Letters to Helen: Impressions of an Artist on the Western FrontHenderson, Keith
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Letters to Helen: Impressions of an Artist on the Western Front
Henderson, Keith
World War, 1914-1918 -- Personal narratives, English
A wood? That? Good heavens! That poor miserable mess of splinters and
gashed soil? Each time I see one of the woods destroyed by this war I
thank God that our glorious Cotswold woods are still untouched.
Primroses, wood-anemones, squirrels. To think of squirrels!... Not
another aeroplane in sight. Neither our own nor Hun machines. Eric
circles smoothly round above the wood, and then crosses back over
no-man's-land to fly low, so that I can see the wood obliquely. Archie
quite wide of his mark. This doubling and circling perplexes him. The
sketch progresses. I look round from time to time to see that there are
still no Huns about. Eric also looks about. No: nothing in sight. The
guns are pooping off, but the noise of the engines makes the guns sound
like tiny little "pops." There, now I've nearly done. Lucky I came,
because the wood isn't quite what we thought. Yes, that'll do.... We are
up at a considerable height....
Suddenly Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! above our heads. Three
Hun aeroplanes right on top of us; Eric drives headlong in a spiral
curve at full speed, smoke trailing out behind. The gun! I fumble.
Can't get round to it. Damn!
Rat-tat, tat, tat, tat, tat, tat! go the Huns. But Eric is faster. Are
they all Huns, though? Shall I fire? Yes. No. They daren't come down low
over our lines. We are safe. Yes, look, they were all Huns. They hang
about far up aloft. The Hun usually hunts in threes. Why, oh why, didn't
I fire? Well, it can't be helped now. Eric looks round. We both laugh.
"Why didn't you fire?" he shouts. I can't hear what he says, but I know
from the shape of his mouth that's what he is saying. I just smile and
shake my head. Can't explain now.
Where on earth did they come from? Coasting about very high up, I
suppose, and suddenly swooped down at us.
However, the drawing is done. So that's that. Home, John!
One little bullet-hole through one of the wings, no more. Indifferent
shooting, my friend Fritz. However, I can't talk, because I never fired
at all!
_February 16._
I've never thanked you for the chocolates which arrived two days ago.
But they arrived during one of the avalanches of work, and were all
eaten within half an hour or so; not by me, but by various R.F.C. men
who are always coming in and out of my office for "the latest."
[Sidenote: TOLL OF WAR]
To-day all frosty and sunny. Think of going on to the terrace at home
before breakfast and seeing some jolly little new flower out, with the
Golden Valley behind, all grey-blue and woody.
It's all working well here, and, being the representative of the corps,
I have a certain status which is pleasant. They think that I may or may
not give them a good character to the Powers that be. Quite fun.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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