One gets used to shell-fire up to a point, but there's not a man who doesn't want to duck when he hears one coming. The worst of all is the whizz-bang, because it doesn't give you a chance--it pounces and is on you the same moment that it bangs. There's so much I wish that I could tell you. I can only say this, at the moment we're making history.
What a curious birthday letter! I think of all your other birthdays--the ones before I met these silent men with the green and yellow faces, and the blackened lips which will never speak again. What happy times we have had as a family--what happy jaunts when you took me in those early days, dressed in a sailor suit, when you went hunting pictures. Yet, for all the damnability of what I now witness, I was never quieter in my heart. To have surrendered to an imperative self-denial brings a peace which self-seeking never brought.
So don't let this birthday be less gay for my absence. It ought to be the proudest in your life--proud because your example has taught each of your sons to do the difficult things which seem right. It would have been a condemnation of you if any one of us had been a shirker.
"I want to buy fine things for you And be a soldier if I can."
The lines come back to me now. You read them to me first in the dark little study from a green oblong book. You little thought that I would be a soldier--even now I can hardly realise the fact. It seems a dream from which I shall wake up. Am I really killing men day by day? Am I really in jeopardy myself?
Whatever happens I'm not afraid, and I'll give you reason to be glad of me. Very much love, CON.
The poem referred to in this letter was actually written for Coningsby when he was between five and six years old. The dark little study which he describes was in the old house at Wesley's Chapel, in the City Road, London--and it was very dark, with only one window, looking out upon a dingy yard. The green oblong book in which I used to write my poems I still have; and it is an illustration of the tenacity of a child's memory that he should recall it. The poem was called _A Little Boy's Programme_, and ran thus:
I am so very young and small, That, when big people pass me by, I sometimes think they are so high I'll never be a man at all.
And yet I want to be a man Because so much I want to do; I want to buy fine things for you, And be a soldier, if I can.
* * * * *
When I'm a man I will not let Poor little children starve, or be Ill-used, or stand and beg of me With naked feet out in the wet.
* * * * *
Now, don't you laugh!--The father kissed The little serious mouth and said "You've almost made me cry instead, You blessed little optimist."
XIV
September 21st, 1916.
My Very Dear M.:
I am wearing your talisman while I write and have a strong superstition in its efficacy. The efficacy of your socks is also very noticeable--I wore them the first time on a trip to the Forward Observation Station. I had to lie on my tummy in the mud, my nose just showing above the parapet, for the best part of twenty-four hours. Your socks little thought I would take them into such horrid places when you made them.
Last night both the King and Sir Sam sent us congratulations--I popped in just at the right time. I daresay you know far more about our doings than I do. Only this morning I picked up the _London Times_ and read a full account of everything I have witnessed. The account is likely to be still fuller in the New York papers.
"Home for Christmas"--that's what the Tommies are promising their mothers and sweethearts in all their letters that I censor. Yesterday I was offered an Imperial commission in the army of occupation. But home for Christmas, will be Christmas, 1917--I can't think that it will be earlier. Very much love, CON.
XV
Sunday, September 24th, 1916.
DEAREST MOTHER:
Your locket has just reached me, and I have strung it round my neck with M.'s cross. Was it M.'s cross the other night that accounted for my luck? I was in a gun-pit when a shell landed, killing a man only a foot away from me and wounding three others--I and the sergeant were the only two to get out all right. Men who have been out here some time have a dozen stories of similar near squeaks. And talking of squeaks, it was a mouse that saved one man. It kept him awake to such an extent that he determined to move to another place. Just as he got outside the dug-out a shell fell on the roof.
You'll be pleased to know that we have a ripping chaplain or Padre, as they call chaplains, with us. He plays the game, and I've struck up a great friendship with him. We discuss literature and religion when we're feeling a bit fed up. We talk at home of our faith being tested--one begins to ask strange questions here when he sees what men are allowed by the Almighty to do to one another, and so it's a fine thing to be in constant touch with a great-hearted chap who can risk his life daily to speak of the life hereafter to dying Tommies.
I wish I could tell you of my doings, but it's strictly against orders. You may read in the papers of actions in which I've taken part and never know that I was there.
We live for the most part on tinned stuff, but our appetites make anything taste palatable. Living and sleeping in the open air keeps one ravenous. And one learns to sleep the sleep of the just despite the roaring of the guns.
God bless you each one and give us peaceful hearts.
Yours ever, Con.
XVI
September 28th, 1916.
My Dears:
We're in the midst of a fine old show, so I don't get much opportunity for writing. Suffice it to say that I've seen the big side of war by now and the extraordinary uncalculating courage of it. Men run out of a trench to an attack with as much eagerness as they would display in overtaking a late bus. If you want to get an idea of what meals are like when a row is on, order the McAlpin to spread you a table where 34th crosses Broadway--and wait for the uptown traffic on the Elevated. It's wonderful to see the waiters dodging with dishes through the shell-holes.
It's a wonderful autumn day, golden and mellow; I picture to myself what this country must have looked like before the desolation of war struck it.
I was Brigade observation officer on September 26th, and wouldn't have missed what I saw for a thousand dollars. It was a touch and go business, with shells falling everywhere and machine-gun fire--but something glorious to remember. I had the great joy of being useful in setting a Hun position on fire. I think the war will be over in a twelvemonth.
Our great joy is composing menus of the meals we'll eat when we get home. Good-bye for the present. CON.
XVII
October 1st, 1916.
MY DEAREST M.:
Sunday morning, your first back in Newark. You're not up yet owing to the difference in time--I can imagine the quiet house with the first of the morning stealing greyly in. You'll be presently going to church to sit in your old-fashioned mahogany pew. There's not much of Sunday in our atmosphere--only the little one can manage