George Coppard brought his machine gun all the way to Cambrai, and his battered body back out of it, and to blighty. His officer knows that he was evacuated with a serious but not life-threatening wound, but not, perhaps, just how painful his recovery has been. Still, who wouldn’t want to receive such a note–as Coppard did today, a century back–to say nothing of its enclosure?
Herewith I have great pleasure in enclosing your Soup Ticket. I have also great pleasure in informing you that you have been awarded the Military Medal. Please accept my heartiest congratulations…
The Soup ticket was a blue linen card, which read:
Your Commanding Officer and Brigade Commander have informed me that you have distinguished yourself by your conduct in the field.
I have read their report with much pleasure.
A B Scott
Commanding 12th Division
Our only other bit today is a long letter from Olaf Stapledon to Agnes Miller, begun yesterday. The Friends Ambulance Unit is not your typical company–but neither is Stapledon your typical writer. This is a wonderfully detailed “characters of the company” piece, with something in common with every trench/dugout genre-painting-in-words as well as with the academic-studded salon world of Cynthia Asquith (whom we will read in two days’ time) or Ottoline Morrell.
But it is written by Olaf Stapledon (as I may have already mentioned once or twice) and so it is no pat pen-portrait or workmanlike sketch. By the end it will be a subtle response to Agnes’s questions about the justice of conscription and of pacifism–but that, perhaps, we will notice less than the fact that it is a beautiful lamp-lit fantasia, an act of teleportation by literary will. Read to the end, and find that Agnes herself has been summoned to view the scene, from all across the world, to witness the life of a group of men who will serve but not fight. And so it might feel that we, too, have been summoned, from over a century and back…
12 January 1918
. . . If you were here just now, sitting with me in this comparatively quiet corner of our billet, we would watch and listen together. Round the stove there is a ring of vigorous talkers all arguing rather flippantly about socialism. [Denis] Goodall, commonly called Saul, is the centre of it, and I fear he is doing no good to the cause with his flippancy and his knack of getting people’s backs up. But really he is sincere and kindly and clear-headed. At dinner today Saul was forcibly carried out because he was supposed to have purloined the cheese of another table. But look, beside me sits Richardson, the “Prof,” setting out on an evening of mathematical calculations, with his ears blocked with patent sound deadeners. Over in yon corner is a little quiet bridge party, smoking and talking softly together. Over on that bed (lower story) sits David Long formerly of Manchester University. He has settled down for a quiet read by the light of his hurricane lamp. That little fellow in the top bed squatting on his kit bag and writing, is Tom Ellis, one of the workshop staff. He comes from Manchester too, and speaks with a Manchester accent. He is almost deformed, & was once paralyzed on one side, but he is full of life and has a heart of gold. Funny lad! He sings musical songs in a piercing voice, and can be very rowdy and unrefined; yet he is passionately fond of Dickens and Shakespeare, and yesterday at our reading of “Othello” he took the title part, and did it really well. It was a revelation, such strong yet restrained feeling he put into it. On that other upper bed is little [John] Rees, the head of our motor stores department, a quiet but firm young person, rather aloof from the general ruck, a good Christian in all senses. He was Desdemona, but did not put enough expression into the part. Did you hear that cynical tenor laugh? That was Robertson the Scotch artist. He is behind the centre block of beds. Of him one feels that underneath layers and layers of woolly muddled thought and egotism there must really be some secret splendour of Life. I guess he is the laziest and most selfish of us all, but somehow one feels more sorry for him than angry with him, because of the said sadly overlaid splendour of love for pure beauty. Poor lonely fellow. He never gets to know anyone, simply because he affects a strange attitude of superior bantering. There in front us sits [Francis] Wetherall, the head mechanic and engineer, grey-haired, spectacled, reading some heavy tome on rationalism. He is a close man. No one knows much about him, save that he has a strong unrefined sense of humour, an astounding command of bad language when he is wrath, and a faculty for singing funny Irish songs. He does far more work than anyone else. He is never happy unless working or reading some scientific book. He wears a wedding ring and is a confirmed old bachelor. He is self-educated with a vast disorganised or rather ill-proportioned store of information and ideas about evolution and natural science. Here beside me,—no, beside you, who sit between him & me—sits Teddy. You know him. He is rather laboriously writing a letter, and now & then turning in our direction to ask for light upon nice points of syntax. Teddy is gradually beginning to take more interest in the great world. He regularly borrows my “Nation” (most glorious of all journals) and my “Common Sense.” Formerly his ideal seemed to be to keep clean and hale and full of the joy of pure life, and to be infinitely and unobtrusively kind to his neighbours. Now, he is more than that without having dropped any of that. Teddy’s only fault is a lack of push, not of strength, for he is as firm as a rock. Perhaps the push will come later. Anyhow lack push too, so I must not complain. Between you and the Prof sits Stap who has just had his hair cut very short and has suffered much chaff on the score of the visibility of a long scar that has been thereby laid bare on his head. “Daddy, what did you do in the great war?” “Look at my head, young man.” But alas it was only an artillery man’s boot! This same neighbour of yours is grimy, like the rest of us, and he is shy of sitting by you in such a grubby state. Otherwise he is much as you knew him, though (on dit) thinner. His right hand neighbour is the girl I think I see her sitting with her elbows on the table looking round at people with a curious, interested smile, her face lit by the hurricane lamp. I think I see her brows drawn together in a puzzled expression as she wonders exactly why each of these people is here and not in the trenches. They look a pretty healthy, sturdy lot, don’t they, and unashamed. Listen! There goes Harry Locke discussing Australian politics. I expect you would say he knows nothing about them. Perhaps, but I think he knows something about world politics, of which yours are a part. But goodnight now, dear Agnes. My pen is running dry, & it is bed time. . . .