Just two updates, today, the first from Olaf Stapledon, who, for once–and rather sheepishly–takes a selfish interest in his own work. Not with the ambulance, but with the book he has been working on for years now, in whatever spare moments are to be had.
SSA 13
6 July 1918Just a line in case there is no chance of more this week. Our existence here is one of the queerest possible—midnight alarums & excursions, mid-day glorious bathes or very dusty running. It is quite theatrical, & the reality of war is nowhere. Were I to tell you about it all you would be vastly amused, but I can’t. We are vastly amused during the day, but the shades of night put us into a vein of petty tragedy. . . .
I am carrying about in my pocket (as being on the whole the safest place) the much bescribbled manuscript of the world’s greatest and still unpublished flight of imagination, namely my book! If I keep it in my car the car will get blown to bits and burnt, like Harry’s. If I leave it with our own embusqués [“slackers” or “shirkers”] they will get blown to bits. If I bury it the earth itself will be blasted. So I carry it, and shall be blown to bits with it. Quod erat faciendum. [“Which it was necessary to construct;” or, perhaps, “so it goes.”]
Poor old manuscript! It could not be read by anyone but me anyhow, in its so bescribbled-over condition. And if it could, it is so unfinished as to be useless till there is a real chance of working at it. Of course you understand, dear, that all this talk about blowing to bits is a “blague,” because it is utter peace here; otherwise I should probably not be joking on that subject. But heaven help the infantry man in such battles as have been during this year. Words fail. But one’s mind is full of the tragedy of the foot-soldier-man. The worst that happens to us is child’s play for him.[1]
Cynthia Asquith, who came down with the flu just as her husband, Herbert, announced an upcoming leave, has been lucky, and taken only a glancing blow. And “Beb,” too, is in luck–and in a new, safer job:
Saturday, 6th July
Was woken at about 6.30 by Beb’s unexpectedly early arrival—wonderfully well and in good spirits. He has been at G.H.Q. for ten days now—Bongie’s brother got him the job. He says it’s complete peace and further from the Front than England, but quite hard, very long, office work. He has been made a captain. He has brought back an extremely interesting journal of the retreat from St Quentin full of beautifully drawn maps. Without doubt, he’s an enthusiastically keen soldier. He had a little sleep and then we spent most of the day in the garden. The weather, the leisure, the garden, the view, the smell of England—is all sheer bliss to him.[2]