War Letters of a Public-School Boy

by Henry Paul Mainwaring Jones

It is amusing to see how the views of certain newspapers vary from month to month, and even more diverting to observe how all the amateur strategists claim that they had really predicted every phase of the military operations. Believe me, however, the war has been and is quite different from any ideas entertained in regard to it in the early weeks and months. It is a blend of grotesque incongruities that would be humorous were not one side of them so tragic and terrible. No one here seems to know anything definite about what is going on. One has considerable local knowledge but very little general information. Probably the latter is impossible to get in this sort of mix-up—the scale on which the war is being waged is so vast.

You will see roughly from Sir John French's latest dispatch the part played by the cavalry in the advance of 25th September-5th October. You will not, of course, be able to glean much of what actually happened, but I can tell you we had a most interesting time.

How tiresome is the tosh written in the papers and spoken in Parliament about the war! One wonders if it would not be a good plan to shut up Parliament for a time, though I suppose it is a good thing to have a place where men can vent their foolish thoughts. But I am thoroughly weary of "Statements by the Prime Minister" which state nothing, and of mere denunciations by Sir Arthur Markham and Sir Edward Carson; also of the shrieking of the Yellow Press, the wishy-washiness of the Liberal Press and the Spectator, the impenetrable Conservatism of the Morning Post, and the noisy sensationalism of the Bottomley—Austin Harrison crew. Thank goodness the strong broad stream of British spirit runs deeper and is much purer than would appear from this froth and scum on the surface.

Recently it has been a period of Catholic festivals about here. Some days there have been processions and bell-ringing from morn to eve. The other day was the Fête des Morts, and lately there was the French All Saints' Day. It is a singular sensation to hear the chime of church bells blending with the thudding of the guns.

November 18th, 1915.

Yesterday I rode twenty-five miles. A delightful experience it was, too;—in crisp winter weather and with the surrounding country covered with snow. It has become very cold of late, but I am fond of cold weather, especially when it keeps dry. Assigned some special work by the Staff Captain, I had permission to move when and how I liked, instead of accompanying the Column as I usually do. The result was that I was able to join up with the Veterinary section attached to the brigade. We moved at our own pace, resting our horses where we wanted to and giving them a good drink and feed en route, instead of jogging on monotonously with the Column. Our horses were thoroughly fit and full of life when we reached our destination, and good for another twenty-five miles if necessary. You would not believe how much horses benefit from care and attention as to food and rest. The time you lose in watering, resting and feeding, you can always more than make up through the consequent freshness of your animals. Obviously, when speed is absolutely vital, you can't choose your time to rest the horses. For example: on those never-to-be-forgotten days, 23-26 September last, we used to move at a rapid trot for hours on end—for the expectation then was that the Boche line might be broken. This latest "trek" had not the urgency or the wild excitement of that, and we were able to take our own time.

I had a ripping game of Rugger a few days back, playing for the 19th Hussars against the Bedford Yeomanry. The latter, who included some old Bedford School boys, beat us, though only by one point. I played forward in the first half of the game, and scrum-half in the second. It was a treat to handle a Rugby ball again!

Things are becoming rather mixed in English politics, what with Asquith's contradictory statements about conscription, Carson resigning and Winston flinging up politics for the Army. His resignation is creditable to Winston, and at a moment like this he would naturally want to do his bit at the Front. Everybody in the cavalry that I have spoken to considers him a good sportsman. Myself, I regard Churchill as a man with a real touch of genius.

The Haldane controversy seems to have started afresh. How terrible is the ingratitude of the masses! If Haldane had done no more than create the Territorials and the Officers' Training Corps he would have had an everlasting claim to fame; but when one considers also his creation of the General Staff, and his arrangements for mobilising, equipping, transporting and supplying the B.E.F.—well, one begins to realise that the man is a Colossus. And yet the wretched Jingoes continue to bespatter him with mud, and I suppose the nation in the mass regards him as a species of highly-educated spy! But perhaps the majority of the people have never heard of him—Charlie Chaplin is a far more living personality to most of them, I make no doubt.

I referred in a recent letter (p. 162), to the fluctuating phases of opinion in England in regard to the war. A new phase would appear now to have arisen and taken the place of the Lord Derby boom. This new phase is one of criticism of past military and naval operations—Neuve Chapelle, Loos, Suvla Bay, the Narrows, Antwerp, etc. etc., all of which are being discussed with equal zest and ignorance. Mark my words, there will soon be a new phase or an old one will recur.