In the Ypres Salient, The Master of Belhaven continues to track the toll of prolonged exposure to shell-fire, this time on himself. Today’s entry is an excellent example of a diary being used to help sustain emotional self-control. By performing a calm analysis of one’s own symptoms of “shell shock,” one can demonstrate that they have not progressed so far as to be disabling.
Since dinner we have been very heavily shelled by a 5.9 howitzer. He has been dropping them regularly every minute for the last three-quarters of an hour just behind my No. 5 gun The result is that my hand is rather shaky. I find that when I am being really heavily shelled in an exposed place my pulse goes up from its normal seventy-five to over a hundred a minute; at the same time, I feel cold all over. It is a curious phenomenon. One would think that the faster the heart beat the warmer one would be. I have just asked for help and the heavies have started. If they are lucky, and engage the right battery, it often stops the hostile shelling; if not, it generally makes it worse.
And then there is the home front. Fittingly, if today’s other two writers have leisure to write, it is in part because they were both damaged by the Somme. Each has been hospitalized after showing similar nervous symptoms, and then assigned to Home Service.
Dear Old Sassons,
The Second Battalion is at Nieuport. Old Yates was on leave last night and told me all the news. He says that they’re not depressed more than usual out there: they still don’t think beyond the mail and the rum-issue…
Heinemann is going to publish my things in the autumn… Say you’re pleased: I’ll not send in the proofs before you’ve seen them.
So Graves will have another book of poetry–something he has long desired in any case, but also a spurring, sparring blow in his friendly rivalry with Sassoon, who is now both well-reviewed and, due to the protest, famous/notorious. Amusingly, the letter goes on respond to the news that Dr. Rivers–despite his reservations about poetry–has politely purchased Graves’s latest book–or attempted to. He accidentally acquired, instead, a book of poetry by Graves’s uncle Charles:
What a disappointment for Rivers to get War’s Surprises: it must have justified its title when it arrived… I’ll send Rivers a copy of the Goliath and David (my last) as a token of esteem and regard: salute for me that excellent man. Send me Sorley when you can…
And, finally, a rare date from mid-war Ford Madox Hueffer. With some time to spare from his work as a depot officer, he has resumed his work as a propagandist, this time by way of translation. Ford’s “Translator’s Note” to Pierre Loti’s The Trail of the Barbarians apologizes for its faults by making reference to the circumstances of its translation:
…it has been performed between parades, orderly rooms, strafes, and the rest of the preoccupations that re-fit us for France… so it is not a good rendering. You need from 11.45 pip emma of 8/8/17 to 11.57 pip emma of 9/8/17 for the rendering of almost any French sentence!
The note is dated at the latter end of that range–namely today, a century back.