Still enjoying his time in the mine, he was nevertheless chafing at the lack of certainty about how long the duty might continue. He would be happy if it went on for the duration of the war – he was enjoying the freedom it offered him [and no doubt the relative safety]. He told his mother that, when he had visited his own Company earlier that day they had told him that they were expecting him back any day – but he thought [hoped, probably] that they were only pulling his leg. He wished he could be told exactly how long he had left at the mine, rather than dealing with the possibility that he might be called away at any time.

Pips had asked him to describe his dugout, so Sherriff obliged:

‘We live in a shelter about 15ft long by 7ft broad. It is like a square hole dug into the ground, and thick sheets of corrugated iron placed over it – the door is on one broad side and used to consist of a square hole with iron girders on top; a little passage cut into the earth led to the trench. Inside (which, before we started renovating consisted of bare earth walls, which, showing signs of falling, we put good, strong wire over) we have on the wall two boxes nailed – one of wood without a door, in which we keep all tinned stuff, and the other being a tin, which has a lid, and “the rats don’t seem to be able to work out ‘ow to git in” (as Morris says) in which we keep all edibles.

James Whale’s Design for the Dugout in Journey’s End. By permission of the Surrey History Centre (Ref: 2332/6/13/4) and the David Lewis Estate.

We have put up some wooden shelves which tilt at such an angle that things placed on them very gently slide off. Nails on the wall serve to support sandbags containing the following articles: No.1 bag – books, magazines and papers; No.2 bag – all washing things in holdall; No.3 bag – spare underclothes; No.4 bag – various oddments.

As regards furniture – 2 stout wooden frames with wire nailed across form very comfortable beds, supported at each end by sandbags; a long board with empty sandbags on it serves as a table, with a narrower board on two petrol tins forming the seat – a wooden box on its end is used as a table, on its side as a chair – so taking it all round it is a comfortable enough little home, although the roof is by no means proof against bullets or shell, but I think it would stop shrapnel splinters.

After the dugout caved in we made several improvements, a wooden frame we put in the door, and we put wire round the walls with empty sandbags hanging down behind. “You’ve only got ter paint Abrihim and a few others in to make it look like ‘ampton Court,” said Morris (who, by the way, lives in Molesey) as he surveyed his work of sandbag-hanging with some admiration.’

He told his mother that he had been into the local town shopping, and arranging baths for his men. He had bought some peaches and pears, some lobster, chocolate, and also 6 eggs, although two had broken, to make a raw omelette at the bottom of his pocket. When he had called into the Company he had received no mail – no letters or packages – but he was eagerly awaiting the one his mother had sent – with some socks, and ‘all sorts of delicious things’: ‘It is good of you to send them, dear – it is almost worth being out here to receive your letters and parcels.’

He had received news from home, both from Pips and from Bundy [his brother], telling him how the winds had blown the apples and leaves from the trees in the garden. This prompted him to reminisce about the times he would come home from school to see the garden looking just as he imagined it now. But there was more:

‘I also associate this time of the year with the time after I had left school and began to realise to the fullest extent the beauty of history and literature and when I used to go for cycle rides with Clayton [a master who had arrived at KGS in 1911, and who, in 1914, when Sherriff was unhappy at his job as a clerk with Sun Insurance, had offered advice on how to become a schoolmaster] and he used to tell me lots of things about history which he would not tell me in school for fear of making the work too much like play.’

He proceeded to repeat his ambitions for when he returned after the war – to furnish his room in Tudor style; to make a library of historical books, while continuing to collect stamps and coins as his hobbies; to travel to view historic sights around the country, in places such as York, and Hadrian’s Wall; and perhaps, one day, ‘to sit for a degree at London University – it only requires careful study to get an M.A. or B.A. in history’.

He had decided not to pursue, at this point, his aim of joining the Flying Corps, feeling that it would be difficult to get the Adjutant to agree to a transfer, and it might prejudice his chances of staying at the mine. But if he were to return to his Battalion soon, he might then consider it. He felt that there was no chance of any leave on the horizon – although it was notionally due after three months, there were many officers in front of him in the queue. But he told his mother that, even if he did not manage to be home in time for Christmas, they could enjoy their own when he did finally come home:

‘I think the idea of Father Christmas is one of the most beautiful legends man has ever thought of – what a pity man does not give his attention to these things instead of to war – yet I suppose we must have war to appreciate these things’.

 [Next letter: 12 November]