The holidays are over, now, and the war must resume. Rowland Feilding, who secured a Christmas leave at the last moment, is headed back to the front–and not best pleased.
Front Line, Lempire.
Once more I have vowed that never again if I can help it will I travel by the “leave” train. I had forgotten to bring a candle, so, the cold being bitter and the windows broken, I shivered in the darkness.
It is beyond my powers adequately to describe the horrors of the “leave” train, the scandal of which still continues after 3 1/2 years of war. Though timed to arrive at Divisional Railhead in the early morning we did not do so till the afternoon, and, after fifteen hours on the train, I reached my transport lines near Villers Fauçon at 2 p.m. in a blizzard, having had nothing to eat, since last evening.
At the transport lines I found officers and men still under canvas and as the ground was deep in snow the appearance of everything was very uninviting and conducive to nostalgia:—I believe that is the word…
The line is very quiet.
Siegfried Sassoon arrived in Limerick yesterday, a century back. It will be a “fresh start,” away from England and the dismal Litherland Camp and the memories of his strange and conflicted months of protest. Now, on garrison duty and with nothing in particular hanging over him, he will begin writing verse again. Immediately:
A Moment of Waking
I awoke; evilly tired, and startled from sleep;
Came home to seeing and thinking; shuddered; and shook
An ugly dream from my shoulders: death, with a look
Of malice, retreated and vanished. I cowered, a horrible heap.
And knew that my body must die; that my spirit must wait
The utmost blinding of pain, and doom’s perilous drop,
To learn at last the procedure and ruling of fate.
… I awoke; clutching at life; afraid lest my heart should stop.
Saved by unnumbered miracles of chance.
You’ll stand, with war’s unholiness behind.
Its years, like gutted villages in France,
Done with; its shell-bursts drifting out of mind.
Then will you look upon your time to be.
Like a man staring over a foreign town.
Who hears strange bells and knows himself set free;
And quietly to the twinkling lights goes gladly down.
To find new faces in the streets, and win
Companionship from life’s warm firelit inn.
While Sassoon is busily writing away, another writer is writing to him, with the sort of emphatically enthusiastic courtesy that suggests real esteem. And the esteem of Thomas Hardy is not so easily won.
Max Gate, Dorchester
Jan 8, 1918
Dear Siegfried Sassoon:
Strangely–but the past is a strange country–Sassoon had sent Hardy not only Georgian Poetry (and possibly Nichols’s volume) but also, apparently, a photograph of his recent portrait, without covering letter.
Yes, it’s a striking portrait of a handsome young man–but how, exactly does this is advance his poetry or their friendship?
That photograph!—We divined it to be you, but I was not certain, till a friend told us positively only a day before your letter came. It has been standing in my writing room calmly overlooking a hopeless chaos of scribbler’s litter. I shall be so glad to see you walk in some day.
That, one imagines, is an invitation that Sassoon will have to nerve himself to accept–but how could he resist?
Meanwhile, Robert Graves, to be married now in only a fortnight, is under pressure from his future in-laws to make more certain of his future. He traveled today to London to see Dr. James Fowler,
who told him, to his great relief, that his lungs were ‘soundish’, despite the fact that he had bronchial adhesions, and that his wounded lung had only a third of its proper expansion. This was good enough to satisfy Nancy’s mother; though Sir James had also noted that Robert’s nerves were still in a very poor state… active service in any theatre of war would lead to another breakdown.
This accords with the decisions of Graves’s recent Medical Boards, and would have been good news for Graves as well as for his family-to-be: he is not likely to ever share Rowland Feilding’s experience of returning once again, and miserably, to the front line in France.