Before we go to Cambrai–and then back to England, where the battle’s losses are hitting home–we have Wilfred Owen reporting to his mother on his new assignment, his first spell of “Home Service” and “Light Duty” after the long and happy interlude at Craiglockhart. He is in Scarborough, one of his Regiment’s reserve bases, and he is playing an entirely unfamiliar role. But I should let him explain:
23 November 1917 6 (Reserve), Bn. Manchester Regt.
Northern Cavalry Barracks, Scarborough
I have been put on a species of Light Duty which I little expected: I am Major Domo of the Hotel. There is a Mess President, the Doctor, Capt. Mather, whom I knew at Witley, and like very much; there is also a Food Specialist…
I have to control the Household, which consists of some dozen Batmen, 4 Mess Orderlies, 4 Buglers, the Cook, (a fat woman of great skill,) two female kitcheners, and various charwomen!
Owen is not exactly “Major Domo,” but rather “Camp Commandant” in the incongruous setting of a seaside hotel full of reserve officers of the Manchester Regiment. It is strange for the gentle, middle class poet to be managing domestic staff, and in the coastal town where his family once holidayed when he was a teenager.
He seems amused–at first–and so amuses his mother:
They need driving. You should see me scooting the buglers round the dining-room on their knees with dustpan and brush! You should hear me rate the Charwoman for leaving the Lavatory-Basins unclean. I am responsible for finding rooms for newcomers, which is a great worry, as we are full up. This means however that I have a good room to myself, as well as my Office!
I keep two officers under arrest in their rooms; & spent a dismal hour this morning taking one of these for exercise.
I get up at 6.30. to see that the breakfast is ready in time.
I spent this morning in Correspondence, and Inspection of rooms, working from 5 a.m. to 12. This afternoon I ordered from the Grocers and the Greengrocers vast quantities of food…
The list goes on, as his lists often do, so we’ll skip a bit:
It is interesting work but hardly ‘lighter’ than a Platoon Commander’s!
But here’s an irony: though safer, this sort of job is a danger to the thing Owen most values, now:
Confound this business mood which possesses me! It, as much as the busy-ness of my hours, will prove disastrous to my poems. But things will slack down next week, and so shall my temper…
I think I am marked Permanent Home Service.
He is not.
Always your own
Now to France, where Wilfrid Ewart was in Bourlon Wood, which has become, as these unexpected woods tend to do, the center of a vicious fight, the sort of place where advances bog down and horrors multiply. It was “a nightmare sort of place–pitch dark and none knew its torturous ways or quite where the Germans were.” His battalion resisted the urge to panic–a good thing, as the German counter attack that was rumored did not materialize. Not yet: but their machine guns are thick in the far side of the wood.
Ewart is now very much amidst the remnants of the attack of two and three days ago. It is as if the Cavalry and the Highlanders are still suffering the loss of our Edward Horner and E.A. Mackintosh: Ewart writes that, late in the night tonight, “[w]e… found some very windy Highlanders and dismounted cavalry…” shattered forces who are being replaced, now, by the Guards. Tomorrow, it will be the turn of Ewart’s First Scots Guards to try to push through the wood.
Yesterday, a century back, Duff Cooper was gazetted as a “full blown Officer in the Grenadiers.” Today he was on leave in London, celebrating by playing bridge with a friend…
We had just finished two rubbers and we had settled down to a game of skip when Sybil came in and said she wanted to speak to me for a minute. I left the room feeling rather annoyed at her mysterious ways. On the landing she said ‘Edward has been killed and Diana is waiting for you outside.’ I went down and found Diana standing by the area railings crying. We got into a taxi and drove away… Edward meant so much in our lives. I loved no man better… By his death our little society loses one of the last assets that gave it distinction. to look back on our Venice party now, only four years ago, is to recall only the dead. The original four were Denny, Billy, George [Nairne?] and Edward of whom not one remains. The most precious guests… were Raymond and Charles… Only Patrick and I remain… I being to feel that the dance is over and that it is time to go.