XX
London
December 10, 1917
I got a letter from the Foreign Office, asking me to go back to America to do writing and lecturing for the British Mission. I'm sure you'll appreciate why I refused it, and be glad. I couldn't come back to U.S.A. to talk about nobilities when their sons and brothers are getting their first baptism of fire in the trenches. If I'd got anything worth saying I ought to be out there in the mud—saying it in deeds. But I've told Colonel B. that if ever I come out again wounded I will join the British Mission for a time. So now you have something to look forward to.
I hear though that permission will probably be granted to me within the next few days to start for France to go through the American lines and activities. You can guess how interesting that will be to me. I only hope they have a fight on while I'm in the American lines. I suppose the tour will take me the best part of a month, so I'll be away from England for Christmas. I rather hope I'll be in Paris—ever since reading Trilby I've longed to go to the Madeleine for Noël—which reminds me that I must get Trilby to read on the journey. It's rather a romantic life that I'm having nowadays, don't you think? I romp all over the globe and, in the intervals, have a crack at the Germans.
After I have finished writing this book on the American activities in France I shan't be content a moment till I've rejoined my battery. I feel a terrible shyster stopping away from the fighting a day longer than can be helped. This book, which I intend to be a spiritual interpretation of the soul of America, ought to do good to Anglo-American relations; so it seems of sufficiently vital importance. I can't think of anything that would do more to justify the blotting out of so many young lives than that, when the war is ended, England and America should have reason to forget the last hundred and thirty years of history, joining hands in a worldwide Anglo-Saxon alliance against the future murdering of nations. If I can contribute anything towards bringing that about, the missing of two months in the trenches will be worth it.
I went to a “good luck” dinner the other night, which we gave to my major on the occasion of his setting sail for Canada. Two others of the officers who used to be with me in the battery are to be on the same ship. A year ago in the Somme we used to pray for a Blighty—to-day, every officer in our mess has either got a Blighty or is dead. It gives one some idea of the brevity of our glory.
You'd love the West End shops were you here. I've just drawn down my blinds on Oxford Street; I walked back by way of Regent Street after lunch—all the windows are gay and full. Men in khaki are punting their girls through the crowds, doing their Christmas shopping. You can see the excited faces of little children everywhere. There doesn't seem to be much hint of war. One wonders whether people are brave to smile so much or only careless. You hear of tremendous lists of casualties, but there are just as many men. It looks as though we had man-power and resources to carry on the war interminably. There's only one class of person who is fed-up—and that's the person who has done least sacrificing. The person who has done none at all is a nervous wreck and can't stand the strain much longer. But ask the fighting men—they're perfectly happy and contented. Curious! When you've given everything, you can always give some more.
This may reach you before Christmas, though I doubt it. If it does, be as merry as we shall be, though absent.