War writing is thin on the ground, today–too many of our writers are dead, or home doing jobs they don’t find to be worth writing about, or off hunting. In fact, the most interesting bit I have from any diary is from Thomas Hardy‘s:
Performance of the Mellstock Quire at the Corn Exchange, Dorchester, by the local Company for Hospital purposes. Arranged for the admission of present “Mellstock” Quire to see the resuscitated ghosts of their predecessors.
“Mellstock” would be Stinsford, and this staged version of the tale that had become Under the Greenwood Tree is a reconstruction of life in Hardy’s native village in the time when his parents were young–almost another century back, in other words. It’s a rural tale, a pleasant, loving story of old England (or old Wessex) that has little in common with Hardy’s later fate-ravaged tragedies–there are doubts in church, but mostly about the reform of the old instrumental choir, and there is love given and loss, but generally without violence and misery. So, as a war benefit, he might have chosen better, or worse…
So this seems as good a day as any to remind us that that Yanks are coming. I’m not sure whether I’ll introduce any American soldier-writers as “Regulars” here during the next few months, but one who might make the cut is Coleman Clark. Clark, a young New Yorker of means who started at Yale College the month after the war began, had not waited for official American involvement, but came to France in 1916 as an ambulance driver. He saw Verdun and, in late 1916 and early 1917, the Salonika and Serbian fronts. But when his term of enlistment with the ambulances expired he didn’t go home–he went to Paris and joined the French Foreign Legion. He’s a kind-looking, boyish sort of youth (picture to follow) but he has now segued from Olaf Stapledonish thoughtful selflessness toward the more hard-bitten model of the American in France once provided by Alan Seeger. After four months of training he is now in Paris, on leave, awaiting his first assignment as an “aspirant” French artillery officer.
Jan. 3, 1918.
There was a raid in Paris last night which scared the civilians terribly, and with good reason. Towards eleven o’clock they blew the horns in the streets, and all the lights went out. Immediately afterward we heard the buzzing of the French aeroplanes on guard, which all the old ladies in the house took for the Gothas. Nothing happened for about half an hour or so, and then I heard the anti-aircraft guns start going’ off. It seemed quite weird to hear guns at Paris. A few minutes later I heard ten or a dozen bombs drop, but none in our district. The whoozing of the empty shrapnel cases coming down added considerably to the fright. A bomb is never heard until a fraction of a second before it hits—a little whing, and then the crash; whereas the shrapnel case, lumbering down much more slowly, is heard a few seconds before it hits.. The papers say very little about the raid. They mention a certain amount of “degats de materiel et de vie humaine,” [human and material casualties] but the principal feeling is of hatred, not regret. . . .