Dear Margaret,
It is a month on Friday since I last heard from you, there’s nothing serious at home I hope. Whilst at the school I sent three letters home, did you receive them? I have just received a letter from Wilfred, he seems to be getting along alright, active service doesn’t seem to worry him much. He says “I’m a bomber, you know the sort of thing, they stick me in a sap, with bombs and things for company, I’m sort of semi-detached, nobody knows and nobody cares. I’m taught to act on my own initiative, I must be bursting to get at him. I’m never bursting to get at him, I’m always bursting for the next relief.” Have heard tonight that correspondence is being stopped for six weeks, in which case, don’t get the wind up if you don’t hear from me. I shouldn’t think field cards will be stopped, so make Mother have more faith in them. I wonder if Edgar has been called up yet, I hope not, he ought to be exempt seeing he has three brothers serving. Are Gertie and Molly better? I don’t feel a bit like letter writing, and if I can’t write a decent letter, I don’t care to write to you at all. Here is a thought from Shakespeare on life and death: “Reason thus with life – if I do lose thee, I lose a thing that none but fools would keep. A breath, thou art servile to all the skies influences that do this habitation, where thou keepest hourly afflict. Merely thou art death’s fool, for him thou labourest by thy flight to shun, and yet runnest towards him still. Thou art not noble! For all the accommodations that thou bear’st are nursed by baseness. Thou art by no means valiant, for thou dost fear the soft and tender fork of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep, and that thou oft provokest, yet grossly fear’st thy death, which is no more.”
Goodnight, Love to Mother and Maud.
Your brother,
Bob
Dear Maud,
It is rather late to thank you for the parcel sent some weeks ago… thanks for your last two letters, in particular the letter which really was a good attempt to prove to me that, however sane the advice, individual inclinations will not be thwarted. Will you send me my elementary French book please? I’m determined to understand these people, it’s rotten, for instance, one meets a pretty little girl, she probably remarks that the weather is charming. Such a remark deserves a charming reply, and when one can only inanely stammer “tres bon”, the salutation is pretty hopeless. I fetch milk from the farmhouse, relying on the super intelligence of the farmer’s wife to interpret my remarks. I splutter “du lait Madame”! Spotting the farmer’s daughter, I make a brave attempt: “Comment allez-vous ce matin Mademoiselle”, and then I’m bunkered instead of being able to carry on, remarking on the verdant fields and golden corn, the leafy lanes, favourable for an evening’s stroll. Oh, it’s a cruel fate! So, quick with that book, it will help me to make existence here more tolerable. Good luck!
Affectionately,
Bob
Dear Mother,
It is in a desperate frame of mind that I commence this, which I hope will be a letter. Do not be alarmed when I say desperate, it is only the condition of my mind I am trying to explain. Stern duty says “write now”, it being your Mother to whom you are writing incoherently, you will be forgiven. A muddy brain says “No, wait until tomorrow when perhaps you will have something worthy to say to your Mother”. Thus from day to day I dilly-dally, days become weeks, still no letter is forthcoming. Finally, as on the present occasion, I resolve that at any cost, and whatever utter rot I put pencil to, something must result today. Now, Mother! The aforesaid desperation being explained, do not say “Poor lad! I’m afraid those terrible shells are affecting him”. Remember that if in the exigencies of my case my writing displeases, my heart is whole to please you. Maud too, who would bountifully, in many ways, cleanse me (Wright’s coal tar soap), must marvel at the decadence of a chap who outwardly tenders us thanks. I must ask Maud to believe in the eloquence of silence. Margaret! – remember that I fight hard to keep my soul pure, that often, as tonight, I grope and miss my path, but that often, as tomorrow, I feel the presence of God’s angels, sure token of God’s forgiveness. Goodnight Mother!
Love to all,
Bob
[Related Poems: Delville Wood, The Somme, July 1916 and Tree Of Hope by Kate Moss, September 16th 2001]
Dear Mother,
I was slightly wounded on the night of the 22nd, and am at present in a C.C.S., but shall be going down to the base sometime today. I have slight shrapnel wounds in both arms, but nothing serious. I will write more fully when settled in hospital, sincerely hoping it will be a hospital in England. Love to Maud and Margaret.
Your affect. son,
Bob
Dear Mother,
I’m quite alright again, so you see I wasn’t much hurt. I’m being sent down to the M.G. Corps Base tomorrow, where most likely I shall remain for some time. I’ve had a boring time since I was hit, having been passed on from one hospital to another, at last finding myself with several hundred others in a convalescent camp. The said camp is enclosed by barbed wire, with a guard at the only gate. I have decided never more to commit the extreme folly of being wounded. I had a golden dream of England, which we will liken to a glorious sunset, which first fills one with joy, then waning, deepening with the shadows, and inexpressible sadness, until vanishing altogether. Because of the darkness, the soul must needs build itself a new hope, out of despair. No! I am not unhappy, big black clouds roll over my soul, but I never despair of lifting them, even at the expense of a thunderstorm. The Y.M.C.A. closes, and so must I this letter. Love to Maud and Margaret.
Your aff. son
Bob
Will forward my address on Tuesday.
Dear Margaret,
We’re having beautiful weather here, which is some compensation for not being able to get home. If it were possible for me to come across and see you all, I could not fix on a better spot to return to. Sea, hills, dunes, bathed in a flood of sunshine. I have perfect health to enjoy, yet being selfish and deprived of what I desire, I allow my eyes to become clouded. I cannot see clearly that God is good. To see for myself how nobly my Mother bears her share, if possible to comfort her, to see my sisters, to receive some ray of happiness from their simple faith, would be Heaven indeed! How happy I was when with you! How wonderingly now I sound the depth of your love for me! How cold is the world without it! Love is the beginning, as it is the end, of all things, nothing is without love. Here the world seeks it’s little pleasures, it’s self-gratification. Love flies away, we wonder at the emptiness, the hungry cry of our souls. We question the wisdom of God in allowing this hideous War to be, was such an upheaval necessary? Only the man whose whole life has been spent in the service of God could answer such a question. It is not a question of mathematical deduction or history: – the history of the soul in man is the only basis from which we can see light. Amidst such upheavals as we have seen, as we experience, men cry “Give us a Prophet”! It is a blind and feeble cry. To every man God gave a portion of His divinity, this for him to develop. If we refuse this divine gift, if by ordering our lives such that we leave out this light, this birth of a soul, can we hope for light from a prophet? Is it not very feeble? With the truth in our possession we weakly ask for a medium to show us ourselves. So, by War, by that very force God reveals himself to us, says “sacrifice self and kindle that tiny spark of a soul, let it grow until it becomes a living force, a Pharos for future generations”. So develops the soul, by such gigantic upheaval receiving a forward bound, by a mighty leap bringing nearer the day when we will see the soul in it’s perfection.
Love to Mother and Maud,
Bob
Dear Margaret,
I was considerably “dropped on” when I heard of your engagement. Golly! I haven’t half recovered yet. Had a German cracker dropped within a few yards of me and hurled my skywards, I’d doubtless have had a nasty bump on the return journey, and in a few hours recovered my scattered wits, but Margaret… engaged before I’m even aware that she’s got a sweetheart. What a terrible War it is! Sometimes I want to laugh like blazes, especially when I reflect how startling the effect would be on our little circle. How certain folk would shake their heads, saying a lot of rot about which they know nothing. Being your elder brother I grow serious, if Mother and Edgar are satisfied then so am I, perfectly satisfied, so my best wishes from my heart for you both. If Mr Townsend should care to write to me, I’ll be very pleased. I should like to hear his reminiscences, but only in the light of reminiscence, and if he has been a sailor, and I try to be a soldier, I’m sure he will understand. God bless you both.
Your aff. brother,
Bob
My love for Lizzie and Mother, tell Maud when you write, je suis tres bien.
Dear Mother,
I’m now quite fit and hope to return to my Corp in a few days. Have just learnt from Edgar that Dick has gone. Big-hearted Dick, whom we all loved, whose personal charm and manliness, whose gaiety and light-heartedness, made happy the hearts of all who were fortunate enough to come into contact with him. How happy Mother! If I could in some measure make lighter the loss to those in whose hearts he shone brightest. We can but pray that, through God, we shall so exalt our souls that we may see clearly the beauty Dick has attained to. I shall write to Gertie and Mrs Powell tomorrow. Love to Lizzie and Margaret.
Your aff. son,
Bob
[Related Poem: First Tank Attack, September 1916. In this poem Grandad talks of their beloved Colonel, who gets shot in the leg and falls into a shallow crater that leaves him exposed to be picked off and killed seconds later. Grandad watches this from a deeper crater where he lies injured and protected. The depth of each crater equals the difference between life and death!]
[Related Poem: Remnants Of A Great War by Kate Moss, Sept 30th 2001]