OVERVIEW:
CARRY ON by Coningsby Dawson is a
collection of personal letters written during World War I. This poignant work
captures the thoughts and experiences of Dawson, who served as a lieutenant in
the Canadian Field Artillery, as he shares his emotional journey from a peaceful
civilian life to the brutal realities of war. The letters reflect a deep sense
of duty, love for his family, and the camaraderie found among soldiers
amidst the harrowing contexts of battle. The opening of the volume sets the
tone by introducing the intimate nature of the letters, highlighting their
candid reflections on life and death during wartime. Dawson reveals his initial
thoughts upon joining t-he military, articulating a mix of excitement and solemn
responsibility. He expresses profound longing for his home and family while
detailing the growth of his understanding of courage, sacrifice, and the harsh
truths of combat. The letters offer vivid imagery of the war landscape and the
humanity of the soldiers, revealing a balance of fear and profound resolve as
they confront one of history's most devastating conflicts.
The following excerpt from CARRY ON is titled LETTERS VII, VIII, IX:
LETTERS
VII, VIII, & IX
LETTER VII. Friday, September 1st, 1916, 11 am.
DEAREST FATHER AND MOTHER:
I embark at 12.30—so this is the last
line before I reach France. I expect the boys are now within sight of English
shores—I wish I could have had an hour with them.
I'm going to do my best to bring you
honour—remember that—I shall do things for your sake out there, living up to
the standards you have taught me.
Yours with a heart full of love,
Con.
LETTER VIII. FRANCE, September 1st, 1916.
DEAREST M:
Here I am in France with
the same strange smells and street cries, and almost the same little boys
bowling hoops over the very cobbly cobble stones. I had afternoon tea at a
patisserie and ate a great many gâteaux for the sake of old times. We had a
very choppy crossing, and you would most certainly have been sick had you been
on board. It seemed to me that I must be coming on one of those romantic
holidays to see churches and dead history—only the khaki-clad figures reminded
me that I was coming to see history in the making. It's a funny world that
batters us about so. It's three years since I was in France—the last time was
with Arthur in Provence. It's five years since you and I did our famous trip
together.
I wish you were
here—there are heaps of English nurses in the streets. I expect to sleep in
this place and proceed to my destination to-morrow. How I wish I could send you
a really descriptive letter! If I did, I fear you would not get it—so I have to
write in generalities. None of this seems real—it's a kind of wild pretence
from which I shall awake-and when I tell you my dream you'll laugh and say,
"How absurd of you, dreaming that you were a soldier. I must say you look
like it."
Good-bye, my dearest girl,
God bless you,
Con.
LETTER IX. September 8th, 1916.
MY DEAREST ONES:
I'm sending this to meet
you on your return from Kootenay. I left England on September 1st and had a
night at my point of disembarkation, and then set off on a wandering adventure
in search of my division. I'm sure you'll understand that I cannot enter into
any details—I can only give you general and purely personal impressions. There
were two other officers with me, both from Montreal. We had to picnic on
chocolate and wine for twenty-four hours through our lack of forethought in not
supplying ourselves with food for the trip. I shaved the first morning with
water from the exhaust of a railroad engine, having first balanced my mirror on
the step. The engineer was fascinated with my safety razor. There were Tommies
from the trenches in another train, muddied to the eyes—who showed themselves
much more resourceful. They cooked themselves quite admirable meals as they
squatted on the rails, over little fires on which they perched tomato cans.
Sunday evening we saw our first German prisoners—a young and degenerate-looking
lot. Sunday evening we got off at a station in the rain, and shouldered our own
luggage. Our luggage, by the way, consists of a sleeping bag, in which much of
our stuff is packed, and a kit sack—for an immediate change and toilet articles
one carries a haversack hung across the shoulder. Well, as I say, we alighted
and coaxed a military wagon to come to our rescue. As we set off through a
drizzling rain, trudging behind the cart, a double rainbow shone, which I took
for an omen. Presently we came to a rest camp, where we told our sad story of
empty tummies, and were put up for the night. A Jock—all Highlanders are called
Jock—looked after us. Next morning we started out afresh in a motor lorry and
finished at a Y.M.C.A. tent, where we stayed two nights. On Wednesday we met
the General in Command of our Division, who posted me to the battery, which is
said to be the best in the best brigade in the best division—so you may see I'm
in luck. I found the battery just having come out of action—we expect to go
back again in a day or two. Major B. is the O.C.—a fine man. The lieutenant who
shares my tent won the Military Cross at Ypres last Spring. I'm very
happy—which will make you happy—and longing for my first taste of real war.
How strangely far away I
am from you—all the experiences so unshared and different. Long before this
reaches you I shall have been in action several times. This time three years
ago my streak of luck came to me and I was prancing round New York. To-day I am
much more genuinely happy in mind, for I feel, as I never felt when I was only
writing, that I am doing something difficult which has no element of self in
it. If I come back, life will be a much less restless affair.
This letter! I can
imagine it being delivered and the shout from whoever takes it and the
comments. I make the contrast in my mind—this little lean-to spread of canvas
about four feet high, the horse-lines, guns, sentries going up and down—and
then the dear home and the well-loved faces.
Good-bye. Don't be at
all nervous.
Yours lovingly,
Con.
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