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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
It was in 1915 that I managed to establish a secret correspondence with the British prisoners at Magdeburg. It was not
very diffi cult to do, and I dare say others managed it as well as
I, but it had the effect of cheering them by a little authentic
news, for at that time they were only permitted to see German newspapers. It came about in this way. A dear friend of my
wife’s, Miss Lily Loder Symonds, had a brother, Captain Willie
Loder Symonds, of the Wiltshires, who had been wounded and
taken in the stand of the 7th Brigade on the evening before
Le Cateau. He was an ingenious fellow and had written home
a letter which passed the German censor, because it seemed to
consist in the description of a farm, but when read carefully
it was clear that it was the conditions of himself and his comrades which he was discussing. It seemed to me that if a man
used such an artifi ce he would be prepared for a similar one in
a letter from home. I took one of my books, therefore, and beginning with the third chapter – I guessed the censor would
examine the fi rst – I put little needle-pricks under the various
printed letters until I had spelled out all the news. I then sent
the book and also a letter. In the letter I said that the book
was, I feared, rather slow in the opening, but that from Chapter III onwards he might fi nd it more interesting. That was as
plain as I dared to make it. Loder Symonds missed the allusion
altogether, but by good luck he showed the letter to Captain
the Hon. Rupert Keppel, of the Guards, who had been taken
at Landrecies. He smelled a rat, borrowed the book, and found
my cipher. A message came back to his father, Lord Albemarle, to the effect that he hoped Conan Doyle would send some
more books. This was sent on to me, and of course showed me
431
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
that it was all right. From that time onwards every month or
two I pricked off my bulletin, and a long job it was. Finally,
I learned that the British papers were allowed for the prisoners, so that my budget was superfl uous. However, for a year or
two I think it was some solace to them, for I always made it as
optimistic as truth would allow – or perhaps a little more so,
just to get the average right.
I had some dealings with General French, but only one
interview with him. No one can help feeling a deep respect
for the soldier who relieved Kimberley and headed off Cronje,
or for the man who bore the fi rst hard thrust of the German
spear.
My only interview with the General was at the Horse
Guards, when he talked very clearly about the military position, though most of what he said as to the changes which
modern tactics and heavy guns had caused was rather selfevident. “Your problem always is how to pass the wire and
the machine guns. There is no way round. What is the good of
talking of invading Austria from the south? You will fi nd the
same wire and the same machine guns. We may as well face it
in Flanders as anywhere else.” This talk was shortly after Loos,
when he had returned from the Army and was at the head
of Home Defence. “If you want any point looked up for your
history, mind you let me know and I will see that it is done.”
This sounded very nice to me, who was in a perpetual state
of wanting to know; but as a matter of fact I took it as a mere
empty phrase, and so it proved when a week or two later I put
it to the test. It was a simple question, but I never got any clear
answer.
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
One pleasing incident occurred in 1917, when a Hull
steam trawler which had been named after me, under the
able handling of Skipper Addy and Lieutenant McCabe of
the Naval Reserve, had an action with a heavily armed modern submarine, the fi ght lasting for some hours. The Conan
Doyle was acting as fl agship of a little group of trawlers, and
though their guns were popguns compared with that of the
German, they so peppered him that he was either sunk or
took fl ight – anyhow, he vanished under the water. The little
boat sent me its ship’s bell as a souvenir of the exploit, and
I sent some small remembrances in exchange. It was a fi ne
exploit, and I was proud to be connected with it, even in so
remote a way.
I have in my war chapters expressed my admiration for
General Haig. On one occasion I called upon Lady Haig, when
she was administering some private hospital at Farnborough.
It was, so far as I could understand, one wing of the Empress
Eugenie’s house, and the Empress invited me to lunch. There
were present also Prince Victor Napoleon and his wife, who
was, I think, a daughter of my old aversion, Leopold, King of
the Belgians and Overlord of the Congo. The Empress interested me deeply – a historical relic whom one would expect to
study in old pictures and memoirs, yet there she was moving
and talking before me. If Helen launched a thousand ships,
Eugenie, by all accounts, did far more. Indeed, if the fi rst German War was really from her inspiration, as Zola insists, she
was at the root of all modern history. In spite of her great age,
her face and fi gure preserved the lines of elegance and breed,
the features clearly cut, the head set proudly upon the long
433
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
neck. I glanced into her sitting-room as I passed the open door
and noticed that she was engaged upon an enormous jig-saw
puzzle, a thousand pieces if there were one. Children’s toys
engaged the mind which once played with Empires. There is
surely something fatal in that Spanish blood with its narrow
fanatical religion and its masterful intolerance, magnifi cent
but mediaeval like the Church which inspires it.
She talked very freely with me and in the most interesting
manner. It was surprising to see how fresh her mind was, and
what curious information she had at her command. She told
me, for example, that tetanus in France depended very much
upon what soil had got into the wound, while that in turn depended upon what manures had been used for the soil – thus
the percentage of tetanus cases would be quite different in
a vine-growing district and in one where ordinary crops were
cultivated. She spoke seriously about the war, but was confi dent as to the ultimate result. This graceful, withered fl ower
in its strange setting was one of the outstanding memories of
those days.
All sorts of queer odd jobs came to me as to many others in
the war. I was, of course, prepared always to do absolutely anything which was suggested, though the suggestions were sometimes not very reasonable. One must not argue, but simply put
one’s whole weight, for what it is worth, into the scrum. Once
I was directed to go up to Scotland and write up the great new
munition works at Gretna, as the public needed reassurance
upon the point. Pearson, the younger brother of Lord Cowdray, had built them, and they certainly deserved the name
of “Miracle Town,” which I gave them in my article. The great
434
MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
diffi culty always was to give our own people what they wanted
and yet not to give the Germans that which they wanted also.
Winston Churchill’s remarkable memoirs – the best, in my
opinion, of all the war books – have shown how heavily this
pressed in high quarters. His volume is certainly a wonderful
vindication of his term of offi ce, and it was a loss to the country
when he left it.
Churchill was very open to ideas and sympathetic to those
who were trying for some ideal. I had pondered much over
armour for the troops, and he commented on it in an inspiring letter, in which he said that the bullet-proof man and
the torpedo-proof ship were our two great objects. I worked
a good deal upon the question of shields, and wrote several articles about it in “The Times” and other papers, but the forces
against us were strong. When I saw Mr. Montague on the subject at the Ministry of Munitions, he said: “Sir Arthur, there is
no use your arguing here, for there is no one in the building
who does not know that you are right. The whole diffi culty lies
in making the soldiers accept your views.”
One has, of course, to be reasonable on the point, and to
admit that there is a limit to what a man can carry, and that
greater weight means slower movement, and therefore longer
exposure. That is fully granted. But when the helmet in actual practice was found so useful, why should it not be supplemented by steel shoulder-guards, since the helmet might
actually guide the bullets down on to the shoulders? And
why not a plastron over the heart? The vital points in a man’s
anatomy are not really so numerous. If many a life was saved
by a buckle or a cigarette-case, why should such protection
435
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
not be systematized? And why in trench warfare should not
strong breastplates be kept for the temporary use of any troops
in the front line? I experimented with my own service rifl e
upon steel plates, and I was surprised to fi nd how easy it was at
twenty paces to turn a bullet. I am convinced that very many
lives would have been saved had my views been adopted, and
that the men in the hour of danger would have been only too
glad to carry that part of their equipment.
The Tank, however, was a device which carried the armour
and the men also, so that it was an extension of these ideas.
We can never be grateful enough to the men who thought out
the Tank, for I have no doubt at all that this product of British
brains and British labour won the war, which would otherwise have ended in a peace of mutual exhaustion. Churchill,
D’Eyncourt, Tritton, Swinton and Bertie Stern, – these were
in sober fact, divide the credit as you may, the men who played
a very essential part in bringing down the giant.
Our household suffered terribly in the war. The fi rst to
fall was my wife’s brother Malcolm Leckie, of the Army Medical Service, whose gallantry was so conspicuous that he was
awarded a posthumous D.S.O. While he was actually dying
himself, with shrapnel in his chest, he had the wounded to
his bedside and bandaged them. Then came the turn of Miss
Loder Symonds, who lived with us and was a beloved member of the family. Three of her brothers were killed and the
fourth wounded. Finally, on an evil day for us, she also passed
on. Then two brave nephews, Alec Forbes and Oscar Hornung,
went down with bullets through the brain. My gallant brother-in-law, Major Oldham, was killed by a sniper during his
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
fi rst days in the trenches. And then fi nally, just as all seemed
over, I had a double blow. First it was my Kingsley, my only son
by the fi rst marriage, one of the grandest boys in body and soul
that ever a father was blessed with. He had started the war as
a private, worked up to an acting captaincy in the 1st Hampshires, and been very badly wounded on the Somme. It was
pneumonia which slew him in London, and the same cursed
plague carried off my soldier brother Innes, he who had shared
my humble strivings at Southsea so many years ago. A career
lay before him, for he was only forty and already AdjutantGeneral of a corps, with the Legion of Honour, and a great
record of service. But he was called and he went like the hero
he was. “You do not complain at all, sir,” said the orderly. “I am
a soldier,” said the dying General. Thank God that I have since
EXPERIENCES ON THE BRITISH FRONT 843 found that the
gates are not shut, but only ajar, if one does show earnestness
in the quest. Of all these that I have mentioned, there is but
one from whom I have been unable to obtain clear proof of
posthumous existence.
CHAPTER XXVIII
EXPERIENCES
ON THE BRITISH FRONT
Lord Newton – How I got out – Sir W. Robertson – The
Destroyer – First Experience of Trenches – Ceremony at Bethune – Mother – The Ypres Salient – Ypres – The Hull Territorial – General Sir Douglas Haig – Artillery Duel – Kingsley –
Major Wood – Paris.
I HAD naturally wished to get out to the British front and
to see things for myself. And yet I had scruples also, for when
soldiers are doing a diffi cult job mere spectators and joy-riders
are out of place. I felt what a perfect nuisance they must be,
and hesitated to join them. On the other hand, I had surely
more claims than most, since I was not only compiling a history of the campaign, but was continually writing in the press
upon military subjects. I made up my mind, therefore, that
I was justifi ed in going, but I had as yet no opportunity.
However, it came along in a very strange way. It was in the
early summer of 1916 that I had a note from Lord Newton,
saying that he wished to see me at the Foreign Offi ce. I could
not conceive what he wanted to see me about, but of course
I went. Lord Newton seemed to be doing general utility work
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MEMORIES AND ADVENTURES
which involved the interests of our prisoners in Germany, as
well as press arrangements, missions, etc. The former alone
would be enough for anyone, and he was exposed to severe
criticism for not being suffi ciently zealous in the cause. “Newton, the Teuton,” sang the prisoners, a parody on “Gilbert, the
Filbert,” one of the idiotic popular songs of pre-war days. However, I am convinced that he really did his very best, and that
his policy was wise, for if it came to an interchange of revenge
and barbarity between Germany and us, there was only one in
it. There is no use starting a game in which you are bound to be
beaten. Winston Churchill had tried it in the case of the submarine offi cers, with the result that thirty of our own picked
offi cers had endured much in their prisons and the policy had
to be reconsidered.
Lord Newton is a wit and has a humorous face which covers a good deal of solid capacity. He plunged instantly into the
business on hand.
“It is the Italian army,” said he. “They want a bit of limelight. We propose to send several fellows on short missions to
write them up. Your name has been mentioned and approved.
Will you go?”
I never thought more quickly in my life than on that occasion. I had no plan when I entered the room, since I was ignorant of the proposition, but I saw my opening in a fl ash.
“No,” said I.
Lord Newton looked surprised.
“Why not?” he asked.
“Because I should be in a false position,” I answered. “I have
nothing to compare them with. I have not even seen the Brit-
439
ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE
ish front yet. How absurd it would be for me to approve or
to condemn when they could reasonably ask me what I knew
about the matter!”
“Would you go if that were set right?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“Then I don’t think there will be an insuperable diffi culty.”
“Well, if you can arrange that, I am entirely at your disposal.”
“By the way,” said he, “if you go to the front, and especially
to the Italian front, a uniform will be essential. What have you
a right to wear?”
“I am a private in the Volunteers.”
He laughed.
“I think you would be shot at sight by both armies,” said he.
“You would be looked upon as a rare specimen. I don’t think
that would do.”
I had a happy thought.
“I am a deputy-lieutenant of Surrey,” said I. “I have the
right to wear a uniform when with troops.”
“Excellent!” he cried. “Nothing could be better. Well, you
will hear from me presently.”
I went straight off to my tailor, who rigged me up in
a wondrous khakI garb which was something between that of
a Colonel and a Brigadier, with silver roses instead of stars or
crowns upon the shoulder-straps. As I had the right to wear
several medals, including the South African, the general effect
was all right, but I always felt a mighty impostor, though it was
certainly very comfortable and convenient. I was still a rare
specimen, and quite a number of offi cers of three nations
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