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I am waiting to go off any night now—I am longing to go—it is a chance for us chaps, isn’t it? It is the one good thing the war has done—to give public-school fellows a chance—they are the one class who are enjoying themselves in this war.

At any rate Oscar enjoyed himself, from the very hour of his departure, on an April morning as sunny as his smile, in charge of a draft as delighted as himself. That night they embarked at Southampton, and the Seine was a river of roses in the morning:

The country on each side of the river is lovely—great woods and ravines with large old Louis XV chateaux perched high among them, and then at the foot of the hills pretty little villages, all looking so much cleaner than our English ones! Then again in the villages there are all the inhabitants standing outside their doors waving handkerchiefs and even firing off guns to welcome us as we speed up-river at well over 20 knots. . . . One sporting kid in a village a little way back sang out ‘Are we downhearted?’ and of course she got back a roar from us ‘No!’. . . I have never seen country looking so ripping as this—at such a time of year too. . . .

I sailed into Southampton yesterday and got my chaps 50 packets of Peters’ chocolate to keep them going in case we run short of Rations—which we may very possibly do. It is glorious this rolling up the Seine to the cheers of the French on both banks and our own men (of all kinds of Regiments) singing ‘Tipperary’ for all they are worth!

At Rouen he continued to enjoy himself, even when censoring letters at a five-hour stretch. ‘It is rather fun doing this job up to the 500th letter—then Tommy’s hand-writing and “love messages” get a bit wearisome!’ But all his life it took a great deal to weary Oscar, and at Rouen he found a variety of compensations for the ten days he was kept there with his draft. There were sprees and sight-seeings, now ‘in good company,’ duly detailed, again on ‘a bit of a “Tourist Stunt,” all on my only oh”; there was Bon Sécours, followed by ‘a whacking big tea at a Patisserie in the town’; the Cloche Horlogue (‘the topping big clock half way along the street of that name which leads to the Cathedral’—itself ‘a topping one’); also ‘a splendid little Restaurant we have discovered,’ and a certain ‘great dinner’ which ‘started on oysters and finished on Crème de Menthe,’ not to add ‘a priceless Music Hall —awful rot but very funny.’ As a last resort there was the Divisional Mess, with its Irish doctor (‘entertains us a bit!’), its gramophone, its ‘priceless birds’ with single eye-glasses (‘so the whole place twinkles like stars, on a moonlight night!’) and a friend old or new at every turn.

I told you I had met Jack Power—well, on Thursday we visited the Cathedral together and climbed the steeple, from the top of which we got a splendid view of the city. Jack is mad keen on bells, so we had a good look at the old bell at the top of the Cathedral. Then yesterday we met again, and visited the Church of St. Ouen—have you ever seen it? It is a magnificient church—one of the finest churches which is not a Cathedral in the world, I should think. Jack Power used to be a ‘Church-crank’ I remember, so he is an excellent fellow for this kind of thing! He is only just fit, having been in hospital for weeks after coming back from the front unfit.

His great new friend was young Willoughby Rooke, like himself an only son, his own age yet a veteran of Mons, severely wounded in the winter and now on his way back to the trenches. Somebody had brought them together as ‘mad fishermen’; but they found they had other enthusiasms and some friends in common, to one of whom they wrote of each other, besides themselves exchanging letters at the front. Through them their respective people made friends in London; and long after the light of each home had gone out, a film from Oscar’s camera, left behind at Rouen, produced an excellent likeness of ‘Rookie,’ laughing, with the base camp for background.¹

¹ Lieutenant C. D. W. Rooke, 1st Cameronians, was killed in action on June 19.

In the meantime Rouen was ‘magnificient’ (as that hard-worked word would spell itself), but it was not exactly the war, and for all his gaiety Oscar fretted for the front. ‘Still in Rouen, worse luck!’ would come first, like the bad news he really deemed it for all concerned: ‘It is pretty sickening for you not knowing when I am going up—but it will be one of these days.’ ‘It is the absolute edge being kept here like this!’ ‘All very well this slacking round here . . . so long as the men aren’t sent up ahead of me I don’t mind so much—that would be too sickening.’ The men—his men—are the child’s children all this time: ‘I have 109 Essex under me—a fine crowd,’ says one letter; and another, ‘The Essex have the best reputation for good conduct here of the whole division. They are a very good lot, this draft of mine’; and again, ‘My men are behaving admirably—and the Adjutant told (Capt:) Mullock yesterday that the Essex gave less trouble than any other Regiment—in the whole DIVISION, mark you!!’ And for the last time: ‘I haven’t had a single prisoner to bring before the Adjutant—and we have been here 10 days—a jolly good record—what? The Essex have wrought their Regimental crest in broken glass on some sand at the end of their lines—it is a beautiful piece of work—and they got leave to have it photographed yesterday—I will send you a print if I can get one. This sort of thing makes them take no end of pride in themselves.’ And the same night ‘an order came down that every available officer and man should proceed to the front,’ whereat Oscar exulted with a ‘Hoch! the Kaiser!! “Always merry and bright!” ’ and a final scribble as he entrained in charge of his Brigade details: ‘This is glorious—my men are so cheery—talk about the right spirit—they have got it and no mistake!! Marched through Rouen—2000 of us with bag-pipes playing. Love to you all. Oscar.’

The immediate sequel ‘just about put the asphyxiating lid on’; it was also ‘the l-i-m-i-t,’ and everything else that Oscar could lay his pen to; but some foul whiff had caught him by the throat and, within sound of the firing-line, flung him straight into No. 3 General Hospital, Le Tréport, with a temperature and ‘throat as thick as camp water and rasping as a German bayonet. . . . If only it had been a nice little “dum-dum” I should have felt on an equal footing with these other poor chaps—instead of squatting there in the hospital train opposite them as untouched as a new inner tube!’ It was all the more tantalising because nobody knew better than Oscar that he was ‘missing no end of a scrap,’ as he lay between unforeseen sheets, in the hands of ‘topping Sisters’ (God bless them!) who gave him in spite of everything ‘a fine old time.’

I have just been writing some Rhymes of mine into one of the Sisters’ books—in return for her lending me some Kipling books! I get on like a house on fire with these ‘sisters.’ The ‘night sister’ is my great pal. We have great talks when she comes round of nights.

It was Rouen over again, without the revels or the sights: nothing for it but to make the best of several more days’ unwelcome grace. This Oscar did by sleeping prodigiously while he could, reading and writing to his heart’s content, and presently exploring the green peace of the surrounding country. His love of Nature, always intense, was indeed never more demonstrative than towards the end of this involuntary rest, when they let him roam as he liked but would not pass him for the front. The weather was ‘divine’; more than once he took in fresh stores of sleep ‘under the blue sky and boiling sun’ (the last thing a normal Oscar would have done by day); finally, he heard of some fishing at ‘a charming little village’ near by, procured cheap tackle and ‘had a perfectly heavenly time there’ though not without martial qualms as to the propriety of the proceeding. Twice or thrice he went, catching nothing for his sins, till at last ‘the angelic French people insisted on my taking a trout, which they had caught themselves that morning, and exhibiting it at the village inn as my catch! They were awfully tickled.’ He was not, however, the only sinner; at least one C.O. kept him in countenance (‘the old boy quite keen—had sent to good old Hardy’s especially for a new rod!!’). Yet ‘it doesn’t look well,’ and ‘it seems all wrong,’ and we were not to ‘say anything of this to other people.’

This afternoon [his last] I and a Gordon Highlander took a taxi down to Criel—where I spent 3 hrs. (glorious) fishing—weather more heavenly than ever—no fish—but one of the most delightful afternoons I have ever spent. Oh! it was heavenly down there! I have got the address for future occasions!!

We had a top-hole drink of cider—real home-made stuff—at the local inn by the river—then had a big tea on the way back. . . .

This week will be a very happy one to look back on in one way.

It still is—to us.