August 13th. For a long time now we have hankered after some words to express all the heroism, the practical heroism, manifested around us. And when some Good Samaritan at home sent out a volume of Rupert Brooke's poems, it may be imagined how we acclaimed him forerunner of the poets who shall sing the greatest tragedy of history.
Almost simultaneously appeared the Times supplement of war poems. For a year now we have lived outside the charmed sphere of books, and these documents came as a revelation of the depths to which the cataclysm has moved our singers. We had thought them dumb by reason of its magnitude.
Kipling, we had been told, was "dead," so far as his influence over the nation went; but can the influence of the man who wrote "For all we have and are" die whilst his nation endures?
It may not be great poetry, but it is great patriotism.
And then there is the new school of poets who have arisen—new to us, that is to say—and who we are told may be heard reading their own poems every week in London in the mystical precincts of the poetry bookshops.
August 17th. We are working single-handed now. That is to say, whilst one lady is on leave a second is hors de combat with a bad leg, and, owing to the I.G.O. authorities' stringent regulations by which free lances (if there are any to be found) may not be pressed into service, there are only two of us, which makes it hard work.
And at home we hear of huts where the workers are tumbling over each other for numbers!
Perhaps one of the most interesting figures in this medley of men is a certain South African veteran, a blind V.C., the value of whose work amongst the wounded is immeasurable.
I last saw him being led down by a brother officer to the supper-room after a diplomatic Court at Buckingham Palace. Then all eyes were turned on him in pity; now one realises that the vast amount of good that this one man has been able to achieve—cheering on fellow-sufferers not yet accustomed to their affliction, showing men how it is possible to build up a new though sightless life—must have made his own suffering worth while.
The men worship him, and one word of good cheer from him is worth more than the ministration of a dozen clergymen.