Then comes talk of the chance of getting a letter home. Half of the men retire to violent wrestles with foreign pens and ink at the table in the rear of the shop: the rest stay yarning.
The letters are always read aloud or left open as a point of honour; but I had never once to suggest the omission of a line which gave place or date or regimental names. The tradition of the silent war has gone deep. Further, very few either knew or cared where they were or had been. The names meant nothing. Even the sense of time had been lost in the constant occupation and the turning of day into night.
Certainly the letters I saw at that end were far less picturesque than those published in the papers; but the latter, of course, are a selected number. The traditional "English tongue" learned in the elementary school, with its stiff conventions, held the paper. These scraps are typical of many read to me:
"Dear brother,—I hope you are well, as this leaves me. I am quite well. And I have not written before, as there has been no time. And I hope She and all are well. Please give them my love. I have seen ——, and we have seen lots of fighting. I think that is all, so must end. Love to —— and ——.—Yours affectionately, etc."
"Dear Dad,—This is the first time I have written, and I have had no letter. Please write soon, and ask Mum and sisters to write. I am quite well, as I hope this finds you. It is very hot, and it is bad for the horses. Baby Bob must be a big chap now. Give him my love. A gentleman is taking this. Tell all to write and send some cigarettes.
I will not write any more, so will end.—"
From, etc.
Sometimes the human touch breaks through the conventions, in a kiss sent to a baby or in a scrawled P.S.:
"Dear Mother,—I am very well, as I hope you are and father. And —— and ——. It has been very hot, and I have not slept in bed for four weeks. But I am all serene. Give Tom my love, and I am glad he has joined; we must all do something. Don't worry.—From your loving son, ——."
—and then a big scrawl all across the reverse sheet, and again the big scrawl across the back that brings a catch to one's throat—"Don't Worry, Mother." "Don't Worry."
I don't suppose they bothered much at home, when they got these letters, at the absence of battle news. Husband, brother, or son, the sight of his writing is enough. "I am quite well"—and for those waiting another milestone in their shadow-time has been safely passed.