Raymond; or, Life and Death. Sir Oliver Lodge
in each hollow is a ripping nectarine. Isn't it fine of him?
"We have roses picked every day for the Mess-room; it does improve it. The other evening we had a specially nice meal. We sat round the polished table with candles in the centre and bowls of roses round them (as a matter of fact the bowls were old tinned-fruit tins, but what of that). The food was very special, though I can't remember what it was, but to crown all there was in the room just across the passage … a real fiddler with a real fiddle. I really don't know how he managed to bring a fiddle out here; he is a private in the Royal Garrison Artillery, and plays simply beautifully. He has long hair and just a suggestion of side whiskers, and large boots, and, but that he would not be complimented, looks like a Viennese.
"He started off by playing Grand Opera—I believe—and he gave us the Intermezzo from 'Cavalleria Rusticana.' Then he gave us 'Gipsy Love' and the 'Merry Widow,' and so on. He finished up with American ragtime. We sent him in a bottle of whisky half-way through the performance, and the music got lighter thenceforward. It was most amusing to notice the effect. When we looked in later the whisky was standing on the table, and he was walking round it with his fiddle, playing hard and apparently serenading it!
"I was inoculated again on Friday evening because it is only really effective for about six months, and there is going to be a lot of enteric about, I expect. This apparently is just the very place for it—flat low-lying country, poor water supply, and the soil heavily manured. So I have been feeling rather weak and feverish after it, but I am better again now. I have to have it done again ten days later—but the second time is not so bad.
"Talking about roses, Thomas picked a beauty this morning (before I got up) and brought it to me in bed. It is in front of me now, and is 5 inches across, and has a very fine smell."
"Wednesday, 16 June 1915, 1.30 p.m.
"We made an attack early this morning, and our Company waited here to receive the prisoners. Poor devils, I do feel so sorry for them. One officer of sixteen with six weeks' service. Old men with grey beards too, and many of the student type with spectacles—not fit to have to fight.
"You remember 'Very Pressing are the Germans'; well, that's where I am, right inside the walls. Quite shell-proof, but very dank.
"I have got the machine-gun job, and am going for a fortnight's course, starting on the 26th of June."
"Monday, 21 June 1915, 4.30 p.m.
"We have had an extremely trying time lately, and I am very sorry to say we have lost Thomas.
"He was hit on the head by shrapnel on the night after the attack—I expect you saw the account in the papers—and died about an hour later, having never recovered consciousness.
"It was a most fatal night—the whole battalion was ordered out digging to consolidate the captured positions. We got half-way out, and then got stuck—the road being blocked by parties of wounded. We waited on a path alongside a hedge for over an hour, and though we could not be seen we had a good deal of shrapnel sent over us. To make matters worse, they put some gas shells near, and we had to wear our helmets though the gas was not very strong. It was exceedingly unpleasant, and we could hardly see at all. It was while we were waiting like this that Thomas got knocked out.
"We are all sorry to lose him, and I miss him very much, but it is nothing to the trouble there will be at his home, for he is his mother's favourite son.
"I have written to his mother, but I have not told her what makes us feel so mad about it—namely, that we did no digging that night at all. When we got to the position we were so late, and there was still such confusion there due to the attack, that we marched back again and just got in before daylight. We might just as well never have gone out. Isn't it fairly sickening?
"The next night we went out again, and we had a very quiet night and no casualties. The scene of the battle was pretty bad, and I put all my spare men on to burying.
"Altogether we are very thankful to have a change from 'pioneering,' and get back to the trenches!
"Our chief trouble here is snipers. We are in a wood, and parties going for water and so on to our headquarters will walk outside the trench instead of in it, just because the trench goes like this. [A diagram is omitted.] They take the straight course along the side in spite of repeated warnings. There is one point that a sniper has got marked. He gets our men coming back as they get into the trench just too late. We had a man hit this morning, but not badly, and a few minutes ago I had to stop this letter and go to a man of B Company who had got hit, and rather more seriously, at the same spot. I have put up a large notice there now, and hope it will prevent any more.
"I am sorry this is not a very cheerful letter, but we have all been rather sad lately. I am getting over it now. Luckily one absorbs these things very gradually; I could not realise it at first. It was an awful blow, because, especially since Fletcher went away (he is now at home), we had become very friendly, and one is apt to forget that there is always the chance of losing a friend suddenly. As a matter of fact, Thomas is the first officer of C Company that has been killed for seven months.
"When we were up in this wood before, digging (about a fortnight ago) B Company lost Captain Salter. I dare say you saw his name in the Roll of Honour. We were just going to collect our spades and come in, when he was shot through the head by a stray bullet.
"What a very melancholy strain I am writing in, I am so sorry. I am quite well and fit. We have mislaid our mess-box coming up here with all our specially selected foods. The result is we are on short commons—great fun. I am eating awful messes and enjoying them. Fried bacon and fried cheese together! Awful; but, by Jove, when you're hungry."
Letter from Raymond to the Mother of an Officer
Friend of his who had been Killed
"2nd S. Lancashire Regt., B.E.F., Front, 17 June 1915
"Dear Mrs. Thomas—I am very sorry to say I have to tell you the very worst of bad news. I know what Humphrey's loss must be to you, and I want to tell you how much it is to all of us too. I know I have not realised it yet myself properly. I have been in a kind of trance since last night and I dread to wake up.
"He was a very fine friend to me, especially since Fletcher went away, and I miss him frightfully. Last night (16th to 17th) the whole Battalion went out digging. There had been an attack by the English early the same morning, and the enemy's guns were still very busy even in the evening. Our road was blocked in front owing to the moving of a lot of wounded, and while we were held up on a little field path alongside a hedge we had several shrapnel shells over us. To add to the horrors of the situation they had put some gas shells over too, and we were obliged to put on our gas helmets. While Humphrey was standing with his helmet on in the rear of our Company talking to the Captain of the Company behind, a shell came over and a piece of it caught him on the head. He was rendered unconscious, and it was evident from the first he had no chance of recovery. He was immediately taken a little way back to a place where there was no gas, and here the doctor dressed his wound. He was then taken back on a stretcher to the dressing-station. He died there about an hour after he had been admitted, having never recovered consciousness.
"If he had to die, I am thankful he was spared pain beforehand. It made my heart ache this afternoon packing his valise; I have given his chocolate, cigarettes, and tobacco to the Mess, and I have wrapped up his diary and a few loose letters and made them into a small parcel which is in the middle of his valise.
"The papers and valuables which he had on him at the time will be sent back through our headquarters, the other things, such as letters, etc., in his other pockets I have left just as they were. I hope the valise will arrive safely.
"He will be buried very simply, and probably due east of Ypres about three-quarters of a mile out—near the dressing-station. I will of course see he has a proper cross.