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Soldiers' Letters

F. A. Delamare writes from France:—I quite see that V. C. must be a "Princess institution. The fact is that France is full of the men-children. Of course, I have lost track of the more recent of them, but I go nowhere without meeting the older brood. In this little camp where I am for a week or two in one of war's backwashes Biss and Cameron (old law students) share the officers' mess. Along the road I run into Salmond every day. Our Adjutant (2nd A. T. B. 1st Brigade) is S. T. Seddom. In Brigade H. Q. when I passed one morning I saw only two men, one was Duigan, The other P. B. Cooke. I had dinner the other night with Duncan Stout, and Con. Strack was discoursing to me on the possibility of divine intervention on the way home. Sergt. Caddick, during the evening, showed me the Annual Report of the V. U. C. S. A. The other night I joined up with my battalion in France, more than a fortnight ago, I made a pilgrimage to a camp a mile away, where I found Cuthbert Taylor asleep I woke him up to strike hands and doubled back, for I was sharing a tent with the Colonel and Adjutant, and didn't want to keep them awake. So if you think there is nothing of mankind at Salamanca, don't forget that I could whisper the name of a place in France which—in the homely language of camp—is "lousy" with the renegades. By the way I have found that pay-offices are quite cheery places. At Sling Charles Gamble presided at the desk, and he is now in this vicinity. At—B. Egley handed over the hoot—and whether my journey takes me up or down I feel quite certain that the current coin (not paper money—at any rate below) will be handed over with a friendly smile. One of Gilbert Bogle's old company is at our mess. He says the battalion recommended him (the aforementioned Gilbert) for V. C., but that nothing came of it. He says that there was not a more popular officer in the battalion. Arnold Atkinson and Gerald Fell were killed just close to where I was last Sunday week. Archie Bogle was somewhere near, though I did not see him. Dear old Arnold—he was one of the very best—keen in his vocation. And as good a citizen as soldier. Wouldn't be surprised if he were recommended for a decoration, though it is unlikely, I hear, that will be given. He was page 16 killed going over the top to bring in a man who dropped into a shell hole.

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The following letter from C. F. Atmore, was unfortunately just too late for insertion in our last issue.

Trenches, 27.3.17.

Dear Spike,

This is the opportunity that I have been waiting for to tell you something of our experiences in France.

The 18th Reinforcements came over to the base on 1st February, and joined up with their companies some few days later. Ashley Duncan, N. F. Little, and F. Howard went to 2nd Wellington Battalion; C. H. Holmes to the 2nd Canterbury Battalion; and H. Sanson and I to the 2nd Otagos; so you see we have been scattered to the winds.

I have been in the trenches several hours now, and am looking forward to the more open warfare which the coming offensive promises. The front consists of mazes of trenches which, by day, seem unutterable desolations of silence. Scarcely any sign of movement betrays the thousands who are in them. But at night the scene is one of incessant activity. Then entanglements are laid and defences strengthened. Patrols are out in front, seeking information of the evening's work and intended movements, and warn those over average height to "bobdown." Rats have taken up their abode here in great numbers, and also in the billets. In fact if, when making out a billeting scheme you should inadvertently forget to make provisions for them, you will have your billets uncomfortably overcrowded. In the sector there is a huge black cat, who is provided with a fine living from these intruders. Every night she patrols our parapets in search of supper. One exceptionally dark and wintry night a slightly nervous sentry mistook the shadowy silhouette of innocent pussy for the head of a German peering over the parapet. Instantly he raised his rifle and cried, "Halt! Who goes there?" What an unfortunate predicament for poor pussy, for she was a French cat and could not be expected to understand the challenge, even had she known the pass word. So she heeded it not, but fortunately the page 17 sentry's shot was mis-aimed, and pussy leapt into the darkness, unscathed.

The most pitiful sight one sees in these parts in the remains of one-time picturesque villages, now desolate areas of ruined houses and wrecked streets. The one redeeming feature of all this ruthlessness is that side by side with the wanton destruction of medieval art, are destroyed numberless estaminets, the one blemish of French villages. These estaminets are often run by persons of doubtful character; sometimes by spies, always on the alert to pick up valuable information from the lips of unwary soldiers, thrown off their guard by the evil effects of vile and poisonous intoxicants.

A few weeks ago we were billeted in a farm house, where Madame was very anxious to learn something of life in Australia and New Zealand. "Is it true," she inquired of an Australian officer, "that mail coaches are often held up in Australia?" "Ah, yes," was the ready reply, "I often do it myself." . . .

Speaking of food and its scarcity in England reminds me of a notice I saw in a country store close to our N. Z. Camp at Sling. It ran thus: "wanted two young lads as apprentices to be treated like one of the family." A ration scale no doubt!

One meets V. U. C students here every day, and among those whom I have seen lately are: G. S Seddon, A. Seivwright, N. L. Wright, D. Hall, R. St. J. Beere, A. H. Bogle, Jerry Daniell, and others too numerous to mention.

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Extracts from letters of Lieut. A. H. Bogle:—

June 11. We are back about three miles behind the lines resting—a nice peaceful spot too, with trees and green grass. The mines went up early one morning, and at breakfast time we were ordered away to put in strong points. The shelling was very solid: an extraordinary amount if it hits nobody, but it takes the stuffing out of men, and, of course, anything within a hundred yards might hit one. The soft ground saved a lot of lives, as the shells entered a little before brusting and were blanketed by the dirt. Our bombardment was so heavy that a great many of the German garrison probably never moved out of their dug-outs for three or four days before the stunt. Prisoners say that they could get up no rations page 18 or water to speak of. Our guns lay very quiet the actual night before it, and the Germans tried a relief. It was, of course. Incomplete when the mines went up, and God knows how many guns opened on the instant. It was still dark, of course, and the flashes were everywhere. Some of the dead lay with their packs still on.

The tanks were absolutely a wash out. One passed me at 4 p. m. over the far side, but that was 12 hours late. They were stuck here, there and everywhere, in all kinds of trouble. They are reported as having done good work, so presumably they got on better in other parts. We are, to all intents and purposes, an intact Division still; and the morale, as they call it, is probably higher than ever. To-night I propose to have a sleep, and to-morow a bath, and I shall then be fit to eat a Hun, though so far the rations are keeping up alright, and there may be no necessity.

June 14. After two nights in our "rest" billets I was sent off to arrange to shift back to the old camp in the town where I had the kind and handsome landlady of respected memory. The formerly busy little town is about deserted. All the people with whom we lodged are gone. The Germans smacked it up all one long summer's day, and still send a few shells every day at odd times, and three at least every night. There are still some babies in the village. Every night they wander off to a concrete dug-out in the fields near by. A fair number of the men are sleeping in the fields and roadsides as a regular thing. The weather has been dry and hot now for weeks, an extraordinary contrast with winter conditions. In fact the summer is very charming, with all the vegetation and the birds. The birds were singing away all through the Messines bombardment—probably the hottest ever yet put up. Swallows have built in dug-outs in the firing line even. I wish we had them in New Zealand. I have been away all day up behind the present front line finding tracks. Ran into the usual three or four shells, of course, and crashed through the undergrowth in mortal terror. Ploegsteert Wood is still fill of gas in parts. There are rats dead in every direction. The newspapers are still full of the recent manoeuvres, and correspondents annoy me their absurdities. Tales of bands of Australians waiting for a tank to roll out some wire and crying in page 19 admiring voice "Gosh, that chap's game," while they follow a tank with fixed bayonets, may read well, but no genuine Australian would descend to "Gosh" to relieve his pent-up breast, nor, in justice, would they wait for a tank to cut their wire, nor could they follow a tank with any ease unless they crawled at the rate of one mile in every four hours, and to be accurate, it is extremely questionable whether there was such a thing as a tank on the ridge until all the front seats were occupied. But why worry? As you say, man is a poor creature and given to errors.

July 5. I think I told you I was an Acting-Adjutant. Well, here I am adjutanting as hard as I can go. Under present conditions it is very soft affair-had there been anything to do, the other chap would not have gone on leave, and there you are. The Division is making arrangements for a lot of sports this week, swimming, boxing, running, etc., for probably three afternoons; so we shall have lots of entertainment. A rest will not do anyone any harm. I was not conscious of any great fatigue, but I feel tired now, and that gas was abominable A little of it every day for about two weeks—no bon for soldier. I had another motor ride with the C. R. E. into our "town." Nothing much to do there, but the drive was O. K. You never saw such a growth as they have on these French fields—peas, beans, potatoes, corn, silver beet. All and every kind, in plots generally about 100 yards by 50 or smaller, of the one thing; scarcely a grass patch anywhere; no stock and no fences.

I saw old Frog in a German dug-out up near the line a few days ago. He is just the same.

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Extracts from a diary of an old V. C. student:—"Life down at Etaples in the base camp was a dull thing—a village of smells and even this girt about with guards and gates. Many visits as sergeants of the town picket revealed the paucity of its charms so barely that no informal visit was ever paid.

It is a picturesque dress worn by the elderly fisher women (not mermaids these, and grant their vanities may never be wounded by sight of a glass). They have bare feet, stockinged and kilted legs, and with their hard faces look like comedians, but they bear themselves straight as page 20 larches, and are direct of gaze. . . In the middle of our stay here, I went off to an aeroplane school at La H——My first night I had the chance of a fly, and took it like a bird. It was an observation monoplane, and the business was to read signals from a white and green panel spread on the ground below. We rose to 150ft. at about 81 miles an hour. There were not many sensations in the trip, except once when we struck an air pocket and dropped plump for 100ft. . . At Yzeux we had a very fair billet, and here is a facsimile of the notice affixed to it: "The Mayor asks nobody here; neither horses nor men, because this house is lived by one very old woman." She looks like the witch of Endor, inspects us and our billets 30 times a day, and mutters each time her sole English, "No Bon, No Bon!"