Ellsworth American. [volume] (Ellsworth, Me.) 1855-current, 1917-07-18
LaughingatTerror on SommeF Front;
Novelist Tells Stories of Heroism
In Letters to Relatives From the
Battlefields Coningsby Daw-
son Describes Emotions
Under Fire.
DAWSON. English

w y Nv = y ia ~ Sun. EugfiSl
~ novelist, resident III the United
States. was busy trying to fol-
low up the success of his novel. "A
Garden Without Walls" when the war
came. He realized that as he was a
Briton Of military age 1t was his duty
to put literature behind him and fight
for his country. Delaying only long
enough to finish some work which he
had promised his publishers, he crossed
from this country into Canada and
there qualified as an officer In the Ca
madam forces. Shipped thence across
the ocean last summer, he found him
self, after only short stay in England,
plunged without further ado into the
hell on the Somme.
For months thereafter he dealt and
lodged death from morning to night,
with scarcely the time 10 get really
good wash or change OF clothes. He
saw men killed a few feet from him;
saw corpses by the hundred lying III
hideously lifelike postures amid the
black mud of shell holes. and. faithful
to his profession as a writer. he fought
with the full strength of his intellect
to grasp and visualize and set down on
paper the terrific impact OF new and
horrible impressions which the war
brought TO him. He could not do it.
Who can? But Coningsby Dawson.
novelist, has given US something bet
ter than novel In his latest volume.
Garry On" made up OF letters from
the trenches to members of his family
on this side Of the Atlantic, collected
by his father
He makes you see the reactions to
the war of civilian In uniform, a man
accustomed to the ease OF life who Is
abruptly plunged into carnage and
barbarism and stencil.
This war will be Won BY tired men
who will never again pass an insurance
examination is one OF the phrases,
ore OF many. that fash the Somme
horror 10 his readers. And through
out the book the novelist remains al
ways a writer, In candle lit dugout.
with shells screaming overhead. he
tries TO plan the novel of tomorrow.
Coningsby Dawson sailed for Europe
last July. I've become little child
again in Gods hands," he wrote to his
family after months Of training In q
Canadian camp. with full confidence
In his love and wisdom and a growing
trust that whatever he decides for me
win be the best and kindest-" short
two months later he was In northern
France. hurled without easy grada-
lions into the mids. OF the carnage OF
from the trenches he wrote to his SIS
ter:
'It's extraordinary how commonplace
war becomes TO man who Is thrust
among others who consider 1t common
place. Not fifty yards away from me
a dead German lies rotting and uncov-
cred. I dare say he was buried once
and then blown out by shell"
Admiration for the GOODNESS of the
men engaged In the deadly work con-
stantly overcame the young novelist as
he grew to know. his comrades better.
'If unconscious heroism is the virtue
most to be desired he wrote TO his
father last September, '.and heroism
spiced with a strong sense of humor
at that, then pretty well every man
have met out here has the amazing
CUTS to wear his crown OF thorns as
though it We're a cap and bells" And
In the same letter he gave this descrip
ton of being under fire:
Il dare say you'll wonder how !
feels to be under shell fire. This i
how 1t feels: You don't realize you
danger until you come to think abou
It afterward. At the time it's like play
ing cocoanut SHES at negro's head
only you're the head. You take to-
much interest in the sport OF dodgini
to be afraid
Describes Battlefield
One Of the best passages In the Ell
tire collection OF letters is this descriT
don of battlefield as 1t Is In norther
France today:
well, I've seen my first modern ba
tlefield and am quite disillusione
about the splendor Of war. The splei
dor n all in the souls of the men VII
creep through the squalor Ike vermi
Its in nothing external. 800
"a modern battlefield is the abom
nation Of denominations. Imagine
vast stretch Of dead country. pitte
with shell holes as though 1t had bee
mutilated with smallpox. There's NJ
q leaf or a blade Of grass IN sight e
cry house has either been leveled or
In ruins. No bird sings Nothing str
me only i've sound Is at night--ti
scurry Of rats.
aYou enter kind of ditch. called
trench. 1t leads on to another al
another In an unjoyful maze. Fro
che sides feet stick out, and arms al
faces-the dead Of previous encounter
One Of our chaps you say CASUAL
T. - ~x&w - r. I.A