‘There is always something about the look of the man who shirks,’ he told his mother, and he did not like dealing with them: ‘You have to pretend to be angry and say all sorts of uncomplimentary things to them.’ On the other hand, he acknowledged, it did seem unfair that, as an officer, he had ‘better food, better quarters, better work and everything made easier – whatever an officer endures physically his men are enduring worse.’ He tried to make up for this by being ‘as nice and easy with them men’ as he could, but ‘this results in lack of discipline – lack of respect and the result is that…you make up for all the niceness by giving the man a necessary telling off.’
Shirkers and discipline aside, the days were passing uneventfully, although he had just watched the Germans firing at British aeroplanes, but without success (as usual). So mostly he chatted in his letter about waiting for parcels to come, or about the progress of letters to and from home. His thoughts were also beginning to turn towards Christmas, which had always been a very special time for him: ‘Sometimes, when I am standing in a trench watching the dawn break it reminds me of the times I have lain in bed gazing at [the] sumptuously distorted stocking holding so many good and funny things, waiting for it to get light enough to open it…’
He did not expect to get home for it, but he hoped he would, at least, have a fairly jolly time where he was. Of course, Christmas was still a few weeks away, but ‘every day brings us nearer to the end of it all, and to dear old home and our poultry farm, and everything else that has kept me happy looking forward to.’
[Next letters: 3 November]