Dearest Tompkins,
I must say that I miss our
chess matches back at Oxford, old boy, when we could enjoy the luxury of
pretending to be at war. Here in Arc (a little French town east of Dijon,
I think) I find myself embroiled in the "real thing," unfortunately. My
regiment is stationed here amongst groves of elm trees temporarily, and
our mission is to sap the mines left in the Germans' wake. Having been
"sapped" of energy ourselves by our recent shufflings around (we haven't
battled yet), I have decided to review some training to my soldiers, who
happen to be a very young, inexperienced lot in grave need of maturity,
given the circumstances.
So yes, I am able to teach
out here (did you think I could resist it?). It's by no means the History
department--or perhaps it is, in the making. That is why I volunteered,
as you know, Tompkins--to research the war as an active participant in
it--although now I begin to doubt if I should have taken this course, a
course which has exacted some difficult lessons already. I'm not
the spritely young lad I was during the Great War, not in the least.
Although I teach according
to army standards, I do not privately endorse what I hear myself lecturing
to these--these children (and they are children, Tompkins. Many of them
had never left their farming villages before they were drafted). I find
myself adopting a personae I despise with every diluted drop of Scottish
blood in me. Let me illustrate how much of a stranger I have become to
myself, and to you, no doubt.
Yesterday, I gave a lesson
on judging distances (a concept I will explain to you when at last we meet
again). Part of that lesson includes labeling landmarks and potential targets
cautiously--that is to say, with a lack of certainty. For example, a reporting
officer seeing sheep grazing a nearby pasture (oh, what I wouldn¹t
do for a steaming plate of haggis right now!) would not refer to what he
sees as "sheep"--what the officer must report, so far as the army is concerned,
is that he sees "what appear to be animals." This forced uncertainty, as
you know, serves to emotionally distance the reporting viewer, and therefore
those who hear the report, from potential targets. I'm certain you're fuming
now, old boy, but not surprised.
What is surprising, however,
is that, when a petty officer (and I emphasize "petty") by the unfortunate
name of Wankle happened to fall asleep during this admittedly boring review--yes,
even I can bore students with a subject as sterile as this one--I reacted
in a manner most foreign to me. I mocked--not Wankle--but the dreamer in
Wankle, the romantic poet residing in his aesthetic consciousness! Yes,
Tompkins, I--a lifetime admirer of Wordsworth, Coleridge, even that American,
Whitman--delivered verse dripping with pastoral splendour, not reverently,
but mockingly, caustically even. And I enjoyed this blasphemy. Oh, Tompkins,
where has my aesthetic sensitivity gone to? Has this war stripped me of
my appreciation for the Spring, the sunset, the bees fumbling purple blossoms?
I see nothing but rifle springs, the time of day, and apparent animals,
apparent lovers, APPARENT everything!
My formerly aesthetic view
of the world left my consciousness one year and a half ago, Tompkins--on
the day I volunteered for the draft.
Take care, my friend.
Yours,
Miles McApplebee
4 May 1943