Take as ill.u.s.trations 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 sh.e.l.l-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 role 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 a.s.sure 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. .h.i.t 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 cla.s.sical scholarship at Corpus Christi College.]

TO HIS BROTHER.

_April 29th, 1917._

Circ.u.mstances 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 surpa.s.sing interest, a certain amount of excitement, and a knowledge that one was more or less directly partic.i.p.ating 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 "n.o.ble 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 sh.e.l.l-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 sc.r.a.p 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._