Tag Archives: Hulluch

Too busy to write

There was still no time for letter writing because, as he told his mother, ‘We are still very busy getting our dugout in order again: the rain caused the sides to fall in and the door was in great danger for some time – but after working hard at it for the whole of yesterday and also today it is now beginning to assume its old shape again…you can imagine the calamity caused rather a stoppage in our business and I am very busy getting things in order again – so, dear, you won’t mind if I end this letter now as I must help mend our dugout.’

[Next letter: 10 November]

Cave-in at the dugout

‘Just a very hasty line to tell you our dugout has fallen in and we have been hard at work all day mending it – which has afforded plenty of amusement but much inconvenience as all our belongings are stacked up together in a heap and difficult to get at.’

And that was all he had time to write to Pips before going off to get a wash before going on duty. A more detailed account would have to wait until he had a little more time to spare.

[Next letter: 9 November]

Twelve more days – with luck

‘We were not relieved this morning, as I half expected to be,’ he wrote to Pips, ‘so we shall have another 12 days probably – which I should not object to in the least if we have as happy a time as we have had for the last 12 days.’ He was finding that the time slipped by faster than he expected, and he was not getting as much done in his free time as he had expected. He had, of course, spent his time in reading books and writing some stories and letters, but other duties – like inspections, censoring, or entertaining the RE officers – tended to get in the way.

A brief letter to his mother made much the same point, while adding a hint of his fatalism: ‘we cannot have everything go well always – this war has taught me to appreciate the pleasant moments when they are here, and not always [to be] looking forward to them.’ And he closed his letter with some advice [which was one part Marcus Aurelius, and one part the advice that his mother had given to him when he left for France]:

‘Goodbye for the present, dear – always be brave and cheerful and throw all your interest into your work. I know it will ease your mind when you are miserable dear, and I like to think you are doing this.’

[Next letter: 7 November]

Dear old Selsey

‘It is very windy tonight,’ he wrote to his mother, ‘and I have been down to get rations and walking over some of the broken ground leaning against the wind reminded me of Selsey – dear old Selsey. I am wondering when the next time will be when you and I are sitting on that rickety little train planning walks to Pagham etc.’

Sleepy Hollow (in white) - probably before the war. (Thanks to Marilyn Smith)

The Sherriff bungalow, Sleepy Hollow (in white) – probably before the war. (Thanks to Marilyn Smith)

He thanked her for a letter he had just received, noting that he was all the more appreciative because she took the time to write it after a hard day at the hospital. ‘I am so glad you are doing that work, dear,’ he wrote, ‘ – sometimes when I see a poor, groaning man being carried down on a stretcher I think that you may be going to take care of him – you must love your work dear, I only wish I could help heal wounds instead of always being ready to make them.’

He was still hoping to be with the RE party for another 6 to 12 days: ‘I do not object a bit to the length of time I remain here, as compared with the arduous work in the line this is a rest.’ His fingers kept dipping into the almonds and raisins she had sent him: ‘I can’t stop nibbling at them – 2 RE officers came in this morning and they couldn’t help nibbling too – they said they hadn’t tasted almonds and raisins since last Xmas.’

He told her how much he enjoyed the evenings when he could be alone in the dugout, able to do exactly what he wanted, to sit and gaze at the ceiling and say nothing to anyone; and at bedtime he enjoyed ‘nestling down into my wooly sleeping bag with fleece lining in and a wooly cap  (everything nice and wooly)’. And he counselled her not to be miserable: ‘I am not miserable at present, dear – trust me to let you know when I am miserable.’

[Next letters: 6 November]

The Uniform of an Officer

Sherriff had been at the ration dump, because his men had ‘not been getting their proper share’. Modest as ever, he told his mother that, although his presence may not have made much difference, the ‘presence of the uniform of an officer did’, and they got their proper rations.

Sherriff in the uniform of a 2nd Lieutenant in the East Surreys. By permission of the Surrey history Centre (Ref: 2332/6/4/2/1)

Sherriff in the uniform of a 2nd Lieutenant in the East Surreys. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/6/4/2/1)

He and Gibson were still living a quiet life, ‘away from our Regiments’ [about which he was probably very happy, since the 9th East Surreys had gone back into the line, in Hulluch (quite nearby) on 31 October, and were still there]. They got on well together, and had done from the beginning, because of their time together in the Artists. But she should not think there were no risks: ‘There are times when walking about the line when you get a rifle grenade or a bullet whizz past you, which makes your heart go “pit a pat”…I don’t want to make you think I have a fearfully risky job, because I have not, but I don’t want you to think that I am sitting in an armchair all day.’

He was not sure how much longer he might be attached to the RE [Royal Engineers], but he was hoping he might stay for some time. Apart from wading about in the mud up in the front line every other night he was enjoying it: ‘It is very pleasant being able to do just what you like and managing your little body of men and seeing to your own meals, especially when you have a jolly good cook, as my servant is turning out to be. I have never had a piece of steak at Flemings or an egg either, so well done as he does it – you are the only cook he can’t beat yet.’

Another parcel had come while he was writing to her, and he was looking forward to the ginger cakes at tea, having already started on the almonds and raisins (‘which made things seem very Xmassy’). It would be ‘fine’ if he were to be home for Christmas, he wrote – though he hardly expected it, since very few Regiments (especially in the Infantry) offered leave within three months. But if it did not come, then they should simply have to start looking forward again – and in the meantime, the addition of some socks, pencils and peppermints in his next parcel would at least help keep him comfortable.

[Next letter: 5 November]

A Typical Day

Here’s a typical day, as told to Pips:

6:30: Arrive back from night duty at the mine. Sit down on bed and servant brings a cup of tea.

6:30-8:00: Generally doze off to sleep after being up most of the night.

8:30: Breakfast – usually porridge, eggs & bacon, bread, butter & jam, and tea.

9:00: Wash and brush up; change boots and socks  usually wet from wading about in the muddy trenches; then read till about 10:30.

10:30: Inspect rifles of working party returned at 9 o’clock, usually go round and ask what sort of breakfast the men have, and generally receive complaints. But they always have complaints, and unless anything very special, take no notice as they are very well treated as regards rations: they have a slice of bread, rasher of bacon and tea for breakfast with jam sometimes; good stew made from fresh meat for dinner and bread and cheese etc for sort of tea/supper.

Letter to Pips, 3 November 1916. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/1/1/3/103)

Letter to Pips, 3 November 1916. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/1/1/3/103)

11:00-1:00: Either start writing you letters, or read. Or, if I have had a busy night without much sleep, I have a nap.

1:00 o’clock: Lunch: today we had soup – some tinned lobster – tinned fruit and coffee (I expect this luxury makes you stagger – but it does not cost much and as we buy our own lunch we get as nice a things as we can). We have been here about 10 days now and have spent 78 francs in rations – which, seeing that there are two of us (and three for part of the time), works out quite moderately. [78 Francs was worth about £2 15 shillings, at a time when the daily pay of an Infantry 2nd Lieutenant was about 7s 6d]

1:00-4:00: Reading, writing, censoring letters, and various little jobs attached to our work, with fairly frequent intervals of watching the Germans bombard our aeroplanes or watching bombardments in the distance…We have absolutely got the upper hand in the air – you see a dozen or two of our aeroplanes hovering about and hardly ever one of “Fritz’s”.

4:30: Tea – usually plain, except when a parcel has arrived.

5:30: One of us leaves to go up on duty – the other stays at home and (if I am off) go on writing (you would be surprised if you knew the time I spend on letter writing), and reading and anything else that may be required.

7:00: Check rations when they come up, and see if all correct.

8:30: Have dinner – sometimes fried steak, onions or potatoes etc.

9:30: Get settled in bed and read for a bit and then go to sleep.

So you see – our time is pretty much our own after duty.

[Next letter: 4 November]

 

Shirkers

‘There is always something about the look of the man who shirks,’ he told his mother, and he did not like dealing with them: ‘You have to pretend to be angry and say all sorts of uncomplimentary things to them.’ On the other hand, he acknowledged, it did seem unfair that, as an officer, he had ‘better food, better quarters, better work and everything made easier – whatever an officer endures physically his men are enduring worse.’ He tried to make up for this by being ‘as nice and easy with them men’ as he could, but ‘this results in lack of discipline – lack of respect and the result is that…you make up for all the niceness by giving the man a necessary telling off.’

Shirkers and discipline aside, the days were passing uneventfully, although he had just watched the Germans firing at British aeroplanes, but without success (as usual). So mostly he chatted in his letter about waiting for parcels to come, or about the progress of letters to and from home. His thoughts were also beginning to turn towards Christmas, which had always been a very special time for him: ‘Sometimes, when I am standing in a trench watching the dawn break it reminds me of the times I have lain in bed gazing at [the] sumptuously distorted stocking holding so many good and funny things, waiting for it to get light enough to open it…’

He did not expect to get home for it, but he hoped he would, at least, have a fairly jolly time where he was. Of course, Christmas was still a few weeks away, but ‘every day brings us nearer to the end of it all, and to dear old home and our poultry farm, and everything else that has kept me happy looking forward to.’

[Next letters: 3 November]

A born comedian

He told Pips that he was still enjoying his work, although there was one drawback: ‘…you have plenty of responsibility and all bad work is blamed onto you – still, you can’t have money for nothing and there is worry with every job.’ On the whole the work was uneventful, and even on their days off-duty, there was still enough to occupy them that the time seemed to pass very quickly.

He was conscious that the 5th November was coming up soon, and he fondly recalled his father and uncle trying to organise, from a 2 shilling box, small firework displays (‘wonderful to our unpractised eyes’), but burning themselves by lighting “Blue Devils” at the wrong end. He wished he could be at home to ‘indulge in a few of these little pleasures once more.’

He went on to tell Pips about their troubles with the rats, of which he reckoned there must be millions – so many that even a ‘Pied Piper who wasn’t German’ would have to work pretty hard to keep the numbers down. They were doing what they could to protect their supplies – packing everything in sandbags and stringing them from the roof – but the rats were showing great ingenuity in opening tins and chewing their way through metal, so he reckoned it would only be a matter of time before they pulled the sandbags down.

Alexander Field as Mason the cook, with Colin  Clive (Stanhope) in the original 1929 Savoy production of Journey's End. Photo by the Stage Photo Company. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: ESR/19/2/6(4))

Alexander Field as Mason the cook, with Colin Clive (Stanhope) in the original 1929 Savoy production of Journey’s End. Photo by the Stage Photo Company. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: ESR/19/2/6(4))

He was augmenting his reading of Marcus Aurelius with Scott’s novel, Guy Mannering, and with whatever papers were around. Outside the dugout, the sounds of war continued – ‘tap! tap! tap!’ – and they had recently been startled by some trench mortar shells landing nearby. But still there was scope for plenty of fun, mainly from the men, and Morris in particular, who was a ‘born comedian’:

‘Yesterday we were a bit short of provisions and were arranging our dinner – we had a soup tablet, some tinned pork & beans, a little tin of lobster and some coffee – [Morris] took off his hat in a perplexed way saying:  “Soup – fish – pork – beans – coffee – it don’t seem to rhyme properly, do it?” I leave it to you to puzzle out what he meant.’

[Next letter: 2 November]

Missiles

In an undated fragment of a letter Sherriff confides to Pips his feelings about the missiles the Germans send over: ‘[We] hope for the best and pray that we will always have the luck to steer clear of them – that is all we can do.’ Even the less highly explosive missiles had a demoralising effect: ‘Rifle grenades and aerial darts are very disturbing – you hear a Bump! as the missile is fired and then a noise like wish! wish! wish! wish! wish! getting louder and louder and your heart beats louder and louder – then crash! and you bob down.’ Of course, in his present job he was out of the firing line, and grateful for that, but he had noticed that ‘the less you are actually in the line the more reluctant you are to enter it.’

He was putting his spare time to good use, ‘writing a little historical story which, when finished, I will submit for your approval and criticism – of course, it may never be finished, but I hope so…’. [Unfortunately we do not know whether it was ever finished or not – but there is no sign of it in his files.]

[Next letter: 1 November]

Through the Looking Glass

‘This evening there was one of the finest sunsets I have ever seen,’ he wrote to Pips, ‘even the famous Selsey Sunsets could hardly rival it…a red glare in the sky which at first I thought was a fire…Against the glorious red sky with dark black clouds here and there were silhouetted little ruined houses and barns – some retain their walls and roofs – the latter usually only consisting of a skeleton frame like a firework set piece – then  you see little avenues of burnt frizzled up trees which once bordered one of those typical French roads – but no road remains now – no artificial features are allowed to remain when war comes – then you see little groups of black crosses dotted about amongst the rank weeds that grow everywhere…’

The sunset had clearly put him in a philosophical frame of mind, because he went on to consider the ‘two great armies’ sitting across from each other, and how it reminded him of Alice Through the Looking Glass:  the Germans were ‘just a reflection of us at present’ – they were both doing the same things – writing letters home, running away from trench mortars, wondering what the other was up to: ‘taking it all round,’ he wrote, ‘we just sit and frighten each other’.

On a happier note, he told Pips that he had enjoyed a walk to the local village, to buy some supplies, and to have his hair cut ‘in a little French Barber (or more correctly Barbress)’. The walk had been quite interesting, ‘although those items of interest cannot be described here – they must wait and be put in my book if that ever becomes written.’

Writing to his mother that he and Gibson were still ‘having quite a nice time’, he went on to praise Morris’s skills as a chef, noting that  ‘he performs marvels over a brazier (that Navvies use) and a little billy can. He cooks eggs and bacon and steaks…nearly as well as you do, as anyone has at present approached, in my opinion.’ He told her they were well taken care of with rations (including fresh eggs), and that, ‘with the delightful addition of the contents of your parcels we really live too well…’

He also told her that, although he had now been out in France for a month, the time had flown past, and that ‘it seems but yesterday since I said goodbye to you at Charing X [sic]. I can still picture that last little glimpse of you that I had as the train moved out, and I shall always remember it…’

[Next letter: 31 October]