Part 11

Sergeant Pritchard and I were standing close to Flannagan (one of the men's horses), and the men were at stables. We were all looking up and longing to see a Hun aeroplane hit, when suddenly "s-s-s-swish, plop!" just behind me. It was one of the Archie shrapnel cases. It buried itself deep in the ground 3 yards from where we were standing. We dug it up, and I'll bring it home for you. If it isn't too tediously heavy.

Of course, Archie shrapnel cases all come down, and you see hundreds of them lying about; but I've never had one so close before. They sometimes fall broadside on, and sometimes end on, in which case they bury themselves fairly deep. All the Hun aeroplanes got away, alas!

October 26.

Once more I'm going up to the strange dead village of ----. In many ways I shall be sorry to go back to comfort and billets, because the material for pictures here is very wonderful. You shall see several small things (the powers that be call it waste of time!), and it's infuriating to think that more can't be done.

I tell you, if you were here, and if I could paint a bit every day, I should be quite happy. The "subjects" are endless, and in particular I long to do great big stretches of this bleak brown land. Well, it can't be helped, so it's no good thinking about it.

October 29.

We are moving to a "back area" to-morrow.

November 1.

It's a superb day, and we are back at ----, one of our old billets, right away from the beastliness. And although leave won't be for another week or two, still, it will come soon. And Swallow is in tremendous spirits.

Here is a drawing done surreptitiously of a tank in full view of Fritz. You see those little stumps of trees? Well, I'll tell you what those are called when we meet, and also what village is just on their left. You may say it was stupid to sit in full view of Fritz, but it was the day after an advance, and there's hardly ever anything doing then in the way of sniping. The guns, of course, are all pooping off, but they weren't shelling just there, so it was quite safe. This drawing gives you some idea of the desolation, but none of the unevenness of the ground. You can't walk in a bee-line for three yards without getting into a hole. The last time I was in those parts, by the way, I came on a rather jolly cottage wineglass that had been thrown out into some soft mud, and was not even cracked.

November 6.

An extraordinary change. Let me now give you an idea.

We are in a pretty little country village miles and miles away, and (although one of Fritz's aeroplanes flew over the church as bold as brass just before we got in) the quiet and peace of the place is very refreshing. And, droll to relate, I'm writing this in bed, with a touch of flu--such a bed, too, all soft and billowy. In ordinary life it would be condemned as a "feather" bed, but now it is a bed for princes.

And the room. A rather dark old-fashioned paper, an old clock ticking, an old shining chest of drawers with a marble top, and clothes hanging on pegs. Hale has arranged the pistol, and ammunition, and maps, and gas helmets, and steel helmet, and spare kit, with great elaboration, all over the room. At the present moment he is "sweeping out" with the appropriate hissing noises. The dust will, I hope, subside during the course of the day.

Hunt has got Jezebel, Swallow, and Tank into a disused barn, where they will be warm and happy.

Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey pony browsing. The leaves are yellow, and there's no wind.

The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me in some little "remèdes," which Tim refuses to let me have. One is what the old man (an ex-chemist) calls "salicite de métal," and the other is what the old lady calls a "remède de bonne femme." You rub yourself with it all over every two hours!

Tick, tick, tick, tick. Lovely! The old clock is rumbling. It is about to strike twelve.

It has struck twelve--no, not struck twelve, rather it has buzzed twelve, like some old happy bee.

The hens are still pecking about in the orchard, and the grey pony is rubbing himself against a tree.

All so cosy and delicious. Now for a doze.

November 7.

Here's a poem. It's called

HENS.

At the end of the war (Ring, bells, merry bells!) We intend To keep hens, Me and Helen. (Ring, bells!) Such hens! (Merry bells!) And though all our hens' eggs be surrounded by shells, We shall laugh and not care; For there won't be no war, And no hell any more, While Helen is there With the hens.

I've just made that up, and the inspiration of so profound an epic has made me want to doze again. Such a lot of dozing!

November 12.

In to-day's letter I enclose a couple of field post-cards which I found on a Boche dug-out bed-hole.