Still living alone in his little dugout (close to his men, who were some way away from the others in the Company), Sherriff told his mother that they were still enjoying glorious weather: ‘I spend most of the day in shirt sleeves – except when I have to go far from my dugout, when one always has to be armed and have one’s equipment and gas helmet on.’

His birthday was coming up soon [6 June] and he told her that he hardly dared hope that he might be home on leave when it came. In a separate letter to Pips he outlined the factors that might act for or against his leave coming soon:

‘For: that other officers have been going quite frequently and there are now I believe only 3 ahead of me on the list; Against: that leave may, at any time, be stopped should an offensive be pending and I lose my opportunity. There is also, of course, the chance of my unfortunately being hit – which I very seriously hope not – it would be bad luck if that happened after waiting 8 months, wouldn’t it?’

He told them both not to make any form of preparations until was definitely on the way – or perhaps even until he had arrived in England, because only then would he know for sure that he was actually coming home.

A picture taken by Sherriff’s father while on their battlefield tour in 1921. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/9/7)

His letter to his mother was relatively brief, but his letter to Pips was rather longer, dwelling on some of the sights that he had seen in the war:

‘I was sitting in a trench in a shattered wood this morning at dawn – and I saw one of the most beautiful sunrises I have ever witnessed – there was something exquisite about the scene of the dawn coming behind a shattered wood which stood out in dense black outline – just a few broken stems of trees, some lying flat – or trees broken off and frayed at the top like giant shaving brushes, a few smashed timbers lying on a shell-pitted road. It is strange – but one would not expect to see beautiful scenes in a country with war on – it is wonderful how Nature’s vain attempts at again asserting herself over everything ghastly makes such beautiful, awe-inspiring views like this – although I have travelled over much of England and witnessed some beautiful scenery, I have seen, within a mile of the line , some views the very desolation of which makes them equal to the most beautiful scenery in England.

I told you of scenes I witnessed at other places – the sun setting behind desolate slag heaps giving an impression of the pyramids of Egypt – of looking down into a valley by moonlight in which thousands of men died – where little skeleton villages like so many Pompeiis lay scattered – of the moonlight on a great flat plain of snow – a great ruined city the like of which the world has never seen. All these scenes leave an impression never to be forgotten…’

‘And…after this rather poetical attempt,’ he concluded, ‘I will close for the present’.

[Next letter: 27 May]

Still living in his ‘little doll’s house’ in the support trench, Sherriff was delighted to have received a bundle of letters – 2 ‘fine long letters’ from his mother (‘the nicest and most comforting letters anyone could receive’, he told her), one from Bundy, and a parcel of cigarettes (which arrived just in time, as he had just finished the previous batch he had been sent).

He told Pips that nothing much had changed in his situation:

‘We certainly have struck a noisy quarter here, but hope it may not last very long and that we will soon have another rest….the same old routine goes on – work, hours of duty, shells and bullets day after day, day after day – a weary, monotonous kind of life which can only be relieved by philosophy’.

He had kept Epictetus and Marcus Aurelius with him throughout his time in the army, and, although he had never read them all the way through, he had read them in patches – ‘some pieces over and over again’.

Writing to his mother on the same day his thoughts turned again to the prospect of leave – he saw other officers going off, and hoped that his turn might come soon. And he was already planning what they might do:

‘The ten days would be absolutely perfect happiness, we would go just the same dear old walks and rides and sit in the same quiet old places in Hampton Court and Oxshott Woods – nearly always returning to the same old homely tea in the dining room – we would spend one day in London getting anything we want (and I would want some new clothes from Hazels). I could go and see them at the office and we could go to a matinee in London at the same time – but the majority of the time we would spend in the dear old haunts round about home – Pips could take some of his days holiday and come for some good rides with me too.’

He was sure it would be the happiest of all times, and ‘almost worth being out here 9 weary months for’.

[Next letters: 25 May]

‘The fine weather is still lasting,’ wrote Sherriff to his mother, ‘and having worked during the night I am now resting in my little dugout listening to the boom! boom! going on outside’ (while also writing to her, and to his old friend Trimm [another Kingston man who had served with him in the Artists Rifles]).

He had heard that some more officers would be going on leave the following week, taking him nearer to the top of the list:

‘If only we do not have to go into any “push” during the next three weeks or month I may be lucky enough to get my leave – I simply long for it – and the nearer I get on the list the more impossible it seems that I may get it – or at least the thought of getting home has always been so much on my mind that until I have actually got the pass in my hand and until I am actually sitting in the train on the way I will not believe that I am coming home.’

He told her that as soon as he knew he had leave he would contact her by telegram, to see whether it might be possible for her to meet him: ‘I do not wish to raise your hopes, dear, but I want to let you know that should all go well with me for a bit longer and should leave remain open – that happy time may come within a month or so’.

[Next letters: 24 May]

Writing to his mother for the first time in a few days, he first told of her of his surroundings in his little corner of the support trench:

‘I am sitting in my little dugout at present – which is a kind of little square box let into the side of the trench – quite dry and comfortable and having just room to lie flat down on the floor – I have a blanket, my air pillow (which is very useful) and my burberry here, also a few of my pet books and things – so am quite content on that point – the cramping is rather troublesome but one gets used to that in time – I spend some of my time reading and writing and some in sleeping and of course one has to be occasionally round about your men inspecting them etc.’

At that point he put down his pencil to head off to dinner, but he resumed the letter later in the evening, while the guns were ‘booming away in the distance’. Although things were quiet in their area at present, they never knew when something might start, so he had to be completely prepared, with all of his equipment ready at hand in case of emergency:

I very much hope things will keep quiet here – but, as I say, you never know your luck from one moment to another, so it is quite useless to worry and I always try hard to take it fatalistically  – and it always comforts me to know that you are always quite prepared and will never be surprised at any news – just knowing that it was fated to happen and could not be prevented. I simply adore this photo of you in nurses’ costume – I am very proud indeed of it, dear, and also that one of beryl too.’

Sherriff’s mother, in nurses uniform. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/6/6/3)

Sherriff’s sister, Beryl, in nurses uniform (around 1918). (By permission of the Surrey History Centre, Ref: 3813/14/1/4)

He promised that he would let her know when he came out of the trenches for a rest, and how much he would enjoy it (‘When you lay down on a soft bed after days of sleeping on the floor the delight and comfort is absolutely wonderful’). He was not troubled by the uncomfortable sleeping arrangements in the trenches – he almost always slept soundly – it was only the mental strain that bothered him – ‘and that can always be eased by thinking in the right way and always being perfectly prepared’.

He added a postscript the following day (having missed the post) in which he sounded surprisingly contented: ‘I have had quite an easy day today – just sitting in my dugout reading and thinking about you and dear old home – which seems so near, sometimes, dear. I can just shut my eyes and see the old house and the Park and everything.’ He would write again soon.

[Next letter: 22 May]

Writing to Pips, Sherriff sounded cheery – unsurprisingly,  given that the battalion was moving out of the front line and into Brigade support: ‘We are now well in it again, at quite a new place, so I am seeing the sights of France fairly well up to now’.

He was, of course, in Hooge, near Ypres, but could not tell his father, for fear of the censors. But he sought to describe his surroundings in at least some detail:

‘There is some indescribable feeling of curiosity and a certain amount of  dread in reaching a place which for 2 years or more has been in every paper and everyone’s mouth – to reach desolate, smashed-up  pieces of ground and battered skeleton farms which one day I expect will be as famous as Blenheim and the like – you marvel how man can possibly live on such ground which, again and again, is churned up by shells of all kind – but they do – and quite cheerfully too. Nothing in the world can quench men’s natural tendency to cheerfulness in unpleasant situations just as nothing will ever make him happy in absolutely pleasant situations.’

Postcards bought by Sherriff’s father while on their battlefield tour in 1921. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/9/7)

Being in support offered more time for reading, and he had been making more progress with Mr Britling: ‘It is rather a remarkable book in some ways and has evidently become popular – when talking of how the sons play with tin soldiers…it reminds me very much of our soldier games which I only hope we may be able to continue after the war.’ In fact, he hoped that, after the war, he would be able to continue all of his games and hobbies (which had ‘become much dearer and pleasanter’ to him since he he’d been away) – including cricket and hockey, stamp and coin collecting, and ‘the reading of history’. He was looking forward to seeing how Pips had done up his study.

There were now, he reckoned, just about 7 officers ahead of him, waiting for leave – and if he was lucky enough to survive the next 6 weeks he might get the leave that he had long been waiting for. In the meantime, he would stay in his little dugout, cut into the side of a trench, which was ‘just large enough to lay down in…although I feel rather like Alice in the Rabbit’s house, as there is only room just to sit up.’

[Next letter: 21 May]

‘We have come to a place that has been long famous in the war,’ Sherriff wrote to Pips. ‘I cannot tell you where or anything about it [he was in Hooge, near Ypres], but for absolute destruction the district will leave an impression on my mind which I will never forget. If I ever have the chance of writing a book, and if I could ever acquire the gift of describing there is no weirder sight in the world I am convinced.’

A picture taken by Sherriff’s father while on their battlefield tour in 1921. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/9/7)

He continued:

‘Even in this desolation spring cannot help showing itself everywhere – early this morning I was on duty and a cuckoo started calling in a wood in the German lines – a battered skeleton of a wood which no bird should occupy and then it flew across to a little group of tree stumps on our side  – quite neutral you see.  Grass springs up where it can and flowers grow in little patches of grass which have not been torn by shells or parched by gas – leaves and buds come from trees which have survived and any opening given for spring to show itself is always taken.’

He was feeling well, and had not had a recurrence of neuralgia for some days – perhaps because of the warmer weather. He was making progress with Mr Britling, which he was enjoying, and along with his Marcus Aurelius and Epictetus he had plenty to read. Not that there was any shortage of work to do in the line – rifle inspections, letter-censoring and ‘all sorts of odd jobs’ took up plenty of his time.

Officers were gradually being sent on leave, and, if he stayed well, his turn would soon come round. He was looking forward to it: ‘What a pleasure it would be…to get away from Flanders for a bit and get back again to dear old England and some rides into the country and trips on the river.’

[Next letter: 20 May]

Now in the front line at Hooge, near Ypres, Sherriff sent a note to his mother telling her that he was quite well:

‘I am quite comfortable here, and have quite a nice little dugout, where I have a bed and a table to write on. I cannot tell you anything about the place we are in at present as the censor will not allow it – but you will be glad to know that I feel quite well at present and that there are worse places than this.’

He promised that he would try to find a flower for her and send it home, to add to the other two he had previously sent [a scarlet pimpernel from Vimy Ridge, and a snowdrop picked while training recruits behind the lines a month earlier]. ‘It is a little way or remembering places by’, he told her.

‘Dear old Rossendale’, in Seymour Road, Hampton Wick. By Permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 3813/14/3/1)

Although he had only just arrived in the front line, he was already hoping that they would soon be relieved, and be sent out to rest again, where it was quieter: he found the constant noise very troubling. Trying to buck himself up he told her that he realised there was nothing to do but put up with things, and hope he would emerged unscathed, and be able to return to ‘dear old Rossendale’, and all the activities they had planned. On the other hand:

‘If I failed to come through I have the happiness of knowing that you will always be well provided for – you have Bundy, and even if you did not I know you would always be capable through your knowledge of nursing to look after yourself – all the same dear, I trust you will not be called upon to do the and that I shall have the pleasure of looking after you and trying to repay you for all you have done for me.’

Before putting his pencil down (he had to get some sleep before going on duty), he told her  of the comfort he derived from the ‘good books’ which he carried everywhere, as well as from the signet ring she had given him, and the photos of her that he carried with him, which meant that ‘I can never be lonely wherever I am’.

[Next letter: 17 May]

[For those familiar with Sherriff’s letters, there are actually two dated on this date (carrying the Surrey History Centre catalogue references of 2332/1/1/2/173 and 2332/1/1/2/174). But it is quite clear from the text in the second, which notes that he has now left the front line, that Sherriff has misdated it. The more likely date is 26 May, by which time the Battalion had moved into Divisional Support.]

‘We have had an easy time today,’ wrote Sherriff to his mother, ‘as the men require a rest before moving into the line – I hope we shall not be in for long, but one cannot tell exactly.’

He told her not to worry if she did not hear from him for a day or two, because sometimes there was so much work to do that it was impossible to find the time to write. And anyway, ‘should anything happen to me, dear, you would soon know, as they are very prompt in letting you know.’ Furthermore:

‘If anything should happen to me that I should not come back, I would like you to get a bungalow like Sleepy Hollow, and have it at Selsey – buying it out of the money which I have in my office deposit fund, which is now over £50 I believe. I feel there is no nicer way in which I would like the money to be spent.’

Sleepy Hollow – the Sherriff’s railway carriage bungalow on the seafront at Selsey (by permission of the Surrey History Centre)

On the other hand, he much preferred that they should be able to spend the money together, on the tour of England they had often talked about.

He hoped that her hours of work at the hospital were easier for her now – she had probably got used to them by now, he expected, since she had been there quite a long time – in fact, for about as long as he had been in France (‘and that seems long enough’). He hoped that he might get leave soon – there were only around 8 officers in front of him now, and with luck they would all be sent home quickly.

In the meantime, it was time to put down his pencil, since he had to pack up his things, ready for the short march into the front line.

[Next letter: 16 May]

After another day’s hard marching in the heat Sherriff sent home letters to both his parents to let them know he was well. ‘I am writing this letter in a hut very much like those at Romford [where he had trained with the Artists Rifles],’ he told his mother. ‘We arrived after a fairly long march and I believe we rest the night here. I have not any idea what happens next.’ In practice, though, he had a fairly shrewd idea, as he told Pips: ‘We have nearly arrived at our destination, and will probably shortly move into a part of the line.’

After all those days on the march, he was now nearer home now than he had ever been, and the prospect of moving into the line seemed to have made him rather homesick:  ‘I often think of what I would now be doing if at home,’ he wrote to Pips, ‘and it is such a comfort to know that home is still there and not as some houses are like over here.’ And he was obviously trying to approach the imminent move philosophically, perhaps to steady his nerves:

‘I simply loathe the war [he wrote to his mother] but all the time I know it must end soon or something will occur to bring me home or that in dying there are no more worries at all – please don’t think I am trying to make you feel miserable – I only want you to think just as I do – to be prepared for anything that may happen – as I am sure you are and always have been…The country and trees are looking beautiful just at present – I hate going into the line even for the shame of leaving this lovely spring-looking country behind.’

He had no time to say much more, for he had the men’s letters to censor, and other duties to perform. But he reassured them that, while in the line, he would do his best to write home, even if his letters were brief, and written ‘under the most trying conditions.’

[Next letter: 15 May]

After an absence of a few days, while halted after another day’s march on the way back to the front lines, Sherriff finally picked up his pencil again:

‘Another long march today has brought us many miles from anywhere I have yet been to over here – the weather is perfectly fine still, and it is making a wonderful difference to the country. The roads, of course, are extremely dusty and it makes marching very trying for the men, though it is excellent training.’

Extract from the 9th East Surreys Battalion Diary (http://www.queensroyalsurreys.org.uk)

He had risen at 3:00am, for they had elected to start early that morning, in anticipation of a hot day ahead, and had made ‘many miles before the sun became troublesome’, after which they had rested for a few hours. For his part, he was very happy to be marching (although not in the direction they were travelling):

‘I am always very glad to get some marching as I was always fond of it, and you see so many interesting towns and things on the way – the people alter as the towns do and, although cobbles are hard to march on and flat country is uninteresting unless there are towns, there is plenty to keep your attention occupied.’

He had discovered, from a recent letter by Pips, that they were both now reading Mr Britling Sees it Through [written by H G Wells, and published the previous September], a book which he was half-way through, and enjoying, hoping that it would prove to be ‘one of the few good war books published.’ Perhaps reading the book had made him yearn for home, for he often wondered how things were there – his 7 1/2 months in France had been a long stretch and he hoped that he might be allowed home on leave soon. In the meantime, he would just have to cling to his philosophy texts:

‘One can never tell what is going to happen next here, and Philosophy is absolutely the one;y comfort obtainable in the trying times which are bound to occur frequently…’

[Next letters: 13 May]