenant Gardner. We considered
what we should do--whether to push straight through to our
destination, which was not two hundred yards away, to wait where
we were, or split up into small parties. We arranged that he
should lead on, while I would wait to see all the column pass and
hurry up stragglers. Gardner had not got farther than fifty yards
when a six-incher came plonk within a few yards of him. Luckily
he and all his lot had time to prostrate themselves, and there
were no casualties. I was gathering the remainder of the party,
when whew! crash! and I felt a terrific detonation at my very
elbow, and for a moment was stunned and deafened. A Boche shell
had pitched not five yards behind me. How I was not blown to
smithereens will always be a marvel to me. As I staggered about
under the shock of the explosion I could feel bits of steel and
earth pattering on my helmet like rain. After the first momentary
shock I was in full possession of my wits, and I quickly realised
that, for the moment at least, I had lost all sense of hearing in
my right ear. But this was a small price to pay for the escape.
Such a miracle would assuredly never happen again. A few hours
later I had regained a good deal of hearing power, but it is not
right yet. Experts, however, tell me that this effect will pass
off in time. A fragment of the shell passed through the right
sleeve of my heavy overcoat. I am glad to say we had no
casualties at all, though the enemy kept on dropping heavy stuff
round about us all day.
Well, cheer-oh! I am keeping as fit as a horse. My appetite, I
regret to say, gets bigger every day.
_September 27th, 1916._
Our working party having finished its duties, I have now been
appointed Requisitioning Officer to the 2nd Cavalry Brigade.
This is much better than that horrible job with the Supply
Column. The war news is splendid, but some glorious men have
"gone West." We are paying a big price for victory. The death of
Raymond Asquith is a great tragedy. A brilliant life
extinguished, one that gave promise of great things. I had a
shock to-day on reading in the paper that my old friend H.
Edkins,[13] who took a Junior Scholarship at Dulwich in the same
year as I did, is reported among the missing. He was an able and
gifted fellow. Do you remember how well he sang at the school
concert in December, 1914? With all my heart I hope he's all
right. I wish you would get for me Professor Moulton's book, "The
Analytic Study of Literature."
[Footnote 13: Lieutenant Harrison Edkins, 1st Surrey Rifles.
Born, July 5th, 1896. Killed, September 15th, 1916. At
Dulwich he was captain of fives; Editor of _The Alleynian_,
1915. In December, 1914, he won the Charles Oldham Classical
Scholarship at Corpus Christi College, Oxford.]
WITH THE 2nd CAVALRY BRIGADE
_October 3rd, 1916._
Here I am a Requisitioning Officer again, this time for another
Cavalry Brigade. I was sorry not to get back to my old comrades.
Still, it is a change to work with new regiments. This Cavalry
Brigade is a famous body of troops. To it belongs the honour of
having been the first lot of Britishers in action in the war.
While I like my duties, I am beginning to feel restive, and am
longing to get back to the real battle zone. What think you of
our new war machines? [Tanks were first employed on September 15,
1916.--_Editor._] I have had many opportunities of studying them
on the move. One would scarcely believe it possible they could
go over ground such as I have seen them comfortably traverse. No
obstacle seems insurmountable to them. They are quaint-looking
things, but, in spite of the Press correspondents, they are no
more like to, or suggestive of, primeval monsters than a cow
resembles a chaff-cutter.
Ireland is an enigma and no mistake. The man who settles the
Irish problem will go down to history. The difficulty would
appear to be to effect any _rapprochement_ of the English and
Irish national points of view, these having been determined by
the different environments of the two races. In national life as
in nature the law of natural selection operates.
I rejoice to say that I've got two horses again, one a big brown
horse, very strong and a hard worker, the other a powerful bay
mare. Neither is particularly good-looking, but I've learnt from
experience that soundness and strength in a horse are more to be
desired than good looks, especially when campaigning. It is
seldom that you can combine all the qualities. Breed and blood
tell in horses. A well-bred horse will outlast a common one,
because it tries harder. What you want is a judicious mixture of
breed and strength. My two horses are pretty well-bred and have
great strength, and always try hard; so I'm pretty well off, I
reckon.
I observe that those blighted Zeppelins have been about England
again. But really the Zepp. is a colossal failure, whether you
regard it from the point of view of doing military injury, or
damage likely in any way to help Germany in the war, such as
impairing the morale of the British people. The best reply to the
Zepps. is being given day and night on the Somme, where hundreds
of thousands of Boches must at present be wishing they had never
been born. I am surprised they have stuck our bombardment as they
have done, but I am bound to say that the Boche is by no means a
coward.
I am at present deeply immersed in Kant's "Critique of Pure
Reason." It is a great work, and not by any means one to be read
in a hurry. Every line is charged full with deep thinking. It
appeals to me intensely. Kant's was a gigantic mind.
_November 3rd, 1916._
Our Cavalry Brigade has been on the move for some time. In these
circumstances I am always busily employed. Every day that we move
I go on with the brigade advance parties, go round the billets
that the troops are going to occupy, and make all arrangements
with the French inhabitants for a plentiful supply of fuel, straw
and forage to be available for the troops when they arrive. The
weather recently has been the reverse of clement. The first
stages of the move were accomplished in pitiless rain, the more
recent ones in weather fairly dry, but bitterly cold. Not that
vicissitudes of weather worry me. I never enjoy life so much as
when I'm fully occupied with hard work like that I am now doing,
which is really useful and responsible.
The question of Ireland remains a perplexing one. We have two
Irishmen in our mess, one a Unionist, the other a Nationalist.
The impression one gets from them at least is the hopelessness of
our being ever able to settle the Irish problem. It is largely,
of course, a question of temperament. The Ulsterman with us is
all for the "strong hand" policy, but I pointed out to him the
absurdity of our adopting Prussian tactics, especially at this
moment. He agreed, but steadfastly maintained that, judging
purely from results, Balfour was the best Chief Secretary Ireland
has ever had. He frankly admitted that Carson made himself liable
to be tried for high treason at the time of the Larne gunrunning.
He also agreed with me that to administer an irritant to a man
recovering from brain fever is a very risky policy. In fact, we
came round to the old conclusion in which, to quote "Rasselas,"
"nothing is concluded." It is a thousand pities that so able,
attractive and intelligent a race as the Irish should have such
an accursedly impossible temperament. It is the unimaginative,
easygoing, supremely practical Englishman who is the ideal
governor in this foolish world, not the hot-headed idealist.
_November 10th, 1916._
I am starting off to-day on rather a big, albeit safe job,
namely, purchasing all the hay and straw in a certain area on
behalf of the Cavalry Division. It is an important commission and
will take me about a week to execute.
We have arrived at another stagnant period in the war. That was a
happy definition of it as "long spells of acute boredom
punctuated by short spells of acute fear."
What brilliant soldiers the French are! It amazes me that they
should be able to "strafe" the Boches so constantly, and at
points where one would least expect them to. The recapture of
Douaumont was, in my opinion, one of the best bits of work in the
war. Of course, the French Army is superbly generalled, and it
has a military tradition second to none in the world. A nation
that can boast of men like Vauban, Turenne, Condé, Soult,
Masséna, Ney, and Macdonald (I don't mention Napoleon, because he
was not really a Frenchman at all) has a glorious military
tradition worth living up to.
On the other hand, I cannot withhold praise from the wonderful
organisation of the Boches. The way in which they repeatedly take
the bull by the horns and attack the encircling ring of their
enemies at some new point is extraordinary. Where on earth did
they find men for their Rumanian campaign? There can be no doubt
that they are a very stiff foe to beat, and they are not easily
"rattled" by failures or defeats. But it is undeniable that they
were badly "rattled" on the Somme. British achievements there
enable one to look with great hope to the future, when our full
strength will be in the field. Man for man the German soldier is
no match for the British Tommy.
I was amazed to read in the papers that the Dulwich 1st XV have
been beaten by Merchant Taylors'. If that really happened, then
truly it is a case of "Ichabod," and "The glory is departed from
Israel."
_November 17th, 1916._
I am still detached temporarily from Headquarters, travelling
about in a motor-car for the purpose of securing local supplies
of forage and straw in the area about to be occupied by the
Cavalry Division. It is very interesting work, with a large human
element in it; but one has difficulty in getting these French
farmers and dealers to agree to our prices for their commodities.
Almost always they want much more for them than is prescribed in
our schedule of official prices. Taking note of all refusals to
sell to us, because our prices are too low, I have to-day applied
for permission to requisition the goods in these cases--that is,
to take the stuff over compulsorily, handing to the owner a note
entitling him to draw so much money from the British Requisition
Office, the amount being settled by us and not by the farmer or
dealer. That is the way the French Military authorities do
things. They, of course, are dealing with their own people. It is
different with us, and French farmers and peasants think they are
entitled to exact all they can from the English. The French
authorities, acting through their A.S.C. or the local mayors,
periodically call on the communes to supply them with so much
forage, straw and other commodities. These quantities have to be
supplied _nolens volens_ and at prices fixed by the French Army.
I can see ourselves being forced reluctantly to adopt the same
procedure, at least in some cases, though it is much more
pleasant for both parties when we can buy amicably and pay cash
on the spot.
A number of the farmers with whom I had to deal recently are
"permissionaires"--they get pretty regular leave in the French
Army. The peasant stock of the North of France has a knack of
producing good fighting men--they are an unromantic race, but
amazingly industrious, shrewd, and very tough.
My car-driver is a Welshman from Pontypridd. He is one of the
best drivers I've struck out here and a first-rate fellow to
boot. He has played a lot of Rugby, having turned out several
times on the wing for Cardiff. He is quite young, not much older
than myself. Like most Welshmen, he has literary tastes, and has
a real gift for reciting poetry.
_The Alleynian_ duly to hand. Its monthly War record for the old
school makes splendid, albeit mournful reading. How poignant to
read the record in dates of Edkins's life: "Born, 1896; left
school, September, 1915; killed in action, 1916." Judging from
the official account, Frank Hillier[14] must have done great work
in earning the Military Cross. I see also that K. R. Potter has
got the M.C. He is one of the most brilliant men Dulwich has
produced. He was one of the two men to win a Balliol Scholarship
in Classics in the second of those historic two years when we got
two in each year--a record equalled by few schools and beaten by
none. J. S. Mann, who took a Balliol Scholarship at the same
time as Potter, has been wounded in the trenches.
[Footnote 14: Lieutenant F. N. Hillier, M.C., R.F.A., son of
Mr. F. J. Hillier, of the _Daily News_. Educated at Dulwich.]
Deep was my grief to read of the death in action of R. F.
Mackinnon,[15] M.C., one of the finest forwards and captains who
has ever worn the blue-and-black jersey. He was captain of the
first fifteen in my first year at the school, 1908-9, in which we
had a pack of forwards of strong physique and whole-hearted
courage. Arthur Gilligan, who was in the same battalion as
Mackinnon, told me he was absolutely without fear, and was
continually working up little "strafes" of the Boches on his own.
[Footnote 15: Lieutenant Ronald F. Mackinnon, M.C. Born,
October 23rd, 1889. Killed, October 21st, 1916. Was in the
Dulwich 1st XV for three seasons, and captain of football
1908-9; a member of the gymnasium XVI in 1907-8, and won the
Swimming Challenge Shield in 1908.]
_November 22nd, 1916._
I have been up to the neck in work, having temporarily to do what
is really three men's work--Brigade Supply Officer, Brigade
Requisitioning Officer, and Divisional Forage Purchasing
Officer--the last a newly-created post under the direction of the
Corps H.Q. It is no joke personally arranging the payments for
all the forage in an area fifteen square miles by ten. To-day I
found it impossible to continue and do the work efficiently
without assistance. It is not so much the getting the forage as
the amount of accounting that is involved. I fear I am a poor
accountant at best, and the figuring involved in the new scheme
(there are five enormous Army forms to fill up weekly, in
addition to the ordinary business side of the transactions) has
been taxing my energies and has taken up my time long after
working hours. Major Knox, Senior Supply Officer of the Division
(an old Dulwich man, at one time the Oxford Cricket Captain, and
a splendid fellow to boot), spent about six hours to-day with me
in completely checking our available resources. The fact is that
the hay ration from England has been very considerably reduced
for some reason, and we have to make up the deficiency out here,
permission having been obtained from the French authorities to
purchase and requisition in various Army areas. This permission
was for a long time withheld, as the French wanted the local
supplies for their own troops.
I am finding the War a boring business; the glamour has decidedly
worn off. Oh, if we could but get through the Boche lines! As
things are at present, there is no thrill and not much scope for
initiative. It is just a sordid affair of mud, shell-holes,
corpses, grime and filth. Even in billets the thing remains
intensely dull and uninspiring. One just lives, eats, drinks,
sleeps, and all apparently to no purpose. The monotony is
excessive. My chief function in life seems to be the filling up
of endless Army forms. I thoroughly sympathise with the recent
protest from military men in the _Spectator_ about the "Military
Babu," who is occupying an ever larger and larger place in the
life of the Army. There will be a revolt one of these days
against the fatuity of this eternal filling up of forms for no
conceivable purpose.
It is not only myself, but many of my comrades who are bored by
the War. To my mind there are only four really interesting
branches in the Army: (1) Flying Corps; (2) Heavy Artillery; (3)
Tanks, and (4) Intelligence. It must be intense reaction against
the drab monotony of life at the Front that is responsible for
the outbreak of frivolity that is said to have been the leading
characteristic of life in London and elsewhere of late. The
Englishman doesn't like thinking; if he did, he would not be the
splendid fighting man that he is.
In literature taste had gone to the dogs long before the War, and
it seems to me that the War has hastened it on its downward path.
It does seem to me a tragic pity that no great and inspiring work
has sprung to birth in England from the contemplation of what the
men of British race have achieved in this War, enduring such
depressing conditions with so much fortitude and doing such
glorious deeds whenever there is a chance for action.
_November 29th, 1916._
More boredom and an incredible amount of figuring, until I loathe
the very sight of pencil and paper. Thanks for parcels. Everyone
is so kind that it afflicts me with a sense of shame. Not that
any amount of gifts is too lavish for the brave men in the
trenches, but for "peace soldiers," like yours truly, it is very
different. I am at present living in a beautiful château at a
perfectly safe distance from the Front, in very pleasant country,
with a motor-car and two horses at my disposal and every
conceivable luxury. And then one is asked about the hardships
that one endures! It really is too absurd. I am by no means the
only one who feels like this, but I do think it is worse for a
Celtic temperament than for an Anglo-Saxon one.
At last there seems to be a chance of escape from this luxurious
life, for a circular has just come to hand from the O.C., A.S.C.,
of the Division, intimating that a number of transfers per month
from the A.S.C. to really fighting units has been sanctioned by
the War Office, together with a form to be filled up by officers
desiring to transfer. Of course, I am putting my name down. I am
deliberating whether to go for Infantry, Artillery, or
Machine-Gun Corps.
_December 8th, 1916._
I was medically examined yesterday, and passed fit for general
service. To-day I filled in the application form, applying for
(1) Infantry, (2) M.G.C., (3) Royal Artillery. You will doubtless
want my reasons for this step. (1) It is obvious that they need
Infantry officers most. It is, therefore, clearly the duty of
every fit officer to offer his services for the Infantry. I have
been passed fit by an entirely impartial medical officer, after a
searching medical examination; therefore it is my duty to go. (2)
From the personal point of view I have long been most
dissatisfied with the part I am playing in the War, and I jump at
the chance of a transfer.
I don't pretend to be doing the "young hero" stunt. I am not out
for glory. I have probably seen far more of the War as it really
is than any other A.S.C. officer in the Division. I know the War
for the dull, sordid, murderous thing that it is. I don't expect
for a minute to enjoy the trenches. But anything is better than
this horrible inaction when all the chaps one knows are
undergoing frightful hardships and dangers. For a long time the
argument of physical incapacity weighed with me. I was forced to
admit that if, on account of defective eyesight, I was not sound
for Infantry work, it was better that I should stick to a job for
which I was fit than do badly one for which I was not fit. But I
have now been passed fit for general service, and this being so I
would be a craven to hold back from the fighting-line.
If we are to win this War it will only be through gigantic
efforts and great sacrifices. It is the chief virtue of the
public-school system that it teaches one to make sacrifices
willingly for the sake of _esprit de corps_. Well, clearly, if
the public-school men hold back, the others will not follow.
Germany at present [the Germans had recently overrun Rumania] is
in the best situation--speaking politically--she has been in
since those dramatic days of the advance on Paris. The British
effort is only just beginning to bear fruit, and we are called on
to strain every nerve in our national body to counteract the
superb organisation of the Boches. That can only be done by
getting the right man in the right job. Men with special
qualifications must be given the chance to exercise them. All
A.S.C. officers should be business men; they could perfectly well
also be men over military age, as the work demands none of the
qualifications of youth. For a young chap like myself, without
any special qualification or training, but full of keenness, with
good physique and just out of a public school, the trenches are
emphatically the place.
Well, anyway, there it is. My application is in, and I am now
just waiting for G.H.Q. to accept me for the Infantry. I should
not be surprised if I am back home at Christmas in order to
train. An excellent recommendation from my C.O. accompanied my
transfer papers. I also had a satisfactory interview with the
Major-General commanding the Division, who, I believe, added his
own recommendation.
_December 20th, 1916._
I can't tell you how relieved I was to get the Pater's last
letter, and to feel that we see the matter in the same light. It
lifted a weight from my mind, as I will frankly admit that I was
much worried, torn one way by my conscience and another by the
fear that my action would cause displeasure and grief at home.
Now, with the Pater's letter in my possession, I can go ahead
with a light heart. There can be absolutely no question that I've
done the right thing. It is a mere coincidence that my personal
feelings have long tended in the same direction. I saw the path
of duty before me absolutely clear. Up to date I have never "let
you down," and I don't think I shall do so this time.
By the way, in my transfer papers, I have expressly stipulated
for a temporary commission, as I have no idea at all of becoming
a Regular.
_January 1st, 1917._
Hearty wishes for a happy New Year, wishes which always seem to
me more serious than the greetings that pass at Christmas time.
With most people Christmas is a purely festive season, but with
the end of the old year comes the necessity of looking forward to
a new period--perhaps to be joyful, perhaps otherwise; anyway, a
period on which it is necessary to enter as far as possible with
confidence. From the general point of view that is not an easy
matter as things stand. I am bound to say I am getting
pessimistic about the War. The chief trouble is the total lack of
action that characterises it. This grovelling in ditches is a
rotten, foolish business in many ways--though to me sitting in
comfort and safety behind the lines is a great deal worse.
We passed a pleasant Christmas. I had dinner and tea with the men
of the Brigade Headquarters--the former one of the most pleasant
functions I have ever attended. I much prefer a ceremony of this
kind along with Demos to the "Tedious pomp ... and grooms
besmeared with gold" that Milton denounces so scathingly.
I am sorry the Dulwich 1st XV didn't have a very good season. To
judge from the photos in the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic_,
the forwards don't know how to pack. One of the "scrum"
photographs is one of the best illustrations of how not to pack
that I have ever struck. It seems to me that there has been a
lack of training. But what I do remark with joy is the care that
has been taken with the games. All will be well with the school
if the games are keen.
I have just been reading the first book that I've found that
absolutely gets the atmosphere of the Western Front--namely, "The
Red Horizon," by Patrick McGill, the navvy poet. It really is
great. He doesn't spare the horror of the thing one iota, but it
"gets one right." "Sapper" has a good picture of the fighting
man, but a very bad one of the Front. McGill has got a pretty
good one of the man and a superb one of the Front. He describes
to a "T" one's sensations under shell-fire.
_January 11th, 1917._
Congratulate me! I am, as I have every reason to believe, on the
verge of the most stupendous good fortune that has ever yet come
my way. Last night I got a wire ordering me to present myself at
Headquarters, Heavy M.G.C., for interview with the
Colonel-in-charge. Well, I went up for my interview this morning,
and was tested for vision by the Colonel with my glasses on.
Finally he told me that he was going to recommend me for the
Tanks, which means that the thing is as good as settled. I had
not dared to hope for such luck, owing to the fact of my not
having any special qualification. However, my usual marvellous
good fortune seems not to have deserted me. It means just this,
that I am going to be a member of the most modern and most
interesting branch of the service. So great is my delight that I
scarcely know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. The
transfer will, I fear, prevent my coming home on leave for a
time. Anyway, it's more than possible that I shall come back to
England to train. I hope not, for despite my earnest
desire--more than you can ever guess--to see you all again, I
think it is far better to remain on active service, if possible,
when on duty.
I've been pretty busy with my brigade work recently, though to
nothing like the degree of November and the first fortnight of
December. One meets strange types of humanity on this sort of
duty. You can divide the countryfolk round these parts into three
lots: (_a_) The farmers--on the whole honest, but decidedly
avaricious; the French farmer's one fear in life is that his
neighbour across the way is being paid at a higher price than he
himself. (_b_) The average merchant, who is on the lookout for
making a bit in all sorts of illegal ways, such as cheating us by
underweight. (_c_) The honest middlemen, who, I regret to say,
are few and far between. As far as possible we always try to deal
with the farmers direct, as they are fairly honest, though very
obstinate. An honest middleman is very useful, but there are not
many of him. Business difficulties are increased by the
extraordinary accent in which the country people hereabouts talk.
Sometimes even French interpreters find themselves at a loss. I
am getting into it famously, and can even speak with the local
accent myself, to a certain extent.
Did you see that my old colleague, E. C. Cartwright, has got the
M.C.? His reports of 1st XV matches in Evans's year were the
feature of _The Alleynian_, as were poor Edkins's reports in the
year of my own captaincy. Also J. P. Jordan, another O.A., well
known to me, has won the M.C.
I am delighted that the Old Man (Mr. A. H. Gilkes) has received
the living of St. Mary Magdalene at Oxford. He could, I am sure,
have never had an appointment more to his tastes--barring,
indeed, his mastership at his beloved Dulwich. As a headmaster
he was a gigantic character; of that there can be no doubt
whatever.
_January 28th, 1917._
No news yet of my application for transfer. But people "in the
know" tell me that it is only a question of time. The document
having been approved and recommended by all the necessary
authorities is, I presume, now wandering through the multifarious
ramifications of the maze of Army offices, but I am told it will
soon filter down. One thing that pleases me is an assurance that
the A.S.C. authorities, whatever may have happened in the past,
are not this time blocking my transfer. From your knowledge of my
weaknesses, you will no doubt have guessed that I'm on pins these
days--the period of waiting for the result of an exam., even if
you think you've passed, is always a trying one. It is especially
so for me on account of my absurdly impatient temperament. I fear
that leave is out of the question till the transfer is settled
one way or the other.
The cold weather now prevalent must add yet a fresh discomfort to
those that are being endured by our men in the trenches. I cannot
recollect a cold spell of such severity continuing for so long a
time. We had a heavy snowfall a fortnight back, and since then
there has been incessant and exceptionally hard frost. The roads
in places are wellnigh impassable owing to frozen snow. Going
down one steep hill to-day in our motor-car we all but turned
completely over, as at a curve in the road the car-wheels,
instead of answering to the steering gear, skidded on the frozen
surface, and the car swung completely round on its axis,
finishing by facing the opposite way to that in which we were
travelling. Where the roads are not very slippery they are as
hard as iron. A curious result is that you have a thick dust
raised over a snow-covered landscape and in bitterly cold
weather!
I was much interested in the Balliol College pamphlet and the
Master's accompanying letter. Balliol appears to have done even
more than its part in the War. Did you see that the Brakenbury
Scholarship in History for 1916 was taken by a chap from Gresham
School, Holt? I often wonder whether I shall ever go up to
Oxford. Almost needless to say, to go there would be the crowning
joy of my life, but I cannot help thinking that circumstances
will render it impossible. Still, we will hope for the best. One
thing I mean to do after the War is to learn Russian thoroughly
and to visit Russia. I am not at all sure that travelling is not
the best of all Universities. The great disadvantage of a
'Varsity is the insularity of mind which it is apt to breed. Its
rigid observance of ancient customs, its cult of "form," the fact
that it is the almost exclusive monopoly of the rich, the
aristocracy and the upper middle-class; above all, its contempt
for the learning of modern times and studied disregard of modern
languages--all these features help to make the 'Varsity as
insular as the most insular of all English national institutions.
On the other hand, by its genuine intellectuality, by its cult of
the beautiful and the abstract, by its scorn of the sordid
business side of modern civilisation, by its enthusiasm for
athletics and by its traditions of duty and of patriotism, the
'Varsity remains, to my mind, one of the most healthful
influences in modern British life.
Talking of English insularity, it is curious to note how the
Englishman makes his progress abroad. He is so insular that
instead of learning the language and adopting the customs of the
country he is in, he makes the indigenous population adopt his!
He does not, for example, know much French, but he has evolved a
sort of patois--much nearer English than French--that enables the
inhabitants to understand him and comprehend what he wants.
I have recently been reading another of John Buchan's, called
"Greenmantle." If you haven't read it, get it. It is just as good
as Buchan's other books, rich in mystery and scintillating with
adventure. It deals with this War and the experiences of Richard
Hannay (whom you will recollect as the hero of the "Thirty-nine
Steps," and who has since become a Major and got wounded at Loos)
in his efforts, eventually crowned with success, to crush a
German plot--this plot being the working up of a "Jehad," or Holy
War among the Mohammedans, and so provoking a rising of Islam
against the British. A thoroughly live story, told with great
spirit.
I have also read H. G. Wells's war novel, "Mr. Britling Sees It
Through." It is undeniably clever, though not to my mind up to
the level of Wells's very best. It rather gives the impression in
parts of having been written by the mile and then lengths cut off
as required. He has one very good touch, the realisation of the
impersonal and indiscriminate nature of the War: it claims as
victims both Mr. Britling's own son and the young German who had
been living with them before the War. The book concludes with a
letter from Britling to the German boy's father, attempting to
find some way out of the blackness. As usual with Wells, the best
feature of the novel is the way in which he expresses the point
of view of the average man. He has the trick of recording
reflections in a sort of staccato style, with gaps here and
there--just the way that one does think. There is some rot in the
book, but on the whole it is very good and well worth reading.
Recently I have been attending a Veterinary Course--lectures and
practical demonstration; most fascinating it is, I can assure
you.
WITH THE TANK CORPS
On February 13, 1917, Paul Jones joined the M.G.C.H.B., in other words
the Tank Corps. His joy at this transfer was unbounded. Nothing could
be in sharper contrast than the letters he wrote after joining the
Tank Corps and those penned during the preceding three months, when
the enforced inactivity of the cavalry and the nature of his own
routine work preyed on his spirits and made him exclaim with Ulysses:
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use,
As though to breathe were Life!
_February 13th, 1917._
When I came in from my morning's work yesterday what should I
find but a telegram instructing me to report at the earliest
possible moment to Headquarters, Heavy M.G.C., for duty on
transfer! These things usually come with a rush after one has
been kept waiting a long time in suspense. I spent the rest of
the day in bringing my accounts and papers up to date, and this
morning came across in the motor to my destination. Is it not
splendid? My luck has never yet failed to stand me in good stead.
I won't deny, nevertheless, that it was a severe wrench parting
from the old Cavalry Division after twenty months of service with
it. I had formed many friendships there, among both officers and
men, and it cost me many a pang to bid them good-bye. All
partings from old associations are hard to bear even when the
parting leads up, as in my case, to the fulfilment of one's
greatest ambition. My delight knows no bounds at my new
appointment. I really am asking myself whether I am awake or not.
It almost seems too good to be true.
I am writing this letter in my new mess which is in a Neissen
hut. For the present I remain Lieutenant A.S.C.--till the period
of probation is past. But that's no matter, for the acme of my
military ambitions is now attained. My new messmates are almost
all ex-infantry men, many of whom, most in fact, are here
learning their new job. Strangely enough, I am the third Senior
Lieutenant in the company, and in point of active service, with
my twenty months in France, I stand well in front of almost all
of them. The O.C. of the company, stroke of good luck for me, is
an old Hussar officer and ex-member of the Cavalry Brigade which
I have just quitted. It was a joy to meet him again. I was able
to give him a lot of news about his old pals.
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.
Two more O.A.'s killed in action--Gerald Gill[16] and Eric
Clarke.[17] Gill took his colours in cricket, gym, and football.
His impersonation of M. Perrichon in the French play on Founder's
Day, 1913, was very clever and entertaining. I am also much
grieved at Clarke's death. He was shaping for a brilliant career.
It's just awful this sacrifice of the best of our young men.
[Footnote 16: Lieutenant W. G. O. Gill. Born, May 26th, 1895.
Killed in Palestine, March 27th, 1917. He was in the cricket
XI, 1913, football XV, 1913-14, and in the gymnasium XI,
1912-13.]
[Footnote 17: Captain E. F. Clarke. Born, April 1st, 1894.
Killed, April 9th, 1917. Editor of _The Alleynian_,
1911-12-13. Went up to Oxford in 1913 with a classical
scholarship at Corpus Christi College.]
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._
I was absolutely taken aback by the news of Felix Cohn's[18]
death. It seems almost incredible to me, even at this moment. It
was only a few days ago that we met out here. He had then been
"over the top" and was in high spirits. He was a sincere fellow
and played his part like a man. I do take off my hat to the
Infantry. No one in England realises what we all owe to them;
marvellous men they are. How they endure what they do, Heaven
only knows. If you see Mr. Cohn, please express to him my deepest
sympathy, or rather, send me his address and I will write to him.
[Footnote 18: Second Lieutenant Felix A. Cohn, East Surrey
Regiment. Born, August 31st, 1896. Killed, May 3rd, 1917. Was
in the Modern Sixth at Dulwich with Paul Jones. Son of Mr.
August Cohn, barrister.]
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.
PART III
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE
_The day's high work is over and done,
And these no more will need the sun:
Blow, you bugles of England, blow!_
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
_That her Name like a sun among stars might glow
Till the dusk of time with honour and worth:
That, stung by the lust and the pain of battle,
The One Race ever might starkly spread
And the One Flag eagle it overhead!
In a rapture of wrath and faith and pride,
Thus they felt it and thus they died._
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
_Blow, you bugles of England, blow!_
W. E. HENLEY: "THE LAST POST."
The circumstances in which Lieutenant H. P. M. Jones met his death are
described in the following letters sent to me by Major Haslam, his
commanding officer, and Corporal Jenkins, the N.C.O. in his Tank:
_August 2nd, 1917._
Your son went into action with his Tank, together with the
remainder of the company, in the early morning of July 31st. He
was killed by a bullet whilst advancing. From the evidence of his
crew I gather he was unconscious for a short time, then died
peacefully. I knew your son before he joined the Tanks. We were
both in the 2nd Cavalry Brigade together. I was delighted when he
joined my company. No officer of mine was more popular. He was
efficient, very keen, and a most gallant gentleman. His crew
loved him and would follow him anywhere. Such men as he are few
and far between. I am certain he didn't know what fear was.
Please accept the sympathy of the whole company and myself in
your great loss. We shall ever honour his memory.
J. C. HASLAM (MAJOR),
No. 7 Compy., "C" Battn., Tank Corps.
Corporal D. C. Jenkins wrote:
I have been asked by your son's crew to write to you, as I was
his N.C.O. in the Tank. Your son, Lieut. H. P. M. Jones, was shot
by a sniper. The bullet passed through the port-hole and entered
your son's brain. Death was almost instantaneous. I and
Lance-Corporal Millward, his driver, did all we could for your
son, but he was beyond human help. His death is deeply felt not
only by his own crew, but by the whole section. His crew miss him
very much. It was a treat to have him on parade with us, as he
was so jolly. We all loved him. Fate was against us to lose your
son. He was the best officer in our company, and never will be
replaced by one like him. I and the rest of the crew hope that
you will accept our deepest sympathy in your sorrow.
Paul Jones had touched life at so many points--Dulwich College, the
athletic world, the Army, journalism, the House of Commons, and
Wales--that the news of his death caused grief in far-extending
circles. Of the hundreds of letters of condolence that reached us I
propose to reproduce a few here. They are unvarying in their testimony
to his idealism, his personal charm and the nobility of his nature.
Extracts from his last letter, published in the _Daily Chronicle_, the
_Western Mail_, Cardiff, and _Public Opinion_, attracted considerable
attention.
* * * * *
Lieutenant Jack Donaldson, who, as an A.S.C. officer, was attached to
the 2nd Cavalry Brigade in the winter of 1916-17, wrote:
OFFICERS' MESS,
HARROWBY CAMP,
GRANTHAM.
_August 6th, 1917._
It was with the very deepest sorrow that I read in to-day's paper
of the death of your son in action. As you know, he worked under
me throughout the greater part of last winter. He was the first
subaltern, if I may so express it, I ever had, for he worked
under me though he was actually senior in point of rank. He was
also the best and most loyal one I could wish for. Far more than
that, he was a most interesting and lovable companion and friend.
In fact, when he left us the gap created in our mess was one that
became more noticeable every day. Intellectually, he was a great
loss to us, for his interests were extremely broad and his views
original. But far more than that, there was a sort of bigness
about him. He was an idealist, and the rarer sort, the sort that
carries its theories into practice.
We all laughed at him and at some of the things he did and the
scruples he had, but in our hearts I think we all honoured and
loved him for them. For without forcing it in any way upon others
he himself followed a code of honour that differed from, and was
stricter than, that of the world around him. He was quixotic,
especially in anything to do with money, and often to his own
personal loss. I think we were all the better for having known
him. He seemed hardly to think of himself at all.
No man I ever met was more censorious of his own actions, or more
obstinate in his defence of any principle or theory he was
advocating in argument, no matter how hare-brained it might seem.
We used to spend hours arguing over anything, from free-will to
the "loose-head." I knew, of course, how much he disliked the
class of work (requisitioning of local supplies) he was doing for
me, though no one could have worked harder and few have done it
better; but the commercialism of it was abhorrent to him. It was
his duty to drive a hard bargain and to be one too many for a
knave, and while he did his best to fulfil it he disliked the
task.
I took him down on his first interview for the Tanks, and again
on his transfer; and though I had no share in getting him the
latter, I don't know that I should regret it if I had. For I saw
him several times afterwards. I had a couple of joy-rides in his
land-ship, and I and all others who met him could not but remark
how happy he was. After the Arras show I believe he was simply
radiant. He has died the death he would have chosen and in a good
cause. Many a time he said to me that he was sure he would never
survive the war, and that he did not, for himself, greatly care,
for he was not built for a mercenary age. We may be sure that all
is well with him where he lies.
I last saw him at Poperinghe about a month ago. He was full of
spirits then, though under unpleasant enough conditions. Since
then my transfer, applied for at the same time as his, has come
through. I was so looking forward to another meeting with him
later in France.
From Captain Maurice Drucquer, barrister-at-law, now serving in the
A.S.C.:
I want to tell you how grieved I was to hear of the loss of your
son. He received his commission the same day as I did, and we
were posted to the same station. I only enjoyed his company for
three months, as he was sent abroad. During that short period he
had endeared himself to all of us, his brother officers, though
we were many years his senior in age. What appealed to me most in
Paul was the combination in him of boyhood and manhood. There was
not the slightest attempt at pretence, not the slightest sign of
precociousness, no desire to ape the tone or the airs of those
among whom he worked. On another side of his character he was in
every respect a man. He tackled all problems of a serious nature
with a grasp of the subject which might well be the envy of a
thoughtful man. One could not enter into conversation with him
without at once perceiving that he must have given much thought
and study to the everyday affairs of life. His knowledge of
literature was great, and one was surprised, even abashed, at his
store. His hours off duty were spent well and wisely. A certain
period was always given to healthy exercise, and then would come,
almost as a matter of course, hours of fruitful reading. The
affectionate part of his nature came out in his relations with
the people with whom he lodged. He earned the affection of the
whole household, and the lady of the house has often told me that
she loved him like her own sons. I saw much in Paul that I cannot
put into writing, and I think he had the spirit to see certain
truths which we see all too dimly.
Mr. George Smith, M.A., Headmaster of Dulwich College since the autumn
of 1914, writes:
It was with deep regret that I learned of Paul's death, and I
feel most sincerely for you all in your great sorrow. As you
know, I was brought very closely into touch with him as soon as I
came to Dulwich. He was the captain of the XV and of the football
of the College during my first year; and I relied on him mainly
for the organising and inspiring of the games. There his energy
and keenness were invaluable to us. Then, as a prefect, he used
to bring his essays every week; and I was greatly impressed by
his intellectual power and promise. I remember how full his
essays were of matter; how ready he was to grasp and to originate
new ideas; how vividly and emphatically he expressed himself. We
looked forward to a brilliant and useful career for him. But it
was not to be. It is very hard to lose him. But he has done his
duty; and he leaves behind him a memory that we of the old school
must especially cherish and honour.
The Reverend A. H. Gilkes, Vicar of St. Mary Magdalene, Oxford,
formerly Headmaster of Dulwich College, in a touching tribute to the
"noble character of your brave, dear and able son," said: "I
sympathise with you fully and deeply. It means little, I know, to you
in your trouble, but I trust it means something, that your son was so
much loved and admired, and is so sadly missed by so many. He was
fearless, strong and capable, and his heart was as soft and kind as a
heart can be. I thought that he would do great things; and indeed, sad
though it is, I do not know that he could have done a greater."
* * * * *
Mr. J. A. Joerg, principal of the Modern Side, Dulwich College, a
gentleman of German antecedents, for whom my son had a high and an
unalterable regard, wrote:
It was with the greatest horror that I read of the fall in action
of your hero-son Paul. I read his noble character during the many
years he was with me, and I recognised and admired the great
sense of justice and duty and loyalty that were such prominent
features with him. His deep gratitude for anything that was done
for him will always be remembered by me. He was a noble boy. I
shall always reverence his memory.
Mr. P. Hope, Classical master at Dulwich, to whom Paul owed much when
studying English literature, and whom he always recalled with
affection, sent me a pen-picture of my son limned with insight and
love:
_August 18th, 1917._
I have heard with deep sorrow and distress of the death of your
dear son, H. P. M. Jones, killed in action. Your son was never in
the Classical Sixth at Dulwich College, and so was not directly a
pupil of mine. But he often came to me for advice and help, and
we often talked together about many things. I always cherished a
real regard and admiration for him and his sterling qualities and
great ability. He was a most kind-hearted and generous-minded
boy, one who had the best interests of the school at heart, one
who never spared himself if he could in any way render a service
to his team or to the school as a whole; one who could be relied
on to act loyally, faithfully and conscientiously in all that he
did; one who would place duty before all other considerations. He
was an indefatigable worker, a boy of great power and promise,
and, so far as we could prophesy, was sure to achieve a high and
distinguished position for himself in the world later on. He was
greatly beloved by the boys, his own school-fellows, and honoured
and respected by all his masters.
I well remember how he gave up hour after hour of his own time
out of school to the training of the XV; how he would throw
himself heart and soul into the heavy work connected with the
organisation of the school football and games generally, and how
he would do all in his power to make things happier and easier
for the boys with whose welfare he was entrusted. He was indeed,
as he grew older, just one of those men whom we could least of
all spare in these days, the very embodiment in himself of all
that is best in the public-school spirit, the very incarnation of
self-sacrifice and devotion. I cannot tell you how much we shall
miss him at the College among the Old Boys. There is no name or
memory that we shall hold more dear than that of your much-loved
son. He has died, even as he lived, in fulfilment of the high
ideal which he set before him, and there could be no nobler or
more glorious death.
Though our loss is great, yours is unspeakably greater. Our
hearts go out to you in reverent sympathy. As we think of the
dear ones who have made the great sacrifice for us, it is hard to
fix our thoughts on the contemplation of their shining example,
to find satisfaction in the assurance that their memory and their
inspiration can never die. It is so human and so natural that we
should miss them in their actual presence in our midst; and
their absence leaves such a hideous gap in our lives which
nothing can ever fill. But maybe as the days go by we shall
understand more clearly the real value of their sacrifice and
their life and death.
"Salute the sacred dead,
Who went and who return not--
Say not so!
We rather seem the dead
That stayed behind."
Your son was a truly good, simple-hearted, modest, gallant man:
he has contributed his part to the making of the new world which
we all pray will follow after the war--the new rule of
righteousness and peace. He shall not be without his reward; and
you, too, who have taught him from childhood and filled his mind
with your own ideals, may remember him with pride as having
fulfilled the highest aspirations which you had formed for him.
Mr. E. H. Gropius, who was captain of the school in 1914, when my son
was at the head of the Modern Side, writes:
Paul was a friend of mine long before he reached the brilliant
position he held when he left Dulwich. During his last two terms
I got to know him still better and to admire him more, not only
for his intellectual and athletic brilliance, but for his solid
qualities, his strength of character and sound judgment. He was
one of the best footer captains we have had, and he never once
put his own personal feelings before the good of the school. As
for in-school footer, he absolutely reformed it. Not that footer
is the most important thing in a man's life. But if a man can
play as he did, he must be a sportsman; and Paul died as he
lived, a great sportsman. He could quite easily have kept in the
A.S.C., but he preferred to do more. It is men like he was that
we need most, but even if he is not with us his memory is. His
influence at school was enormous; to all who knew him that
influence will remain a powerful factor in their lives. Though
we had hoped to be up in Oxford together, it could not be. Had he
gone up his genius would certainly have made its mark.
When I think of my last year and the great times we had at
Dulwich, it seems impossible that I shan't see Paul again. He was
absolutely one of the best, the very best. But I am sure he would
not wish us to be over-miserable on his account. His last letter
gives a perfect picture of his mind and character. I really
believe that he did welcome the war, not as a war, but because it
gave him, as well as others, the chance of seeing things in their
true light.... When I saw Mrs. Bamkin a few weeks ago we talked
very intimately about Paul. She knew him only through her own boy
who was killed in July, 1915, and through what other fellows and
myself had said--and we came to the conclusion that Paul's was
one of the finest characters of my time at school.... He inspired
in me all the highest feelings. His example will help us on and
he will live among us still.
A young German, Mr. Gerald Roederwald, a fellow-student with my son in
the Modern Sixth, wrote:
I did not think that Paul would ever be able to get into the
firing-line at all, but it was just like him to seek the thick of
danger. Reading his last letter it seemed to me just as though we
were still at school together in the midst of an argument. Often
have I thought of "H. P. M." as we used to call him at school. We
all liked him. What a career his would surely have been! It was
an accepted tradition amongst us that old "H. P. M." would one
day astonish the world. Those who knew him well derived great
benefit from his cultured mind. I myself owe more than I can
express to your son's influence over me. No one who came near him
could help coming under the spell of his personality. His
remarkable intellectual gifts made us feel that he was our
superior. Not only that, his great stature seemed to be the
essence of his whole being. I mean that everything about him was
on a large scale. Nature had gifted him with a generous, open
mind, which was incapable of taking in anything that was small or
mean. Whenever Paul spoke to me his eyes seemed to probe into the
depths of my whole being. As long as I live I shall never forget
him. His spirit is with me always, for it is to him that I owe my
first real insight into Life.
From Mr. Raymond T. Young, Felsted School:
I knew Paul as a small boy at Brightlands ten years ago. He was
in my form and had already begun to show great promise
intellectually and as a sound and splendid boy. Afterwards I came
across him when he played such a fine game for the Dulwich Rugger
side. Had he been spared, I quite think he would have taken a
"Blue" at forward for Oxford. You must comfort yourselves with
the constant thought that you have given for England one whose
whole life was as perfect and true as it was full of promise of
great things; and also you must be very proud of having had so
much to give.
The Master of Balliol (Mr. Arthur L. Smith), writing on 21st August,
1917, said:
In sending you the official condolences of the college on the
death of your brilliant son, I should like also to express
personally my own feelings of the very successful career that was
open to him at Oxford, which, like so many of our best young
scholars, he gave up without a moment's hesitation to serve his
country and the world in this great crisis. Such a change is
surely not all loss if we could see things in their true
proportion and in their realities; but meantime the loss must
indeed be severe to you, because you must have been justly proud
of him on so many grounds. I remember how he struck me in the
scholarship examination by the excellent way in which he put some
very vigorous good sense, particularly on the subject of the
character of Oliver Cromwell; and I see that my notes refer to
him as "showing much vivacity of expression," "sound reading,"
"strong mental grasp and excellent arrangement and method." He
also made "a most pleasing and favourable impression in 'viva
voce.'" He would have been a very leading and, in the best sense,
popular man in the college. His last letter is one of the finest
even of the many fine letters that have been written under such
circumstances during the last few years.
A high official at the War Office wrote:
In this great and cruel crisis I have had before me many things
which have evoked the deepest sympathy of my heart; but I know of
nothing which has distressed me more than the sad blow which you
have received. Your son's whole life and his outlook on life
appealed to me in a remarkable way. There was nothing mean or
small in his physical form or his mental equipment; and his fine,
strong joy of life, and his love for the everlasting ideals made
an impression on my mind which will not readily be erased. It is
not so well known as it should be how manfully he overcame every
obstacle to make himself the most perfect defender of his country
and how ardently he strove with a hero's heart to place his
glorious gifts upon the altar of his country. He was all that the
most exacting paternal standards could demand. Now that his sun
has gone down while it is yet day, with all its brilliant past
and all its brilliant prospects, I join with your many friends in
the sincere and heartfelt hope that the courage, consolation and
pride which come to those who have "nurtured the brave to do
brave things" may be yours in largest measure in your hour of
sore trial.
From Mr. Lionel Jones, Science headmaster, Birmingham Technical
School:
I believe ours was the first house Paul visited, and I have
followed his career with interest and with, indeed, a sense of
pride. We had expected him to do great things; yet he has done
greater, for his last letter shows he had grasped the inner
meanings of Life and Death more clearly than we do, and was
content to sink the lesser in the greater Being.
From Mr. Hugh Spender, Parliamentary correspondent of the _Westminster
Gazette_:
I had the privilege of meeting your son, and I shall always carry
a very lively recollection of him. He was so modest that I did
not realise what a distinguished college career he had had. But
he impressed me very vividly with the strength of his
personality, remarkable in one so young. There was an air of
radiant gaiety about him which sprang from a pure heart and a
lofty purpose. I realised that he must have had a very great
influence for good. This thought must be a great consolation to
you in your grief. Here was a life "sans peur et sans reproche,"
a light to brighten the footsteps of every man who knew of him.
A well-known Professor, himself a Balliol history scholar, wrote:
I only met your son once, but I liked him much, and from the time
he got the Brakenbury the promise of his future career at Balliol
had a very special interest for me. I felt sure he was destined
to do great things. It is tragic to know that that destiny will
now never be realised; but he has done greater things; he has
done the greatest thing of all. That he should have joined the
Army so early and pressed for transfer to the machine-gun
corps--a unit which occupies posts of the greatest danger, and is
required to hold them at all costs and against all odds--makes
his achievement all the more memorable. Your sorrow must indeed
be great, and almost intolerable, but the thought of such a high
and fearless devotion will, I trust, do something to assuage it.
From Mr. William Hill, an old journalistic friend of mine:
Yesterday morning I read with regret profound, on account of the
nation's loss as well as your own, the report of the death of
your gallant son. Yesterday evening in a volume by
Watterson--which incidentally contains a sketch of the Captain
Paul Jones of history, depicted as a brilliant young man, with
charms of person and graces of manner--I read in an appreciation
of Abraham Lincoln a letter written by the great President to a
sorely-bereaved mother, which I feel it to be a duty and an
honour to recite in part to you in this hour. Lincoln wrote:
"I feel how weak and fruitless must be any words of mine which
should attempt to beguile you from a loss so overwhelming. But
I cannot refrain from tendering you the consolation that may be
found in the thanks of the Republic they died to save. I pray
that our Heavenly Father may assuage the anguish of your
bereavement and leave you only the cherished memory of the
loved and lost, and the solemn pride that must be yours to have
laid so costly a sacrifice upon the altar of Freedom."
In Your Own Case, Lieut. Paul Jones, In The Form Of His Last
Letter And By The Testimony Of His Major, Has Left A Legacy Of
Protest And Aspiration And Example Which I Ardently Trust And
Believe Will Reinforce Powerfully The Spirit Of Regeneration, So
Long Belated, That Is Already Beginning To Influence Materially
The Britain Of Our Immediate Future. Sealed By The Sacrifice Of
His Life, The Note Of A Saner And Purer National Life Set In His
Letter By Your Son Will, Ere Half The Century Is Past, Give Us, I
Am Confident, A Stronger And Mightier Britain.
From Mrs. Denbigh Jones, Llanelly:
"Wist ye not that I must be about my Father's business?" That has
been the ideal of these brave young souls. From one great joy to
another your glorious boy led you on. He lived and moved with an
intensity and a fullness beyond our slow dreams, as if rushing to
consume everything in life worth reaching and learning in the
given time. The intoxication of life which possessed him will
shine for ever in your memory, as it was not of earth. He scaled
the topmost crags of duty, and now his young voice still calls to
us "far up the heights."
My son's nurse, for whom he had a warm and abiding affection, married
Mr. W. W. Jones, of Llanelly, who wrote:
On behalf of my wife, his devoted and loving nurse Nan, and
myself, we extend to you our most heartfelt and sincere sympathy
in this great catastrophe of your lives through the death in
action of your dear son Paul, whilst fighting for the rights of
justice, humanity and freedom. He died like the hero he was. My
wife was greatly distressed and painfully grieved when she learnt
of the cruel loss you have sustained. Paul's name was a household
word in our home. She always spoke of him as such a noble,
unselfish and virtuous boy, good in spirit, great of heart. It is
hard that he should be taken, his life already so rich in
achievements and with its promise of a brilliant and golden
future. By his death it is not only you, his parents, who will
suffer; but Paul, being in himself a great democrat--which in
these days we can ill afford to lose--the democracies of the
world will suffer by the loss of such a gallant and noble
gentleman.
From a man of letters:
Thinking of your great sorrow over the loss of that splendid boy
of yours, there came to my mind that passage in _Macbeth_ where
Ross tells old Siward:
"Your son, my lord, has paid a soldier's debt;
He only lived but till he was a man;
The which no sooner had his prowess confirmed
In the unshrinking station where he fought,
But like a man he died.
SIWARD: Had he his hurts before?
ROSS: Ay, on the front.
SIWARD: Why, then, God's soldier be he!"
From the editor of a London daily newspaper:
It is infinitely tragic to hear day by day of this waste of the
life of brilliant young men who were the hope of the future. And
yet we must not say that it is waste. If we say that, then there
is no mitigation of the sorrow. The price is appalling, but we
must believe that it is being paid for a treasure the world
cannot live without; and if that treasure is won, your sorrow
will at least be assuaged by the thought that it is not in vain,
and that what you have lost the world has gained.
From a friend and colleague on the _Daily Chronicle_:
My wife idolised Paul for his lovableness and nobility. The
vision we had of him in his splendid youth has been made
unforgettable by his glorious sacrifice.
From a Welsh editor:
The memory of Paul's rare and great qualities and the definite
promise he gave of a very brilliant career will ever remain
fragrantly in your hearts and in those of your friends who had
the happiness to know him.
From an Irish editor:
I was impressed no less by his unaffected modesty than by his
evident ability and high character. Many as have been the
brilliant young lives lost in this war, there can have been but
few which carried such high promise as his.
From a Scottish journalist:
The Greeks summed up human virtue in a phrase which can hardly be
bettered--[Greek: kalos kai agathos]. In the promise of his life,
and even more in the grandeur of his death, your son was [Greek:
kalos kai agathos].
From a Dulwich schoolboy:
I can say nothing beyond this, that I feel certain Dulwich will
not forget.
From his uncle, Mr. Brinley R. Jones, Llanelly:
What pride to have reared such a son and to know that he felt
that the greatest thing in life was to lay all on the altar of
his country! And to think of the gallant band whom he has
joined--W. G. C. Gladstone, Rupert Brooke, Raymond Asquith,
Donald Hankey, and many more.
"And ofttime cometh our wise Lord God,
Master of every trade,
And tells them tales of His daily toil,
Of Edens newly made;
And they rise to their feet as He passes by,
Gentlemen unafraid."
The tears came to my eyes, tears of joy and pride, when I read
the extract from Paul's wonderful letter to Hal. We had looked
forward to Paul serving England in his life--great service for
which his transcendent gifts seemed to mark him out. It has been
ordained, however, that his service is by way of Calvary. We can
only wonder what it all means.
A colleague of mine in the Press Gallery wrote:
He was a fine fellow and you had good reason to be proud of him.
I was greatly struck by his last letter. It breathes a splendid
spirit and reminds me of a passage in my favourite essay in
Stevenson: "In the hot fit of life, a-tip-toe on the highest
point of being, he passes at a bound on to the other side."
An old friend who knew Paul well and whose two sons were educated at
Dulwich College wrote:
I grieve beyond measure at the passing of so noble-hearted a man.
He, like others who have gone down in this horrible war, was of
the very flower of our race--he even more than most of them; and
the nation's loss is great, too. There are consolations even in
such an affliction as yours; and the highest consolation of all
must be that Paul willingly laid down his life for his
fellow-men.
From Major David Davies, M.P., Llandinam:
Your gallant son's death brings to my mind a verse of Adam
Lindsay Gordon's:
"Many seek for peace and riches, length of days and life of ease;
I have sought for one thing, which is fairer unto me than these;
Often, too, I've heard the story, in my boyhood, of the doom
Which the fates assigned me--Glory, coupled with an early tomb."
Your son has covered himself with imperishable glory, though his
promising young life has suddenly been cut off. Is it too much to
hope that those great principles for which he fought so nobly
will at last become the heritage of the whole world? He and those
who have fallen with him will then have created a new earth, in
which shall dwell peace and righteousness. I firmly believe it
will be so; but it is up to us who are left behind to see to it
that all the heroic sacrifices have not been made in vain, and
that the "new order" will be worthy of those ideals which were
cherished by the men who laid down their lives for them.
Of the many messages that reached us, none touched a deeper chord than
the following:
_7th August, 1917._
I would like to convey to you my condolences in the loss of your
son, Lieut. H. P. M. Jones. Although a stranger, I am moved to do
this after reading in to-day's _Daily Chronicle_ the account of
his career and those noble words he wrote in his letter home just
before his death. I and those around me felt, "Here was a fine
man and one the country could ill afford to lose." May it be some
comfort to you in your grief, that your boy's death made at least
one man say to himself: "I will try to be a better
man."--ANONYMOUS.
A young Welsh musician wrote:
I cannot express how intensely I feel for you in your great
sorrow at the death of Paul. Of surpassing intellect and noble
ideals, he would have been invaluable to the country in the near
future. I feel sure it must be a source of great pride and
comfort to you that he made the supreme sacrifice in such a
courageous way, so becoming to his noble soul. He will live for
all time in my mind as the very essence of honour and idealism.
"That was a wonderful letter," writes a newspaper proprietor. "I have
read nothing finer. It brought tears to my eyes, but it made me proud
of my race."
* * * * *
The athletic editor of a London newspaper, who is an authority on
public-school athletics, wrote:
In your son's death we have lost a model sportsman. I will long
remember him, as will Dulwich and the young giants of the school
he so splendidly led.
From an official of the House of Commons:
I have prayed earnestly that there may be comfort in your
mourning, and in due time a binding-up of hearts so sorely
broken. The record of his school life, vivid with success and
leadership and, best of all, whole-hearted in its purity, wrung
my heart as I thought of what had been lost to us. But I believe
he has passed on to other service.
"A life nobly lived and nobly died--the ideal"--such was the comment
of an old colleague of mine, who has himself since lost a promising
soldier son. "I venture to say," he added, "that his noble letter,
written almost on the eve of his death, will carry healing to
thousands and thousands of sorely-stricken hearts in these sad times.
It should be printed in letters of gold."
* * * * *
"Be sure," wrote an old Cardiff friend, "in all your sorrow that He
who fashioned your boy so well and equipped him so fully, still has
him in His own kind care and keeping; and that when you 'carry on,'
bearing your load bravely, your dear boy will be nearer to you than
you often think, in some splendid service, too."
* * * * *
"It is such noble sacrifices as your son's," wrote a well-known M.P.,
"that almost alone redeem the horror of this world-wide catastrophe."
* * * * *
From M. Marsillac, London correspondent of _Le Journal_ (Paris):
What a truly magnificent spirit was shown in that letter of your
son! Indeed, we who remain behind are more to be pitied than
those who go forth into Eternal Peace by such a noble and
luminous road.
Mr. Alexander Mackintosh, its Parliamentary correspondent, writing in
the _British Weekly_, said:
Lieutenant Paul Jones, as an occasional visitor, was familiar to
the Press Gallery. Oxford has lost another young man of unusual
gifts, a scholar and an athlete, as modest as he was brave, and
the Gallery has a sense of personal loss. Yet it bids his father
say, in the beautiful apostrophe which Rustum puts into the mouth
of the snow-headed Zal:
"O son! I weep thee not too sore,
For willingly, I know, thou met'st thine end!"
Mr. Arnold White ("Vanoc") in the _Referee_ for August 12, 1917:
Just before his death Lieutenant Paul Jones wrote a letter which
deserves record on imperishable bronze. This young officer has
given a new lustre to the name of Paul Jones.
Messages of condolence were received from the King and Queen, the
Prime Minister, Cabinet and ex-Cabinet Ministers, the Army Council,
members of both Houses of Parliament, clergymen, London and provincial
pressmen, scholars, soldiers, labour-leaders, newspaper and
journalistic societies and political associations. Letters came not
only from the four countries of the United Kingdom, but also from
France, Palestine, South Africa, India and Canada. These sympathetic
expressions from far and near, from the exalted and the humble, prove,
if proof were needed, that the memory of brave soldiers like Paul
Jones, who have sacrificed their lives in a great cause, is cherished
with gratitude and reverence by their countrymen.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
INDEX
Acton, Lord, 78
Alleyn, Edward, 14
_Alleynian, The_, 25, 29, 41 _et seq._
Alleynians, Old:
Ambrose, 231, 240
Barnard, W. J., 170
Beer, H. O., 155
Bray, F. W., 156
Cartwright, E. C., 20, 225
Clark, G. P. S., 157
Clarke, E. F., 25, 237
Cohn, F. A., 244
Corsan, 170
Crabbe, 174
Dawson, 208
Dicke, R., 170
Doherty, 241
Edkins, H., 26, 213, 217
Evans, W. E., 248
Fischer, A. W., 29, 194
Gill, W. G. O., 240
Gilligan, A. E. R., 29, 39, 248
Gilligan, A. H. H., 38, 177
Gover, 20
Gropius, E. H., 246, 264
Hannaford, S. J., 23
Henderson, W. J., 196
Hillier, F. N., 217
Howard, C. C., 194
Jones, Basil, 29, 189, 199
Jordan, J. P., 225
Kemp, 149
Killick, S. H., 199
Knox, F. P., 155
Lloyd, R., 139
Lowe, C. N., 241
Mackinnon, R. F., 218
Mann, J. S., 218
Peaker, A. P., 208
Potter, K. R., 217
Reynolds, J., 248
Roederwald, G., 246, 265
Sewell, 234
Tatnell, 176
Trimingham, 234
Wetenhall, 20
America and the War, 101, 103
Antoinette, Marie, 201
Army Service Corps, 104, 144, 187, 191, 198
Arnold, Matthew, 80
Asquith, H. H., 162, 165
Asquith, Raymond, 212
Athletes and the War, 49, 50, 124
Athletics:
Cricket, 37 _et seq._
Football, 21, 28, 177, 186, 223, 233
Lawn tennis, 21
Running, 22
Swimming, 21, 183, 246
"Victor Ludorum," 23
Bacon, Francis, 14
Balkan States, 151, 156
Barnett, D. O., 199
Balliol College, Oxford, 1, 19, 23, 227
Master of, 227, 266
Bennett, Arnold, 123
Bernhardi, General, 93, 236
Brakenbury scholarship, 19, 227
British Empire, 87, 93, 122
Brooke, Rupert, 199
Browning, 77, 81, 118
Brussels, 56
Buchan, John, 154, 185, 202, 228
Burke, 76, 201
Burns, 76
Byron, 21, 77, 203
Cæsar, Julius, 87, 88, 125
Canteen, Expeditionary Force, 205
Capital and Labour, 86, 250
Carlyle, 79, 82, 91, 111
Cavalry, British, 105, 136, 145, 163, 188, 219
Charles I. and II., 89, 90
_Chronicle, Daily_, 13, 148
Churchill, Winston, 165, 184
Commercialism, 50, 93, 253
Conquest, Norman, 89
Cromwell, 89, 125
Dante, 76
Dardanelles operations, 102
Democracy, 87, 96, 125, 249
Dickens, Charles, 73, 77
Donaldson, Jack, 258
Doyle, Conan, 72, 185
Drake, 89
Dulwich College, 1, 14, 24, 240, 247, 252
Dulwich Masters:
Boon, F. C, 18
Doulton, H. V., 17, 26
Gibbon, W. D., 30, 241
Gilkes, A. H., 15, 225, 261
Hope, P., 262
Joerg, J. A., 18, 262
Kittermaster, A. N. C., 180, 194, 247
Nightingale, F. L., 171, 194, 247
Oldham, F. M., 45
Smith, George, 261
Education, English, 96
Classics in our public schools, 17
English Universities, 227
Public schools and the War, 151
Elizabeth, Queen, 87
Engineering, 54, 55, 234
English qualities, 93, 122, 125, 200, 203, 206
Epicureanism, 82
Erasmus, 44, 79, 89
Evolution, 94, 122, 128, 243
Flanders, 140, 143, 181
Founder's Day at Dulwich, 25
Fox, 91
France, 99, 131
Frederick the Great, 90, 116, 118
French farmers, 179, 217, 225
French generalship, 215
Froude, 77, 79, 88, 112, 117
Garvin, R. G., 199
George, D. Lloyd, 93, 123, 193, 204
Germany, 56, 93, 123, 130
Her diplomacy, 127
Her methods in war, 100, 235
Gibbon, 76, 88, 91
Girondins, the, 183
Gladstone, 93
Goethe, 57, 74, 83, 125
Goldsmith, 77, 90
Greece, Ancient, 94
Grey, Sir Edward, 91, 127
Haldane, Lord, 165
Hamlet, 182
Haslam, J. C., 108, 258
Hay, Ian, 247
Hildebrand, 88
Hindenburg, 102, 161
History, 19, 87, 242
Homer, 73, 77
Horses, about, 136, 159, 164, 181, 188, 213
House of Commons, 95, 123, 163
Hudson, W. H., 80
India and the War, 95
Ireland, 129, 185, 214
Jews, the, 92
Johnson, Dr., 90, 96
Jonson, Ben, 76
Kant, 214
Keats, 76
Kipling, Rudyard, 73
Kitchener, Lord, 186
"Laissez-faire" system, 92, 125, 129
Leonardo da Vinci, 44
Llanelly, 52, 232
Louis XIV, 58, 87, 90
Louis XV, 91
Louis XVI, 91, 201
Luther, 89
Macaulay, 77
Maeterlinck, 81
Mainwaring, Thomas, 9
Marx, Karl, 249
McGill, Patrick, 224
Milton, 75, 81, 202, 223
Morocco, 93
Morris, William, 65
Music:
Beethoven, 57, 60, 67, 204, 232
Classical and Romantic, 66
Gluck, 67
Mozart, 67, 68
Nikisch, 232
Opera, development of, 64, 67
Wagner, 61 _et seq._, 115, 232, 245, 246
Napoleon, 58, 61, 116, 125, 136, 249
Navy, British, 12, 130
Battle of Jutland, 186
Falklands Islands battle, 101
Norman Conquest, 89
Oxford, 19, 20, 227
Paris, 58
Patriotism, 92, 250
Pax Britannica, 249
Pax Romana, 249
Pitt, the younger, 91
Plymouth, 9, 11
Political economy, 87
Politicians and the War, 148, 163, 172
Pope, 75
Prisoners, German, 203
Public schools, influence of, 48, 151
Punch and the War, 138, 154
Puritanism, 82
Redmond, W. H. K., 248
Rees, Ivor, 204
Reformation, the, 89
Revolution, the French, 80, 91
Rhine, the, 57, 63, 91, 123
Roberts, Lord, 100
Rousseau, 77
Schools:
Bedford, 32, 38, 134, 166, 185
Haileybury, 32, 231
Merchant Taylors', 32, 216
Sherborne, 32, 38
St. Paul's, 33, 39
Shakespeare, 60, 69, 70, 74, 182, 202
Shaw, G. B., 70, 73
Simon, Sir John, 172
Socialism, State, 95
Socialists and the War, 249
Soldier, the British, 132, 148, 161
Somme battlefields, 203, 237
_Spectator_, 164, 219
Stoicism, 82
Tacitus, 73, 88
Taine, 75, 84
Tirpitz, 101
Trade Unionism, 92
Treitschke, 57, 91, 92
Vernède, R. E., 49
Vivian, Hugh, 191
Wales, 53
War, the:
A nocturnal adventure, 168
An off-day at the front, 173
Diary of, 99 _et seq._
Its causes and objects, 47
Loss of ideal aims, 152
Motor transport, 160, 190, 194
Night on a battlefield, 209
Our treatment of prisoners, 206
Requisitioning officer's duties, 131, 152, 158, 218
Tank Corps, 106, 229, 239
The horse in war, 160, 184
Verdun, 236
Ypres, 138, 236
Zeppelins, 101, 145, 213
Wells, H. G., 73, 228
Welsh coal strike, 129
Welsh football, 34
Welsh music, 71
Welsh soldiers, 150, 167, 177, 178
Wordsworth, 75, 109
Working-classes, the, 85, 92, 250
Young, Arthur, 91, 201
Zangwill, I., 155
Printed by Cassell & Company, Limited. La Belle Sauvage, London, E.C.4
F 15.418.
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