Still living alone in his little dugout (close to his men, who were some way away from the others in the Company), Sherriff told his mother that they were still enjoying glorious weather: ‘I spend most of the day in shirt sleeves – except when I have to go far from my dugout, when one always has to be armed and have one’s equipment and gas helmet on.’
His birthday was coming up soon [6 June] and he told her that he hardly dared hope that he might be home on leave when it came. In a separate letter to Pips he outlined the factors that might act for or against his leave coming soon:
‘For: that other officers have been going quite frequently and there are now I believe only 3 ahead of me on the list; Against: that leave may, at any time, be stopped should an offensive be pending and I lose my opportunity. There is also, of course, the chance of my unfortunately being hit – which I very seriously hope not – it would be bad luck if that happened after waiting 8 months, wouldn’t it?’
He told them both not to make any form of preparations until was definitely on the way – or perhaps even until he had arrived in England, because only then would he know for sure that he was actually coming home.
A picture taken by Sherriff’s father while on their battlefield tour in 1921. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/9/7)
His letter to his mother was relatively brief, but his letter to Pips was rather longer, dwelling on some of the sights that he had seen in the war:
‘I was sitting in a trench in a shattered wood this morning at dawn – and I saw one of the most beautiful sunrises I have ever witnessed – there was something exquisite about the scene of the dawn coming behind a shattered wood which stood out in dense black outline – just a few broken stems of trees, some lying flat – or trees broken off and frayed at the top like giant shaving brushes, a few smashed timbers lying on a shell-pitted road. It is strange – but one would not expect to see beautiful scenes in a country with war on – it is wonderful how Nature’s vain attempts at again asserting herself over everything ghastly makes such beautiful, awe-inspiring views like this – although I have travelled over much of England and witnessed some beautiful scenery, I have seen, within a mile of the line , some views the very desolation of which makes them equal to the most beautiful scenery in England.
I told you of scenes I witnessed at other places – the sun setting behind desolate slag heaps giving an impression of the pyramids of Egypt – of looking down into a valley by moonlight in which thousands of men died – where little skeleton villages like so many Pompeiis lay scattered – of the moonlight on a great flat plain of snow – a great ruined city the like of which the world has never seen. All these scenes leave an impression never to be forgotten…’
‘And…after this rather poetical attempt,’ he concluded, ‘I will close for the present’.
[Next letter: 27 May]