Note.
On the 25th July, 1915, Harold Rosher arrived home on two days' leave, having come across to attend a conference.
XXXVII.
To his Father.
No. 1 Wing, R.N.A.S. B.E.F.
28th July, 1915.
Dear Dad,
Have had a ripping journey back. The country down to Folkestone was just too lovely for words, especially round Ashford. Saw Milverton [the house where he was born] on the way. Had a first-rate crossing, and was met by one of the Rolls [Rolls-Royce car] at Boulogne, so your wire arrived all right. Had lunch at the "Folkestone" before starting back, and then a topping run here. Went out to see the lads at F—— in the evening. Sippe is back again and Baillie in great form. He sends his chin chins, and I gave him yours.
A Hun came over at midnight last night and bombed us. His eight bombs fell nearly a mile away, though.
31st July, 1915.
More excitement. I was due for an anti-aircraft patrol this morning, and just as I was ready, a little before 4.0 a.m., a Hun machine came over and bombed us. Three bombs fell within a hundred yards of me. I went up after him at once, but lost sight of him in the air, so continued the usual patrol. When I got back, I found that six other machines had followed the first, arriving about fifteen minutes after. None of their bombs did any damage at all. They seem determined to strafe this place. A regular cloud of machines goes up after them whenever they appear, but we haven't had much luck as yet.
Expect to be stationed at Dover again in about ten days, for a little while anyhow. The Commander seems to think I don't look fit enough to go out to the Dardanelles. Apparently they are being bowled over with dysentery.
Love to all.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.
[12] Flight Sub-Lieut. Henry Barnes, killed in an accident near London, 4th Oct., 1915.
VII
ON HOME SERVICE AGAIN
XXXVIII.
To his Father.
R.N. Flying School, Eastchurch.
3rd August, 1915.
Dear Dad,
I left Dover yesterday afternoon on B.E. 2 C, and had a convenient engine failure at Westgate. Landed in the aerodrome and had a chat with Maude before proceeding. Arrived here in due course—it is a most desolate spot. Shall be here anything between three days and three weeks. Saw Babington here soon after I arrived.
10th August, 1915.
I don't seem to be able to get away from this damn war. Last night "old man Zepp" came over here—"beaucoup de bombs,"—"pas de success." Two machines went up to spikebozzle him, but, of course, never even saw him. A sub went up from Westgate and came down in standing corn. He turned two somersaults. Have just heard that he has since died. I knew him slightly. We have a terrific big bomb hole in the middle of the aerodrome and numerous smaller ones at the back. Expect to be back in Dunkirk on Sunday next. "Pas de Dardanelles." We are going into khaki though.
Love to all.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.
XXXIX.
To his Father.
Hotel Burlington, Dover.
12th August, 1915.
Dear Dad,
Have just arrived here from Eastchurch, having been suddenly recalled, and am now told to be ready to cross to Dunkirk in half an hour—no gear, dirty linen, "pas de leave"—what a life!
Shall try hard to get some leave in a week or so's time. Anyhow I must get my khaki outfit.
Love.
Your loving son,
Harold.
VIII
WITH THE B.E.F. ONCE MORE
XL.
To his Mother.
No. 1 Wing, R.N.A.S., B.E.F.
13th August, 1915.
Dearest Mum,
Got aboard and were off by 8.0 p.m. last night—our ship a comic old tramp with absolutely no accommodation. It took us 6 hours to make Dunkirk and we were not allowed off until 8.0 a.m. this morning. Spent the night walking about or trying to get a little sleep on deck—thank God! it was not rough. We are all "fed to the teeth!" In all probability we shall remain out here another six months now.
The Zepp that was bombed from here had actually been towed right into Ostend harbour. Everyone that went had his machine hit, and one man is missing. This place was bombarded again the other day with the big gun. Expect we are in for a merry time.
Love.
Ever your loving son,
Harold.
XLI.
To his Mother.
No. 1 Wing, R.N.A.S., B.E.F.
26th August, 1915.
Dearest Mum,
I am being kept very busy out here. Last night there was a comic raid on the Forest of Houthulst. It is six or seven miles behind the lines near Dixmude, and the Huns use it as a rest camp—beaucoup de stores and ammunition there too. The French idea was to set it on fire with incendiary bombs. Over forty machines took part, including self—perfect weather conditions—no clouds but very hazy, so when one got high up one was almost invisible. I got just over 11,000 feet, but even then had one or two shots near me. Below me the air was simply a mass of bursting shrapnel. French artillery also opened fire on the place. There must have been beaucoup de noise in the forest. Most amusing—a really soft job as some one remarked.
Love to all.
Your loving son,
Harold.