Letters From the Front

Dated: June 7, 1917

June 7th, 1917

Dear Father:

France now, "sunny chivalrous France" I have heard it called. Sunny, indeed, so sunny, as a matter of fact, that the major portion of th epidermus has disappeared from my features beneath the intensity of old sol's rays, our clothing is saturated with perspiration and we have no desire whatever to work (unfortunately we are not allowed to follow our desires) as to chivalrous, well between endless stretches of sand, too constant acquaintance with full packs, the aforementioned broiling sun, bully beef and biscuits the glamour and tinsel of chivalry seemingly associated with it from its medieval affinities seems something entirely out of place.

Where am I now? Well that ambiguous "Somewhere in France" to you implies either one of two places: up in the line, or at the base. Well, I am at the latter, experiencing that ten days' course which is supposed to put the finishing touches to our training. As yet, despite the fact that we have been here ten days, we are only half through our course; of course, I suppose we should have no kick coming. The scene of torture is some three miles from camp, which we cover twice daily (there and back) with everything we possess on our backs and has been dubbed the "Bull-ring," possibly to use a slang phrase, "because so much bull is fired at us out here."

It was a week ago Saturday that we left Witley Camp, somewhere around the midnight hour, and arrived in Folkestone in the early gray of dawn. A morning spent on the adjacent bench and in rest barracks, and then at noon we embarked. Old Neptune was on his good behaviour, and in consequence I was not forced to infringe on Lord Devonport's mandates regarding food wastage. As to mention of subsequent movements, well you know the censor's attitude in this regards, so I merely state that it entailed all-day march from our point of disembarkation to the Base.

France, that is in my humble estimation, as far as natural beauty, cleanliness and picturesqueness goes, is far inferior to England, all around here being sandhills with small clumps of pines, poplars, etc. here and there. The sanitation of the only village I have been in as yet would have sent the health inspector of a western burg into hysterics, all manner of unpleasant odors, emanating from the cellars and the stagnant water and rubbish of the gutters, while the buildings are all weather stained and unattractive. Flowers are far less prolific and varied than in England, and feathered songsters not so plentiful.

Perhaps the finest view from camp is that of the Channel, shimmering blue, intangible in the distant with a host of fishing boats like black specks on its surface, on the shore is quite a large town said to be a summer resort. In the entrance on one side of the town a stretch of woodland loses itself in a blue haze on the horizon, on the other side stretch the sand hills.

Saw Frank Songhurst the day we came over, he had recovered from his wounds and was on his way back to his battalion, the 10th.

Capt. Barnett, of the old 187th, was at the Base for a few days last week before going up the line to join the 50th.

Today, the last of our old 187th boys from Bramshott landed here, the bunch that got stranded at Amherst with the mumps and some others. They are destined also for the 50th, and include Alf. Pye and McDougall from Penhold; Arnold Brookes, MacFarlane, the old canteen sergeant; Art. Foulds, Middlemass, Groat and Davy Dean of your old "D" Company.

Well, I am unable to give you any other address than that you already have, as yet, since we have not joined as yet the battalion to be apportioned to companies.

Love, "TEDDY"