This book brings together letters written by Harold Chapin, who was killed at the Battle of Loos, on 26th September, 1915. At the time of his death, he had been in the British Army for just over a year. He was twenty nine, and married, with a five year old son.
The letters cover different aspects of Harold Chapin’s military service as a medical orderly and stretcher bearer. The letters show with great clarity the range of things felt by a serving soldier - missing home, feeling wet and hungry, and the horror of dealing with casualties.
Extracts from the letters:
We have just sent our first case (Sergeant shot through chin, tongue and neck - quite conscious - hit at three, remained in trench till seven, left us 8.15 - in Hospital by now) into ----- together with a request for two pounds of soda ... I am waiting up to take the soda when it arrives up to the M.O. at his aid post behind the trenches. Why soda in the middle of the night? Gas, my dear. Les Bosches are now throwing chunks of gas at us. Nasty, smelly trick isn’t it?
***
Here we are in France - journey not finished yet.
We are fed on Bully Beef (ordinary Fray Bentos, you know the brand) and lovely hard biscuits which I adore. Last night I added to my menu a bloater and some bread and marmalade, "duff" and coffee ...
Bye bye - Love to my blessed boy - Try to read him as much of my letters as he will understand. I do miss him so and I want him to hear about me all he can so's we shan't be strangers when we meet next. Rubbish I know, but still I'm not quite joking. He's growing so fast.
***
I was taken for a personally conducted tour of the dug-outs and trenches by a ginger moustached old sergeant with a D.C.M. who maintains in a strong Aberdonian accent that shrapnel is absolutely harmless. I have since seen three men newly struck by shrapnel and I disagree with him.
***
Scabies has broken out down here. Three cases in the 6th - one in the Cook House. He came around to say farewell before going to London to the isolation Hospital but we drove him off with harsh words and logs of firewood which he considered ridiculous behaviour seeing he had “only got the itch."
***
I can't write more than a few lines now. Have had a "rush" - our little operating tent alone had fifty cases, at least, through in a night and a day. Most of them shrapnel. Many serious. But Oh, my Dear the pluck of them! and the amazing cleanness of their bodies under the muddy khaki and sweat and blood drenched vests and shirts. Few were of our Division - , most regulars. Hard ruddy little Scots. A bloodstained kilt, my dear, is a sight to make a painter gasp - such colouring! and in the white acetyline light of our tent!
***
(Letter to his five year old son) There are soldiers all about here all busy shoving the Germans back and shoving the Germans back and SHOVING the Germans back, and sooner or later we shall shove the whole lot of them right back into Germany over the Rhine - which is a big river - bigger than the river at Maidenhead - RIGHT back into Germany and off their feet, and then we shall sit on their heads severely until they have had enough, and then the war will be over, and we shall just have to tidy up and come home and I shall come home to you my Darling and the Blessed Mummy ...
***
By the way, Crawfords do an awfully good box of biscuits for sending to the front. It is - I regret to say-called "The Hero Box," but other people like its contents. Such a box every now and then would go very well. The biscuits are just the rich and fancy sort we long for.
***
The letters cover different aspects of Harold Chapin’s military service as a medical orderly and stretcher bearer. The letters show with great clarity the range of things felt by a serving soldier - missing home, feeling wet and hungry, and the horror of dealing with casualties.
Extracts from the letters:
We have just sent our first case (Sergeant shot through chin, tongue and neck - quite conscious - hit at three, remained in trench till seven, left us 8.15 - in Hospital by now) into ----- together with a request for two pounds of soda ... I am waiting up to take the soda when it arrives up to the M.O. at his aid post behind the trenches. Why soda in the middle of the night? Gas, my dear. Les Bosches are now throwing chunks of gas at us. Nasty, smelly trick isn’t it?
***
Here we are in France - journey not finished yet.
We are fed on Bully Beef (ordinary Fray Bentos, you know the brand) and lovely hard biscuits which I adore. Last night I added to my menu a bloater and some bread and marmalade, "duff" and coffee ...
Bye bye - Love to my blessed boy - Try to read him as much of my letters as he will understand. I do miss him so and I want him to hear about me all he can so's we shan't be strangers when we meet next. Rubbish I know, but still I'm not quite joking. He's growing so fast.
***
I was taken for a personally conducted tour of the dug-outs and trenches by a ginger moustached old sergeant with a D.C.M. who maintains in a strong Aberdonian accent that shrapnel is absolutely harmless. I have since seen three men newly struck by shrapnel and I disagree with him.
***
Scabies has broken out down here. Three cases in the 6th - one in the Cook House. He came around to say farewell before going to London to the isolation Hospital but we drove him off with harsh words and logs of firewood which he considered ridiculous behaviour seeing he had “only got the itch."
***
I can't write more than a few lines now. Have had a "rush" - our little operating tent alone had fifty cases, at least, through in a night and a day. Most of them shrapnel. Many serious. But Oh, my Dear the pluck of them! and the amazing cleanness of their bodies under the muddy khaki and sweat and blood drenched vests and shirts. Few were of our Division - , most regulars. Hard ruddy little Scots. A bloodstained kilt, my dear, is a sight to make a painter gasp - such colouring! and in the white acetyline light of our tent!
***
(Letter to his five year old son) There are soldiers all about here all busy shoving the Germans back and shoving the Germans back and SHOVING the Germans back, and sooner or later we shall shove the whole lot of them right back into Germany over the Rhine - which is a big river - bigger than the river at Maidenhead - RIGHT back into Germany and off their feet, and then we shall sit on their heads severely until they have had enough, and then the war will be over, and we shall just have to tidy up and come home and I shall come home to you my Darling and the Blessed Mummy ...
***
By the way, Crawfords do an awfully good box of biscuits for sending to the front. It is - I regret to say-called "The Hero Box," but other people like its contents. Such a box every now and then would go very well. The biscuits are just the rich and fancy sort we long for.
***
