War Letters of a Public-School Boy

by Henry Paul Mainwaring Jones

On the left there was a large cemetery. Many of the crosses had soldiers' caps hung on them, and in one case the man was evidently a Catholic, for crucifix and image had been taken down from a post on the roadside and laid on the grave. I tried to find if there was any trace of the names of two O.A.s who fell in this battle, Crabbe and Beer, but failed to discover either name.

It was now getting late, so I retraced my steps and cantered homewards. In this war-scarred region I actually met an old French farmer driving his horse and trap along the road leading towards the trenches just as if there was no war raging; and near the one habitable house of the district small boys were playing merrily, while their parents were calling them in and scolding them in shrill voices. In some ruined houses were yet more Scotsmen, most ubiquitous of peoples. I halted to chat with an old military policeman who used to be with the 9th Cavalry Brigade. Then home. A very interesting afternoon's work, which gave one a real insight into "the conduct and results of war" as waged in these cynical days.

During another visit I paid to this desolate region there was a "strafe" of some magnitude on. As I rode I could hear the long whistling and heavy crump of high explosives that the enemy were dropping into a village about a mile to the left, and could see the flame and smoke of the explosion. Our own guns soon began to chime in. It was quite a cheerful little show, what with the long-drawn whining of approaching Boche shells, the crash of explosions, the thud of our guns replying, and the weird, fluttering noise of our shells going over. Presently the gun duel became more and more violent. The fearful crashes of our "heavies," the groans, shrieks and whines of the shells on their message of death, the tremendous thuds of Boche explosions, and the whistling hum of shrapnel pieces flying around—all this made up a pandemonium of noise. My further progress along this road was barred by a thud amongst some ruined houses about a hundred yards in front of me, showing that the "strafe" was veering round to my direction. Deviating from this road I met some old acquaintances in the Gunners, and had tea with them in their dug-out, my horse being put up in what in pre-war days had been somebody's sitting-room. I cantered home at dusk. All this evening there has been a "hate" on—the sky alive with gun-flashes and lit up by star-shells, and the air resounding with bangings and thuddings.

February 1st, 1916.

Hereabouts we seem now to be doing ten times as much "strafing" as the Boches. This afternoon I saw at fifty yards' distance some 60-pounders (the old "Long-Toms") being fired. First, there would come a flash of flame from the muzzle, followed by an ear-splitting bang. Then the whole gun seemed to hurl itself bodily forward and slide back into position again. Meanwhile you could hear the shell tearing its way through the air with the curious shuddering, or fluttering, noise that shells make in transit.

Riding north the other day I came to a place where the only sounds that could be heard were the intermittent crackle of rifle-fire mingling with the shrill tones of a woman haggling over the price of bread with an old chap who had driven out with his pony and cart from an adjacent town to sell his goods. The roof of the woman's house had mostly vanished and some of the walls were non-existent, being replaced by sandbags. A notice proclaimed that there was coffee and milk for sale within. Is it not extraordinary to encounter this sort of thing right up in the battle zone? It shows how human nature can adapt itself to the most uncustomary things. I suppose we should be the same—stick to the old home so long as there was a brick left standing.

I ran across an O.A., named Tatnell, who holds a commission in the Motor Machine Gun Corps. He told me he had met lots of O.A.s out here. Some of the fellows he mentioned are mere boys of seventeen and eighteen still. One of them, Williams, I remember last year as a drummer in the Corps. Honestly, the old school has done splendidly. Every one of the fellows I used to know from the age of seventeen onwards is serving, and they were all serving long before there was any talk of Derby schemes.

To his Brother.

February 10th, 1916.

I went into the trenches a few days back—not in the front line, but as far as Brigade Headquarters, which is a sort of series of caverns in the ground, and is approached by a long communication trench. Nothing much was happening; and, anyway, this particular trench is so deep that there is nothing to be seen save a strip of sky above your head. In a few places you can get out and stand on the open ground without much danger. The spectacle is curious—practically nothing visible to indicate that there is a war on. No soldiers in sight, only a lot of shell-holes and barbed wire, and a general sense of desolation, with an occasional crack of a rifle bullet, the whistle and crash of Boche shells and the bang of our own guns from just behind.