As well as writing a short letter to his father on 9 April, Sherriff wrote a much longer letter to his mother, in which he tried to prepare her for the possibility of bad news, while trying to reassure her that he still hoped to come home safely at the end of the war.
He was writing after finishing another day’s marching, and the men were to rest the next day, prior to resuming the march the day after that: ‘This route marching is splendid training for the men, although causing many blisters and sore feet’, he wrote. The weather was ‘exceedingly hot’ (forcing him to pull down the shutter in his billet) but he preferred that to the cold.
Earlier that day they had been inspected by a General, who had ‘made the usual speech about how smart everyone was, and how proud he was etc etc’. As a result of his visit the men had been given the afternoon off, and while most of the others were going into the neighbouring town he had chosen to remain behind and write several letters – including one to Auntie Ede [Edith, his father’s sister], and one to his friend Trimm, with whom he had served in the Artists Rifles [and who was also from Kingston].
Turning to serious matters he cautioned his mother that she must not worry if she did not hear from him for a few days – it would only mean that it was impossible to write. He then went on to tackle a thorny subject:
‘And, dear, I don’t want to bring the old subject up again, but I should like just to remind you about being quite prepared to hear any news about me and, if bad, to hear it with the resignation that so many thousands of other ladies have to – you must remember that I have now had nearly 8 months in France without having been in any real battle except the monotonous trench warfare – and that sooner or later our turn will come to do something more serious. I am not trying to worry you dear, but I am trying to say just what I think and what I would like you to think too – I have every hope of coming through the war safely – you may rely that I will never take unnecessary risks as I have far too many nice things I want to do after the war – I shall always try and do my best in everything necessary and pray every night that the day may soon come that I may return home safely – that day must come sooner or later unless I am wounded or return home sick or the very worst should happen when you have no more worry yourself and only friends can worry – I hope you see what I mean, dear, it is so difficult to explain.
I would simply like you to think that whatever happens it would be for my good – if I should be killed you have no more troubles and I have thought and can clearly realise what it means and that it is nothing terrible at all – if I should be wounded it means I return home to dear old England – and if neither of these happen I must eventually come home safely – you have only to bear a little longer, dear, and one of these must happen, and as I feel quite satisfied about each I know you will too dear…I look upon it as though the worst time of all was our parting on Charing Cross station – you knew and I knew that we might never see each other again – and, dear, that is worse than if we had known we were not to meet again…just remember that we are going through the worst time of all now, and that is the suspense of not knowing what is going to happen.’
Changing from his ‘melancholy’ subject he told her that after he had finished writing the letter he would go into the fields with his book, and while there might pick a flower or two to send home as a souvenir. His mother had told him that he looked older in a photo he had sent home, but he assured her that he did not feel any older in his thoughts: ‘I still long for days when I can go back to our tin soldier battles and stamps and all the other dear hobbies that have made home so fine – everything I wanted to do when I joined the army I still want to do now.’
[Next letter: 10 April]