December 20th, 1916.
I can't tell you how relieved I was to get the Pater's last letter, and to feel that we see the matter in the same light. It lifted a weight from my mind, as I will frankly admit that I was much worried, torn one way by my conscience and another by the fear that my action would cause displeasure and grief at home. Now, with the Pater's letter in my possession, I can go ahead with a light heart. There can be absolutely no question that I've done the right thing. It is a mere coincidence that my personal feelings have long tended in the same direction. I saw the path of duty before me absolutely clear. Up to date I have never "let you down," and I don't think I shall do so this time.
By the way, in my transfer papers, I have expressly stipulated for a temporary commission, as I have no idea at all of becoming a Regular.
January 1st, 1917.
Hearty wishes for a happy New Year, wishes which always seem to me more serious than the greetings that pass at Christmas time. With most people Christmas is a purely festive season, but with the end of the old year comes the necessity of looking forward to a new period—perhaps to be joyful, perhaps otherwise; anyway, a period on which it is necessary to enter as far as possible with confidence. From the general point of view that is not an easy matter as things stand. I am bound to say I am getting pessimistic about the War. The chief trouble is the total lack of action that characterises it. This grovelling in ditches is a rotten, foolish business in many ways—though to me sitting in comfort and safety behind the lines is a great deal worse.
We passed a pleasant Christmas. I had dinner and tea with the men of the Brigade Headquarters—the former one of the most pleasant functions I have ever attended. I much prefer a ceremony of this kind along with Demos to the "Tedious pomp ... and grooms besmeared with gold" that Milton denounces so scathingly.
I am sorry the Dulwich 1st XV didn't have a very good season. To judge from the photos in the Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic, the forwards don't know how to pack. One of the "scrum" photographs is one of the best illustrations of how not to pack that I have ever struck. It seems to me that there has been a lack of training. But what I do remark with joy is the care that has been taken with the games. All will be well with the school if the games are keen.
I have just been reading the first book that I've found that absolutely gets the atmosphere of the Western Front—namely, "The Red Horizon," by Patrick McGill, the navvy poet. It really is great. He doesn't spare the horror of the thing one iota, but it "gets one right." "Sapper" has a good picture of the fighting man, but a very bad one of the Front. McGill has got a pretty good one of the man and a superb one of the Front. He describes to a "T" one's sensations under shell-fire.
January 11th, 1917.
Congratulate me! I am, as I have every reason to believe, on the verge of the most stupendous good fortune that has ever yet come my way. Last night I got a wire ordering me to present myself at Headquarters, Heavy M.G.C., for interview with the Colonel-in-charge. Well, I went up for my interview this morning, and was tested for vision by the Colonel with my glasses on. Finally he told me that he was going to recommend me for the Tanks, which means that the thing is as good as settled. I had not dared to hope for such luck, owing to the fact of my not having any special qualification. However, my usual marvellous good fortune seems not to have deserted me. It means just this, that I am going to be a member of the most modern and most interesting branch of the service. So great is my delight that I scarcely know whether I am standing on my head or my heels. The transfer will, I fear, prevent my coming home on leave for a time. Anyway, it's more than possible that I shall come back to England to train. I hope not, for despite my earnest desire—more than you can ever guess—to see you all again, I think it is far better to remain on active service, if possible, when on duty.