Duff Cooper, on garrison duty in London, dined last night with his mother. They were interrupted by an air raid, but not, apparently, a very damaging one. Being by now something of an old soldier, at least as far as the home goes, Cooper simply went home
and slept soundly until the all clear signals woke me at between one and two. At about the same time Diana telephoned to know if I was alive.
Lovely to be able to simply pick up the phone and check on a loved one–it will be different when he is finally sent overseas. But Duff and Diana were reunited in person today, a century back–and intimately, too, in the wee hours of tomorrow…
January 29, 1918
Lunched very happily with Diana at the Piccadilly and we went together to the Coliseum. We dined at Katharine’s house. She herself was out… We sat comfortably in front of the fire and I have seldom enjoyed a meal more. At about ten Katharine came in and almost at the same moment we heard the guns beginning. I was on air raid duty so had to go at once to barracks. Luckily I found a taxi at Marble Arch. I had to wait about a long time in barracks. At last the all clear signal came at about one thirty and I dashed back to Oxford Square just in time to catch Diana who was on the point of leaving. We had a most exquisite drive home. I adored literally the soles of her feet.
Our only other entry is also from London society, and–as this is Cynthia Asquith–from an adjacent arc of the very same social circle.
Tuesday, 29th January
I was going down to Taplow for the day to see Mamma who, I am glad to say, is having ten days rest there. Ettie and Willie conducted me to her suite—through about three swing doors—and I asked, ‘Why on earth are you keeping my poor mother like a sort of Glamis monster?’ I thought her looking really better and she is very happy. I hoped she would be able to discover the mysteries of Ettie’s system and organisation of life, but I don’t think she has gleaned much…
But the matter at hand is a rather interesting intersection of society charitable work and politics, namely the control of canteens in France, specifically the “hut” or huts run by one Lady Angela Forbes.
I read them what Papa had given me, as he was very anxious for Ettie’s opinion, the draft of the procedure in the House of Lords agreed to by Lord Derby. This is it: ‘Lord Ribblesdale will ask the questions and will be followed by Lord Wemyss. In their speeches they will not attack the War Office, but they will be at liberty to eulogise the work of Lady Angela and to make reference to the necessity, in the interest of military discipline, of the centralisation of the control of huts.’ After they have spoken. Lord Derby will reply in the following terms:
‘The noble Lord is quite right in saying that in the interest of Military Discipline it is necessary that the control of Huts in big Military Areas should be centralised, and this is gradually being carried into effect. I quite recognise the valuable and difficult work done by Lady Angela and the closing of her canteens was not intended in any way to reflect on her management of the huts, or upon the zeal and ability she has shown in discharging her onerous tasks. I understand Lady Angela is prepared to take up other work and I should regret if this incident should interfere with her doing so. I hear of many wild rumours in regard to this case…
After this Lord Ribblesdale will answer in the following terms:
‘I beg to thank the noble Earl for the statement he has just made, and to accept it on Lady Angela’s behalf as a settlement of her case. While no one will I think consider that, in view of the nature and extent of her work for the soldiers, the noble Earl’s appreciation of her services erred on the side of exaggeration, I am ready to admit that in view of the circumstances which have necessitated this discussion of her case, the noble Earl’s tribute is not an ungenerous one. Lady Angela and her friends would, of course, have preferred the investigation she has repeatedly pressed for, but she recognises that the exigencies of the service, the critical state of public affairs, and the expense of these inquiries render it extremely difficult for the authorities to grant them.’
This is, I assume (I should do some more research…), another distant echo of the mutiny of Étaples. At the very least it shows the cognizance of one earnest noblewoman that something is rotten in the largest British army camp in France.
There is general agreement that Lady Angela has been reasonably well served–and then country house life resumes:
It was a lovely day and we went out in the garden before luncheon. At luncheon we discussed the Master of Trinity plan for Mr Balfour…
Lord Desborough, Ivo, and Imogen went out to shoot our dinner Mamma, Ettie, and I played tennis: I played well.
Boring! What else is going on?
Afterwards Ettie and I had a delicious walk. We discussed ‘lovers’ and their compatibility with happy marriages. She said she was not monogamous in the strict sense of the word, and had never been in love in the way which excluded other personal relations. To be at her best with one man she must see a great many others…
Cynthia, perhaps, was too discrete to discuss Bernard Freyberg directly–and certainly too careful to confirm him in writing as a “lover.” But surely she had something to contribute the the conversation? Perhaps it was pure theory, on her end…
In spite of all entreaties, I obstinately insisted on returning to London by the 9.56, instead of staying the night. I was well punished. In about half an hour the lights went out and then we stuck at Acton for about an hour and a half listening to the Hell of a bombardment. I was alone in a cold dark carriage—not frightened—but very bored. At last we moved on to Paddington and then I went by underground to Sloane Square. All the lights were out and lots of poor children were encamped on the platforms. I didn’t get home till about two. The raid of the night before had been severe…
Sometimes it feels as if 1919-39 will pass in the blink of an eye.
Lastly, today, resolution in the case of Frederic Manning. He has a drinking problem–he is an alcoholic, that is–and, with what degree of conscious choice or acquiescence we cannot be sure, he has allowed his drunkenness to become a clear obstacle to his continued (though as yet quite short) career as an officer. After being repeatedly drunk–and belligerent–in the mess, even his sympathetic C.O. could not control what threatened to become a court martial case. But there are several arguments for a less punitive course, as Manning argued on his own behalf in a December affidavit:
For some time previous to the 29th of October I had been suffering from continual insomnia and nervous exhaustion. I was in an extremely weak condition of health generally, and in those circumstances had recourse to stimulants. I think that my condition subsequently was in a considerable measure the result of these circumstances.
Perhaps this is the reticence of the British officer, or perhaps even so the meaning was clear: he may have only recently been commissioned, but he is a battle-scarred veteran of the ranks, and his experience on the Somme is at the very least a contributing factor to his loss of control.
Skillfully handled it might have saved Manning at a court martial. Further pause was gained by a technical point:
there was only one witness, the medical officer, to the latest offence. This too, the authorities felt, could pose a problem in court. Finally, the Army Council in London was prepared to be swayed by Major Milner’s observations: what “useful purpose’’ would be served by another court martial?
Pragmatism prevailed. In January 1918 the War Office decided that Manning’s service could be “dispensed with”, and so notified officials in Ireland. A new letter from Manning requesting resignation was filed on 29 January.
This time his plea was accepted. There will be a month in limbo, and then the publication of the news that “he had been
allowed to resign because of ‘ill health brought on by intemperance.'”
If this is a dishonorable discharge, it was honorably gained: Manning earned his “shell shock.” Yet Manning cannot have looked forward to being drummed out of the officer corps as a drunkard, and his letters to his friends of this period are “less than forthcoming.” He refers to back pain as a disabling factor and sneers at the idiocy of the officers around him–then, much later, he will acknowledge what must be at least a comfortable plurality of the truth: “disorganized nerves” and personal conflicts led to his loss of commission…
There is just a little bit of Henry Williamson here, although Manning had more reason to be secure in terms of his age and education, and his social problems in the regiment were brought on by a more aggressive sort of anxiety than Williamson/Maddison’s moody insecurities…
Manning’s biographer Jonathan Marwil arrives at a balanced conclusion:
Was the cause of his loss of control delayed shell shock, the “hard” time he had at the very beginning with the colonel, the boredom and contempt he increasingly felt for the “imbecilities’’ of his brother officers, or the demands made on him as a parade-ground and now commissioned soldier? It may have been of all these, and more besides. What is clear is that, having fallen foul of authority in July, he could not recover his balance. The more he drank, the more anxious he became; the more anxious he became, the more he drank. And so he was perceived as a misfit, as “a nice gentlemanly young fellow, but weak in character”.
The judgement was neither unkind nor unfair…
This conclusion was abetted when he learned, more than a half-century after the fact, that a sympathetic (and influential) officer of the Royal Irish Regiment had intervened to help divert Manning’s path from a salutary court martial. It didn’t take modern understanding of PTSD to understand that a drinking problem might be exacerbated by hard military service, and some combination of mercy and special pleading on behalf of a very talented “misfit” probably helped him avoid punishment for his failure to conform as an officer or control his own alcoholism. It also seems that the family of this officer–a barrister named Sir John Lynch–took Manning in after his discharge and helped restore him to help.
So Manning will not be sent out to France any time soon, and so, perhaps, we get our book. As Marwil points out, there will be another sort of testimony entered belatedly into evidence: Manning’s brilliant novel, Her Privates We.
What this judgement omitted was the record of Private 19022, the private who had been on the Somme.
A novel–based on its author’s experiences but quite “heavily” fictionalized–can’t really plead a legal case. But few books of the Great War do more to show the nature of the traumas inflicted on an infantryman c. 1916.
All that is behind us, now…