Part 2

It is 11 a.m., and I’m sitting at the bottom of a dug-out waiting for the Hun to finish his morning hate before I go upstairs. He seems very angry, and has just caved in one of our walls.

Mother seemed most awfully sorry for me in her last letter. But you know I’m really having rather a good time, despite having a minimum amount of washing and having our mess kitchen blown in every few days. The only time that one gets melancholy is when nothing is doing. An attack or the preparations for an attack are real fun. Everybody is on his toes, and there’s no time to think.

It’s four hours later. Just as I had reached this point news came that some of our chaps were buried, so I had a little brisk spade-work, then a wriggling voyage through a hole, and then a lot of messy work pouring iodine into wounds and binding up. I’m afraid my hands are still rather like a murderer’s. Incidentally our kitchen is entirely done for this time. We’ve got the wounded fellows on their way to Blighty, and are fairly confident that they’re not going west this time.

I am so glad that the coming of America into the game has made so much difference to you. I wish I could come back for a fortnight and share the excitement with you. It’s difficult to picture New York as a military pageant in khaki. Tell me all about the young fellows I know and what they are doing. I wonder how many are in the Field Artillery—which is about the most interesting part of the game.

You remember that Calvary I told you about. I saw it under another guise after writing. Something happened and, instead of the spring peace, it was a shamble with horses and men dying. In such cases one can’t do anything—he has to go on about his own errand.

I’m so very dirty that I’ll leave off now while there’s a chance to have a wash. I’m awfully muddy, and my hair is just ready for growing potatoes—there’s about a pound of the real estate of France in it.

VIII

France June 6,1917

You certainly are owed a whole lot of letters, but it is very difficult to find the time under present conditions—I didn’t get my breakfast until 7.30 p.m. yesterday. And to-day I was up at 4 a.m., and didn’t come back from up front till dusk. So you see I really have some excuse for being temporarily a bad correspondent. You don’t need to be sorry for me, though, or anything like that, for I’m having quite a good time. After the mud this hard white sunlight is a godsend. Do you remember———

June 7.—Thus far I got when I was interrupted, and another day has gone by. I’m just back again from up front. I went there at dawn to do some reconnaissance work. By eight the heat was sweltering—just the way it was when we made our memorable trip down the Loire valley—only now there are no estaminets at which to drink Ciro Citron. The only inhabitants of the place where I am now are the mayor and his daughter, who returned the moment the town was captured. Rather fine of them. Yesterday a French soldier looked in (on special leave) to claim what was left of his cottage; just as much, I should imagine, as you could make into a road. And yet, despite the fallen houses, the fruit-trees are green and not so long ago were white with bloom and nodding.

I’m feeling extraordinarily lazy and comfortable. I’ve taken two hours over shaving and washing. My basin was the brass case of a big eight-inch naval shell which was formerly the property of the Hun. I wish I could send you one back. Two mornings ago I had a dive and swim in a shell-hole filled with rain-water, which gives you some idea of the sized crater a big shell can make. From henceforth, however, I shall have to eschew this pleasure, as I understand that the ground is so poisoned with corpses, etc., that the water is likely to bring on skin disease. I have that to a slight extent already. Most of us have—it comes from eating no vegetables and nothing but tinned stuff.

How interested you’d be if you could just go for a couple of hours’ walk with me. Coming back to-day I marvelled that we had ever managed to make our advance; the Hun machine-gun emplacements were so strongly fortified and well chosen. It speaks volumes for the impetuosity of our infantry.

IX

France June 17, 1917

I believe it must be nearly a week since I wrote. The reason is that I’m down at the wagon-lines, supposed to be resting, which is when we work the hardest. First of all, we had a grand inspection of the Brigade, which kept one going from 5 a.m. to 10.30 p.m., cleaning harness. Then we had Brigade sports, which are not yet over, and which don’t leave an officer with any leisure. The best time for letter-writing is when one is in action, since you sit in a dug-out for interminable hours with nothing much to keep you busy.

I’m looking forward very much to the receipt of Khaki Courage; it hasn’t come yet. It will be like reading something absolutely beyond my knowledge.

It is now evening. This has been a mixed day. I’ve been orderly officer. This morning I heard Canon Scott preach—he was the father I wrote to you about whom I met going up front in the winter to look for the body of his son. He’s a fine old chap, and fully believes that he’s fated to leave his bones in France. This afternoon was spent in harness-cleaning and this evening in watching a Brigade display of boxing. A strange world! But you’ll judge that we’re having quite good times. Last night we had an open-air concert—“Silver Threads among the Gold,” “The Long, Long Trail,” etc. Trenches lay behind us and ahead of us—not so long ago Huns could have reached us with a revolver shot, where we were all sitting. Overhead, like rooks through the twilight, our fighting planes sailed home to bed. Far away on the horizon, observers in the Hun balloons must have been watching us. It was almost possible to forget that a war existed; almost, until’ a reminder came with a roar and column of black smoke to a distant flank.

Monday.

This letter gets scribbled in pieces. I’m now waiting for the afternoon parade to fall in. The gramophone is strumming out a banjo song, and in my galvanized hut it’s as hot as———. Most of the men strip off everything but their breeches and go about their horses dripping like stokers. The place isn’t so unlike Petewawa in some respects, except that there is no water. You look for miles across a landscape of sage-green and chalk, with straight French roads running without a waver from sky-line to sky-line. There’s nothing habitable in sight—only grey piles and splintered trees. But in spite of the wholesale destruction one finds beauty. You’d smile if you could see our camp—it looks like a collection of gipsy bivouacs made of lean-tos of wood with canvas and sand-bags for roofs. The rats are getting bold, and coming out of the trenches—rather a nuisance. It’s strange to be here playing football on the very ground over which not so long ago I followed the infantry within half an hour of the commencement of the attack. Our wounded chaps were crawling back, trying to drag themselves out of the Hun barrage, which was ploughing up the ground all around, and the Huns were lying like piled-up wheatsacks in their battered front line. One learns to have a very short memory and to be glad of the present.

Within sight a little trench tramway runs just like the Welsh toy-railway of our childhood. It leads all the way to Blighty and New York and Kootenay. One can see the wounded coming out on it, and sometimes sees them with a little envy.

X

France June 23,1917

Last night Khaki Courage arrived. I found the Officers’ Mess assembled round my mail—they’d guessed what was in the package. I had intended smuggling the book away, and did actually succeed in getting it into my trench-coat pocket. A free fight ensued and, since there were four against one, I was soon conquered. Then one of them, having taken possession of the little volume, danced about our tin tabernacle reading extracts. I had planned to ride into a neighbouring city for dinner that night, but sat reading till nearly twelve. I can’t thank you all enough for your loving work. I think the proof of how well you have done it is, that my brother officers are quite uncynically keen about it. If they, who have shared the atmosphere which I have unconsciously set down in its pages, can read with eagerness and without ridicule, I think the book, as compiled by you, dear people, should stand the test.

Do you remember a description I gave you some months back of seeing Huns brought up from a captured dug-out? That’s long enough ago now for me to be able to give you a few details. A fortnight before the show commenced it was planned that an officer from each battery with a party of volunteers should follow up the infantry attack and build a road through the Hun Front line over which our artillery should advance. The initial work was carried on at night, and the road was built right up to our own front-line. On the morning of the attack I took my volunteers forward and hid with the rest of the party in one of our support trenches. We judged that we should escape the Hun barrage there, and should have advanced before his retaliation on our back country commenced. Soon after midnight, on a cold morning when the sleet was falling, we set out. The sky was faintly tinged with a grey dawn when our offensive opened. Suddenly the intense and almost spiritual quiet was changed into frantic chaos. The sky was vividly lit with every kind of ingeniously contrived destruction. In addition to his other shells, the Hun flung back gas and liquid fire. It looked as though no infantry could live in it. Within an hour of the offensive starting, each officer crept out of his trench and went forward to reconnoitre the ground, taking with him one N.C.O. and a runner. My runner carried with him a lot of stakes with white rags attached for marking out our route. We wound our way carefully through the shells until we reached our own Front line. Here the Hun barrage was falling briskly, and gas-shells were coming over to beat the band. The bursting of explosives was for all the world like corn popping in a pan. We ran across what had been No Man’s Land and entered the Hun wire. My job was to build from here to his support-trenches. His frontline trench was piled high with dead. The whole spectacle was unreal as something that had been staged; the corpses looked like wax-works. One didn’t have time to observe much, for flames seemed to be going off beneath one’s feet almost every second, and it seemed marvellous that we contrived to live where there was so much death. As we went farther back we began to find our own khaki-clad dead. I don’t think the Huns had got them; it was our own barrage, which they had followed too quickly in the eagerness of the attack. Then we came to where the liquid fire had descended, for the poor fellows had thrown themselves into the pools in the shell-holes and only the faces and arms were sticking out. Then I recognised the support-trench, which was the end of my journey, and planted my Union Jack as a signal for the other officers who were to build ahead of me. With my runner and N.C.O. I started to reconnoitre my road back, planting my stakes to mark the route. When I was again at what had been our Front line, I sent my runner back to guide in my volunteers. What a day it was! For a good part of the time the men had to dig, wearing their gas-helmets. You never saw such a mess—sleet driving in our faces, the ground hissing and boiling as shells descended, dead men everywhere, the wounded crawling desperately, dragging themselves to safety. I saw sights of pity and bravery that it is best not to mention, and all the time my brave chaps dug on, making the road for the guns. Soon through the smoke grey-clad figures came in tottering droves, scorched, battered, absolutely stunned. They looked more like beasts in their pathetic dumbness. One hardly recognized them as enemies. All day we worked, not stopping to eat, and by the evening we saw the first of our guns advancing. It’s a great game, this war, and searches the soul out. That night I slept in the mud, clothes and all, the dreamless sleep of the dog-tired.

Note.—Lieutenant Coningsby Dawson was wounded in the right arm at Vimy on 26th June. He was evacuated with a serious case of gas-gangrene, and after being in, first, a Casualty Clearing Hospital and then a Base Hospital, was sent back to England on 8th July, where he was in a hospital at Wandsworth, London, till the end of August. His arm was in such a serious condition that at first it was thought necessary to amputate it. Fortunately after days of ceaseless care this was avoided.

XI

Hospital

London July 8, 1917

A fortnight ago to-day I got wounded. The place was stitched up and didn’t look bad enough to go out with. Three days later there was an attack and I was to be observer. My arm got poisoned while I was on the job, and when I came back I was sent out. Blood-poisoning started, and they had to operate three times; for a little while there was a talk of amputation. But you’re not to worry at all about me now, for I’m getting on splendidly and there’s no cause for anxiety. They tell me it will take about two months before I get the full use of my arm back. Reggie was in London on leave and got his leave extended—I missed him by an hour. J. L. was round to see me this morning and is cabling to you. I don’t think you ought to cross while the risk is so great and there’s a difficulty in obtaining passports—though you know how I’d love to have you.

I’ve missed all my letters for the past fortnight. Please excuse me, for my arm gets very tired, and I’m not supposed to use it.

XII

London July 25, 1917

I’m going on all right, but can’t use my arm much for writing just at present, so you won’t mind short letters, will you? I got the first written by you since I was hurt, yesterday. I am so glad that America is so patriotic.

Yesterday, to my great surprise, I was called up by the High Commissioner of Canada, and on going to see him found he wanted me to start at once on preparing an important government statement. Since I’m forbidden to use my arm for writing, I’m to have a stenographer and dictate my stuff after doing the interviewing. This job is only temporary. And I think it is possible after I have finished it, if they refuse to allow me to return to the Front at once, that I may get a leave to America. I wouldn’t want to get a long one, as I am so anxious to get back to France.

Don’t worry at all about me. I feel quite well now, and go about with my arm in a sling and am allowed out of hospital to do this work all day. As soon as my ann grows stronger I’ll write you a good long letter, but while it is as it is at present I have to restrict myself to bare essentials.

Oh, did I tell you? I wouldn’t have missed coming through London on a stretcher for pounds. The flower-girls climbed into the ambulance and showered us with roses. All the way as we passed people waved and shouted. It was a kind of royal procession, and, like a baby, I cried. XIII

London August 3,1917

I’ve just come back to my office in Oxford Circus from lunching at the Rendezvous. Next to my table during lunch were two typical Wardour Street dealers, rubbing their hands and chortling over a cheap buy.

I wonder how long this different way of life is going to last. Someone will snap his fingers and heigh-ho, presto! I shall be back in France. This little taste of the old life gives me a very vivid idea of the sheer glee with which I shall greet the end of the war. How jolly comfortable it will be to be your own master—not that one ever is his own master while there are other people to live for. But I mean, what an extraordinary miracle it will seem to be allowed to reckon one’s life in years and not in weeks—to be able to look forward and plan and build. And yet—this is a confession—I can see myself getting up from my easy-chair and going out again quite gladly directly there is another war, if my help is needed. There was a time, long ago, when I used to regard a soldier with horror, and wondered how decent folk could admire him; the red of his coat always seemed to me the blood-red of murder. But it isn’t the killing that counts—you find that out when you’ve become a soldier; it’s the power to endure and walk bravely, and the opportunity for dying in a noble way. One doesn’t hate his enemy if he’s a good soldier, and doesn’t even want to kill him from any personal motive—he may even regret killing him while in the act. I think it’s just this attitude that makes our Canadians so terrible—they kill from principle and not from malice.

I’m seeing all my old friends again, lunching with one and dining with another, and have been to some matinees. But I can go to no evening performances, because I have to be in the hospital at 10 p.m.

I really am hoping to get a week in New York after this piece of work is done, after which back to France till the war is ended.

XIV

London August 30, 1917

I’ve just left hospital and am staying at this hotel. You keep saying in your letters that you never heard how I got my injury. I described it—but that letter must have gone astray. On 26th June I was wounded not by a shell, but by a piece of an iron chimney which was knocked down on to my right arm. I had it sewn up and for two days it was all right. The third I went up for an attack and it started to swell—by the time I came back I had gas-gangrene. The arm is better now and I’m on sick leave, though still working. They’ve made me an offer of a job here in London, but I should break my heart if I could not go back to the Front. But I think when I’ve finished here that I may get a special leave, with permission to call in at New York. Wouldn’t that be grand?

I don’t want to raise your hopes too high, but it seems extremely likely that I shall see you shortly. I was to-day before my medical board, and they gave me two months’ home service. I have been promised that as soon as a new Canadian ruling on home leave is confirmed, my application for leave will go through.

If that happens, I shall cable you at once that I am coming. It doesn’t seem at all possible or true that this can be so, and I’m making myself no promises till I’m really on the boat. It would be better that you should not, also. I’m taking a gamble and am going to order a new tunic for the occasion this afternoon.

It’s a golden afternoon outside—the kind that turns the leaves red at Kootenay, with the tang of iced wine in the air. The sound of London is like the tumming of a thousand banjos. It’s good to be alive, and very wonderful after all that has happened.

Note.—Lieutenant Coningsby Dawson arrived at Quebec on 26th September and came home on the following day. He was at home for a month. During that time he spoke in public on several occasions, and wrote the book which was brought out the following spring, entitled “The Glory of the Trenches.”

XIV

Somewhere on the Atlantic November 11, 1917

Here’s the first letter since I left New York, coming to you. It’s seven in the morning; I’m lying in my bunk, expecting any minute to be called to my bath.

So far it’s been a pleasant voyage, with rolling seas and no submarines. There are scarcely a hundred passengers, of whom only four are ladies, in the first class. The men are Government officials, Army and Navy officers going on Cook’s Tours, and Naval attachés. The American naval men are an especially fine type. We do all the usual things—play cards, deck-golf and sleep immoderately, but always at the wrong times.

I’m going back for the second time, and going back in the most placid frame of mind. I compare this trip with my first trip over as a soldier. I was awfully anxious then, and kept saying good-bye to things for the last time. Now I live day by day in a manner which is so take-it-for-granted as to be almost commonplace. I’ve locked my imagination away in some garret of my mind and the house of my thoughts is very quiet.

What bricks you all were in the parting—there wasn’t any whining—you were a real soldier’s family, and I felt proud of you. It was just a kind of “Good luck, old chap”—with all the rest of the speaking left to the eyes and hands. That’s the way it should be in a world that’s so full of surprises.

This trip has done a tremendous lot for me—I shall always know now that the trenches are not the whole of the horizon. Before, when I landed in France, it seemed as though a sound-and sight-proof curtain had dropped behind and everything I had known and loved was at an end. One collects a little bit of shrapnel and, heigho, presto! one’s home again. On my second trip, the war won’t seem such a world without end.

To-night I have to pack—that’s wonderful, too. I’m wondering whether Reggie will be on the station. I shall send a telegram to warn him.

XVI

The Ritz Hotel, London November 11, 1917

This was the date at which I had to report back at Headquarters. Actually I reported back yesterday, because to-day is Sunday. I found that I had been detailed not for France, but for work under the High Commissioner. You know what such news means to me. I at once did my best to fight the order, but was told that it was a military order in which I had no choice. I start work to-morrow at Oxford Circus House, but shall put in an urgent request to go to France.-I shall at least try to get some limitations to the period of my stay in England. Even when I was in hospital I used to feel that the last stretcher-case out of the fighting was someone to be worshipped—he was nearer to the sacrifice than I. And now I’m not to go back for months, perhaps—I shall eat my heart out in England.

Reggie fell asleep and has just wakened. He was dreaming, he said, the best dream in the world. It was that he might land back in New York on 20th December and spend Christmas with you—then go up to Kootenay to get a glimpse of his little green home among the snow and apple trees and—— “And then what?”

I asked. He made a wry face. “Go back to hunting submarines,” he said quickly. Go back! We all want to go back. Why? Because it’s so easy to find reasons for not going back probably. I shall raise heaven and earth to be sent back—and you’ll be glad of it.

There’s something that I shouldn’t tell you were I going back to-morrow. Last week I met one of my gunners on leave. He was standing on the island in Piccadilly Circus. I learnt from him that every officer who was with me at the battery when I was wounded has since been wiped out. Even some who joined since have been done for. Three have been killed, the rest wounded, gassed, and the major has gone out with concussion. Among the killed is poor S., the one who was my best friend in France, You remember he had a young wife, and his first baby was born in February. He used to carry the list of all the people I wanted written to if I were killed, and I had promised to do the same for him. In addition to the officers, many of the men whom I admired have “gone west.” All this was told me casually in the heart of London’s pleasure, with the taxis and buses streaming by.