Virtual
War Memorial
Australia

Belgium, 4/10/17

Dear Mother,

Such a lot has happened since I wrote you last. I will try and go through everything since 20/9/17.

The day after this (just as we were packing for the final march into the offensive here) I was called up before the C.O. who told me that he would recommend me for immediate Commission, in case of necessity. Such an honour was quite unlooked for our C.O. (Lt.Gardiner) has evidently read my letters and found out from them what I was after. Personally, I have never mentioned the matter to him.

Never having done anything to deserve a commission I decided it was up to me. We were 7 days in the line and during that time I worked day and night. Our job, you know, is to maintain communication (by wire, chiefly) between the front line and Headquarters. Shells are always breaking the wires, which means we are always mending them. Before this I have been a telephone operator and stayed in dugout. Now, of course, I had to set the example and career round fixing up the lines, taking all sorts of risks. I was a bit shaky at first - like Peter on the water but after I had promenaded over No-man's land in broad daylight without mishap, I decided nothing could kill me.

In the actual attack (we advanced a mile) we laid a wire (Dick Clough, a Wagga boy, and myself) which held well. The boys worked like demons and, of course, without them my work would have been valueless:

They stuck to me like Britons all except my two old friends - Ted Neild and Geo. Gill. They are both Corporals and I suppose they thought I was a bit of a bounder pushing my frame ahead. But the job was given to me and I had nothing to do but do it.

When it was all over, the C.O. (Colonel Woods) told me that our lines of communication were absolutely perfect! which is high praise, seldom given. So now you see, Mother, I am some soldier!

Features of the actual attack I did not observe, being all eyes on my own work. But I know that our artillery barrage, which we followed closely, is the most awful and astounding thing the world has ever seen.

Behind that amazing curtain you are as safe as the bank. You can imagine the thrill of walking calmly behind that deafening hurricane, carrying reels of wire, stumbling into shell holes and tearing our pants to pieces on the barbed wire, (I have mended at least a dozen holes).

The most pleasing feature of the whole thing is the few casualties
Not one Officer was killed, except the Padre (Regimental Chaplain) who met his fate as he was going back, after a short visit to the front. If that is not the irony of circumstances, what is?
On the 29th (when we were well consolidated and had established headquarters in a big Butte full of dugouts) the C.O. asked me to write a Review of the whole attack, which has been done.

So you see, Mother, at last I am doing a bit of work for my living. I do not want any medals, etc., but I hope I get my commission before long.

On the 30th we left the front line and are now resting. Sheafs of parcels and letters have arrived. Needless to say how much appreciated they are.

I hope you do not want any souvenirs. I hate anything that reminds me of the inevitable slaughter which is the accompaniment of our success. My old friend Sgt. McCallum was wounded - in the leg. I was talking to him for some time as he was awaiting stretcher bearers. He seemed quite happy and not pale like most of them.
He must be in a very comfortable bed by this. Sinclair Hunt was wounded slightly.
I had the please of taking his rations. Reg Morris (another old friend) was also wounded in the hand.

German rations, of which there were a heap in the dugouts, are rotten. Bread is sour and the tinned meat is all fat. Their blankets and coats and wooden bunks, also the tables and chairs, were very handy.

Received some fine letters from Revd McGowan and Lottie, Elsie D,
Grace, Nell Long and, of course, all the Beth-Hananites. I do not know whether I acknowledged Wal's long letter, which was very interesting, indeed.

I think this about closes the outline of events, so will wish you all a very happy Xmas and New Year. Remember me to all friends you come. across and tell them I'm always glad of a line from them and will try and drop a line in return.

Love to all from - Niel.

France Monday 10 September 1917

The band played "Softly awakes my Heart" from Samson and Delilah; Simple Aveu" Fantasy of Scotch Airs amongst other items.
It was the band of a Royal Fusiliers Regiment and played excellently.
We next visited the three chief churches of the town - all as big as St. Mary's; At Notre Dame service was on, so we sat and listened to the organ, the chanting, and the sermon.

It was a special service in of St. Omer.
The Archbishop of Boulogne was present.
As usual, the stained windows dazzled you with their beauty, while the usual white pillars stretched up to the skies..

Amongst other things I noticed that Louis IX visited this Church (with his mother) in 1231. so that - am not the only person of importance who has been there in the last 700 years. Louis was more fortunate than I in that he had his mother with him.

Well, we enjoyed the service thoroughly, and the old crumbling Church with its Gothic arches and flying buttresses and gargoyles.
It was like a big rough rock standing out
of the sea -different to Amiens Cathedral which is like a gorgeous intricate highly finished wedding cake. Then we
and we visited the museum, and we were
just beginning to like its ancient pottery-ware, jewellery, plasters, mummies, coins, vases, medals, armours, etc, when closing time came.

So away to tea, and then back to the gardens, more band, more crowds, and then to the Gare (Railway Station) and train home.

Bombs are often dropped on st. Omer. We saw a few ventilated houses and a few big holes outside the town. But as everybody has a cellar there is not much unholy terror amongst the populace.

Coming home the train was without lights - the usual precaution. We had the finishing touch in a lugubrious Anzac going back to the firing line. He was explaining in detail the horrors of all the latest gases, shells and frightfulness.
I felt like whistling to keep the ghosts away.
However, if there were any tears dropped it was too dark to see them.
Home and in the blanket at 10 p.m.

You will see that we have had a splendid six weeks in this little village of Lynde and if any of you ever come this way, you can remember Armentieres, Fleurbaix, Bapaume, Albert, Amiens, st. Omer, and Lynde.

I think our stay is drawing to a close.
A few more days will see us away, moving up to where a bit of hard work awaits us.
We all hope for success and the best. But our steps have been dogged with misfortunes.

Now it is the Russians. Poor unfortunate devils. The best explanation of that catastrophe is this: the common people there have suddenly been given the right to govern themselves, and they do not know how to do it. Just like a man released from a dungeon: the sun dazzles him, and he staggers about.

We have taken on a big job, but that is no reason for crying "Enough" when we’ve only half finished it.

I will tell you a tale of Fromelles - I do not think it is over the odds.
Right in the midst of the inferno there was a poor old cove yelling "This isn't war, it's bloody murder ...
.. Can’t we come to terms now?' No one blames the poor fellow but how ridiculous it was. And it is just as ridiculous now saying "Don't hit us, let us be friends."