War Letters of a Public-School Boy

by Henry Paul Mainwaring Jones

I was amazed to read in the papers that the Dulwich 1st XV have been beaten by Merchant Taylors'. If that really happened, then truly it is a case of "Ichabod," and "The glory is departed from Israel."

November 17th, 1916.

I am still detached temporarily from Headquarters, travelling about in a motor-car for the purpose of securing local supplies of forage and straw in the area about to be occupied by the Cavalry Division. It is very interesting work, with a large human element in it; but one has difficulty in getting these French farmers and dealers to agree to our prices for their commodities. Almost always they want much more for them than is prescribed in our schedule of official prices. Taking note of all refusals to sell to us, because our prices are too low, I have to-day applied for permission to requisition the goods in these cases—that is, to take the stuff over compulsorily, handing to the owner a note entitling him to draw so much money from the British Requisition Office, the amount being settled by us and not by the farmer or dealer. That is the way the French Military authorities do things. They, of course, are dealing with their own people. It is different with us, and French farmers and peasants think they are entitled to exact all they can from the English. The French authorities, acting through their A.S.C. or the local mayors, periodically call on the communes to supply them with so much forage, straw and other commodities. These quantities have to be supplied nolens volens and at prices fixed by the French Army. I can see ourselves being forced reluctantly to adopt the same procedure, at least in some cases, though it is much more pleasant for both parties when we can buy amicably and pay cash on the spot.

A number of the farmers with whom I had to deal recently are "permissionaires"—they get pretty regular leave in the French Army. The peasant stock of the North of France has a knack of producing good fighting men—they are an unromantic race, but amazingly industrious, shrewd, and very tough.

My car-driver is a Welshman from Pontypridd. He is one of the best drivers I've struck out here and a first-rate fellow to boot. He has played a lot of Rugby, having turned out several times on the wing for Cardiff. He is quite young, not much older than myself. Like most Welshmen, he has literary tastes, and has a real gift for reciting poetry.

The Alleynian duly to hand. Its monthly War record for the old school makes splendid, albeit mournful reading. How poignant to read the record in dates of Edkins's life: "Born, 1896; left school, September, 1915; killed in action, 1916." Judging from the official account, Frank Hillier[14] must have done great work in earning the Military Cross. I see also that K. R. Potter has got the M.C. He is one of the most brilliant men Dulwich has produced. He was one of the two men to win a Balliol Scholarship in Classics in the second of those historic two years when we got two in each year—a record equalled by few schools and beaten by none. J. S. Mann, who took a Balliol Scholarship at the same time as Potter, has been wounded in the trenches.

Deep was my grief to read of the death in action of R. F. Mackinnon,[15] M.C., one of the finest forwards and captains who has ever worn the blue-and-black jersey. He was captain of the first fifteen in my first year at the school, 1908-9, in which we had a pack of forwards of strong physique and whole-hearted courage. Arthur Gilligan, who was in the same battalion as Mackinnon, told me he was absolutely without fear, and was continually working up little "strafes" of the Boches on his own.

November 22nd, 1916.

I have been up to the neck in work, having temporarily to do what is really three men's work—Brigade Supply Officer, Brigade Requisitioning Officer, and Divisional Forage Purchasing Officer—the last a newly-created post under the direction of the Corps H.Q. It is no joke personally arranging the payments for all the forage in an area fifteen square miles by ten. To-day I found it impossible to continue and do the work efficiently without assistance. It is not so much the getting the forage as the amount of accounting that is involved. I fear I am a poor accountant at best, and the figuring involved in the new scheme (there are five enormous Army forms to fill up weekly, in addition to the ordinary business side of the transactions) has been taxing my energies and has taken up my time long after working hours. Major Knox, Senior Supply Officer of the Division (an old Dulwich man, at one time the Oxford Cricket Captain, and a splendid fellow to boot), spent about six hours to-day with me in completely checking our available resources. The fact is that the hay ration from England has been very considerably reduced for some reason, and we have to make up the deficiency out here, permission having been obtained from the French authorities to purchase and requisition in various Army areas. This permission was for a long time withheld, as the French wanted the local supplies for their own troops.

I am finding the War a boring business; the glamour has decidedly worn off. Oh, if we could but get through the Boche lines! As things are at present, there is no thrill and not much scope for initiative. It is just a sordid affair of mud, shell-holes, corpses, grime and filth. Even in billets the thing remains intensely dull and uninspiring. One just lives, eats, drinks, sleeps, and all apparently to no purpose. The monotony is excessive. My chief function in life seems to be the filling up of endless Army forms. I thoroughly sympathise with the recent protest from military men in the Spectator about the "Military Babu," who is occupying an ever larger and larger place in the life of the Army. There will be a revolt one of these days against the fatuity of this eternal filling up of forms for no conceivable purpose.