Sherriff wrote home to both mother and father today, letting them know that he had gone sick because of his neuralgia. As he told Pips:
‘The cold weather [gave] me a return of that neuralgia I suffered from about 2 years ago, and I found it extremely trying when on my long hours of duty – the change from the hot air in the dugout to the cold air and vice versa brought it on badly – so I went down to see the doctor who advised having my teeth seen to, and as the trouble had made me a bit shaky he sent me down to the Field Ambulance, where my adventures began, and I have passed through so many different stations that I can hardly remember where I began now.’
He was now in an old convent converted into a hospital, waiting to see the dentist. He had a comfortable bed, one of 5 in a big room with a stove, and heating pipes wrapping round the walls. There was a table and chairs too, and he had nothing to do but ‘rest and read and write’. He was being treated well (‘good meals, etc’), but he was not pleased at being there. It was his first time going sick in the army, and he hoped it would be his last, but he thought he had been right to come, as ‘the neuralgia had made me rather nervy and I felt that I had lost my confidence a bit too – a fatal thing for the men to notice.’ He told his mother that he regretted that his leaving the line would inevitably mean more work for his fellow officers [in fact, part of his fellow officers’ ‘work’ on this particular day was a daylight raid on German trenches – most probably the model for the raid in Journey’s End – see here for an account]
Raleigh (David Manners) and Osborne (Ian Maclaren) prepare themselves for the raid in Journey’s End (Gainsborough/Tiffany, 1930)
He was obviously thinking of them quite a bit in hospital, as the letter to his mother makes clear:
‘An invalid’s life is alright in a way, but I think I prefer the society of the other officers of my regiment and while I am speaking of my fellow officers I must really tell you what a wonderful lot they are – I have never met a nicer set of men and there is not one of them that I would not be proud to introduce to you as a friend and as a matter of fact every officer out here is nice – I don’t know what happens to all the nasty men, I suppose they give up being nasty or don’t come out here. But all the officers I have met – whether RE, or Artillery or Infantry, and doctors and chaplains – there are none who are undesirable, or at least I have not met any yet who are. Perhaps there is a kind of companionship amongst them that makes them nice, but you never hear them quarrel like they used to in offices and the Skiff Club – no face pushing goes on, and I am afraid Mr Herbert would find very little scope for practicing this famous speciality of his.’
The time in hospital also appears to have given him time to think about what exactly it was in the war that he found so difficult, and he set out his views for his father:
‘It is no good dwelling on the awfulness of it all, for you know it only too well – the men who go up for a tour of duty in the trenches go up absolutely resigned; there [are] no fiery displays of hate as in England by certain people who have never been here, they go because they must – and although they are always cheerful they go with that thought that, although there is every possibility of them coming back safely, someone isn’t. Any impartial onlooker – seeing our men going up to the trenches with such cheerfulness would never dream of the things they are to endure before they come out again. Everyone has a different temperament I know, and I may have got a more imaginative one than suits the necessities of trench life, but I must say that I cannot conceive of anything that has occurred in history that puts men to a greater test than this – think of anything that is acknowledged to have been dreadful – the battles with the dear old cannon ball which you can let fall 5 yards from you without harming you – then battles were all over in an hour or so and while on it went thick and fast – here it is the awful expectancy which is most trying – it is that that tells on different temperaments – some may not feel it at all, to others it is torture.’
[Next letter: 26 January]