Sherriff began a short letter to his mother on 29 December, explaining its brevity by his need to take some time overhauling his kit. He told her that he had been relieved in such a hurry that he had very little time for regrets, ‘which is rather a good thing. If I had known two or three days before I should have been counting the hours till I left’.

[We know from his Memories of Active Service, however, that he was much more upset than he was letting on. The two volumes of the Memoir begin with his arrival in France on 28 September, and finally end, some 500 handwritten pages later, on 27 December,  with the following description of his departure:

‘The last day came: the 27 December, and I packed up all my belongings like a boy going back to school. Then I walked round and had a last look at the little district that had been my home for so long: there were so many little things that we had done – a drain dug here, a piece of trench wired back there – a new duckboard put down – a new dugout built – and each little thing had some memory attached to it that came back now. I was sorry to leave it all. I felt as miserable as I had on the day I left home, perhaps more so, because I knew too well what I was going back to. There was no surprise or novelty now.

About 3 o’clock in the afternoon – with the first signs of dusk coming down over the plain – Bridges of ‘D’ Company arrived with 15 men. I gulped down some tea with a lump in my throat, and when the last moments came I could have cried. All the hundreds of pleasant incidents came crowding back – the quiet free evenings – the walks to Bethune – and all that lay ahead were maddening hours of patrolling the front line – watching for Minnies, dreading the darts, caged like an animal in 50 yards of winding ditch.

The torture of Vimy Ridge would be drawn out now into one long agony of 6 days in, 6 days out, 6 days in, 6 days out; maddeningly regular, until something happened.’]^⁠

In a postscript to his letter, added the following day (30 December) he told her that the battalion was on the move and, since he would be busy packing things up, he could only write briefly to her, but hoped he might be able to write a longer letter when they were settled somewhere. He told her again that he was sorry to have to leave his duty in the mine, but, stoic as ever, he assured her that ‘it is no good having regrets, and I must, of course, make the best of everything’.

[Next letter: 30 December]