Cal, Stokes, Springs and I went to supper and a show to-night. Dismal failure. This has been our first day of real work. I believe the course will be easy as we’ve had it all once except the Vickers machine gun and rotary motors. Both of these are used extensively by the Royal Flying Corps.
I hear that the Germans have the goods in airplanes and A. A. guns. I guess it’s the North and South over again. Of course, no one doubts our winning out in the end but it will be a long hard fight and few of us will be left to enjoy the fruits of our victory. I surely am lucky not to be in the trenches. Some, in fact, most of the cadets have been out and they say it’s hell. “Only we young chaps can stand it,” they say. Most of these English cadets are kids and the instructors themselves wouldn’t average over twenty-two. Our machine gun instructor has a bullet hole thru the flap of his ear. He says he’s going to get one in the other ear so he can wear earrings.
Something queer went on this evening. The Painted Lady, as we call the camouflaged cruiser that is escorting us, turned around and circled behind us and fired a few shots. We don’t know what she was firing at. She sure is a queer-looking boat. She’s painted all different colours in lines and squares and you can’t tell which way she is going or what she is until you get close to her. Another boat in our convoy is painted the colour of the ocean and then has a smaller ship painted over it going the other way. From any distance it is very deceptive. Another ship has the same arrangement except the deception is in the angle of her course.
We went below, Cal and I, to hear the Steerage Quartet, as they call themselves. Enlisted men they are and natural born entertainers. One boy sang “I ain’t got nobody” wonderfully well. Spalding played one of his own compositions for us. One day at Mineola, Springs was looking about as usual for some kitchen police. He put the first six men to work peeling potatoes. While they were manicuring the spuds he checked up their service records. One … Read the rest
Aboard R. M. S. Carmania in the harbour of Halifax.
Well, here I am aboard ship and three days out of New York, waiting for a convoy at Halifax. This seems to be a fitting place to start a diary. I am leaving my continent as well as my country and am going forth in search of adventure, which I hope to find in Italy, for that is where we are headed. We are a hundred and fifty aviators in embryo commanded by Major MacDill, who is an officer and a gentleman in fact as well as by Act of Congress. We are travelling first class, thanks to him, tho we are really only privates, and every infantry officer on board hates our guts because we have the same privileges they do. Capt. Swan, an old Philippine soldier, is supply officer.
This morning when we steamed into harbour, which is a wonderful place, we found five or six transports already here. The soldiers on them, all that could, got into the boats and came over to see us. They rowed around and around our boat and cheered and sang. They were from New Zealand and a fine … Read the rest
The stoic doctrine remains the only pillar of faith that can support the soldier, not by the skill of his arm or his strength, but by undoubting trust in good luck and sure Fate is he able to withstand a deadly sickness of disillusionment and horror of disaster.
If I had a confidence that the war would soon finish, I could think myself in Elysium, an Elysium of peaceful beauty. Association enters, for the park where we are resting has all the quiet elements which go to form the subdued landscape beloved of the moderns: a profusion of twisted, grey fruit trees rising over a grassy elevation to gleam pale against a fringe of woodland ; red-tiled farm-buildings on a structure of rough beams and yellowish clay mellowed by atmosphere to a fine series of warm-purple tints ; a broad-hatted peasant turning the handle of draw-well , brown cows grazing in the middle distance, with legs hidden below the grass-tops ; and an infinity of butterflies rising and falling among the flowers. When we wake in the morning, the peacefulness of the whole glides like a dream into the perception, and the contrast grows the more bitter … Read the rest
You will remember the strong, hard faces, held in the unnatural light Brangwyn paints occasionally : that memory realised remains one of the most poignant of my experience. The night previous to the attack we lined up along the canal bank, and as I peered into each face to find my section, the harsh unnatural look was in all, that strange repellent tenseness of feature and expression caused by intense emotion – emotion not only of nerves strung to the utmost pitch, but of body, for almost every man had a dose of rum. The platoon officer, usually a quiet retiring lad, not over-confident, surprised me with a mouthful of curses for being late. It might appear bravado, but I think I was the only cool one among them, actuated by a sense of wonder at so much excitement. After all, the business had to be done, and there was no use burking it or flying into hysterics. The lucky, chosen men would come back, the others would not. That appeared the sum total, in my modest judgement. Perhaps lack of rum caused this apparent indifference. From the working of his features … Read the rest
Being in bed all day with nothing to do, I might describe that wonderful canal-bank at Ypres I mentioned some time ago, and also our march to Passchendaele, thus finishing the whole matter at once when memory is fresh. That march from Vlamertinghe to Ypres at night must remain the most romantic and exciting incident of my life, not on account of bursting shells or even danger in its slightest form, but through the uncertain nature of our road, and the warnings we received as to spies. My duty was to link up companies, our company being behind “C”. Whenever the men in front diverged from the straight track, I had to wait behind and tell the following which way they had taken. With the night pitch-black and a bewildering procession of G.S. wagons, transport, guns, and ammunition-carts all over the landscape, such a procedure was by no means a joke. If the company got lost through me, there would be a hot time in store : no reward, of course, if I was successful,
At sunset the battalion set out, each company with its set of pipers and drummers. The sky, from being a … Read the rest
I got that comfortable wound I mentioned in my last letter some intuition must have told me what was going to happen. The pain is not too great, although the right leg is useless just now ; the doctor says it will come in time. I am expecting to be home in two days. As soon as he heard of the division to which I belonged, then it was all right: the fighting divisions, if they don’t get much of a time in the trenches, are decently treated in hospital, have usually the precedence, and rightly, too.
I just want to tell you about the last affair.
Our division had the pleasing task of making a bold bid for Passchendaele of course, the officers told us the usual tale, “soft job”, and I reckon it might have been easy enough if we had had a decent start. But none of us knew where to go when the barrage began, whether half-right or half-left: a vague memory of following the shell-bursts as long as the smoke was black, and halting when it changed to white. It was all the same to me: I … Read the rest
The weather just now can be summed up in a word – wretched : not exactly wet, never dry, sometimes heavy thunder-showers, sometimes watery sunshine, placing a dead gleam on the pools and muddy roads. I have become so accustomed to “glabber”, that it must be knee-deep before it disturbs me. I think it must have reached that stage in the front-line.
We possess one resource, not too trustworthy duckboards: there is no fatigue more exhausting than stumbling over several miles of slippery boards with yawning shell-holes on each side, filled to the brim with foul water. The enemy usually has their range, with the result that they go up in the air every morning. Not lately, however, for his artillery has had a frightful time of it, knocked to pieces by our shells.
I expect this will be the last letter you will get from me for at least ten days. You know what that means. I can only hope to get out safely, or, at worst, with a comfortable wound. If the same fate happens to me as to Peter, I have done my duty, according to conventional standards. By higher and more ideal … Read the rest
I am right in the thick of it again, in this historic place which I shall describe some time. When I think of the glorious weather, sunlight shimmering in a molten sky and slow winds just breathing over the wilderness of shell-holes, it seems so hard throwing it all aside for an uncertain end. Yet it must be done. Perhaps Fate may have some kindness in store for me. Last night I had a strangely poignant dream : I was lying in hospital, trying madly to move my legs, both tied down in splints, and biting my lips to overcome pain coming from the right groin. A comfortable wound might be the outcome of this premonition. Let us hope so: then I can see again the Old Country I. had given up for lost, hear the old voices, look at the friendly glad faces.
ZEGGERSKAPPELL, 5 October, 1917
White Heather appealed to me, even if it were only that it described life in Glasgow, the lonely life of lodgings, removed from the crowd and yet in it where one met it by the causeways and brushed past it in the walk, foreign to … Read the rest