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]

Taking up his unfinished letter on Easter Monday, Sherriff told Pips that the weather had deteriorated a bit, with training broken up by some sharp showers of hail. The day before he had taken advantage of the fine weather to go for a long walk:

‘…the woods…are very fine, and much after the style of Oxshott – and from some of the high ground I could see many miles of country stretched out – some of which will be famous in the history of the world, I expect.’

Earlier in the evening he had attended a concert (‘which was very good and quite enjoyable’) given by a Brigade which was billeted nearby, and during it word had come through of ‘some very fine advances…including many prisoners and a complete set of generals. I expect things will buck up now.’ [Here he is probably referring to advances made in the Battle of Arras, which had begun that morning, and where significant territory had been gained, especially on Vimy Ridge.]

He closed by apologising to Pips that he could think of nothing more to tell him: ‘I think the best thing would be for you to jot down a few things you would like me to talk about, and I will tell as much as I can without touching Military Matters of Importance’.

Although his Battalion was back in the front line in Calonne, Sherriff had been sent back to train new recruits once more. He had time to set down a couple of contented paragraphs before setting his letter aside, to be completed the following day:

‘Today is Easter Sunday and the finest day this year – I awoke in my bedroom in the farm house to find the sun streaming in my window and all the usual farm sounds in full swing – cocks crowing, hens chuckling, doves cooing – the men’s wooden clogs clattering over the cobbled farm yard – and the voices of the men washing and polishing up for church parade.

The Hen chuckling brought back to mind vividly the spring mornings two years ago when we used to hear Broody and the rest out in the garden and that sound of hens anywhere always reminds me of spring mornings at home’.

[Next letter: 9 April]

While the Battalion moved into the right sub-section of Calonne, taking the place of the 8/Queen’s Regiment, Sherriff headed in the opposite direction, as he told his mother:

‘I am writing this letter back at the old Farm House where I was before, as I am back again for a short time at my old job of training recruits. I am hoping it will be for about 8 or 10 days.’

Whereas on the previous occasion he had speculated that he had been posted to the duty on account of his seniority in the Company, he felt there was a different explanation on this occasion, as he told Pips:

‘I think the reason [is] that I was laid up with my neuralgia for a day or so – this complaint is a great nuisance as it makes you feel temporarily quite unfit for work’.

He went on to tell Pips that he saw no sign of any leave on the horizon, but was hoping for the best. In the meantime he was still curious to know how things were going at the office, and often had talks with Reynolds [who had recently been posted to the Battalion] about it, although ‘he has dined in a rather different lot to mine’.

In the letter to his mother he asked how everyone and everything was at home. He was sorry to hear that puss was ill, but glad that the chickens were ‘going strong still’, and sympathised with her that she had to combine looking after them with her duties at the hospital. He was also pleased to hear about the improvements that were being made to Rossendale [the family home]:

‘I am sure it is well worth it – when we settle down if we decide to keep the house I should like a nice brick wall built round the whole of the garden and get it covered with some sort of creeper, but… as I hope we will be able to take a house well out in the country it would not be worth the expense’.

[Next letter: 8 April]