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 communiques. 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 doc.u.ments 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 inc.u.mbent 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 ent.i.tled 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-cla.s.s 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 mult.i.tudinous 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 cla.s.ses 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 "cla.s.s-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 cla.s.s-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 cla.s.s-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 cla.s.s-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 a.s.sociation of families--thrown together (_a_) by kinship of blood or likeness of type; (_b_) by environment; (_c_) by chance or circ.u.mstance (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, enn.o.bling 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 compet.i.tion--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 compet.i.tion. However, better luck next time! I was delighted to get the _Ill.u.s.trated 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 antic.i.p.ate 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 l.u.s.t 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 circ.u.mstances 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.