Wilfrid Childe I seem to remember in the Oxford Poems of 1910-1912, or whatever it was. But I don’t remember his books at all. I don’t see any books new or old now.
I shall be glad to get out of London though I can see friends there. I am going down to Steep now with my wife — the first bit of the country I have seen it will be since I left Romford a month ago.
The new work is difficult, especially as I am unfit and the instuctors are bad improvised. We have 7 weeks more at Trowbridge and then may be gazetted. I want to go out badly now.
I heard from Frost at last. He has been reading publically for a fund in aid of the wounded in France. He has been writing but did not send anything. He said nothing about his family. Carol has been ill I know. It was a more cheerful letter than I have had.
My love to you all three, Y — ours ever
Edward Thomas
Index of Letters
To Robert Frost
High Beech nr. Loughton Essex
19 October 1916
My dear Robert,
This morning the postman brought your letter of September 28. I am home helping to get things straight in our new cottage. It is right alone in the forest among beech trees and fern and deer, though it only costs lod to reach London. Luckily I had a week’s leave thrust on me just at the time when I could be of some use. We have had fine weather, too, luckily and have had some short walks, Helen, Bronwen and I — Mervyn being still in lodgings 6 miles off, and Baba with an aunt, waiting till the house is ready for them.
Since I wrote last I have been shifted to Trowbridge Artillery Barracks and have had 3 weeks hard work there. I am waiting for the result of my 2nd examination. If I pass, I shall be an officer in another month. My going out depends on whether they are in great need of men when I am ready, also on my passing the final medical test. If I go it seems likely it will be to a not very big gun, so that I shall be far enough up to see everything. There may be a week’s leave before that and there may not, in any case not enough to come to see you even if that were allowed, which I doubt. If you were to come over here I don’t think you would meet much annoyance, if any. People say things you would not like to hear, but the chances are a hundred to one you would not hear them. There is certainly no strong feeling. What feeling there is only unlucky chance or your own putting it to the test could bring out. I don’t like to think of your coming and my not being free to see you. I have short week ends of 24 hours — giving me less than 24 hours at home. In a month’s time I may have a number of days of freedom, but I can count on nothing.
I have just written the 2nd thing since I left London a month ago. If I can type the 2 you shall see them. I am wondering if any of these last few sets of verses have pleased you at all. — Haines liked some I showed him. I was there for 24 hours a fortnight ago and had a walk up Cooper’s Hill and picked blackberries. He was the same as ever, and relieved at his (apparently final) exemption. I think he was going to write to you then. He showed me ‘Hyla Brook’ and another piece of yours which I enjoyed very much. I like nearly everything of yours better at a 2nd reading and best after that. Truce.
About my collection of verses, the publisher remains silent a month. I wrote off at once today to ask whether he could decide and if he will publish I will do my best to hunt up duplicates and send them out to you in good time for a possible American publisher. I shall be pleased if you succeed and not feel it a scrap if you don’t. As if I could refuse to give you a chance of doing me good!
It would take me too long to be sure what I think of Rupert. I can tell you this — that I received £3 for his first ‘Poems’ the other day and £2 for ‘New Numbers’ (because of him). So I can’t think entirely ill of him. No. I don’t think ill of him. I think he succeeded in being youthful and yet intelligible and interesting (not only pathologically) more than most poets since Shelley. But thought gave him (and me) indigestion. He couldn’t mix his thought or the result of it with his feeling. He could only think about his feeling. Radically, I think he lacked power of expression. He was a rhetorician, dressing things up better than they needed. And I suspect he knew too well both what he was after and what he achieved. I think perhaps a man ought to be capable of always being surprised on being confronted with what he really is — as I am nowadays when I confront a full size mirror in a good light instead of a cracked bit of one in a dark barrack room. Scores of men, by the way, shave outside the window, just looking at the glass with the dawn behind them. My disguises increase, what with spurs on my heels and hair on my upper lip.
Bronwen is at my elbow reading ‘A Girl of the Limberlost’. Garnett, whom I saw yesterday, for the first time since I enlisted, was praising ‘The Spoon River Anthology’. Can he be right? I only glanced at it once, and I concluded that it must be liked for the things written about in it, not for what it expressed. Isn’t it done too much on purpose?
Noyes is reciting to the public, not to a drawing room. He was too valuable to be made a soldier. Monro has gone off to camp somewhere, but not so Miss... aski...
You would like one of our sergeant-major instructors who asked a man coiling a rope the wrong way — from right to left—’Were you a snake-charmer before you joined?’ We have some ripe regular specimens at the barracks. By the way, have you had any news of Chandler? I asked Haines, but he didn’t know. Flint, I suppose, has been gathered up by now.
Now I will try to type those verses. Goodbye. Helen and Bronwen and I send you all our love. Bronwen, by the way, wrote to Irma in August, addressing her at Bethlehem. I wonder with what luck.
Yours ever Edward Thomas
Index of Letters
To Helen
13 Rusham Road
Balham SW
20 October 1916
Dearest,
Here are the verses which should make up pretty well, with those I put in the oak chest, the set Ingpen has. If they don’t, put together, make up the same set; the only thing is to take out of Ingpen’s set those which are not in yours, unless you can find them in the pink case. Then send yours to Frost, registering them. Or else send Ingpen’s to Frost, taking careful note of what are missing from yours, so that I can replace them later. That is the better plan, I think. Remember, of course, to cut out anything that is on Gordon’s list. If there is anything in my set that is not in Ingpen’s, add it to Ingpen’s and make a note of it as something to be added to the duplicate before it goes to Ingpen for publication. That is, if Ingpen is to publish. Don’t send to Frost before I tell you that the thing is settled.
Mother is better still. She tells me Bronwen has a ring, so I will simply combine with you if you are getting her something useful. I can’t get anything in Trowbridge beyond an Artillery badge. I got a good haversack, so don’t you worry. If you get a pipe, get it at the Stores. One of the dark red French briars would be the best, and don’t think of paying more than 5/- or 6/-. It should not be mounted.
It is late now. All is well — if only I have got through the exam. Goodbye — Edwy I hope my letter card and the £1 enclosed in it reached you. It was a risky thing to do.
A note from Mary says Baba is very well. They have been expecting you or a letter.
Index of Letters
To Robert Frost
High Beech
31 December 1916
My dear Robert,
I had your letter and your poem ‘France, France’ yesterday. I like the poem very much, because it betrays exactly what you would say and what you feel about saying that much. It expresses just those hesitations you or I would have at asking others to act as we think it is their cue to act. Well, I am soon going to know more about it. I am not at home as the address suggests, but am on the eve of a whole week’s continuous shooting. It begins tomorrow. Then at the end of the week or soon after I shall have my last leave. After all we are going to have smaller guns than we thought and we shall be nearer the front line a good bit and are beginning to make insincere jokes about observing from the front line which o
f course we shall have to do. I think I told you we were a quite mixed crowd of officers in this battery. As soon as we begin to depend on one another we shall no doubt make the best of one another. I am getting on, I think, better than when I was in my pupilage. The 2 senior officers have been out before. Four of us are new. I am 3 years older than the Commanding Officer and twice as old as the youngest. I mustn’t say much more.
I was home for Christmas by an unexpected piece of luck. We were very happy with housework and wood gathering in the forest and a few walks. We had snow and sunshine on Christmas day. Mervyn’s holiday coincided with mine. Some of the time I spent at my Mother’s house and in London buying the remainder of my things for the front. I am very well provided.
I wish I had your book. Haines has, but I don’t want to borrow his. Mine still hasn’t been fixed up. I wonder have you had your duplicate of the M.S. which I sent over a month ago? It looks now as if I should not see the proofs. Bottomley or John Freeman will do it for me.
It is nearly all work here now and jn the evenings, if I haven’t something to do with my maps for reading, I am either out walking or indoors talking. When I am alone — as I am during the evening just now because the officer who shares my room is away — I hardly know what to do. I can’t write now and still less can I read. I have rhymed but I have burnt my rhymes and feel proud of it. Only on Saturday and Sunday have we a chance of walking in daylight. Twice I have seen Conrad who lives 12 miles away. But now we can’t travel by train without special reasons. I tried to begin ‘The Shaving of Shagpat’ just now, but could not get past the 3rd page. I could read Frost, I think. Send me another letter, though I expect it will find me over the sea. Goodbye all, and my love.
Yours ever
Edward Thomas
Index of Letters
To his parents
Dainville
10 February 1917
Dear Father and Mother,
We have reached our position. It has been by such easy stages that now the real thing is no worse than Codford. Our actual billets are a mile from the guns and they are really comfortable and warm. My servant, a country carpenter from Oxford, is very handy and zealous and we have — or I have — nothing to complain of. I have just had a day in the trenches looking from Observation Posts and examining the country with map, compass and field-glass. I found the work interesting and I could tumble to it easily. Nor did I mind being in dangerous places. In fact I just had a good day in beautiful cold weather and was privately very pleased to have done my first day of the real thing.
We are on a main road at the edge of a village on fairly high ground close to a cathedral town. We are being shelled, but not in very great danger. The noise of shells arriving (or departing from our own batteries) does not trouble me and I am really contented with everything except the entire absence of letters. So far no letters have reached 244 Battery since it left Codford. Now that we are settled we ought to get them soon.
I am sorry to say the men are never warm at night and nothing can be done to improve their condition. Also the food is not very abundant and is practically just meat and bread and tea. They say everything at present is sacrificed to ammunition. Even bread is scarce and the men have mostly hard biscuit — which suits me personally very well. The other officers mostly want a lot of extras and unfortunately the expense is borne equally by all.
There is nothing I want except that I wish you would order The Times to be sent to ‘244 Siege Battery, B.E.F., France’. If you do send a parcel please include tracing paper or better still some blue tracing linen.
If you send any eatables I should like cake and butter.
All is well. This part of the line is not very busy at present — chiefly artillery work. I saw only one dead man, killed by a sniper to-day. The infantry are doing nothing.
I wish I knew you were all well. My love to every one
Edwy
Index of Letters
To Robert Frost
244 Siege Battery BEF France
11 February 1917 and a Sunday they tell me
My dear Robert,
I left England a fortnight ago and have now crawled with the battery up to our position. I can’t tell you where it is, but we are well up in high open country. We are on a great main road in a farmhouse facing the enemy who are about 2 miles away, so that their shells rattle our windows but so far only fall a little behind us or to one side. It is near the end of a 3 week’s frost. The country is covered with snow which silences everything but the guns. We have slept — chiefly in uncomfortable places till now. Here we lack nothing except letters from home. It takes some time before a new unit begins to receive its letters. I have enjoyed it very nearly all. Except shaving in a freezing tent. I don’t think I really knew what travel was like till we left England.
Yesterday, our 2nd day, I spent in the trenches examining some observation posts to see what could be seen of the enemy from them. It was really the best day I have had since I began. We had some shells very near us, but were not sniped at. I could see the German lines very clear but not a movement anywhere, nothing but posts sticking out of the snow with barbed wire, bare trees broken and dead and half ruined houses. The only living men we met at bends in trenches, eating or carrying food or smoking. One dead man lay under a railway arch so stiff and neat (with a covering of sacking) that I only slowly remembered he was dead. I got back, tired and warm and red. I hope I shall never enjoy anything less. But I shall. Times are comparatively quiet just here. We shall be busy soon and we shall not be alone. I am now just off with a working party to prepare our Gun positions which are at the edge of a cathedral town a mile or two along the road we look out on. We are to fight in an orchard there in sight of the cathedral.
It is night now and cold again, Machine guns rattle and guns go ‘crump’ in front of us. Inside a gramophone plays the rottenest songs imaginable, jaunty unreal dirty things. We get on well enough but we are a rum company. There is a Scotch philosopher, an impossible unmilitary creature who looks far more dismal than he really can be — I like him to talk to, but he is too glaringly timid and apologetic and helpless to live with. The others are all commonplace people under 26 years old who are never serious and could not bear anyone else to be serious. We just have to be dirty together. I also cannot be sincere with them. Two are boys of 19 and make me think of the boys I might have had for company. One of the two aged about 24 is rather a fine specimen of the old English soldiers, always bright and smart and capable, crude but goodhearted and frivolous and yet thorough at their work. He has been 10 years in the army. All his talk is in sort of proverbs or cant sayings and bits of comic songs, coarse metaphors — practically all quotations.
But I am seldom really tired of them. I suppose I am getting to like what they are, and their lack of seriousness is no deception and is just their method of expression.
I used to read some of the Sonnets while we were at Havre, but not on these last few days of travel. ‘Mountain Interval’ also is waiting.
My love to you all,
Yours ever
(2/Lt) Edward Thomas
Index of Letters
To his parents
Dainville
13 February 1917
Dear Father and Mother,
This is only a note written partly because I have nothing to do this morning — so far as I know yet — and I have a slight chill (everyone else has already had it) and do not feel inclined to go out. It is very fine though. The thaw has begun without the rain which would have infallibly come with it in England. I suppose we may see something green soon besides the artificial overhead covering for the guns which they have made green even in winter for some reason or other.
Since I told you I had been out on a trench reconnaissance we have had little to do except superintend the digging which prepares for taking up our new position. But the Captain has just said we may be going to shoot this afternoon and certainly tomorrow. This does not mean we are in our position but tha
t we have temporarily taken over from another battery just behind our billets and are going to work their guns till further notice.
Our own guns and stores, as a matter of fact, have not come on to us yet, and apparently they are not going to be ours any longer but to go to the battery we replace, the worst of it is that half my own private kit is with the stores and it may be a very long time before we receive it. So could you also send me a little mending wool for my socks? My servant washes for me and can mend too and I can therefore do with less underclothing than I anticipated.
We thought to move to-day but this latest news that we fire with another battery’s guns probably means that we stay on in these billets for a time. The new position is only a mile or so away and half the men are billeted near by to be near their work.
I like this country, open and rolling, with villages up on the slopes above the streams — like the one behind us with its church spire smashed but otherwise not badly damaged. The villages closer up to the trenches of course are all battered about and only a few old natives hang on in their homes.
My hands are all burning and chapped, I suspect through wearing gloves, which I never used to do. If you could send me something to rub on them it would be a boon.
Complete Poetical Works of Edward Thomas Page 45
