Letters From the Front

Dated: December 5, 1915

My Dear Mother

It is Sunday evening and the hour finds me weary in body and mind, for the day has been a busy one indeed. It scarcely would be known as Sunday had not a service been held this afternoon, for as you know war knows no Sunday, and thus our labours which so much depend upon that thing we so call war, the Sabbath Day does not offer us much respite.

War is a marvellous study. Granted it is terrible, with its untold suffering, anguish, death, and destruction, and we all agree to these, still it awakens in a nation, a people, an individual, emotions, though existent, which had remained dormant and asleep for long seasons.

You say it arouses the lowest passions of our nature, hatred and lust to kill and to destroy, but far greater than these, to a much greater degree, do we find men prompted and guided by the beautiful spirit or service and sacrifice.

In your tranquil surroundings and almost rural life you cannot realize this, and no wonder, for yours is not the privilege to see and experience what we do.

If you could but walk through the wards of our tent hospitals and chat with the patients sheltered under our canvas you would understand in a very convincing manner just what I feel.

Their sufferings from exposure are great indeed, yet no greater than their cheerful natures. They surely endure hardships like true soldiers.

It is now late evening and a convoy of 90 patients has just come in from up north and I have to see each man, so my hours of Sunday evening will all be employed in that task. Yet it is a glad task for it makes one happy to make their hated lot just a little easier, which is indeed our purpose here.

The cold of last week has gone and the weather is quite pleasant now, a condition quite agreeable to each one of us here.

My mind often turns to you in Whitehall. I find myself picturing your home life and it creates desires to share it again. But that--anon!

Love to you all, and a bright and happy new year.

With love,

Cyril