War Letters of a Public-School Boy

by Henry Paul Mainwaring Jones

July 17th, 1916.

In that mysterious quarter known as the back of the Front the motor-lorry is omnipresent, especially at a time like this. Wherever you go you see motor-lorries carrying food, ammunition, telegraphic appliances, barbed wire, gas cylinders, clothing, coal; in short, every sort and kind of article necessary to the service of an army in the field. Sometimes they are even used to carry up troops and to bring down wounded. During the Loos push, for instance, this column was hurriedly requisitioned to take up a Yorkshire battalion to the Hohenzollern Redoubt.

I was much interested in Kittermaster's last letter published in The Alleynian—a very characteristic bit of writing. There were very few fellows or masters either who ever got at Kitter's inner nature. He was always somewhat of a mystery to most people. This was accentuated by his taciturn temperament, his rather distant manner, and short, brusque way of speaking. But he certainly was one of the very best masters I can remember at Dulwich, and of the Corps he was a wonderful O.C. There have been many tributes to Kitter, but I scarcely think that people have done full justice in the obituary notices to Nightingale, the other Dulwich master who has given his life in the war—a sterling chap if ever there was one.

So Howard,[8] as well as R. B. B. Jones, now figures in the death roll! It seems but yesterday that we three were ragging together in the swimming baths, of which both these chaps were great habitués.

I am very sad, too, at the death of A. W. Fischer.[9] He and I got our 1st XV colours together in Killick's year, and were the best of friends throughout his last two years at school. He was a smallish, active forward of the Irish type, a splendid hard worker all through the game. He and I never on any occasion got crocked, and we played in every 1st XV match for two consecutive seasons, 1912-1914. He was a shrewd fellow, too, and well read, particularly in the classics. He had a very deep, rich voice, and used to do well every time in the competition for the Anstie Memorial Reading Prize. As a soldier he would have been almost ideal, as he was a rare good leader, and a devil-may-care chap who feared nothing. It is inexpressibly sad that he should have been taken away thus. And I haven't even seen him since we parted at the end of the summer term, 1914, just before this holocaust started. We shook hands on saying "Good-bye" on the cricket ground, he proceeding towards the school buildings, and I towards the pavilion. He was to have gone to Cambridge the ensuing October, and we had been talking of his chances of a "Blue," and if we would be able to play against each other in the coming season. But what use to raise up the vanished ghosts of the past? It only makes the tragedy more heart-breaking. It is up to us to see that these lives have not been laid down in vain.

July 25th, 1916.

I was up yesterday in the region where we won ground from the Germans, seeing to a dump of rations. The chief impression I brought away with me was one of all-pervading dust. I have witnessed a few scenes of destruction in my time out here, but nothing to match a certain village in this area. Vermelles was bad enough, but this place is even worse. Everything in it has been razed to the ground. Except for an occasional square foot of masonry protruding out of the earth, there is nothing to suggest that there was ever a village here at all. In one old German trench I saw a cross with the following words written on it: "Hier liegen zwei Franz. Krieger," which interpreted would be: "Here lie two French warriors," a tribute by the enemy to two Frenchmen buried here earlier in the war before we took over this portion of the line.

Alas! another old pal of mine has been killed, namely W. J. Henderson,[10] a captain of the Loyal North Lancashires. In the old days at Dulwich he did well in football. He got into the 2nd XV under Evans, and frequently played for the 1st XV. He was also decidedly clever, and won a classical scholarship at Oxford. The war is taking a frightful toll of the best of our race.

July 27th, 1916.

I should like to have your permission to apply for a transfer to the Royal Field Artillery. The procedure will be quite simple. I will send in my application to the O.C., who will forward it with the Medical Officer's health certificate to the higher A.S.C. authorities; then it will go forward in the usual course. If the people in charge think my record satisfactory and my eyesight good enough they will take me. I want to give the authorities a chance to take or refuse me for a really combatant corps. In this way, whether refused or accepted, I shall have satisfied my conscience. After all, the doctor will state on the medical certificate exactly what my vision is. So there will be no question of trying to deceive the authorities. They will have before them all the facts re my record and my eyesight. If they then refuse me, well and good. I shall accept the inevitable. If they take me, so much the better. I have had several chats with the Officer Commanding the Supply Column on the subject, and explained to him that I was utterly fed up with grocery work.