266 Sportsmen Parsons in Peace and War 



perhaps appreciate what the present unutterable human 

 carnage has been to some of our boys, straight out from home, 

 where they have hved sheltered lives shielded from all things 

 hurtful and unpleasant. They quickly cease to be boys — and 

 never again can they feel young. The unspeakable horror of 

 it all has robbed them of their youth. The world they have 

 known is gone from them for ever— a thing of the past ; has 

 become like a dream of long ago. 



The only thing that has saved many from going mad has 

 been letters from home. I wish this were more realised than it 

 is. I wish people realised more what the despair, the hope- 

 lessness is, that seizes the hearts of our lads sitting in shelled 

 trenches, the earth rocking under them from the thundering 

 guns while they are like moths pinned to a cork ; the bodies of 

 their pals blown to pieces all around them, and then, poor 

 lads, they are sent to collect the discs from amongst the human 

 wreckage. Small wonder that home, peace, and beautiful things 

 seem very far away. Then it is, that letters from home are 

 priceless treasures, letters breathing of love and endless prayers 

 for the safety of the recipient, telling of all the homely things, 

 the everyday little nothings that seem so great to them now. 

 Even the cat having had kittens seems to bring home nearer. 

 Next to letters from home, I think the Padres bring most 

 comfort to the fighters. 



Miss Booth, of the Salvation Army, takes special interest in 

 looking after the graves of the fallen, and lays flowers on 

 them for those unable to do so themselves. Many are the 

 lonely graves that have been decorated and cared for by her 

 kindly hands, where the sleepers have been claimed by none. 



I remember wandering through a cemetery soon after a big 

 battle. I was searching for the grave of a brave man whose 

 last words had been, " Tell them all at home I die quite happy." 



Many sights met my eyes that made me see everything 

 through a mist. It was almost unbearable. The rows and rows 

 of white crosses, just a number telling those who cared that a 

 young man, barely in his prime, had made the supreme sacrifice, 

 before time had been given to him to enjoy half the lovely things 

 in life. 



Among the multitude of graves lay love-tokens of every 

 description : flowers in jam-pots, artificial wreaths in glass 



