Sherriff’s letter to his mother began with a sigh of relief:

‘We are now settled down for a little while in a quiet village a long way behind the line, almost out of sound of the guns – just a faint rumble in the distance a very long way away.’

He told her he was back with his old company (‘with the same old friends’), and that, as his neuralgia was better (‘thank goodness’) he had not yet been to see the battalion doctor. He told her, as he had Pips the day before, that the doctor who had examined him while at the transport had given him a note, but he hoped that he would not need to make use of it: ‘perhaps the quiet will do me good and I may get rid of it [the neuralgia] entirely’.

Fragment of letter to his mother. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/1/1/2/166)

‘I went for a ride into town today,’ he wrote, ‘to get money for the men to be paid’. It had been a glorious day, and he had chosen to ride a bicycle (rather than a horse) and had a very enjoyable time. Summer seemed to be coming on in earnest, with the days getting longer, and the countryside looking greener.

The men were in need of a rest, he felt, ‘having done extremely useful work’. They had also obtained plenty of trophies ‘in the form of German helmets etc – you can read in the papers how they left in such a hurry as to leave plenty of useful stuff behind for our people’. There was a possibility that officers who had been out in France for 6 or 8 months might be allowed 4 days leave to go to Paris; he would much prefer 6 days to go to England – ‘but I am afraid that is out of the question owing to the submarines’. Nevertheless he would still go on hoping that the time would come when he would be able to be back home with her again.

[Next letter: 23 April]

Sherriff’s latest letter to Pips was written over two days, during which he was taking part in his favourite army pastime – route marching: ‘Marching was always my favourite part of soldiering and I am never so fond as I am of a day’s march’.

The Battalion was moving into rest, and Sherriff with it. But he had been sent on ahead as they were marching from the front, and would take some rest along the way, although no one knew for how long. He was bringing with him a report from the Doctor he had been visiting while with the transport, and he was to give it to the Battalion Doctor, with the suggestion that his neuralgia should be ‘looked into’. The Doctor had thought it might be due to the straining of his eye muscles, but Sherriff didn’t care what the cause was, just that it could be cured:

‘The trouble is that it comes on for about an hour, 2 or 3 times a day, and while it is on it makes me feel absolutely knocked up – when it is over I feel quite fit again. So directly we have settled down for the rest I shall see our own Doctor and see if I can have things seen to – teeth, eyes, nerves or whatever it may be, I should think some cure could be found.’

He sought reassurance from Pips that all was still going well with the war: ‘You probably always get the news before we do,’ he grumbled. Not the news from nearby, of course – but that was never complete – ‘we never get the facts or reasons for certain things until we get the papers afterwards’. He couldn’t share any more details because of censorship worries, so advised his father that he must be ‘content with the messages of Phillip Gibbs, Beach Thomas and such other important personages published in the last few days’ Daily Express.’

Taking up his pencil again on the second day he reported that they had enjoyed a march of about 8 miles, and had halted at a village overnight, prior to moving on again soon. The weather was ‘fine’, and the farm which served as their headquarters was full of life – ‘thousands of chicks and fowls and dogs are running about everywhere.’ [The tone of his letter already seems more relaxed than that of a few days’ earlier.]

[Next letter: 22 April]

In today’s letter to his mother Sherriff enclosed a copy of a photo of the officers of ‘C’ Company which had been taken while in reserve at Bully Grenay a fortnight before:

‘Since it was taken, the man on my right (standing on the left of the photo) has been killed and the old man sitting on the extreme right of the photo has been wounded. These are some of the awful parts of war – the gradual disappearance of friends like this – and yet it makes death appear a far less fearful thing when so many go in front of you like this – men you know intimately – there is Webb and Restall and many others – almost as many friends on that side as this side, so you see, dear, that should anything happen I know you are always prepared to bear any news that you might hear perfectly calmly remembering how many thousands of others have had to do the same.’

The officers of ‘C’ Company, 9th East Surreys. Front row, left to right: 2nd Lt Douglass, Capt Warre-Dymond, 2nd Lt Trenchard. Back row, left to right: 2nd Lt Kiver, 2nd Lt Sherriff, 2nd Lt Toplis. Seated: 2nd Lt Homewood. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: SHC 2332/6/4/2/3)

Death might have seemed ‘less fearful’ to him, but he still reassured her that he prayed every night, that he would come back safely – not just for his own sake (there as so much he wanted to do when he returned), but also so that he could repay her for everything she had done for him. He hoped that:

‘this beastly affair will be over by the time “the leaves turn brown” (as the Kaiser told his men 2 1/2 years ago), and that I shall be back again with you and Pips and Bundy and Beryl and Puss and the chickens and dear old home, and we shall be making our arrangements for our poultry farm.’

He was still in his billet, back with the transport, and was trying to get rid of his neuralgia by keeping quiet, as the doctor had ordered. But he assured her that, If the present treatment proved unsuccessful, he would see about getting his teeth and eyes seen to again, to try to ‘get to the root of the trouble’.

[Next letter: 21 April]

Sherriff, back with the transport because of his neuralgia, wrote home to both parents to let them know how his nerves were progressing.

He told Pips that he had been to see the doctor, as he had suggested, and had explained to him about his nerves, and how his neuralgia was troubling him. He understood that doctors might be suspicious of such complaints, but also noted that, before being sent to the rear, some kind of character reference had to be provided by one of the regiment’s senior officers. Unfortunately, his fellow officers were currently in the line, some distance away, so the doctor was ‘in rather a fix’.

The doctor had examined him and agreed that there was no question as to his nervousness and then asked if he could think of any reason for it:

‘I told him that I had always been rather highly strung – and he asked me all kinds of questions – where did I live? How long had I been out here? Did I smoke much? (I told him I smoked about 4 or 5 cigarettes a day) and several other questions – he finished up by giving me some tablets to take and I have to call and see him this afternoon – I am absolutely in his hands – if he decides I am fit to go up the line I must go – but what I dread is that by going up I should make some serious mistake through lack of confidence.’

After telling Pips about his experiences with the doctor he went on to give a very detailed and graphic account of exactly how his frayed nerves affected him:

‘When you first get out here you realise that there is a certain strain to put up with – one gets to the line and is rather surprised at its quietness – shells are not flying over incessantly and in fact at the period when I arrived there were none to spare on our front at all – they were being used in a more serious place.

You feel rather agreeably surprised – and then soon someone says “look out!  here’s a Minnie” and you see what appears to be a shell making apparently slowly upwards then turns and comes down with a swish and makes a terrific explosion – it may not have been near you and the explosion was not as loud as you anticipated.

This goes on day after day and then one day a man may be blown to pieces  by a “Minnie” (for only one in a hundred lands in a trench) and every  time you walk past the shattered piece of trench you have the pleasure of seeing pieces of his anatomy hanging on bits of barbed wire etc – one day a man is sniped and you may see his bloodstained helmet carried away and then you begin to respect the powers of a “Minnie” and you don’t feel so inclined to look over the top after seeing a man shot in the head – and as day after day goes by you gradually get a habit of gazing into the air for “Minnies” and your ears become painfully sensitive to picking up the sound of a shell coming – and your heart throbs unnecessarily sometimes, your arm brushing against your coat makes a swishing sound and you stop to listen in suspense, a man starting to whistle makes you jump, hundreds of times you become painfully on the alert for a false alarm and at others for a real alarm.

The more familiar you become with a sector of line the more you learn its danger spots and there are times when you pass certain places as fast as your legs will carry you.

It is when you get to this state – which may take any length of time according to your  state of nerves (and with some men apparently never comes) that the suspense of long hours of duty in the line tell upon you – and it is then that even when some way behind the line where shells only can reach that you get a kind of instinct to pick up any sign of a recent shell burst – a small hole in the ground where a splinter landed, a little loose earth scattered about by the explosion all worry you.

I think nearly everyone gets to this state sooner or later and it is, of course, a question of their powers of being able to conceal their fear after that.’

He told his mother rather more about the treatment the doctor had offered. He had agreed that his neuralgia was probably caused by his nerves  being ‘out of order’, and had then given him some tablets and suggested he stay quiet in his billet for a day or two. But Sherriff did not think this would be of much use:

my nervousness is worse than the Neuralgia and I feel it impossible to settle down quietly to anything in my billet – all the while I have that dread of going into the line again – if only I could get a real rest for a fortnight or so I am sure I should get better and tomorrow I will explain that to him if possible – it is such a difficult subject to talk to him about, though – as it looks just like you are shirking.

Nevertheless he would take his mother’s advice and see the doctor again the next day if he genuinely did not feel better – the last thing he wanted to do was to go back into the line in his present state, ‘ when every little thing makes me jump.’

[Next letter: 18 April]

‘I am writing this letter to you in bed,’ Sherriff told his mother, ‘but don’t be alarmed – it is only this same nagging neuralgia again.’

He told her that he had returned earlier than expected from training new recruits, and that, as he was still feeling bad, m he had gone to the doctor, who had advised a few days rest at the Transport, behind the lines. The doctor had also given him some tablets, but as he didn’t think they were doing him much good he had sent Morris [his servant] to fetch the doctor:

‘I hope to be able to have a private talk with him and explain how my nerves are affected as well – it is such a difficult matter to explain but if possible I will tell him exactly how I feel – I cannot get rid of the dread of again going into the line.’

After seeing the doctor he picked up his pencil again, and told her that the Doctor had agreed that he was certainly nervous, and that was probably the cause of his neuralgia. He had given him some more tablets and arranged to see him the following day:

‘I do hope he will be able to do something for me.  There is no need for you to worry, dear, because there must be hundreds of cases like mine here – I wonder so many continue to go through it day after day.

He told her that he had also just received a letter from Pips urging him to see the doctor, and he was glad to have acted on his advice: ‘I feel rather mean staying behind when all the others are up the line – but I feel quite clear in my conscience that I am right.’

[Next letters 17 April]

Sherriff told Pips that he was no longer with the training Battalion, but had been rushed up near the line again. By the time he arrived his Battalion had just been relieved in the front line by the 8/Royal West Kents, following a remarkable day, during which they had occupied the enemy’s trenches unopposed.

The Battalion Diary reports that on the previous day (the 13th), the Battalion had suffered no firing from the enemy trenches – ‘no trench mortars, no machine guns, and practically no sniping’ – just long distance shelling. At 3.00pm that day a British airplane had flown over the German trenches and had not been fired on at all, and at 4:30pm word had come through from Brigade to suggest that the Germans had retired from the front. Each company therefore sent out a fighting patrol which crossed No Man’s Land in safety, followed by the remainder of the company. They then pushed on again, making considerable progress and capturing German weaponry and ammunition which had been left behind, ‘suggesting of a hurried retreat’.

When he came up Sherriff remained behind with the transport at the Doctor’s recommendation, because of a recurrence of his extreme nervousness:

‘I cannot describe the feelings you go through when unfortunate enough to suffer from nerves – I absolutely could not bring myself to face the line again and I went to a Doctor and explained everything to him and he has given me a few days rest at the transport – but you cannot rest – it is impossible with the thought that you have got to go up the line in a day or so – there can be few things worse than this nerve failure and of course Doctors are suspicious as you have nothing to show for your trouble…I am perfectly well bodily, it is only this awful mental torture – the knowledge that you absolutely cannot face a thing – I have never felt this so much as at the present moment.’

He told Pips that he had received a good haul of interesting long letters the previous evening, and apologised that his own letters in return seemed so short, and lacking in news. ‘I wish I had more to write about – but even in this way I cannot concentrate my mind sufficiently to write long letters, so I hope you will be satisfied with these.’

[Next letters: 17 April]

Still behind the lines, training new recruits, Sherriff told his mother that the weather had improved: ‘Today is beautifully warm and sunny – I hope we have got rid of the winter now – everything is turning green in the country and all trees are coming into bud – I can imagine the old apple tree is beginning to show signs of life and the grass is beginning to grow again.’

He hoped that by the same time next year he would be able to see the garden at home for himself, and that he would e settled at the office again- ‘saving up money either to be a Farmer or a Schoolmaster or to stay at the office and go for those long-looked-forward-to tours round England with you in a side car – and our trip to Egypt.’

Sherriff’s mother, in nurses uniform. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/6/6/3)

He told her, as he had before, that he liked the photo she had sent him, and that he kept it in the case that his Company Commander had given him. [Captain Tetley, of ‘D’ Company – to which Sherriff had been briefly attached when he returned from the Engineers – had given him a card case to commemorate the bombardment they had faced together on New Year’s Day.] He hoped that she was getting on well with her nursing:

‘I expect you are becoming quite an important person now – it is funny that since I left England nearly 7 months ago I have not seen an English woman and you very rarely see an upper class French woman – they are all the peasant class round here.’

And with that, he signed off, apologising that, since the photographer had come to take a picture of them in their ‘trench costume’, it was time for him to leave.

[Next letter: 14 April]

It was raining hard, Sherriff told Pips, so the men could not work outdoors. Instead they had been divided into little groups under sergeants: ‘The Machine Gun Sergeant has his gun laid out in a barn with a group of men round him being initiated into the mysteries of “feed arm retaining lugs”, “extractor recesses”, “Bolt spring lugs” and such other interesting things.’

As he had come back to his billet to write home, the wind had died down. A bombardment was ‘rumbling away somewhere in the distance and the old Farmer says as I come in “beaucoup Bombard, bon pur l’Allemagne”.’ He noted that the French tended to pick up words from the English soldiers, and for this farmer the word in particular was “rotten”: ‘everything’s rotten – when he sees it’s raining he nods his head knowingly and says “rotten”.’

He expected to spend another 6 days or so training the recruits, but given how quickly things seemed to be moving at the front, he felt there was a possibility he might be moved earlier than  that. ‘I sincerely hope things will keep on moving as they are now and finish up things,’ he wrote, ‘every time I hear a bombardment I think “there are so many thousand shells the less to fire off”.’

He expected the grass was beginning to grow at home, and the spring flowers to appear. He hoped that Pips had received the snowdrop he had sent, and apologised that he could not send any other souvenirs, since pieces of shell, aerial darts etc were not allowed to be sent home. He was wondering how his salary was mounting up in his Deposit Fund – and he hoped that they would all be able to settle down safely soon, so that he could spend his money on all the things he wanted to get: ‘a good library of history books, some coin cases for my coins – stamps and antique furniture for my room and other things – including, I hope, a new set of civilian clothes.’

[Next letter: 13 April]

‘I am still back with the training Battalion and having quite an enjoyable time,’ wrote Sherriff to his mother. ‘The weather is very changeable – snow, biting winds and warm sunshine in turn – but on the whole it is very fine weather and the country is very beautiful – the spring is beginning to show everywhere’. The previous evening they had enjoyed a show performed by a Pierrot group known as The Tonies, whose songs and sketches had been ‘quite good’.

He presumed she had heard the good news from the front, which also seems to have made him more hopeful that the war might be coming to and end: ‘The time passes very quickly sometimes and sometimes very slowly – generally the time in the line hangs badly and the time out passes very quickly – but all the time is gradually passing towards the day of peace which I sincerely hope will not be very long now.’

Apologising for the lack of news in his letter he drifted into reminiscence about home, as he often did when writing to his mother:

‘Home always seems so near somehow. I can shut my eyes and see every detail of the place – the crack in the plaster outside, and above the front door – the trees in the front garden and the light in the scullery window at night – every detail seems so plain, and all the scenes, too, in the Park, and in Kingston etc. I hope it will not be long before we are back to them all again – and then all the castles we have built in the air may come true, I hope.’

[Next letter: 12 April]

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]