Bridgeton pioneer., 1917-06-21
Laughing at Terror
Novelist Tells
In Letters to Relatives From the
Battls.elds Coningsby Daw-
son Describes Emotions
Under Fire.
CoNINGsBY DAWSON. English

States. was busy trying to fol-
low up the success of his novel, "A
Garden Without Walls" when the war
came. lie 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 to get really
good wash or change Of clothes. He
saw men killed few feet from him:
saw corpses by the hundred lying In
hideously hfelike postures amid the
BLACK mud of shell holes, and, faithful
TO his profession as writer, he fought
tNA<A thC AuiA Ol LIS
to grasp and visualize and set down on
paper the terrific impact of new and
horrible impressions which the war
ibrought to him. He could not do 1t.
Who can? But Coningsby Dawson,
novelist, has given US something bet
ter than a novel In his latest volume,
Garry On" made up Of letters from
Rha frpnphQS 70 ofb 60
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,
one Of many. that fash the Somme
horror to his readers And through
out the book the novelist remains al
acxays a writer. In candle Lit dugout.
with shells screaming overhead, he
tries TO plan the novel of tomorrow.
Confngsby Dawson sailed for Europe
nASG We UtCOui6 d little Cllllu
again in Gods hands," he wrote to his
gfamily after months Of training In
Canadian camp, with full confidence
In his love and wisdom and growing
trust that whatever he decides for me
win be the best and kindest." A short
two months later he was in northern
france, hurled without easy grada-
ftions into the midst Of the carnage of
the Somme. In one of his first letters
from the trenches he wrote to his sis
Der:
Its extraordinary how commonplace
svar becomes to a 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 dare say he was buried once
and thea blown out by a she'll"
Admiration for the GOODNESS Of the
men engaged In the deadly work con.
Etantly overcame the young novelist as
he grew to know his comrades better
''1f unconscious heroism is the virtue
most to be desired" he wrote to his
father last September, "and heroism
epiced with a strong sense Of humor
at that, then pretty we'll every man /
have met out here has the amazing
guts to wear his crown Of thorns as
though it We're a cap and bells" And
tn the same letter he gave this descrip-
fion of being under fire:
Il dare say you'll wonder how 1t
feels to be under shell fire. This Is
how it feels: You don't realize your
danger until you come to think about
It afterward At the time it's like play.
ing cocoanut SHES at a negro's head,
.only you're the head. You take too
much interest In the sport OF lodging
10 be afraid"
Describes a Battlefield.
One of the best passages in the en-
tire collection Of letters Is this descr1p-
lion of battlefield as 1t is in northern
France today:
well, I've seen my first modern bat
Eleheld and am quite disillusioned
about the splendor Of war. The splen.
dor is all in the souls Of the men who
creep through the squalor like vermin
Its In nothing external 80
"a modern battlefield Is the abomi-
nation of denominations. Imagine a
vast stretch Of dead country, pitted
with shell holes as though 1t had been
Rnntilated with smallpox. There's not
h leaf or a blade of grass in sight. Ev-
kry house has either been leveled or Is
In ruins No bird sings. Nothing stirs.
Hhe only live sound is at night-the
kcurry Of rats. .r5-
! You enter a kind Of ditch, called a
1rench. 1t leads on to another and
another in an unjoyful maze. From
rhe sides feet stick out, and arms and
4acss-the dead of previous encounters.
fOre OF our chaps you say casually,
recoghlzing him by his boots or khaki,
or Poor blighter-a Hum One can
aafford to forget enmity in the pres
tence Of the dead.