Now, in the first place, I should like to be allowed to say what you perhaps have guessed: that he is a very fine and a very valuable officer. I am not a bad judge, not only because I command his Company, but because, unlike himself, I am not quite without military knowledge of the kind that came before the war, having a good many years behind me of service as a Volunteer, and then as a Territorial, down to within seven months of the beginning of the war when I joined this Service Battalion. And I have no hesitation in saying that our friend is a fine and valuable officer. I know that a big share of any credit due for the fine training and discipline of our Company—which is, I think, admitted to be the crack Company of the best Battalion in the Brigade—is due, not to me, but to the Commander of our No. 1 Platoon. It is a very great loss to me to have him laid aside now; but I am so thankful his life is spared that I have no regret to waste over his being wounded. But I do very sincerely hope that he will be able to return to us, to the reorganised "A" Company, for I have never met an officer I would sooner have beside me. The men of the Platoon, and, indeed, of the whole Company, are devoted to him; and I regard it as little short of marvellous that in so comparatively short a time a man who had never had even the slightest hint of military training should have been able to become, all round, so efficient, so well posted technically, and, above all, so confident and absolutely so successful a leader of men. For that has been his greatest asset: that his men will go anywhere with him, do anything for him, trust him without the slightest reserve or doubt.
You know more about his character than I do, but I venture to say that the character you know has been wonderfully developed by the war and by his military training. He may have been the most lovable of men before, but I cannot believe that he was anything like so strong a man or so able a man. Confidence, fearlessness, decisiveness—strength, in fact; these qualities, I am sure, have developed greatly in him since he joined. I sometimes think there is nothing more wonderful in all this wonderful period of the war than the amazing development it has brought in the thousands of young Englishmen who now are capable and efficient officers, loved and trusted by their men, and as able in every way as any officers the British Army ever had, although the great majority of them have no military tradition behind them, and before August, 1914, had no military training. That is wonderful, and I am convinced that no other race or nation in the wide world could have produced the same thing. The men, fine as they are, might have been produced elsewhere, or something like them. But this apparently inexhaustible supply of fine and efficient officers—no, I think not.
The newspapers will have told you something of our little push, and I will not trouble you with any technical detail. We advanced over a very narrow front after a short but intense bombardment. Our friend led the right half of "A" because I did not want to rob his own Platoon of his immediate influence. His is No. 1. The pace was hot, despite the torn and treacherous nature of the ground. The right half did even better than my half, and stormed the first Boche line with extraordinary dash and vigour. It seemed as though nothing could stop their impetuosity; and in the midst of the tremendous din I caught little waves of their shouting more than once.
Our friend had crossed the first line, and successfully led his men to the very edge of the second line, shouting to his men to join him in taking it, when the shell burst that brought him down. The same shell must have laid some Boches low, if that is any consolation. Not that we need any consolation. I feel sure you will agree with me in that.
But I want to tell you that the wounds in the right arm—not serious, I am thankful to say—were not from the same shell. They came in the neighbourhood of the first Boche line. That same right arm (after it was wounded), carrying a loaded stick, knocked up a Boche bayonet that was due to reach the chest of a man in No. 1 Platoon and then served to support the same man on the parapet of the Boche trench—he was already wounded—for a few moments till a stretcher-bearer got him. It was not possible for our friend to stay with him, of course. A few seconds later he was leading his men full pelt towards the second line; and all that after his first wound. I thought you would like to know that. Our C.O. knows it, and I venture to hope it will find mention in dispatches.
And now with regard to his condition. Whilst he is not quite so forward as he thinks—there is, of course, no question of his coming back to duty in a few days, as he fancies—there is, I think, no cause whatever for anxiety. In fact, the M.O. at the Clearing Station assured me of so much. His general health is excellent; nothing septic has intervened; it is simply a question of a little time. The worst that is likely to happen is that the left leg may be permanently a shade shorter than the right, and it is hoped this may be averted. His Company—all that is left of us—will be very sincerely glad to see him back again. Meantime we rejoice, as I am sure you will, in the manner, the distinction, of his fall, in the certainty of his enjoying the rest he has earned so well, and in the prospect of his recovery.
THE PUSH AND AFTER
The Battalion being now out of the line, the O.C. Company has kindly sent my batman along to me here—you remember my batman, Lawson, on Salisbury Plain—and he is writing this for me, so that I can preserve my present perfect laziness. I point this out by way of accounting for the superior neatness of the handwriting, after my illegible scrawls. Lawson was a clerk at ——'s works before the war, and, as you perceive, has a top-hole "hand of write."