On Sunday I was back in town. Eric turned up this morning, looking gallant and smiling, with an exceedingly glad eye. He's just the same as he always was, discontented with his job because he thinks it's too safe and trying to find one more dangerous. We're going to have a great time together, unless I get my marching orders from the Foreign Office.
I lunched with Raemaekers at Claridge's today and have just come back. He's an elemental moralist, encased in a burgher's exterior. He affects me with a sense of restrained power. One is surprised to see him eating like other men. How I wish that I could detest as he detests! And yet he has heart in plenty. He told me a story of a French battalion going out to die. The last soldier stepped out of the ranks towards his colonel, who was weeping for his men who would not come back. Flinging his arms about his commanding officer, he kissed him and said, “Do not fear, my Colonel; we shall not disgrace you.” He has an eye for magnanimity, that man.
XXIII
London
December 31, 1917
This foggy London morning early your three letters from 5th to 18th December arrived. I jumped out of bed, lit the gas, retreated under the blankets, and devoured them, leaning on my elbow.
This is the last day of the old year—a quaint old year it has been for all of us. I commenced it quite reconciled to the thought that it would be my last; and here I am, while poor Charlie S. and so many other fellows whom I loved are dead. It only shows how very foolish it is to anticipate trouble, for the last twelve months have been the very best and richest of my life. If I were to die now, I should feel that I had at least done something with my handful of years.
I'd like to have another glimpse of America now that in the face of reverses she has grown sterner. It's certain at last that there'll be a lot of American boys who won't come back. They're going to be real soldiers, going to go over the top and to endure all the fierce heroisms of an attack. It's cruel to say so, but it's better for America's soul that she should have her taste of battle after all the shouting.
On Saturday F. R. came to see us. He's home on leave. He and P. and I sitting down together after all the years that have intervened since we were at Oxford together! As F. expressed it, blinking through his spectacles, “Doesn't it seem silly that I should be dressed up like this and that you should be dressed like that?” He went out in January as a second lieutenant, and returned commanding his battalion. God moves in a mysterious way, doesn't He? One can't help wondering why some should “go west” at once and others should be spared. Bob H., who was also with us at Oxford, as you will remember, lasted exactly six days. The first day in the trenches he was wounded, but not sufficiently to go out. The sixth day he was killed.
Did I tell you that there's a nerve hospital near here crowded with nerve-shattered babies on one floor and nerve-shattered Tommies on the next? The babies are all dressed in red and the Tommies in the usual hospital blue. Each day the shell-shocked chaps go up to visit the children; the moment the door opens and the blue figures appear, the little red crowd stretch out their arms and cry, “My soldier! My soldier!” for each Tommy has his own particular pet. When a child gets a nervous attack, it is often only the one particular soldier who can do the soothing. Who'd think that men fresh from the carnage could be so tender! And people say that war makes men brutal. Humph!