Dear Mother,
I’m writing this in my dug-out in the trenches. You’ll be wondering why I haven’t written for such a long time. Well, I’ve been in the trenches since November 18th so I haven’t had chance, except to send field cards. We aren’t having bad weather, we’ve had lots of rain but still, one expects lots of rain in Nov and Dec. Jack Frost visited us a few nights, and I was sorry when he left, for dry crisp air is far better than this raw cold and wet. One day we had snow! However, the main point is that I’m feeling very fit, my feet are behaving splendidly, and I shall be able to stick the Winter if we are to stay in Flanders. There are many conflicting rumours, the foremost being that we are going to Egpyt, anyhow we’re leaving this front. We’re going back on Sunday to the village where we last rested, and staying there a time during which we are all to have our leave. So, I’m expecting to be home any time during the next fortnight, and don’t scoff all the plum pudding. If we do go to Egypt I daresay we’ll do Garrison Duty, unless the Germans march on us. Anyhow, it will be a much healthier place than where we are at present, also it will add to my experiences. Glad to know that Gertie and the youngster are getting on fine. Yes, I like Mary but prefer Dorothy, still, it doesn’t matter much about the name except that one ought to imagine what the girl herself would like. Obviously, a girl wouldn’t care to be burdened with Jane, especially when she reaches the important age of seventeen. Well Mother, I hope to see you when I come home, looking just as happy and contented as ever. I have not written as often as I might, still I am confident that God would tell you “All’s well”! Now you have additional hopes and fears many a dark Winter’s night will find you saying, “What of Wilfred?”, ‘What of Walter?”. For us Mother, dark night, grey dawn! But Life holds out to us tomorrow too, radiant morn! Glorious sunset! And then “The shadows of departing day”, and with the shadows, peace. Peace is what I long for, to get away from the roar, the screech, the rattle, the loathsomeness of it all, to be among our own beautiful Derbyshire hills. And there comes to dispel my longings the thought of that heaped up earth not a dozen yards from me, the three crude wooden crosses, their inscription “To three unknown comrades”. There is no peace except in doing one’s duty. I’m glad Wilfred looks well, is well, but I am sorry about Alice. Shall I see her when I come home? I should like to write more but must catch the post. Love to all.
Your loving son,
Bob
[Related Poem: Boesinghe Ypres Christmas – New Year 1915-16]
Dear Mother,
I have arrived in France alright, we had a rough time crossing in an old tub of a paddle steamer, several people produced the contents of their breakfasts without being asked. Having a strong stomach I could afford to laugh. I have carried out Mrs Powell’s wishes and arrived safely, but my head and my heart ache terribly for the loss of you all. No more – I catch a train about 7 p.m. for the “Land of the little Grey Brethren”.
Love to all.
Bob
Dear Mother,
I rejoined the lads yesterday. We have four teams at present in the firing line, and I shall be in one of the four teams which will relieve then next Monday. So I will write again on Monday and then I may not be able to write for 6 days so keep smiling. I’m not enjoying myself a bit, you all spoilt me at home, and now I’m paying for that softening influence. Still, after a spell in the trenches all will be well, conditions there don’t permit these weak longings for home. Men suffer and die together here, he’s a bit of a worm who would shuffle out and leave his pals. How is it with you Mother? Oh, for the art and the heart to comfort you, I must trust God and my sisters and brothers to do this, as I trust God to help me. There’s a hand, it seems, on the throat of my soul, throttling the joy out of it. God is! Mother, we must grapple with this hand which is squeezing our souls dry – my selfishness, which is painting pictures of home and your love for me, sometimes forgets that God calls His children. So, we will smother out longings, which are contemptible, and be happy in the knowledge that we are doing something for God. Will you send me a comb, a razor (that old one in the case in the bathroom will do), and, if you have a spare towel send that too. Somebody has been relieving me of my spare kit whilst I’ve been at home. Cheer up, Mother! Give my love to Maud and Margaret, and kind regards to Miss Gunn.
Your loving son,
Bob
Perhaps I’ll be more cheerful next time I write.
Dear Mother,
I’ve just been through another short spell in the trenches, and am having the usual short rest. We have had a rough time. That funny old guy, my barber on Chesterfield Rd, told me I was born under a favourable planet. Personally, and probably because I haven’t sufficient intellect to comprehend, I fail to see what that particular planet has to do with it, still, the fact remains that I’m feeling very fit and thank God for it. I had a letter from Lizzie this morning, she says it is rumoured in Northallerton that the Kaiser is dead. I should be pleased to hear this rumour confirmed. Well Mother, I’m not in the mood for letter writing, so this is to ease your mind a little. I will write a longer one when the muse makes an appearance.
Your loving son,
Bob
Dear Mother,
I was slightly wounded in my right hand little finger on the 20th, a bullet passing through the fleshy part, and by a marvellous chance missing the bone. My officer asked me to guide a M.G. section of R.B’s to a position I had held the previous week. I did not feel very elated, for I knew it meant being well over my wet things. Well, I did not like the prospect. However, things have turned out alright. I’m nice and comfy in hospital, have been inoculated against tetanus, and have nothing to do but eat, read, and sleep, until the thing heals up, which shouldn’t be much longer than a week. It must have been a ricochet bullet that hit me, for I was ahead of my party and walking with a stick in my right hand. I imagine the bullet glanced off the parapet and caught my finger. I just felt a sudden sharp pain, tied my handkerchief around my finger, and carried on. When I returned my Officer sent me to the Dressing Station, and they in turn sent me here. I am not giving you my address here, I do not anticipate being here long, so write as usual to my battalion. Love to Maud and Margaret.
Your loving son,
Bob
Feeling fine.
[Related Poem: Ypres, January 1916, The Guide.]
This poem gives a very vivid account of the expedition mentioned in the letter above, where Grandad (now a Corporal) acted as a Guide, to a trench called ‘Suicide’.
Dear Lizzie,
I got a slight wound in my right hand little finger on Jan 20th, a bullet passing through the fleshy part, luckily missing the bone. Consequently I’m in hospital, but it won’t be many days before I’m right, so I’m not sending my address. Letters get mixed up and it is much better to write to my usual address, the boys will save my letters. I have had a nice time here, for one thing it’s fine to be clean. We can get a bath and clean change when necessary, also the food is good and plentiful, and I have a bed, another luxury. I chiefly spend my time reading. We are allowed an hour’s constitutional each morning, during which I swank about the town, displaying my bandaged finger and a pair of swagger brown boots! Unfortunately, I have not yet met a pretty mademoiselle, so the effect I intended my boots and general spruce appearance to produce are entirely lost. If by any chance you have written to me, you will understand why I haven’t replied. It is a fortnight since I had a letter, and I expect a pile when I rejoin the battalion. Cheerio!
Your loving brother
Bob
In the pink.
Dear Margaret,
I’m still in hospital and my finger is getting better but is a long time about it. I regret not having sent my address, then I should have had a letter from you. Under the circumstances, I expect there will be a host of letters awaiting me when I rejoin my battalion, so the pleasure I shall have then will be ample repayment for the isolation I feel now. I can’t say that I have enjoyed myself here, apart from the finger I am fit as a fiddle. It is the inactivity that chafes, and again soldiers are pleasing companions in the trenches, where everyone must give his best, but here (understand that this is a convalescent ward, and only 3 out of about 50 stay in bed) I cannot fraternise. Tommy in the trenches and Tommy enjoying a rest are two different people, I prefer the former that’s all, perhaps I need a little fresh air myself. We have plenty of reading, mostly trash, but yesterday I picked up a book, “The Lore of the Honey Bee”, Tickner Edwardes, which is both instructive and fascinating reading. It is published by Methuen and I can recommend it, I should imagine this is a 1 /- book. I hope Mother is well, and did not magnify what I told her respecting myself, I know it is usual for her to do so and I just want you to assure her that I’m alright. Indeed, I felt ashamed to come out of the trenches with so slight a wound, but I had to be inoculated and that settled it. How is Maud? Tell her I’ll give her a whacking at tennis this coming summer. Is the gym team doing well? Give my best wishes to Gertie, Edgar, and the youngster. I’ll write to Edgar this week, and if you see Jim and Lila give them my best wishes too. Have you heard from Wilf or Walter? Walter’s division have not been in the trenches this year, so I presume he’s alright, and Wilfred has not come out yet has he? Dutch! Are Wilf and Evelyn still going strong? I don’t know whether it’s Charles Glarince, or whether I’m eating too much and working too little, anyhow I hope you don’t find me too dull. Love to Mother and Maud.
Your loving brother,
Bob
Dear Mother,
I returned to my battalion last Friday night. Considering it took me about 5 hours to reach them, a distance of 16 miles, it will be clear to you what a pitch of enthusiasm I reached. We had a good orchestral concert the night before I left the hospital, our entertainers were mostly Frenchmen and they gave us some beautiful music. The pianist was a master, one seldom sees a crowd of Tommies encore a pianist, and when the pianist is brought to the piano six successive times, sure, Tommy has forgotten his everyday self. Yes, in spite of his prodigious thirst, Tommy still has a touch of the divine dormant in his nature, just waiting to be brought to the surface. Music, God revealing himself through the musician, shows to him that the Heaven he so often labelled as a myth, may not after all be so unreal. I have been recommended for a stripe by our officer, I am glad because I’ve earned one. Also, I’m going along with several other boys into the Machine Gun Corps. I shall not be going into the trenches again for some time, our division is being relieved.
Unfortunately letters that have been sent to me during the last three weeks I have not received – my own fault, they have been forwarded from here to the hospital, the post corporal there will return them. Cheerio Mother! Love to Maud and Margaret,
Your loving son,
Bob
I’m still writing to Edgar.
NOTE: This letter gives an account of the battle (part of the Ypres campaign) where Grandad earned his Distinguished Conduct Medal, for building an emplacement under heavy fire.
Dear Mother,
Here we are again! I hope you’ve not been worrying since I left hospital. I’ve been very much occupied, contrary to expectations, also contrary to what I told you in my last letter. I had to do another, eventful, 5 days in the trenches – 5 days of unceasing bombardment of our trenches by the Germans, and on the 5th day a “Grand Finale”. Saturday, Feb 12th at 3 O’ clock in the afternoon, I crawled like a worm from my dug-out. The said dug-out had already stopped a whizz-bang without a quiver, yet, when one hears, after being punched about for 5 days, the sound of rapid rifle and machine gun fire, the strongest dug-out is not for a machine gunner. So, off with the gun to the emplacement, only to find it blown to blazes. Hastily we built a new one, with shrapnel and all manner of shell bursting as numerous and concentrated as machine gun bullets around us, and I was happy, never so near death, but never so truly happy. Perhaps I saw the “Gates of Heaven” open certain! I felt no fear, only a tremendous excitement; so long as I and my gun remained intact I had the power, the ammunition, to stop an Army Corps. I rejoiced in it and asked God to give me strength for the sake of my dead comrades. A lump of shell hit me flat on the arm, nothing doing! Only a fat arm, and a bruise. Then Fritz made the feeblest of charges, some stuck in the mud and I expect they are still sticking, the rest turned tail and fled. They are a contemptible lot; to think that, after 5 days bombardment, they couldn’t even capture our front line. Well, I got out alright, about 4am Sunday morning our Sergeant says the officer is going to recommend me, for building an emplacement under heavy fire. Nothing may event from it so keep cool.
About twenty of us are now transferred to the M.G. Corps and my address is Lance Cpl Moss, Headquarters, 42nd Brigade, M.G. Corps, 14th Light Division, B.E.F. At present I’m Orderly Room Corporal, whether the job remains to me depends on my smartness, and also whether I get fed up and wish to be with the boys again. Of course it’s a soft job, sans trenches, still, there’s a bit too much stiffness and ceremony, and this might be a bit too much for my nerves. Matthews has an original method of giving his brother information. “Dear Dear Bert” means “Had a stiff fight”, “Dear Dear Brother” means “Had a narrow shave”, “Good morning Bert” means “Wounded”, “Good night old boy” means “Just going into trenches”. The same chap tried to swim the Ypres Canal, with a tripod on his back and a box of ammunition in each hand, not bad was it? I have not received any parcel from you, so it must have been lost whilst I was in hospital. I have received letters from Margaret and Edgar, and a most amusing one from Maud, which didn’t half tickle me. Our lads won’t be for the trenches for another month, and I may not see the trenches again, so don’t worry about me for I’m fine. Love to Maud and Margaret,
Your loving son,
Bob
Have you heard from Walter?