Wilfred Owen in Hampshire; Herbert Read Reads a Novel, and Writes a Journal, and Looks Forward to Death or Glory

First, a brief update from Wilfred Owen, now a patient at the famously nasty military hospital at Netley, near Southampton Owen refers to its enormous main building as “The Bungalow,” but he is relatively lucky in being assigned to the Welsh Hospital, which is essentially a complex of huts out back. Blighty is nice, but he continues to hope, above all things, for home leave.

Sunday Mng. Welsh Hospital, Netley, Hampshire

I shall have to stay here a week or so. Visitors are allowed in the afternoons, but you will of course wait till I get my 3 Weeks at home. We are on Southampton Water, pleasantly placed, but not so lovely a coast as Etretat. The Town is not far off, & we are allowed to go in. Hope you had my Telegram. Nothing to write about now. I am in too receptive a mood to speak at all about the other side the seamy side of the Manche. I just wander about absorbing Hampshire.[1]


Our only other communication today is a rather more complex missive from the front, from Herbert Read to Evelyn Roff. In just a few pages, written from a reserve billet between spells of trench duty, Read manages to touch on writing and reading, the meanings of art and the possibility of death in war…


One item of news I must not forget to tell you. Aylwin came. I read it (in the trenches, of all incongruous places) and it conquered me…

Read goes on to compare the now-obscure 1899 novel to The House of Seven Gables and Wuthering Heights. Once his literary analysis is completed, a new paragraph launches into a discussion of his own recent writing. This is an overdue reminder of a development I haven’t had precise enough dates to be able to cover: Read had been very busy during his long absence from the trenches, and is now editing (and writing much of) his own Modernist periodical, Arts and Letters. He preens a bit for Roff, and soon moves from barely concealed pride to open fishing for compliments:

Shall I ever make a reviewer (vide Portrait of the Artist)?

…I was a little doubtful about the second poem…

It’s hard not to imagine an eye-roll. But Read is both a capable poet and a perceptive reviewer–for which you must take my word, for the time being.

From there, Read’s discussion of Modernism gains confidence until it ends in an abrupt segue that could stand for the strange fascination of the trench-letter-genre in general:

…It is one of my aims–to restore poetry to its true rôle of a spoken art. The music of words–the linking of sounds… unity of action. Each poem should be exact… The fact of emotion unites the art to life. Any ‘idea’, i.e. ethical or critical, or philosophy should only be basic–ground from which the beauty springs. Or perhaps the unifying principle of a man’s art viewed as a whole.

I’ve been chosen for a death or glory job soon to come off. I am very glad–glad in the first place because it gives me the first chance I’ve had of doing something–glad in the second place because it means that others recognize that I’m of the clan that don’t care a damn for anything.

All the same I intend to ‘come through’ as full of life as anything.[2]

So the next volume of Arts and Letters–and the sound of poetry and the emotional unity of art–will have to wait until this next raid or patrol comes off. If it comes off.

What’s strange here, to me at least, is that the serious, learned talk of the meaning of art has the effect of undermining the youthfully bluff claim that he is eager to risk his life in a coming action. Read[3] side by side as he wrote them, the three paragraphs seem like a too-strenuous declaration of multiple self-definitions… as he protests we realize the improbability or their being conjoined in the same person: Herbert Read cares a great deal for art, and he also cares for nothing, and he also wants very much to survive the quotidian brutality of some trench “stunt.”

And yet he really does mean more or less what he says. It’s all that Nietzsche: paradox is possible, death is acceptable, and glory, really, is the goal…


References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 470.
  2. The Contrary Experience, 98-9.
  3. The past verb, not the writer/officer!

Siegfried Sassoon’s Statement, “To Any Dead Officer;” Henry Williamson is Blighty Bound; Herbert Read’s Theories of Courage

Before we get to a statement–and a poem, and a memoir’s context for the two–we have two brief updates.


For the past week Henry Williamson has bounced about the hospitals of northern France. He believes that he has gotten a “whiff” of phosgene gas from German gas shells–but he may also just be sick, or run down. In any event, he finds it pleasant to be out of the line and hopes to be able to parlay the sick time into reassignment. In this he may well be lucky, as in the name of efficiency sick and wounded officers can no longer count on returning to their unit. Most fear and deplore this change, but Williamson (and probably his C.O. as well) would welcome it.

Dear Mother,

Please get those protectors for armpits in my new tunic at once–big ones under the lining–you probably know by this time that I am for England on the first boat which leaves any time… Mother, I thank God I am out of that inferno…

This hospital is a bon place–I live on champagne and fried plaice & chicken now!!

Love Willie.[1]

Williamson, whose intestinal health has long been an issue, can look forward to a lengthy recovery in Blighty…


Herbert Read is in rather a more bloody-minded state, and with sharper tales to tell. Or not: restraint in what he writes to Evelyn Roff is a point of pride–Read is a very purposeful sort, and he thinks twice about describing the war without a theoretical grasp of how such war tales might fit in with his theories of Modern literature. (He seems less concerned that a policy of mentioning, but not describing, certain experiences might not help their budding relationship flourish.)

Nevertheless, he has something to say, and it is the confirming converse of Williamson’s lonely experience: what makes it all worthwhile are the men. And what defines a man’s worth is the way in which he carries himself through danger.


My present location is not too bad. We are now in the third week of our period in the line… and rather terrible days they were. But you can have no desire for me to ‘paint the horrors.’ I could do so but let the one word ‘fetid’ express the very essence of our experiences. It would be a nightmare to any individual, but we create among ourselves a wonderful comradeship which I think would overcome any horror or hardship. It is this comradeship which alone makes the Army tolerable to me. To create a bond between yourself and a body of men and a bond that will hold at the critical moment, that is work worthy of any man and when done an achievement to be proud of.

Incidentally my ‘world-view’ changes some of its horizons. I begin to appreciate, to an undreamt of extent, the ‘simple soul’. He is the only man you can put your money on in a tight corner. Bombast and swank carry a man nowhere our here. In England they are everything. Nor is the intellect not a few of us used to be so proud of of much avail. It’s a pallid thing in the presence of a stout heart. Which reminds me of one psychological ‘case’ which interests me out here: to what extent does a decent philosophy of life help you in facing death? In other words: Is fear a mental or a physical phenomenon? There are cases of physical fear–‘nerves,’ ‘shell-shock,’ etc. There are also certainly cases of physical courage… and there are, I think, men who funk because they haven’t the strength of will or decency of thought to do otherwise.

But I would like to think there was still another class (and I one of them) whose capacity for not caring a damn arose not merely from a physical incapacity for feeling fear, but rather from a mental outlook on life and death sanely balanced and fearlessly followed. But perhaps I idealize…[2]

Perhaps he does. Read has a good deal of trench experience by now, but he has not suffered the same sort of trench trauma–or string of losses of friends both fond and beloved–that has overburdened “Mad Jack” Sassoon. But it is an interesting break down of different types of courage–and an intelligent one. Cursed are dullards, blessed are the philosophers, strong of will–so it’s also a flattering one. But it asks no larger questions…


Today’s main event is Siegfried Sassoon‘s completion of a draft of his statement against the war.

It thus happened that, about midnight on the day my portrait was finished, I sat alone in the club library with a fair copy of the ‘statement’ before me on the writing-table. The words were now solidified and unalterable. My brain was unable to scrutinize their meaning any more. They had become merely a sequence of declamatory sentences designed to let me in for what appeared to be a moral equivalent of ‘going over the top’; and, at the moment, the Hindenburg Line seemed preferable in retrospect. For the first time, I allowed myself to reflect upon the consequences of my action and to question my strength to endure them. Possibly what I disliked most was the prospect of being misunderstood and disapproved of by my fellow officers. Some of them would regard my behaviour as a disgrace to the Regiment. Others would assume that I had gone a bit crazy. How many of them, I wondered, would give me credit for having done it for the sake of the troops who were at the Front? I had never heard any of them use the word pacifist except in a contemptuous and intolerant way, and in my dispirited mood I felt that my protest would have a pretty poor reception among them. Going to a window, I looked out at the searchlights probing the dark sky. Down below, the drone of London rumbled on. The streets were full of soldiers getting what enjoyment they could out of their leave. And there, on that sheet of paper under the green-shaded lamp, were the words I had just transcribed.

‘I believe that this war, upon which I entered as a war of defence and liberation, has now become a war of aggression and conquest.’

This is the soon-to-be-famous opening of the published statement–I’ll include the rest when the newspapers get it. But Sassoon, using the privileges of the memoir writer, embeds the public breakthrough in a web of private doubt. Clean breaks and simple strong feelings are never to be his way…  Who is he doing this for, again?

To the soldiers it didn’t matter, one way or the other. They all wanted it to stop, but most of them would say that the Boches had got to be beaten somehow, and the best thing to hope for was ‘getting back to Blighty with a cushy wound’. Then I remembered that night, early in 1914, when I had been up in this room experiencing an emotional crisis in which I had felt that my life was being wasted on sport and minor poetry, and had imagined myself devoting my future to humanitarian services and nobly prophetic writings. On that occasion I had written some well-intentioned but too didactic lines, of which a fragment now recurred to me.

Destiny calls me home at last
To strive for pity’s sake;
To watch with the lonely and outcast,
And to endure their ache . . . .

Much had happened since then. Realities beyond my radius had been brought under my observation by a European War, which had led me to this point of time and that sheet of paper on the table. Was this the fulfilment of that feeble and unforeseeing stanza? . . . And somehow the workings of my mind brought me a comprehensive memory of war experience in its intense and essential humanity. It seemed that my companions of the Somme and Arras battles were around me; helmeted faces returned and receded in vision; joking voices were overheard in fragments of dug-out and billet talk. These were the dead, to whom life had been desirable, and whose sacrifice must be justified, unless the War were to go down in history as yet another Moloch of murdered youth…

I went back to the statement on the table with fortified conviction that I was doing right. Perhaps the dead were backing me up, I thought; for I was a believer in the power of spiritual presences. . . .

Well, how are things in Heaven? I wish you’d say,
Because I’d like to know that you’re all right.
Tell me, have you found everlasting day
Or been sucked in by everlasting night?

The words came into my head quite naturally. And by the time I went to bed I had written a slangy, telephonic poem of forty lines. I called it To Any Dead Officer, but it was addressed to one whom I had known during both my periods of service in France. Poignant though the subject was, I wrote it with a sense of mastery and detachment, and when it was finished I felt that it anyhow testified to the sincerity of my protest.

The dead officer is Orme/”Ormand” killed so recently in a pointless attack on the Hindenburg Line, his death described to Sassoon by Joe Cottrell. The poem, which Sassoon of the memoir would clearly prefer that we use to mark this day’s work, a century back, rather than the didactic “statement,” continues as follows:

For when I shut my eyes your face shows plain;
  I hear you make some cheery old remark—
I can rebuild you in my brain,
  Though you’ve gone out patrolling in the dark.
You hated tours of trenches; you were proud
  Of nothing more than having good years to spend;
Longed to get home and join the careless crowd
  Of chaps who work in peace with Time for friend.
That’s all washed out now. You’re beyond the wire:
  No earthly chance can send you crawling back;
You’ve finished with machine-gun fire—
  Knocked over in a hopeless dud-attack.
Somehow I always thought you’d get done in,
  Because you were so desperate keen to live:
You were all out to try and save your skin,
  Well knowing how much the world had got to give.
You joked at shells and talked the usual “shop,”
  Stuck to your dirty job and did it fine:
With “Jesus Christ! when will it stop?
  Three years … It’s hell unless we break their line.”
So when they told me you’d been left for dead
  I wouldn’t believe them, feeling it must be true.
Next week the bloody Roll of Honour said
   “Wounded and missing”—(That’s the thing to do
When lads are left in shell-holes dying slow,
  With nothing but blank sky and wounds that ache,
Moaning for water till they know
  It’s night, and then it’s not worth while to wake!)
Good-bye, old lad! Remember me to God,
  And tell Him that our politicians swear
They won’t give in till Prussian Rule’s been trod
  Under the Heel of England … Are you there? …
Yes … and the war won’t end for at least two years;
But we’ve got stacks of men … I’m blind with tears,
  Staring into the dark. Cheero!
I wish they’d killed you in a decent show.[3]

References and Footnotes

  1. Anne Williamson, Henry Williamson and the First World War, 163.
  2. The Contrary Experience, 97-8.
  3. Siegfried's Journey, 52-4; see also Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 373.

Herbert Read Writes of Reading Writers Aright; Praise for Siegfried’s Lines; Henry Williamson’s Dark Journey; Vera Brittain Starts for Home

We’ll begin today with a letter from Herbert Read to Evelyn Roff. We don’t know Read well, and he’s different from many of our young officers–he reads Nietzsche! he hails from Yorkshire!–but, then again, not really all that different. He’s just another young poet, missing the English spring and reporting on his ambitious reading…


Your letter arrived yesterday and did indeed manage to convey to me the very spirit of spring in England, so that I was away in Yorkshire, with the daffodils in Farndale and the brown moors reviving with green–until my eyes were dim and my breath was still . . .  and then I began to curse the chance that makes of me an exile, and then to curse myself for a sentimental fool.

Spring we do have here, but in an abortive sort of way. The felled trees bloom, but for the last time, and forget-me-nots spring up among the ruins. But everything is sad, and our few flowers are like wreaths among so much desolation.

The lull I told you of is lasting longer than we expected, and we have now been in rest ten days. It is significant that during this time I have never been tempted to write to you–our present existence is rather passive and unimpressive. We spent most of the first week cleaning–skins and clothes. We are up early, drilling, etc., until noon, and then the rest of the day is left to our own devices, which mostly taking the form of football, riding, eating, reading, and various shooting competitions…

But any day–any hour–we expect sudden orders to back into the thick of it. And none of us really cares how soon those order come, for the sooner our fate is settled the better, we argue.

And that is that. The letter then turns to literature, as these letters so often do. Read and Roff’s mutual attraction is to some degree intellectual… which is to say that Read seems very interested in proclaiming and explaining his opinions. Despite her careful praise for Read’s youthful first volume of poems, Songs of Chaos, Roff’s other opinions do not meet with unconditional approval:

…I don’t see how Kipling fits in. He is one of my bêtes noires–a landmark in Philistia, though that is rather a rash judgment of the author of Kim and Puck of Pook’s Hill. It’s the man’s Idealism that is wrong–not his pure imagination. I’ll second your favour of Richard Jeffries and Morris, and Ruskin is good as art… Matthew Arnold no bon… The Rossettis are fine…[1]

Read doesn’t write much like our other poets–his “wreaths among so much desolation” seem at once those of an unreconstructed Romantic and a budding free verse rebel–but his reading is certainly “correct.” It will take a while for the appreciation of Kipling’s style and fertility and constancy to escape the bonds of his association with militarism and empire, but William Morris lurks behind many of our writers (Tolkien not least) and Richard Jeffries was beloved of both Charles Sorley and Edward Thomas. The boy just have to get himself to London… although Ypres is in the way.


Two days ago I mentioned a… highly improbable statement by Henry Williamson, namely that he had been sent on a flying visit to the War Office in London and somehow charmed his way into a new assignment on a signal course. His diary records nothing of the kind, but mentions that he is to be sent to a signalling course in one of the rear areas in France.

In today’s letter to his mother, however, he repeats the tale:

22 May

Dear Mother, Just a short note to let you know I am O.K., and a staff job at last!!! And on Army Staff Corps too!!! I got it by luck–went to the W.O. the other day special duty, & came back to a course, & clicked at once.

This makes no sense. The editor of his papers breaks in with a rare parenthetical to write that “there is no detail or confirmation of this rather extraordinary event.” Worse, there is no further bragging or later fictionalizing, which are de rigueur with Williamson.

So it seems clear that he just made the story up, for no reason (that I can see) other than to impress his mother and mislead his family. They are meant to think, I guess, that he has somehow “wangled” a “staff” job, when in fact he has merely been sent to learn signal work, either because the Army likes sending officers on courses or because his own unit wants to be rid of him…[2]


Before we come to a leave-taking in Malta, let’s take this pleasant interlude from the pen of none other than Alfred Percival Graves, Celtophile, man of letters, and father to Robert. He, too, has been urged by son to read his friend’s verses and–despite possible misgivings about the satiric tone of some of the poems–he wrote approvingly to Siegfried Sassoon today, a century back, in (light) verse of his own.

The Hindenburg Line
By bombardment and mine,
We may wear through,
Or tear through
Or powder quite fine,
But I Donner-wetter!
I know of a better
And mightier line!
None other can shape it…

The Siegfried we call it.

Yours really delighted with the Old Huntsman and other poems,



Finally, then, Vera Brittain. She has decided to come home, to be of what use she can to her family–and to Victor Richardson, last of her brother’s intimate friends, blind and badly wounded. She is breaking her contract as a V.A.D., but this is permissible, and, really, the bureaucracy has been surprisingly swift in giving its permission and sending her home. She will look back on today as the beginning of a journey with nothing of the romance that clung to the journey out.

On May 22nd, with a small home party of home-going Sisters and V.A.D.s, I began my long, dirty and uncomfortable journey to an England that seemed, at the outset, curiously improbable and remote. We had to send our heavy luggage by sea… and were allowed to carry only one package, into which, disregarding uniform and equipment, I stuffed the silks, laces, pale blue kimono and other treasures acquired in Valleta. We were told to carry food for six days, and filled our haversacks with bread, butter, tinned milk and potted meat, all of which had become repulsively languid by the end of the second outrageously hot day. Somehow I found a corner for my diary…

Yes, her neglected diary. Well, habits change, and, alas, it will continue to be neglected, leaving us more dependent on reminiscence and correspondence. But she did describe today, a century back:

May 22nd

Left Malta. I hated to go, for I had been very happy there, & it was a real pain to say goodbye to Stella, with whom I have been for so long.

We were taken by transport to Grand Harbour, & after waiting on docks for about an hour, put on the Isonzo. It was a rough, wet & stormy day, & as there were no chairs we had to sit on deck on our piled-up luggage. We had not been long out of the harbour when the waves seemed mountains high &: the ship pitched & rolled to an angle, as they afterwards told us, of 42°. All the luggage piled up at the back, to say nothing of ourselves, rolled down the deck right as far as the rails. This happened three times; the last time I sat in almost two inches of dirty water, & slid in it nearly down to the rails, which effectually ruined all the clothes I had on.[4]

To this cranky diarist’s account she will add, much later, a smooth memoir-writer’s touch.

I do not know why I omitted an incident which I recalled long after other details of the journey were forgotten–the melancholy sadness of listening, at sunset in Syracuse harbour, to the “Last Post” being sounded for a Japanese sailor who had been washed overboard from the destroyer that had acted as our convoy across the turbulent Mediterranean.[5]


References and Footnotes

  1. The Contrary Experience 95-6.
  2. Anne Williamson, Henry Williamson and the First World War, 154.
  3. See Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 362.
  4. Chronicle of Youth, 341.
  5. Testament of Youth, 347-8.

Adlestrop Arrives; Kate Luard Quotes a Critique: “It Seems a Pity;” Battle Pieces and Counter-Bombardments: Two Ways to Observe a Battle, with Guy Chapman; Herbert Read Arrives; Duff and Diana Read the Source

None of Edward Thomas‘s poems appeared under his own name while he lived. Today, a century back, The New Statesman published what will become his best known and most widely loved poem, Adlestrop.

He would have been less interested, I think, in such fame than in the praise he has won from friends, above all the words which were just sent by Frost for the comfort of his widow.

But there are other traditional assessments of death and its qualities, hardly less conditional in their predication of judgments to the mind of the deceased: some might say something like “at least we can say that Edward Thomas had a quick and painless death.” I distrust cliches on such unfathomable topics, but perhaps we can inch toward comprehending such a sentiment as we read accounts which describe the sufferings of those who die slowly.)


Which brings us to Kate Luard, who continues to take stock of the pain of the Battle of Arras. Her celebration of courage never wavers, but I questioned recently whether that very celebration–absent any sense that the war’s cost might be protested by the men bearing the worst of it–isn’t more problematic than it might seem. Sister Luard is not about to turn protestor, but she seems almost to have heard the question, posed a century on, and opened up her record of the war to one short, stoic query of all this suffering. If she won’t ask the question, she will let one of her patients–to whom she has accidentally been cruelly (by her own lights) honest–speak freely. (And, indeed, what could someone already devoting all her time and energy to nursing the wounded of both sides do, but write?)

There’s a handsome Scot with one leg off who asked me last night to take his socks off. I took one off. ‘Have you taken the other off, too?’ he asked. ‘Yes,’ I said guiltily; ‘they’re both off now.’ Next day Sister told me he knew his leg was off, but he didn’t. To-night he said, ‘My feet are hot.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘especially the one you haven’t got, I suppose?’ (It always is the one they feel most.) ‘Have I got but one?’ he said. I was covered with confusion. ‘Ah, well, I can see by what ye say I’ve got but one, but it’s no matter. I feel a pain in them whiles, but I can smile between the pains. I’ve got two daughters and a wee son I’ve never seen. I know what I’ll do when I do see them. Don’t I know!’ (And I’m afraid he’s in for gas gangrene and may not see them.) Then he looked round the ward at all the stumps and splints and heads and said, ‘Seems a pity nearly everyone has to get like this before Peace is declared.'[1]


From Sister Luard, then, to the Royal Welch, where the semi-official chronicle of Dr. Dunn also draws a very thin, sharp line between the truth of war and the lies that spring up like mushrooms in the mud.

The account of our recent action which G.H.Q. has received and published makes very interesting reading. “Our troops charged down the ridge,” “driving the enemy down at a canter”: of aught else–nothing. What artistry!

…Rumour is never so busy as during a fight. Following the fight comes the legend, and it grows hourly as individuals, often far away, and units gather to themselves credit and garlands, or have these thrust upon them for the credit of someone else. It’s all so human and amusing.[2]

Amusing, perhaps, but only to those on one side of the experiential gulf. G.H.Q. may be in France, but it is far from the troops, and the truth.


Guy Chapman‘s A Passionate Prodigality is one of the best books written about the war, and both its subject and its execution fit this project up and down. Except for the alight problem that Chapman, another literary young officer, never gives dates. But today, shortly after Chapman is sent down from the staff to find his battalion (the 13th Royal Fusiliers), I get a rare chance to match his memoir to a historically recognizable action. We won’t really be able to track his development, so this is s snippet to recommend a worthy book to enterprising readers–and to advance today’s accidental discussion of truth in battlefield historiography.

The attack was to be launched at streak of dawn, 4.25; and at that moment a wild racket was once more loosed into the void. Once more the curtain of darkness was changed to a whirling screen in which flaming clusters, red, orange and gold, dropped and died; and dun smoke, illuminated by explosions, drifted away greyish white. Once more red and green rockets called frantically for aid. Once more eyes stared into the impenetrable cataract, vainly trying to pick out familiar outlines. The enemy’s barrage joined the din. Black columns of smoke stormed up in the foreground. And through it all came wave on wave of the malicious chitter of machine guns.

But Chapman isn’t in the attack; he is watching from a hill–at least at the start. He is no Epicurean, and does not find the spectacle a soothing one. His account of watching the attack from a distance harmonizes marvelously with the Royal Welch complaint about “battle piece” obfuscations.

The story of this attack will no doubt appear in the military history of the war, elucidated by diagrams. To the watchers on the hill-side it was only a confused medley, in which English and Germans appeared most disconcertingly going to and fro, oblivious of each other. Even later it was only possible to glean that one brigade had lost direction, and coming up behind the flank of the other after the position had been taken, had swept on, carrying away with it the better part of two companies of the 13th; that some reached Square Wood, a mile past the objective, and that perhaps a dozen in all returned. This is part of history, but all we were able to see were some of the ingredients.

Chapman is no doubt right about how the battle will look in large-scale histories, but, ironically, his later “gleaning” seems to derive from either the official regimental history or a common source among regimental papers:

On April 28th began that series of attacks which aimed principally, if not wholly, at assisting the French. The 13th Battalion attacked from the trenches about 300 yards east of the Gavrelle-Roeux road. Their objective was the Whip cross-roads, south-east of Gavrelle. The attack began at 4.25 a.m…  At 10.15 a.m… Nos. 3 and 4, held the road, including the cross-roads, for some 250 yards. The success was complete though the Fusiliers had been constantly harassed by fire from snipers and machine guns…

While the Fusiliers were on their objective a body of the 63rd Brigade swept across their front leading towards Square Wood from the south-west. They had lost direction, but they succeeded in carrying a body of Fusiliers with them until they were recalled. The 10th Battalion, in support of the 13th on their right flank, had made persistent attempts to get into touch with this brigade, but without success.[3]

Just one more brief bit of Chapman. He sees the German counter-attack massing and tries to help, rushing to alert the gunner-observers on the hill with him. But they know their business, and Chapman is once more forced to be the more passive sort of observer, and a very different sort of ancient Roman exemplar from the smooth-browed Epicurean philosopher:

I caught in my glass a grey ant crawling over the edge of the railway cutting, followed by another, and then more…

When I looked again, the assembled ants had moved. They came crawling over the top of Greenland Hill in three lines, about six hundred strong. They were just starting down the forward slope when something flashed in front of them. A column of bright terra-cotta smoke was flung upwards so high, that there shot into my memory the pictures of the djinns in an old copy of the Arabian Nights, and I half expected a leering hook-nosed face to look down from its summit…

More Germans join the counter-attack.

All the field guns were firing now. In what seemed a few minutes this formation too was scattered. Small groups tried to escape by flinging away to the flank. ‘One-o degrees more right, up fifty,’ shouted my neighbour.  A little puff of white smoke danced gallantly in the air. A few tiny figures shrank to dots. ‘Got ’em,’ he shouted; ‘Repeat.’ other officers up and down the trench were excitedly calling similar orders. In ten minutes the counter-attack was broken, smashed, and tossed in the air like a handful of dust: and up here everyone was whooping, laughing, and holloing. We were a Roman audience at the Coliseum, bull-fighting fans at a fiesta, good citizens who brown a pack of grouse tearing down the October wind: we were in fact a group of young Englishmen who had just helped to knock out about a thousand Boche, and we were damned glad about it.

His counter-attacks broken, the enemy spent the day shelling what he could get at. One shuddered to think of flesh cringing beneath the huge shells which fell again and again along the battered line. Darkness came gently in. I turned as I crossed the skyline. Solitary shells were singing through the air. Dull crunches announced their arrival in the distance. A dump was burning in Plouvain, and against its lights, black ghosts towered upwards.[4]


Another young officer and powerful writer will shortly become a bit easier to keep tabs on. Herbert Read has returned to the fight, and joins our recent company of subalterns quite pleased with their new company.:


I arrived at my battalion last night, after wandering over the face of France for three days…

I am in the thick of the new fighting. We are not in the trenches, but expect to go up sooner or later. But it is intensely interesting: no fear of getting bored here. The guns are going all day and night. this morning, very early, we were wakened by a furious strafe. You know what ordinary thunder is like: imagine that continuous for a couple of hours and yourself not listening to it, but inside the heart of it: that’s something like it. And then the air is one continuous quiver of gun-flashes…

I like my new battalion very well on first impressions: there are three other officers in my company, and they are all very decent fellows… I expect I shall be quite happy. We are all optimists out here. We’ve got the Boche absolutely cowed, and our men are splendid. There are big events pending–and if they go as we expect the war will be over in no time. With a bit of ordinary luck I’ll see you sometime these summer holidays.[5]


And back in London, Duff Cooper continues to pursue Diana Manning, only to be continually driven to distraction by the interference of “Scatters.” Three days ago, Duff “went home in a black rage not only of jealousy and anger but also of sorrow that she should sink to such depths as Scatters.” Two days ago she called to apologize, and he accused her of “deteriorating” and confided in his diary that “I loved her less.”

Today, a century back, Duff and Diana made up–almost successfully. They had dinner and “a great quantity of champagne,” Afterwards, to get her back to his place, Duff

bribed her with the promise that she should read my diary. She came and I read her all the last month. I was drunk and had forgotten, when I started, the incident of reading hers, I had to go through with it. She took it well and assured me that she didn’t mind. I regretted bitterly having done it.[6]

Whether in France or in London we have strange optimism, questionable tactics, nonsensical strategy, and valor in the face of self-inflicted adversity…


References and Footnotes

  1. Unknown Warriors, 119.
  2. Dunn, The War the Infantry Knew, 340-1.
  3. O'Neill, The Royal Fusiliers in the Great War.
  4. A Passionate Prodigality, 163-6.
  5. The Contrary Experience, 90-1.
  6. The Duff Cooper Diaries, 52-3.

Ethel Hermon Writes to Her Laddie; The Afterlife of Rupert Brooke, XVII: Re-Read by Read; Duff Cooper and Patrick Shaw Stewart and the Huntress Hunted; Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, and Alf Pollard All Draw Near to Battle

We have a full complement of disparate subjects today: grief on the home front, idle high society, and a new wave of soldier-writers going forward in France.


We’ll begin in England, where the toll of April 9th is still being felt–except where it has yet to become known.

In 2008, Anne Nason published a book of letters written by her Grandather, Edward “Robert” Hermon, to her grandmother Ethel. Nearly 600 letters tucked away in a desk drawer had remained there for almost a century, until after the death of her mother, the Hermons’ second daughter, Mairy. For Love and Courage contains most of those letters, but the even greater number of letters that Ethel sent to Robert did not survive–letters to serving soldiers are hard to store away in desk drawers, and few made it out of the war even when their recipients survived. All of Ethel Hermon’s letters to Robert were lost except for one, written today, a century back, in ignorance of the fact that the man to whom she writes has been dead for three days.

Laddie my own,

I got a lovely letter this morning, 52, written on the 7th & doubly appreciated as you must have been feeling far more like going to bed that writing to me. You must be having a desperate, strenuous time, so laddie, do spend your spare minutes in a bit of rest & not in writing.

I know, of course, now that you must have been in the front line when the show started on Monday… All surmise is quite useless, I know, & yet one simply can’t help thinking & picturing things…

I could read so easily between the lines that you knew big & strenuous things were in front of you & I do so hope & pray you’ll come thro’ them safely laddie my own…

My best of everything to you dear, dear laddie.

Yours ever,


This letter will be returned to Ethel Hermon in the coming days, the envelope marked “Killed in Action.” When his effects reach her, they will include a card she wrote for her “laddie” this summer, enclosing a lucky clover. The double hole made by the bullet passing through is visible on either side of the center fold.


In London, Eleanor Farjeon waits to find out where Helen Thomas has gone, so that they can mourn together the man they both loved.

I went back home, to wait for the next news. It came in the morning, in Helen’s letter forwarded from the
Billingshurst post-office. She did not say much, only that she had had the telegram, was coming to her sister Mary’s in Chiswick, and would be returning almost at once to High Beech, and wanted me to go with her. I got in touch with Mary and was told the train Helen would take to Loughton next day.[2]

One thing her sister Mary seems to have helped Helen with is mailing some of the letters she had composed a few days earlier, informing their friends of Edward‘s death:

Post Mark: Battersea S.W. 11.15p.m. 12 April 1917

High Beech, nr. Loughton, Essex

My dear Emily & Gordon,

I wanted to be the one to tell you that Edward was killed on Easter Monday.

You will know how desolate I feel, in spite of the perfect union of our souls which death only completes. He lives on.




Herbert Read is a fascinating case–a fierce intellect and by now an experienced infantry officer, but he is a young northerner in a northern regiment, and seems far from the turmoil stirring among London-based artists. But it’s hard to tell just where he is: he has been difficult to include here, too hard to pin down to particular dates. A slew of recent letters have been, essentially, philosophy-addled love letters, and I am to be praised for omitting them despite my eagerness to discuss him…

But today’s letter–also to the young woman he admires–goes a long way toward demonstrating both that he will eventually be very interesting to compare with Siegfried Sassoon and that he is not “there,” yet. It’s 1917, and Read has served in the trenches before (his first tour came to a premature end after he was injured by barbed wire, and it’s been a slow path back), and he’s a fiercely independent skeptic and cutting edge modernist… in theory. But look whom he’s quoting…


Three weary days have passed, waiting rather impatiently for orders to proceed up the line. I was inoculated this morning–and now umteen million germs are disporting themselves in my blood, making me somewhat stiff–and cross.

But I really feel extraordinarily calm and happy–very different sensations from those that accompanied my former ‘coming out’. Then I felt reckless with the rest–and rather bacchanalian. Didn’t care a hang what happened. And, in a way, I don’t care a hang this time, but it’s a different way, a glad way. And it rather troubles my soul to know why? Because, as you may know, I’m not exactly a warrior by instinct–I don’t glory in fighting for fighting’s sake. Nor can I say that I’m wildly enthusiastic for ‘the Cause’. Its ideals are a bit too commercial and imperialistic for my liking. And I don’t really hate the Hun–the commonest inspiration among my comrades. I know there are a lot of nasty Huns–but what a lot of nasty Englishmen there are too. But I think my gladness may be akin to that Rupert Brooke expressed in one of his sonnets:

Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour,
      And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping!
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
      To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary;
      Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
      And all the little emptiness of love.

But the real surprise is still to come: Read sees himself as less disillusioned than Brooke. And it’s a fair reading–at least of the last four lines. But, in the context of the last two years’ celebration of Brooke, an odd one. Which Read may belatedly realizes, as he glosses the verses:

Though I must say I’m not yet so ‘fed up’ with the world as the sonnet implies. I haven’t yet proved ‘the little emptiness of love.’

A good point to make, since he’s writing to a girl.

The half-men I still have with me in goodly numbers. And I’ve still faith that there are hearts that can be moved by honour and ideals. But England of these last few years has been rather cold and weary, and one finds little left standing amid the wreckage of one’s hopes. So one is glad to leap into the clean sea of danger and self sacrifice.

So, then, he’s half-rejecting the fastidious and hypocritically extroverted self-loathing that informs Brooke’s casting of the 1914 world as “dirty?” And despite the fact that he can substitute two more brutal years of war for Brooke’s hatred of peacetime England, he is still eager to die for his king and country?

But don’t think that I am laying claim to a halo. I don’t want to die for king and country, If I do die, it’s for the salvation of my own soul, cleansing it of all its little egotisms by one last supreme egotistic act.

All this is rather melodramatic; and forgive me if it is morbid. It is only a mood and has more to do with inoculation than anything else…[4]

Well that’s a nice way to wiggle out at the end. He quotes Brooke, but he doesn’t want to die; he isn’t fed up with love and doesn’t hate the small men of little England enough to seek sacrifice… but nor does he like England, either, though he might die for it, except not for it but for himself in some neo-Romantic sacrificial mode. Except it’s just the germs talking.


Will not any member of the old Coterie stand up for the glamorous, cynical, privileged, pre-war social-aesthetic staus quo?

Well, as it happens, I have been waiting for a good opportunity to introduce here a new acquisition, namely the diaries of Duff Cooper, who is essentially the last of the men of the “Coterie” not in his grave or in uniform. I didn’t get the book initially because, well, he’s not in uniform. (Cooper has a job at the Foreign Office.) He’s not a bad writer, but he comes off, in his diary, as a bit of a rake (pretty accurate) and a bit of a dope (not entirely accurate). In retrospect, I should have consulted him on the loss of so many of his friends, especially in the Royal Naval Division and the Grenadier Guards. But today, in the midst of tracking the grief caused by the attack at Arras, he is here for painful counterpoint only. Society–like strategy–being drawn into our trench narrative largely for the purpose of dark ironic comparison.

Diana Manners is the muse of the wits of the Coterie, the Queen of the clique, the shining light, just as Raymond Asquith, probably her only equal in social skill, had been (despite his marriage to Katherine Horner) the “king” of their circle. But Asquith is dead, along with many of their friends. Katherine’s brother Edward is with the cavalry in France, and only Duff Cooper and Patrick Shaw-Stewart, back in England after his long sojourn in the East, remain as intra-Coterie suitors for the elusive Diana.

This weekend–life goes on–they are all at a house party in Scotland. Don’t worry–in a few days I will attempt an even more gruesome juxtaposition of the romantic high jinks of the idle rich and what is going on in the trenches.

April 12, 1917

We spent the morning in Diana’s room reading The Egoist.[5] It was delightful–while Patrick and I enjoyed the contemplation of Diana–but he watched both our faces all the time. He had a cryptic telegram this morning to say his orders had arrived and he will probably have to go back to London tomorrow and to France on Monday. I am so sorry. I am very fond of him. I do hope that his luck will not desert him. His death now would matter to me more than anyone’s and would be a terrible blow to our small diminishing society.

Which is to say that the leading contender can afford to be magnanimous to the man on the outside looking in… but the campaign is not won yet.[6]


It is once again Siegfried Sassoon‘s turn to look for a solution to his confusion in the direct and deadly challenge of battle. Well, almost his turn. Today, a century back, the 2nd Royal Welch Fusiliers draw within sight of the battle front.

April 12 10 p.m.

Moved to St Martin-Cojeul, a demolished village about four kilometres north-west of Croisilles, three kilometres south-east of Wancourt where the Germans counter-attacked to-day. We take over an old German third-line trench from the 17th Manchesters. Arrived about 3 o’clock in wet weather after a fine morning. The snow has gone and left bad mud. The British line is about a mile in front of us. A dead English soldier lying by the road as we came to the village, his head hideously battered. I visited the underground Dressing Station this evening, and got my hands seen to.[7] Several wounded in there—one groaning with broken leg. A few five-nines dropped in the village, which is the usual heap of bricks. Absolute desolation—and the very strong line of German wire which they left. They have cut down even the pollard willows by the river.

Writing this in a tiny dug-out, but luckily it has a stove. Just room for Kirkby and self to sit. He is asleep. Rations getting very short. Only one meal to-day, and that scrappy to a degree. Casson and I finished our last orange to-night but feeling fairly fresh (just the usual trench-mouth). A fair amount of grumbling going on all round… Quite impossible to sleep as it is bitter-cold, and nowhere to lie down.[8]


Lastly, today, as Sassoon leads an inexperienced platoon toward the Hundenburg line, two other officers–one battle tested, one tried only in the ordinary cauteries of trench-holding–are rejoining their old units, each of which has lately seen action.


Wilfred Owen missed his battalion’s last action in hospital with a concussion, but he will not miss its next. With the recovered Owen marching at the head of his platoon, the 2nd Manchesters moved back up to the line today, a century back, in support of recent gains before the Hindenburg Line on the southern end of the British sector.[9]


And, near Arras, Alf Pollard hopped from one train to another, rushing to bring his draft of replacements back to the Honourable Artillery Company before the rumored supporting attack could begin without him. However, he hopped too quickly, and the men he was supposed to be leading missed the train.

This is only a comic mishap: the important thing is that he is there, and cannot be accused of missing an attack, as he once missed an assault in order to visit his mother. The draft? No big deal…

“Where are they?”

“I’ve lost them,” I said innocently.

The Adjutant was horrified… I laughed. What did I care about the draft now that I was back with my beloved battalion.”

There’s no question mark in the text. The H.A.C. will go up to the line tomorrow–not for an attack, but to hold trenches, for a few days, at least…[10]


References and Footnotes

  1. For Love and Courage, 351.
  2. Farjeon, Edward Thomas, The Last Four Years, 261.
  3. Letters of Edward Thomas to Gordon Bottomley, 283.
  4. The Contrary Experience, 89-90.
  5. Meredith's novel, not the modernist periodical!
  6. Duff Cooper Diaries, 50.
  7. Sassoon has some infected scratches; he has not been wounded.
  8. Diaries, 153.
  9. Collected Letters, 452.
  10. Fire-Eater, 202-3.

A Slow Day, but a Full Day, for Edward Thomas out Arras Way

There is not a whole heck of a lot happening as February draws to a close. Bob Hermon‘s battalion is moving by slow marches toward Arras; Henry Williamson‘s Machine Gun Company is taking the usual slow train from Le Havre, aiming in their case for Astreux, behind the northern part of the Somme front; Herbert Read, in England, is continuing to disappoint by writing letters that do not touch on his war experiences but instead strive mightily to impress a young woman by displaying his grasp of the doctrines of Socialism–these I will not be typing out…


So it’s up to Edward Thomas to give us some actual writing on the coming reawakening of the war. Not for nothing is the next month called after both a war god and, coincidentally, a military verb–in the imperative.

244 to go into position. Out identifying gun positions. Up to 244 to pack for a change of billet. Tea… letter from Helen, parcel from Mother. Shelling town at night. Walk out to Dainville by citadel and marsh–moorhens in clear chalk stream by incinerator, blackbirds too, but no song except hedge-sparrow. Evening, ruin with Colonel and Cassells.[1]

It’s not much, but it’s a lot. He walks from his desk job at Group to his battery, 244. Instead of paper work he scouts for positions from which they will do their actual firing when the attacks commence. Then the post, and the connections with home; then a solitary walk, and some patient notes on the coming reawakening of nature; then we have what seems to be a confabulation with fellow officers (though superiors) amidst the ruins. It’s a complete survey of Thomas’s new life as a gunner, really…


References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary (Childhood), 166.

Herbert Read Pontificates on Immortality; Edward Thomas Limps Along; Wilfred Owen’s Lofty Dreams; Raymond Asquith’s Wide Sympathies

Herbert Read is a difficult man… a difficult man to keep tabs on and, it would seem, to love.


Rugeley Camp, Staffordshire

I find our differences crystallized in one sentence of your last letter–‘And though one must agree that man is not a constituent of the divine (who has said he is?) surely you agree that the divine is one of the constituents of man?’ I don’t agree anything of the sort. Man is a constituent of the divine. The divine is not a constituent of man. There you have my creed plain enough. Read, mark, and learn: and call yourself a pessimist.

Evelyn Roff shared Herbert Read’s interest in philosophy–if not in pre-marital sex–but surely the tone of these letters was not… congenial. We’ve seen many attempts at bridging the gap, at strengthening relationships stretched by the long separations and by the parts of a soldier’s life that a wife or girlfriend can’t spare. But Read seems to believe that formal intellectual sparring will do the trick…

Apart from names I believe I have as much zest for life as you. I regard it as a great heroic fight–a challenge to be accepted with laughter and song. Besides which there is all the intense joy in the beauty of things and in the love of persons. And I can live untroubled by the thoughts of an “After…’ The only immortality that troubles me is the immortality to be created in ‘things of beauty, joys for ever’…

I am a happy exultant Pessimist!

…I’ve got a wonderful little book–The Freudian Wish–the pathology of thought, etc. Also a fine volume of poems by D.H. Lawrence.[1]



From one relationship that bodes well but doesn’t sound right to one that cannot go anywhere, yet seems to do wonderfully. Alas for Eleanor Farjeon, whose friendship with Edward Thomas is burdened by occasional condescension, awkward praise, unrequited love and, now, their mothers as well. “Granny Thomas” is actually Edward’s mother, and she takes up the pen for her son, who has an abscess in his hand. (Thomas’s propensity for such maladies lends support to his belief that he was suffering from diabetes.)

13 Rusham Rd.
Balham S W
Aug. 25. 1916

Dear Eleanor,

How good you are to me, and how well you write. I read your last letter all myself, and without any discomfort, so you see I really am getting better, though I am not supposed to do much, and the field of visible things is still very dark to me…

Perhaps you know that Edward left the Romford Camp on Tuesday, and has to report at St. John’s Wood this afternoon. Poor boy, he is not at all well and has a bad abscess on his right hand, and ought to have a few more days for rest, and I should love to have him, but in these days the powers that be show no mercy, tho’ I am not without hope he may return tomorrow. Now he asks if he may add a postscript and of course I agree knowing well it will make my letter less dull.

This is all I can say dear and so Goodbye and happy days be yours.

With love from


Farjeon seems pleased by “Granny’s” affection. Edward’s post-script was to ask a favor, of course: for months now, Thomas, training in London, has been billeted on his parents. Now he hopes to live more conveniently with Farjeon’s mother.

…Am I impudent in asking whether, if I am to be billeted out, I might possibly be billeted at 137 without inconvenience? I don’t know what the billet money would be but it might be enough to cover the cost of my living (minus the champagne). You will tell me as directly as I ask, won’t you?

If I am any good I will call and see your Mother tomorrow. But my poisoned hand has simply left me a wreck, good for nothing at all, in spite of 3 days rest here.

The champagne is a joke, the billeting money decent, and Farjeon’s mother would have no problem putting up the lonely, married soldier-poet she loves–or so Farjeon writes. But in the two days that have elapsed since this letter, all the plans have changed again. Thomas, it seems, is now officially an artillery cadet, and boarding in. Still, he will lean on loyal Eleanor…

From Cadet P. E. Thomas
Royal Artillery School
Handel St
27 viii 16

My dear Eleanor,

If I possibly can and I think I can, I will come round immediately after I am dismissed at 6 tomorrow. Then we can have dinner out or in as you like. You see I am not at St John’s Wood. All the R.G.A. men are here. It is too far off for me to sleep out, but I hope I can work at your house sometimes. There will be a great deal to do. Thank goodness my hand is mending fast, and so am I. I have been resting yesterday and today at Rusham Rd. We get practically every week end. The result is I got tired of logarithms and wrote 8 verses which you see before you. When I come I should like to borrow about the last 12 things I have written. I want to send them to the prospective publisher I told you about, with these if they are good enough…

Yours ever
Edward Thomas.[2]

I’m not sure which verses these are, but the progress toward a volume of poetry is significant. As is Farjeon’s role in it, not only as typist but as first reader and critic.


Wilfred Owen, meanwhile, has big plans. While his erstwhile fellow Artists’ Rifles’ cadet is finding his way toward the artillery, Owen is beginning to aim higher than the infantry. In a letter of four days ago to his brother Colin he raised a new hope:

There are changes happening daily, but I remain. Briggs went this morning to be attached to another Regiment; no choice of his. One or two are trying for the R. Flying Corps. Shall I? I think so.

Of the last Draught that went out, men I had helped to train, some are already fallen…

That letter then soars into a blizzard of half-self-aware pontification (word of the day, apparently) for his young brother. But today, a century back, his eyes are still on the skies:

Sunday 27 August
Manchester Regiment, 5th Battalion

My dearest Mother,

…The C.O. himself told me on Thursday that he was putting me down for the New Battalion, so that I am not being kicked out of the Manchesters, whatever happens. The C.O. appears to have found my work—or my person—not too offensive to him.

There is only one other of the Artist Batch now left…

I was on the point of sending in an application for the R. Flying Corps, when, at tea, the C.O. spoke to me about being kept on. I said ‘I thank you, sir’, being an Englishman.

But I still have a big idea of turning to Flight.

It is not quite a determination, or I might say it would certainly come about. There are ways and means, and I will work them, if I decide to. Tuesday I am going up to London, on Dental Leave, in order to see a high official at the War Office. Nothing succeeds in Aerial Matters without some boldness. So I am starting well.

I have not sent in my application for Transfer, as, once I did so, I should commit myself to the C.O’s eternal displeasure. Now what do you think about it.?

Flying is the only active profession I could ever continue with enthusiasm after the War…

By Hermes, I will fly. Though I have sat alone, twittering, like even as it were a sparrow upon the housetop…

Owen is swept away, again, by this idea, which–as he probably realizes, between the high-flying bits of bluster–does not sound terribly practical. But to dream of flight!

If I fall, I shall fall mightily. I shall be with Perseus and Icarus, whom I loved; and not with Fritz, whom I did not hate.  To battle with the Super-Zeppelin, when he comes, this would be chivalry more than Arthur dreamed of.

Zeppelin, the giant dragon, the child-slayer, I would happily die in any adventure against him. . . .

But I am terrified of Fritz, the hideous, whom I do not hate.

Fondest wishes for a fine old Aberystwithian Holiday.

Your own Wilfred[3]

It seems a little strange to object primarily to the deadliness of being an infantry officer and then dream of becoming a pilot: yes, there is little glamour in the infantry in a trench war, and fighter pilots will indeed take on the mantle–at least for propaganda purposes–of latter-day knights. But pilot training is deadlier than grenade-handling, by a long shot…

Owen is hard to read in these letters… but it’s probably the case that he has been worried about being accepted in his regiment, being seen as acceptable to his battalion commander. Now he can play up the promise of the Flying Corps knowing that he is likely to be assigned to an active battalion before long…


Finally, it would seem that there are ways to be prophetically almost-witty and to not only somehow clamber up onto the right side of history blind and backwards… and then slip right off the other side, showing your saddle-girths to the sky. I joked yesterday about Raymond Asquith‘s cutting edge opinions on the benefits of vaccines, breast-feeding, and the proper deployment of national care-giving resources. Today, a century back, in a letter to Diana Manners, he has a chance to seem ahead of his time once again. Asquith, defender of gay rights?

27 August

. . . All the morning I have spent conferring with a bn. officer who wants me to defend him at a Court Martial on a charge of “homosexualism”, as these overeducated soldiers persist in misnaming these elementary departures from the strict letters of “Infantry Training 1914”. His story seemed a very queer one[4] even to me who esteem myself a man of wide sympathies. But I am hoping to persuade Sir E. Carson to take my place, as I think the situation demands a deeper reservoir of cant than anyone but an Ulster covenanter can extemporarily command. . .[5]

This is pretty interesting, really, and I wish we knew more about the case. It’s not quite clear whether Asquith deserves any credit for his “wide sympathies,” here. It’s good to know that he is not a fulminating homophobe, but he is also trying to get out of the job and may be telling Manners about it more for the frisson/ability to demonstrate his cutting-edge disdain for convention than to show that he really doesn’t care where a man finds love or sex. As for the case itself, it seems clear that most units would tolerate a certain amount of more or less clandestine homosexual activity. Again, this may have something to do with the idea that consenting adults might do as they wish, English gentlemen respect privacy, etc., but it may have more to do with simple expediency–which is what Asquith is getting at with his “Infantry Training” joke. In an all male world it made more sense to look the other way than to aggressively prosecute gay men or men who took some comfort among their fellow soldiers. It seems likely that there were many who lived more or less conventionally heterosexual lives at home but refused the only likely such option in France–government-inspected and approved mass-market brothels in reserve-billet towns–and looked among their comrades instead. After all, this is the England that recently sent Oscar Wilde to jail, and also the England that tolerated more or less open homosexuality in the artistic reaches of the middle and upper classes, and in which the sexual availability of off-duty Guardsmen (the non-commissioned soldiers of Asquith’s regiment, among others, which were stationed in London in peace time) was a cliché of urban decadence. Hence the more-than-ordinary-in-military-legal-cases requirement for cant.

I know nothing about this case and shouldn’t speculate, but it is somewhat likely that one of three things posed a more significant problem than, simply, “homosexualism,” and pushed the case toward a court-martial. First, the officer may have earned the enmity of his commander, and not necessarily because of an uncompromising hatred of homosexuality. It might be  cynically seen as a sure-fire way to force a man our. Second, the officer might have failed to be discreet, which was a serious problem given the hypocrisy of the situation and the high bar for social reserve in Guards regiments. Asquith would, I’m sure, overlook a gay man who could be trusted not to be publicly exposed as such, but not a man who was a likely embarrassment. Third, while we, today, would note that homosexuality in and of itself does not cause this problem, it would have seemed to present a serious and legitimate threat to discipline if the gay officer had seemed to take an interest in any men under his command. In an all-male army, heterosexual abuse of rank wasn’t possible, but there are obvious problems not only of potential coercion (this, one imagines, might often be overlooked in an army in which some men were assigned to be body servants, were tied to wagon wheels or flogged for minor offenses and sometimes shot for serious ones, and in which all might be sent to their deaths) but of accusations of favoritism. Coercion is bad: favoritism is worse, especially in the form of a sexual relationship between officer and man. No cracks from the learned Asquith about Spartans or Thebans would be appropriate in such a case. In the British Army, all personal beliefs aside–as in most societies’ armies–it would be a bad thing if the private soldiers of a platoon had good reason to believe that their officer will protect one of them more than others.

I am speculating, and shouldn’t–I don’t know who this officer was or what indiscretion lead to the prosecution. But I have been thinking of a sad case we will encounter in the future, and Asquith’s view is not insignificant testimony on a thorny issue…


References and Footnotes

  1. The Contrary Experience, 76-7.
  2. Farjeon, Edward Thomas..., 210-12.
  3. Collected Letters, 406-8.
  4. No, it didn't mean that then.
  5. Life and Letters, 290.

Two Poetic Heroes Take Stock: Robert Frost on All His Swag, While “Edward Eastaway” Looks to Join His Friend Between Boards; Herbert Read Proclaims his Aesthetic Creed

Yesterday, 2nd Lieutenant R. H. Beckh was singing the praises of his billets. Tonight, a century back, he led a patrol toward the German lines. They stumbled into a German position, and Beckh was shot and killed.[1]


In England, Edward Thomas was both keeping up with his correspondence and taking unusually active steps toward furthering his poetic career. To Eleanor Farjeon, he wrote a comfortable sort of from-the-bosom-of-my-family letter:

15 viii 16

My dear Eleanor,

Mother wants me to thank you for her letter… She is really much better. Now the rain has laid the dust she has been out and that has done her good…

It is a lovely calm evening after rain and not a little sun. I came up and sold some books and had tea with John Freeman and de la Mare and a brother in law of his who may publish some Eastaway in a volume.

This would be Roger Ingpen of the small publishing house Selwyn and Blount–Thomas joked that Ingpen must be “both Selwyn and Blount.” And of course Thomas–the well-known poetry critic who, after much rejection and discouragement, has published a few poems as “Edward Eastaway” but gotten nowhere close to a book of his own–will not get away with just tossing this in. Farjeon’s comments with something like an exasperated sigh “How casually he mentions the teatime with… Ingpen.” Interesting a publisher, during wartime, in the poetry of a writer with no real poetic reputation and no interest in writing patriotic pablum is no small breakthrough.

Nevertheless, the letter continues conversationally, and without explicit thanks–perhaps it is too early, yet, to count one’s chickens–for all of Farjeon’s unrequited help in getting Thomas’s poems into manuscript and typescript. But Thomas has other things on his mind, too.

… I wish suddenly I was an Officer going out now. I am most impatient. Yet the book on Artillery instruments I am reading is not a thing I could master in the boat train, neither…

Frost hasn’t written for an age…[2]

Poor Edward. He will write to Frost today as well; this Selwyn and Blount situation is big news, however diffidently he wishes to report it. But he is wrong about Frost–or, at least, correct by no more than a matter of hours. Frost was busy today, as well, a century back:

Franconia N.H.
August 15 1916

Dear Edward:

First I want to give you an accounting. I got here a year ago last March, didn’t I? I have earned by poetry alone in the year and a half about a thousand dollars—it never can happen again…

Still one feels that we ought to have something to show for all that swag; and we have: we have this farm bought and nearly paid for. Such is poetry when the right people boom it…

This, by the way, is a direct thank-you to Thomas, rather more forthright than Marcel’s aunt, but still perhaps slightly obscure: it was Thomas, in the early days of their friendship, who wrote multiple reviews and worked hard to get the word out on Frost’s North of Boston, “booming” it on both sides of the Atlantic.

I dont say how much longer the boom can last. You can fool some of the people some of the time, but you can’t fool all of them all the time, as Lincoln more or less put it. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down. Nevertheless what
we have done, we have done (and may He within Himself make it pure, as the poem has it)…

Those wily moderns! This, after the nod to Lincoln, is a double dose of Tennyson: Frost quotes first from Ulysses, then from his “Morte D’Arthur.”

It’s funny: I preach and preach the gospel of the rejection of Romanticism as a war-time mode, writing perhaps far too often here as an earnest latter-day apostle of the quietly serious poets like Thomas and Sorley, not to mention the rising poets of protest. But zealotry–commitment, that is, to the point of categorical exclusion–has no place in poetry: “The Charge of the Light Brigade” is a great ringing piece of foolishness, an affront to soldiers everywhere who might fondly hope to do their duty without dying in a futile charge. But Ulysses pays for all


Back, then, to Thomas, Frost’s brave fellow-oarsman, and fis second letter of today:

15 viii 16

My dear Robert

…I have had you all in mind continually these last few days. For I have been at Steep on sick leave after vaccination, which gave me headaches &c for a week. Much of the time I spent in sorting letters, papers & books, as I may not have a home for some time to come.

Helen & the children are going to the seaside. I may go at any moment to my new unit which may be in London & may be anywhere. They will move during September & soon after that I might be far off. This waiting troubles me. I really want to be out. However, I daresay I shan’t be till the winter. I wrote some lines after a period in hospital— largely because to concentrate is the only happy thing possible when one is bored & helpless. Today came a chance of getting a book out. A brother in law of De la Mare’s publishes in a small way & I am to send him a batch to look at…

I brought a big load of books up with me to sell today & am sending away 2 more cases. I burnt a pile that would have roasted a sheep 2 nights ago

No news of anyone… Bottomley I may see at the end of the month when everyone is away & I may have some leave between leaving my old corps & joining the new. I should like to go up there & bathe in the lake with the bird’s eye primroses & the silver sand. There is nothing like the solitude of a solitary lake in early morning, when one is in deep still water. More adjectives here than I allow myself now & fewer verbs.

Goodbye all & my love to you all.
Ever yours

Edward Thomas.[3]


Finally, today, we have a letter from Herbert Read, in camp in Staffordshire. He is writing to a young woman whom he wished to impress with his seriousness. It’s a very… serious letter, and I won’t transcribe it all here, but a few excerpts will give a sense both of Read’s personality and of how his heavy-duty reading (and way of reading) shapes his worldview. Usually we do the “young subaltern, innocent” or watch how the romantic mindset and the Public Schools attitude prepare (or fail to prepare) a young man for the trenches. Read has the seen the trenches, but he will be going back to much worse. And fore-read is fore-armed.

And now I must report that I am very pleased with myself–I wrote the Read section a few days ago, and promptly forgot that he discusses Romanticism. A riposte to Frost!

15.viii.16    Rugeley Camp, Staffordshire

I believe our difference about Pessimism is merely terminological. My pessimism does not deny all effort or defeat all hope–there never was such a hopeful and ambitious soul such as this… This pessimism sees life at its real worth and accepts it as such… And it does realize the possibilities of man… My old friend Nietzsche was a pupil of Schopenhauer and a pessimist of the first water; but there never lived such a prophet of the noble and enthralling possibilities of man….

This leads me naturally on to the next subject upon which I desire to ‘hold forth’–Romanticism. Romanticism is–in literature–the confusion of the human with the divine. Now you can regard the divine as merely an abstract idea, or as ‘an atmosphere, ubiquitous yet intangible’, or as something very real and omnipresent; but whatever you do you must not imagine for a moment that man is a constituent of it… And of course you can see the same false spirit in Idealism in Philosophy, and in Christianity.

Well, young Herbert, what do we mean by the “divine?” What about the semi-divine, the heroic? There seems to be precious little room for poetic nuance. For, that is, the ale-slopping good fellowship and romantic high-heartedness that has been a major strain of English poetry since before its beginning.

The next line on from Frost’s Tennyson quote is “It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles/And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.” This is no “false spirit!” Not for men who look to friendship as they gather their morale in anticipation of the trial of combat… But Read, I think, considers himself too serious for all this. No sloppy thoughts!

By the way, neutrality is the worst and most cowardly of attitudes… Remember Nietzsche: A yea, a nay, a straight line, and a goal.

This reads (apologies) like the brow-furrowings of a young man out to impress a young woman. A poet needs comrades…

Next, albeit with a clear note of self-aware pedantry, Read scolds his friend for her limited view of literature, while bounding up the mast to nail his colors as high as may be.

You seem to imagine that it is the aim or object of Literature to give moral instruction to its generation! Do, for heaven’s sake, assure me you don’t mean this. The ‘purely literary standpoint’ is all that matters not only in Literature, but in Life… Art is the redemption of Life… Only thus can we approach the Divine–only thus become immortal. There you have my creed! I stand or fall by it![4]

Yes, yes, but a man must live, too. And provide for his family, and dream with his friends…


References and Footnotes

  1. Powell, A Deep Cry, 117.
  2. Farjeon, Edward Thomas... 208-9.
  3. Elected Friends, 140-5.
  4. The Contrary Experience, 74-6.

A. A. Milne and the Earnest Young Knight; Robert Graves Arisen; Herbert Read is for a Hardy Pessimism

On his way to France to join the 11th Royal Warwickshires, A. A. Milne had traveled with a very young subaltern–young, and a younger son, and now the only son. His parents had given him

…an under-garment of chain-mail, such as had been worn in the Middle Ages to guard against unfriendly daggers, and was now sold to over-loving mothers as likely to turn a bayonet-thrust or keep off a stray fragment of shell; as, I suppose, it might have done. He was much embarrassed by this parting gift, and though, true to his promise, he was taking it to France with him, he did not know whether he ought to wear it. I suppose that, being fresh from school, he felt it to be ‘unsporting’; something not quite done; perhaps, even, a little cowardly. His young mind was torn between his promise to his mother and his hatred of the unusual. He asked my advice: charmingly, ingenuously, pathetically.

Milne is thirty-four, a married man and a professional writer and editor, far removed from this schoolboy view of army life. And yet the boy is not wrong. Foolish to be so bothered, sure, but how can that be helped? He is right to anticipate shallow judgment by his peers and to imagine a system still shaped by notions of honor and fair play. It’s sad, for us, to see the word “sporting” affecting life and death decisions; and it should be–but how can it be otherwise? There is no handy porter to cart away all our excess cultural baggage when war beckons.

Interestingly, the practical question of whether the weight of this chain-mail corselet is worth the protection it provides (a mithril coat neatly dodges this conundrum) is not raised. This is a question of honor, and sporting behavior–there is a sense that it is wrong not to expose the body to harm when seeking to do harm. Is this entirely bizarre? A little, but there is a faint echo of similar, more familiar ethical questions nonetheless.

Was it sporting for knights in heavy armor to plunge around a battlefield hacking through their unarmored inferiors in order to attempt to brain, capture, and ransom a similarly invulnerable aristocrat? Is it precisely the same when a fighter pilot swoops in between AA fire to fire a rocket as when an operator at a console ten thousand miles away performs the same task?

But this is only a small part of the equation, really: armor was largely abandoned because it was ineffectual, and the notion of “unsporting” followed (after they whittled chivalry down and ran it up and down the playing fields of Eton for a while). Hardly (and not, in fact, entirely) had the last cuirassiers set aside their breastplates when the infantry were once again donning their steel helmets, remarking on their medieval aspect, and complaining about the weight. In fact, just yesterday, in a letter I omitted, Raymond Asquith was mocking an apparent suggestion from Arthur Conan Doyle that the infantry should carry steel shields. And unbeknownst to the men currently fighting, there are plans well advanced to return armor to the battlefield, in the form of the first tanks…

But back to Milne’s story of the boy and his chain-mail. It is, alas, not an idle story, but neither does Milne turn it to comedy or an object lesson. Instead it’s another bittersweet prelude to meaningless disaster. Today, a century back, the 11th Warwickshires were at their ease, camping in an orchard near Bécourt[1]–about two miles west of Mametz Wood–when Milne and the other new subalterns first heard the sound of guns not as distant thunder, but as incoming rounds.

I do not know whether he took my advice… Anyway, it didn’t matter; for on the evening when we first came within reach of the battle-zone, just as he was settling down to his tea, a crump came over and blew him to pieces…

Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.

But just why it was a pleasant death and a fitting death I still do not understand. Nor, it may be, did his father and mother; even though assured by the Colonel that their son had died as gallantly as he had lived, an English gentleman.[2]

This is a letter written this summer, a century back, but we have already heard this note of bitter irony about how a pointless death in a wood behind the lines can be written up as “gallant” and gentlemanly. And we will see more of that Horatian tag, too. Others will take it on more literally: “to die for (one’s) fatherland/country” would be the literal translation of the end of the line, but it is interesting that Milne seems to make the point that “country” and “class expectations” are inseparable–it is the gentlemanly death alone that the youth imagined to be sweet and fitting.


One gets the sense that Dr. Dunn appreciated and tolerated Robert Graves rather than liking him wholeheartedly. But since the doctor had played some role in the nearly-fatal mistake of treating Graves’s wound as fatal, it would be, well, unsporting not to give Graves a good line upon his resurrection.

July 31st. …When the death of Bowles and of Graves was reported through the Field Ambulance, nine days ago, the customary letters were written to their kin. Now Graves writes to the C.O. that the shock of learning how much he is esteemed has recalled him from the grave, and that he has decided to live for the sake of those whose warm feelings he has misunderstood.[3]


Lastly, we check in with an infrequently-appearing yet very significant writer. Herbert Read is by now a long-serving subaltern–although he has been some months in the trenches, he has missed the Somme after being injured by barbed wire. Unfortunately, little of his early-war writing can be dated, hence his rare appearances here.

Today, however, we have a letter–one of many written to the woman who was at first a “casual” university friend but is now becoming something much more important. As we come to read more of these letters–published subsequently as a sort of substitute diary-in-letters–we may indeed see something of the “process of getting familiar with death and nothingness… in all its unconscious fatality.”

This might read like an introduction to a letter that demonstrates shock at the suddenness of death in battle or bombardment, but it’s not. We’ll get there, but Read is now in Rugeley Camp in Staffordshire (one of the former haunts of John Ronald Tolkien) and far from the noise of war. It’s his reading–he’s a radical, a Nietzsche-enthusiast, and a devout young Modernist–rather than the war itself that provides evidence of personal developmental. And evidence, too, that you can take the bright boy out of timelessly rural England,[4] but you can’t rural England out of the boy…


I think a pessimistic attitude is essential to all clear thinking. By a pessimistic attitude I mean a realization of the imperfections and limitations of Man. The belief in the ‘divinity’ of mankind has resulted in all that false idealism and romanticism which is the curse of literature, philosophy and art…

Read name-checks many of his philosophical and literary enthusiasms, here–Bergson, Croce, Sorel, Henry James, the Imagists–before coming to a writer more dear to the heart of this project.

And now for your attack… on Hardy and Meredith… I refuse to have them condemned on the flimsy grounds of morbidity… Hardy’s Jude the Obscure… [is] an absolutely faultless presentation of the animal in mankind… and also, in the character of Jude, a presentation of the finer aspirations of mankind. And in the heroine you have, it seems to me as a mere man, one of the finest female characters ever conceived.

And besides, in all of Hardy’s novels, there is a fine pagan spirit which you must admire–a revelation of the essential cruelty of nature, and of the damning blight of religious creeds.

Which, after all, is good mental conditioning for the godless intellectual youth bound for the trenches…

Read continues on to defend Meredith and praise James before he breaks off with this:

I don’t know if all this is boring you. I will another time, if you like, pull the Wells-Bennett school to pieces. Also give you my own ideas on the novel. For I am going to attempt one as soon as this beastly war is over.[5]


References and Footnotes

  1. Perhaps Bécourt Wood itself.
  2. Thwaite, A.A. Milne, 173-4. A cursory search of the CWGC site does not locate a subaltern of the 11th Royal Warwickshires killed today, a century back. It seems much more likely that the records (or recollections) are off by a day than that the incident was concocted...
  3. The War the Infantry Knew, 246.
  4. Read's account of his childhood on a big Yorkshire farm--yes, that's about as far as you can be from Hardy's Wessex poverty and still be "timelessly rural England," but still--is the most beautiful that I have read, and I've read a few.
  5. The Contrary Experience, 73-4.

Edward Thomas Improves a Song; Harold Macmillan on the Big Bombardment; Herbert Read is Back and E.A. Mackintosh is Decorated; Alan Seeger Prepares for Battle: “In Moments Like These, Words are Futile.”

First, today, Edward Thomas reports in to Eleanor Farjeon, the woman most responsible for keeping him an honest poet.

Postmark 24 June 1916
Saturday Hut 14

My dear Eleanor

Look what I have done. I have been 5 days sick and confined to the camp, practically to the hut and this is the result. I have altered Rio because I feel you are right. I have cut out the 3rd and 4th verses and the only refrain is

‘I’m bound away for ever
Away somewhere, away for ever’

Does that do it any good?

It does–but then again the version of the song to which I have linked, above, already had Farjeon’s suggested amendments. Farjeon–the female friend, the unrequited lover, the unpaid amanuensis, the uncredited editor–is a very good writer in her own write, as it were (some children I know vastly prefer her stories to Thomas’s work), and letters like these make clear that she was his first and best reader as his poetry matured and turned toward the war. While support from his several friends who were established English writers wavered or lapsed (Frost, across the sea, offered all-important confirming belief, but he couldn’t read over Thomas’s shoulder at a few days notice) Farjeon was always ready not simply with praise but with formative critical readings.

And in Thomas’s daily life, more changes beckon:

I am better now and just going out for the first time and hope I can get a walk tomorrow and be fit on Monday.

There are more changes ahead and in case I should be robbed of it I am trying to arrange my leave to begin next Saturday. I have got to move my books from the study. Mrs. Lupton has turned me out. After that Helen and I are going to the Guthries, the Ellis’s, and finishing up in London. If you were at Greatham we could call there. I suppose there is a place to put up at. Otherwise we should see you in town.

It is most satisfactory that Duckworth has altered his terms in the right direction…

Goodbye. Yours ever
Edward Thomas

All in all this qualifies as a very strange letter from Edward Thomas” he has accepted criticism, he is moving forward, and, as the last line suggests, he may even make some money from book-selling. Farjeon explains that “Edward’s ‘Four-and-Twenty Blackbirds’ and my ‘Nursery Rhymes of London Town’ [both soothing English anthologies] were both being published by Duckworth in the autumn. His book was dedicated to me and Clifford Bax.”[1]

But lost in there is the slightly distressing news that his family’s landlord has reclaimed the room he uses as a study. A slight dislocation, since he is now with his family only while on leave, but then again this is Thomas we’re talking about–Thomas of the English villages, Thomas of the black moods–and what writer, having just decided to uproot and accept a new life (as an artillery officer) likes to have his books uprooted as well? Many will have to be sold for whatever they might bring.


And a few odds and ends:


Richard Aldington, not quite kicking and screaming, left today, a century back, for the camp of the 11th Devonshires near Wareham in Dorset.[2]


And E. A. Mackintosh, hero of a recent raid, had his MC gazetted today. This is a considerable honor, if not an overwhelming one–for dramatic self-sacrifice or aggressive heroism in victorious encounters, higher honors were possible. But more than one of our writers will win the Military Cross for demonstrating courage and self-command during the deadly confusion of a night raid, and account his courage well-requited, the passage of the main test confirmed. Mackintosh’s citation read:

For conspicuous gallantry. He organised and led a successful raid on the enemy’s trenches with great skill and courage. Several of the enemy were disposed of and a strong point destroyed. He also brought back to wounded men under fire.[3]

It’s that “also” that tells the tale. The raid was tactically successful–even if strategically pointless–but the decoration is given for the officer’s initiative during the developing situation. In an action such as this, the only way to demonstrate courage and initiative is, generally, to go and try to save the wounded. Which is to say that the plan does not make provision for the predictable eventuality of men being wounded in or near in the enemy lines… this is not one of those “never leave a man behind” outfits, this British army, but it is still happy to celebrate those who refuse to.


Today also brings the return of one of our most inconstant writers. Herbert Read‘s diary will be published in very selective fashion, and today’s entry comes after a fifteen month gap, during which he served at the front, was badly lacerated by barbed wire, and was sent home to recover. Well, what’s up with Hebert?

24.vi.16 Rugeley Camp, Staffordshire[4]

I came to this dreadful place a week ago. The Medical Board gave me ‘light duty’–but they don’t understand the term here. We get up at 5.30 a.m. and are at it till tea time and sometimes later. And all the time the same monotonous work–shouting oneself hoarse trying to initiate remarkably dense recruits into the mysteries of ‘forming fours’, etc.I think I shall flee to the front for a little peace at the earliest opportunity…

This is an opinion we’ve heard before, and will hear again. It’s neither sardonic nor fatuous–soldiers who have seen action are having trouble adjusting to the lugubrious routine of training units.

Where does a veteran belong?[5]


We will let Harold Macmillan bring us the major news of the day:

There is a tremendous artillery duel in progress at the moment. The guns are roaring and you can follow the progress of the shell by the noise, from its original roar as it leaves the mouth of our gun, all along its hissing and screaming journey, till the final consummation of its successful explosion in the enemy’s lines…

As I sit in my dug out, writing, I lookout on a little ruined farm… the garden still struggles to keep a civilised look amid ruin and desolation. A few flowers are springing up, between the shell-holes. The birds (who seem quite unmoved by any bombardment) are singing merrily, for all the world as if they were in some peaceful countryside, stranger to High Explosive. The cuckoo can be heard between the firing of the shells. Nature does her best for us even here.

Save only in her vermin-life. Rats are surely among the less successful or meritorious of Nature’s efforts. They infest the trenches–great big fat rats, as large as puppies. I fear them more than the Huns…[6]

With “The Big Push” planned for June 29th, this is the beginning of the preparatory bombardment. It will, of course, give the Germans very ample notice as to where exactly the attack will begin. But the theory is that it will completely destroy the German barbed wire obstacles and front-line firing positions.


And finally, a reminder that just because the Battle of the Somme is England’s greatest effort to date does not mean it will be a solely English battle. The French will attack as well, to the right of the British–and with them, a handful of Americans, including Alan Seeger of the Foreign Legion.

June 24, 1916. . . . We had a hard journey coming here. After an early morning’s march of about ten kilometers, we took the train and made a trip of four or five hours. Then we started off in the heat of the day on what was without exception the hardest march I have ever made. There were 20 kilometers to do through the blazing sun and in a cloud of dust. Something around 30 kilos on the back. About 50 per cent dropped by the way. By making a supreme effort I managed to get in at the finish with the fifteen men that were all that was left of the section. The men were out of training after so long in the trenches without practise. The battle field has no terrors after trials like these that demand just as much grit and often more suffering.

I shall probably write nothing but post-cards henceforth. In moments like these, words are futile. Think of me when you read the first big communiqué, which we shall have had a brilliant share in making.[7]

Just to sum things up: training camp is worse than the trenches, the rats are worse than the Huns, and battle is not nearly as scary as a long hot march… rhetoric!


References and Footnotes

  1. Farjeon, Edward Thomas..., 200.
  2. Whelpton, Richard Aldington, 126.
  3. Campbell and Green, Can't Shoot a Man, 129.
  4. We have been here before!
  5. The Contrary Experience, 71-2. The rest of the letter discusses Read's reading: serious, leftist material, including Shaw, Sorel, and the New Age.
  6. Webb, From Downing Street, 191.
  7. Letters and Diary, 209-210.