The Grenadier Guards Dig In; Edmund Blunden is Back, and then Out Again; C.E. Montague Will be a Better Writer

None of the Grenadier Guardsman who came up to the line last night, a century back, would have been surprised to learn that there will soon be a renewed attack in their sector. Carroll Carstairs describes a day of preparation and careful negotiation of the Salient’s grim landscape.

The following day the Company received orders to extend to the right. Company Headquarters was to move to the extreme right of the Company in a block-house between the road and the railway, and the Company would thus  occupy a wider frontage. We were informed that the division on our right flank was to attack on the 20th, and as the British bombardment would begin about three in the morning, it behoved the Company to be dug-in before that time.

At nightfall three platoons “felt” their right and dug, while Company Headquarters took an unusual time to travel its few hundred yards in a dark night, over a country with no remaining landmarks but the block-house itself that we had to reach. An occasional flare faintly radiated a morass of shell craters, as we slipped and floundered over its wet, uneven surface.

The officers’ servants actually took from 7 to 2.30 to cover the distance. Three days’ rations were distributed and at 1 a.m. I went along the line and found everyone dug in. I returned, feeling the quiet ominously, because of the noise that would soon begin. We waited, with more frequent looks at our watches than the passage of time required. An uncanny stillness reigned.[1]

 

Edmund Blunden has been fortunate to miss much of this sort of thing, lately–and it seems his good fortune will continue. He had been on leave, and then on a signals course.

This period ended, I returned to the battalion, not without difficulty, for they had been on the move. The first news I had of them, on arriving at a place where they had been, was from a transport driver, who said they “were going over the top in the morning.” The suggestion was crushing, for my servant and myself had already been carrying our burdens along for miles, and it was still many kilometres to the front. At the end of another dusty trudge we found the Transport Officer, Maycock, friendliest and most impulsive of our officers, who told me I should ride up to the battalion with him, and we set off at once. The battalion was drawn up in a field by the scanty ruins of Vierstraat, nearly ready to move; the sun shone with autumn light on the dun uniforms, and sack-clothed helmets, and broken trees with yellowing leaves, and trodden strings of grass underfoot. Tea was passing round among the companies. To my surprise Colonel Millward, though hailing me affectionately, did not want me for the coming tour in the line, and I found myself riding away with Maycock, while the battalion marched into the ruins of Hollebeke and Battle Wood.

So Blunden’s good fortune will continue, for another little while. But the day, alas, remains memorable–and dateable, as so often, from its disasters:

It was then that a shell fell among the headquarters staff on the way up, and killed Naylor,[2] the philosophic and artistic lieutenant who had served in the battalion almost all my time, whose quiet presence was a safeguard against the insolence of fortune. Another shell, bursting on a small party of non-commissioned officers as they were about to leave the trenches after relief, robbed us instantly of Sergeant Clifford, a man of similar sweetness of character and for months past invaluable in all necessities. These losses I felt, but with a sensibility blurred by the general grossness of the war. The uselessness of the offensive, the contrast in the quality of ourselves with the quality of the year before, the conviction that the civilian population realized nothing of our state, the rarity of thought, the growing intensity and sweep of destructive forces — these views brought on a mood of selfishness. We should all die, presumably, round Ypres.[3]

 

Misery, suffering, disenchantment, trauma, and a violent death so likely it seems inevitable. Why? What could possibly be worth it? But that is an unanswerable question. Better to ask a less total, less divisive corollary, a small echo of the bigger question: what good might come of it? They are all experiencing war, and they are all writers, and much of what we read–Blunden’s memoirs far from least–is a tacit answer to the question. C.E. Montague, writing to his wife today, a century back, addresses the question directly:

Sept. 18, 1917

I just long, too, to be writing again. I feel, conceitedly, that I could write so well now after all this change and new experience. I feel there are some futile tricks I used to have in writing that I should not fall into again, and also that I have got to understand better than before the mind of the sort of person who is nonliterary and yet good to write for…[4]

We’ll just have to wait, then, a century back…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. A Generation Missing, 99-100.
  2. The CWGC lists Naylor's date of death as occurring six days on, but whether Blunden is mistaken in remembering both shells hitting on the same day or whether Naylor died six days after being mortally wounded, I do not know.
  3. Undertones of War, 234-5.
  4. Elton, C.E. Montague, 195.

Edward Heron-Allen Summons Samuel Pepys; Max Plowman Has Faith: After Horror, There Will Be Progress

Edward Heron-Allen turned to his diary, today, a century back, to write a giddy piece of (self)-parody “in the manner of Mr. Pepys.” It describes his fascination with his first real military uniform:

14 September 1917:

…I, straightaway, with assistance from the artificer of the house to put it on and sally forth… should have been vastly put to it had the knowledgeable fellow not been there, such a wilderness of straps and buckles as never did I see in my life… Once trussed I did display myself to my house woman, and she, fond thing, vastly pleased with me and declared that so fine a soldier never she saw…

The new-clothed soldier now visits his elderly mother, one of the few true Victorian Ladies to see a son into His Majesty’s Army, for the very first time, in 1917:

…and she mighty proud over her baby-boy, who is nearer 60 than 50 years of age. My mother in a great tosse for that I carried no sword, but did appease her, telling her that swords are not worn now by officers, though the rascally clothiers would fain lead young officers to buy them and so swell their accompts. But I wiser, and having already my father’s sword which cost me nothing…[1]

 

But the middle-aged Heron-Allen is going nowhere soon. Max Plowman, however–for all that he is a post-ambulance corps, post-infantry, post-concussive trauma, post-Rivers pacifist–may be going back into the thick of it sooner than he would like. His letter of today to Hugh de Selincourt covers a good deal of theoretical ground, but ends by corralling belief into the service of circumstance:

…Don’t let the thought of my going to France distress you for a moment. I may not go at all. And if I do, what is it really? A broil of circumstance I could not honestly hold aloof from but which I didn’t make & is therefore not more to be worried about than any other external misfortune. –Do you know I find consolation in the very thing that makes you sorest. If this war only proves the futility of war then the world’s solid gain is too enormous to assess, & what can prove that better than the afterthought (which you’ve already seen) that every fair & foul thing we know here has its counterpart there? Who can tell with what pain self-consciousness first came to man–we can only guess by what we know of our own puberty. This is the puberty of nations & we cannot tell the amount of pain necessary to produce thought. But I’m certain thought will come as a result. I’ve that faith in life that I am sure it will never lose direction. The world’s self-consciousness has already begun. Bless you. Love is enough.

Be happy.[2]

Here the historical irony is very painful, and clever remarks about the torturous logic required to turn endless war into the hope of peace–or ways in which the “puberty of nations” can call to mind a pimply horror wreaking havoc rather than sudden leaps in reason and maturity–seem unnecessarily cruel…

 

And then there is Edward Brittain. Healed of his wound (in body, at least), he has been back at the front already for more than two months. But today, a century back, his battalion went for the first time into the rolling battle around Ypres, near Passchendaele Ridge…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Journal of the Great War, 118-9.
  2. Bridge into the Future, 81.
  3. Testament of Youth, 387.

Kate Luard Gets Cosy in Her New Digs; Edwin Vaughan Finishes the Job

When we last heard from Kate Luard the decision to withdraw her hospital from the salient in the wake of a fatal shelling had just been countermanded. Returning to the immediate rear areas of the salient, she found considerable peace of mind in a sturdy row of sandbags:

Saturday, August 25th, 10.30 p.m. Brandhoek. Got back here at 8 p.m. Had a lovely run – found everything quiet, and all our quarters sandbagged to the teeth. The bell-tents are raised and lined inside waist-high with sandbags and our Armstrong huts outside. We have to sleep on mattresses on stretchers instead of on beds so as to be below the line of sandbags. It looks and feels most awfully safe and cosy. There is also a dug-out with a concrete roof, not quite finished. It will be sandbagged all over.

We are all very happy to be back and united again and in good fettle for work…

After a quiet day, however, the rains began. This description will be familiar from Edwin Vaughan’s account of the horrors of yesterday, a century back:

Monday, August 27th. The rain began last evening and is still going on; an inch fell in 8 hours during the night. The ground is already absolutely waterlogged – every little trench inches deep, shell-holes and every attempt at bigger trenches feet deep. And thousands of men are waiting in the positions and will drown if they lie down to sleep. August 1-4 over again.

We have only 17 patients in and are all having a slack time and getting fit and rested…

She will connect “cosy” and “sandbags” for the second time in three days–but making the cheerful best of badconditions does not preclude recognizing what sandbags can and cannot protect against.

I am writing this in my extraordinarily cosy stretcher-and-mattress bed at 9.30 p.m., with the comfortable knowledge of two feet of sandbags between me and anything that may burst outside. Anything that may burst on top of you, whether armour-piercing 9.2’s like Tuesday’s, or bombs from above – you would know nothing about, as you’d merely wake to a better and more peaceful world.

…It is no good worrying about patients or Sisters on duty: as long as they put hospitals in such places they’ve got to be there, day or night, and can’t take any cover, and you can’t cover 300 beds. It is no good worrying over anything that you can’t alter, so the whole subject settles itself into a sort of fatalistic philosophy…[1]

Is this serenity or sense, religion or despair? Not the latter, with Sister Luard; but to write the problem out like this suggests that even for a woman of strong Christian faith it takes some mental effort to find a “cosy” peace of mind in a shell-strewn hospital.

 

Edwin Vaughan‘s account of today, a century back, picks up in mid-conversation as he walks back to the rear with a captured German major.

August 28

With ironical politeness I apologized in French for the condition of the roads and he replied in all seriousness that we had made a greater mess of theirs. Thinking he might be interested, I told him that Springfield had fallen, and he immediately asked me what had happened to the officer. He was very distressed when I told him for, he said, they had been at school together and also served together in the army. Close to Irish Farm he was taken off to the prisoner of war cage, while we continued on to Reigersburg. Not one word did we speak of the attack, and in the camp we separated in silence. I found that I was alone in my tent, which I entered soaked in mud and blood from head to foot. It was brightly lighted by candles and Martin had laid out my valise and pyjamas. As I dragged off my clothes he entered and filled my canvas bath with hot water.

Doggedly driving all thoughts out of my head I bathed, crawled into bed and ate a large plateful of stew. Then I laid
my utterly vacuous head upon the pillow and slept.

Today is the last day of the Vaughan’s diary. If the story began with Vaughan as a lone newcomer, it ends with the destruction of the group–not just the company he has commanded for only a few days but the larger battalion which has been his only home at war.

At about 9 a.m. I dragged myself wearily out to take a muster parade on which my worst fears were realized. Standing near the cookers were four small groups of bedraggled, unshaven men from whom the quartermaster sergeants were gathering information concerning any of their pals they had seen killed or wounded. It was a terrible list. Poor old Pepper had gone—hit in the back by a chunk of shell; twice buried as he lay dying in a hole, his dead body blown up and lost after Willis had carried it back to Vanheule Farm. Ewing hit by machine gun bullets had lain beside him for a while and taken messages for his girl at home.

Chalk, our little treasure, had been seen to fall riddled with bullets; then he too had been hit by a shell. Sergeant Wheeldon, DCM and bar, MM and bar, was killed and Foster. Also Corporals Harrison, Oldham, Mucklow and the
imperturbable McKay. My black sheep—Dawson and Taylor—had died together, and out of our happy little band
of 90 men, only 15 remained…

So this was the end of ‘D’ Company. Feeling sick and lonely I returned to my tent to write out my casualty report; but instead I sat on the floor and drank whisky after whisky as I gazed into a black and empty future.[2]

 

And that’s it. Vaughan will recover from the destruction of his unit and go on to serve with distinction, to win promotion and a Military Cross. He will survive the war. As far as we know, however, he did not continue the diary–or he did not rewrite into this form whatever diary he may subsequently have kept. We do not even know whether he turned the raw material of his diary into the ruminative, introspective account that we have been reading during the war or only in the years after. Their is retrospect built into the immediate accounts–but how much?

So he will survive; but in other ways Vaughan probably did not recover from the experiences he wrote so intensely about. His life after the war seems to have been unhappy, and he died young, plagued by ill health and killed by a doctor’s mistake. His diary was hidden away by his brothers and only rediscovered in the 1970s. When it was published, in 1981, Vaughan had been dead half a century, and over those fifty years the growing collection of memoirs of disillusionment and disenchantment had gradually seized hold of the collective historical memory of the war. His diary, assigned a famous poetic tag for its title, was well-received as a member of this company, and widely read…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Unknown Warriors, 153-4.
  2. Some Desperate Glory, 231-2.

Kate Luard Waits for the Bombs; George Coppard Loses a Pal; Edwin Vaughan in the Slough of Despond; Wilfred Owen Prepares to Meet a Maker

In the early morning hours of today, a century back, Kate Luard turned to her diary to stave off exhaustion and despair.

I feel dazed with going round the rows of silent or groaning wrecks and arranging for room for more in the night without opening new wards not yet equipped. Many die and their beds are filled instantly. One has got so used to their dying that it conveys no impression beyond a vague sense of medical failure. You forget entirely that they were once civilians, that they were alive and well yesterday, that they have wives and mothers and fathers and children at home; all you realise is that they are dead soldiers, and that there are thousands of others. It is all very like a battlefield. And between 10 and 11 to-night when I was writing to that boy’s mother at his father’s request, he dropped bombs on the Field Ambulance alongside of us, and killed an orderly and wounded others, and also on to the Officers’ Mess of the Australian C.C.S. alongside of them – not three minutes from us, and killed a Medical Officer and a Corporal. Pretty beastly, isn’t it? Shells are dropping about as usual – but farther off, I think.

The day brought little relief:

More dying men all day. Brilliant dazzling day. Capt. H. has gone to be O.C. Stretcher Bearers in the front line. He’s already got an M.C. and will now get a funeral. The news is bad, parts of it like Gommécourt, July 1st 1916 over again. They let us through and then bobbed up behind and before us and cut us to pieces with machine-guns. Gas-shelling going on heavily too. Officers and men say it is the bloodiest of all the battles. Remnants of Divisions are coming out to-night and new ones going in. He’s sure to come bombing tonight.

I’m dog-tired, going to bed early.

Here he is…[1]

 

George Coppard‘s memoir records one more death–the dead soldiers leave behind comrades, pals, and mates, too–in circumstances we seldom encounter.

…on 17 August heavy shelling started again in our vicinity.

Jock Hershell left the dugout during the shelling and didn’t return for a while. I became apprehensive and went along to a latrine sap where I thought he might be. I found him there, slumped in a heap, severely wounded. We carried him into the dugout. At a glance I saw that his broad back has caught a blast of shrapnel. I slit his tunic and underclothes with a hack-knife and separated them. I winced at the sight. Jock’s back was full of punctures, and blood bubbles were wheezing out of the holes as he breathed… He appeared to be in no pain, though he was anxious and kept asking the extent of the injuries he could not see. We lied like hell and gave him first-aid, using nearly all our bandages and iodine in the process. ‘You’ve got a Blighty one for sure,’ I cried.

It seemed hours before we got him away to a first-aid post, where we left him, knowing that we would never see him again. Strong as he was, he could not survive his terrible injuries, and he died shortly afterwards.[2]

It doesn’t mean anything that Herschell was mortally wounded while relieving himself, alone in a latrine trench. But it adds, somehow, to the pathos of trench warfare. There is no safe place, no private routine left undisturbed by the deadly chances of attrition.

 

Back in the salient, Edwin Vaughan does not witness death at close quarters today–but he still sees the dead.

It was dawn when I dropped into my shell-hole where Dunham had shaped a great armchair for me in mud. I stared vacantly at the large mound behind me like a four-foot-high tortoise until I became aware that I was staring into the face of a dead Tommy, upside down…

Although I was tired to death, I could not sleep, so removing my tin hat and ruffling my hair I stood up and looked over the front of my hole. There was just a dreary waste of mud and water, no relic of civilization, only shell-holes and faint mounds behind the German lines. And everywhere were bodies, English and German, in all attitudes and stages of decomposition. No sign was anywhere of a living man or a gun. The morning was clear and bright and everything now was deadly quiet. Sinking back into my mud chair I looked into the face of the body behind me. He had a diamond-shaped hole in his forehead through which a little pouch of brains was hanging, and his eyes were hanging down; he was very horrible but I soon got used to him. Then I heard a faint buzz far above and saw five Boche planes heading over our lines; I fell to watching them and saw a great battle when they were met by some of ours. I was quite sorry when, two of the planes having come down in flames, the combat ceased, the planes flying away to leave the world empty again.

The hours dragged slowly by and still I sat staring into the cloudless sky…

But the empty battlefield is teeming with life, of course, and attrition has its quotas to meet, even on a day when no new push is launched.

At about 3 p.m. I heard the German guns open and dragging myself up I saw a line of bursting shrapnel far away to the left. As salvo after salvo poured over, I got my glasses onto the spot and saw that they were pounding their own line. Soon a line of figures appeared running back out of the shelled zone; immediately our machine guns opened and mowed them down. I felt terribly sorry for them, for they looked very new and untried, and I was so tired and weary myself…[3]

Vaughan’s day involved further adventures of his own:  he discovered his own CO to be in a state something like shell shock after a hit on his command post, and then ventured, on his own initiative, to make contact with the neighboring battalion. There the atmosphere of slimy terror–rain, mud, darkness, bodies underfoot, German guns trained on the forward-facing entrances of their own former dugouts–takes on an air of fantastic, twilight-zone tension when Vaughan encounters a cowardly (or traumatized) subaltern who shares his surname being repeatedly ordered out into the storm of steel…

This is almost too good to be true–officers screaming at a cowardly Vaughan to brave the shell-fire even as our cowardly Vaughan has done so… but it should be read at length in the source.

 

In any case, that summary will have to do, as I want to take us back to Scotland, where Wilfred Owen added a post-script to a letter to his mother. He, too, is steeling himself for a new encounter on the morrow…

(Friday)

…I have just been reading Siegfried Sassoon, and am feeling at a very high pitch of emotion. Nothing like his trench life sketches has ever been written or ever will be written. Shakespere reads vapid after these. Not of course because Sassoon is a greater artist, but because of the subjects, I mean. I think if I had the choice of making friends with Tennyson or with Sassoon I should go to Sassoon.

That is why I have not yet dared to go up to him and parley in a casual way. He is here you know because he wrote a letter to the Higher Command which was too plain-spoken. They promptly sent him over here! I will send you his book, one day, and tell you what sort of pow-wow we’ve had.

your own W.E.O. x[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Unknown Warriors, 145-6.
  2. With a Machine Gun to Cambrai, 119-20.
  3. Some Desperate Glory, 200-205.
  4. Collected Letters, 484-5.

Happy Birthday Richard Aldington; A Painful Encounter for Vivian de Sola Pinto; A Different Sort of Protest from Siegfried Sassoon; Duff Cooper is Saved by Alice; Ivor Gurney’s Delightful Present and Grim Portent

It’s a busy day, today, in England and France…

Today is Richard Aldington‘s twenty-fifth birthday and, having been newly trained as an officer, he was able to take a weekend’s leave and spend it with his wife, the poet H.D., at her rooms in the village of Brocton. It was a happy and productive time:

That birthday weekend she reassured him and helped him take stock of his situation. He wrote to [a friend]: ‘I have been thinking over writing, translation & similar matters & under the encouragement of my wife I have begun to try to build up the ruins again!’

With H.D.’s support, he was tackling the problems the war had brought him as a writer: the lack of time for any sustained work, the limited opportunities for publication–and, worst of all, his ‘writer’s block’, arising out of his not having the luxury (unlike Pound and Eliot) of being able to ignore the war and yet feeling that what he could write about it was weak and inadequate…[1]

Now if he would only date his manuscripts…

 

In any other regiment, Vivian de Sola Pinto would be a literary giant; in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, he is more of a minor memoirist. But it it really is a very good memoir–just short on hard dates, alas–and it’s not quite fair to the man that he will only feature prominently here as a supporting character, both tactically and literarily.

He arrived in France in April after long service–and a long illness–in Egypt, and recovery at home. Tonight, a century back, his current tour of duty will come to a sharp end.

On the night of 8th July, after completing our usual patrol of no-man’s-land I led my men over the bank into the sunken road. It was bright moonlight, and as we dropped on to the road, we found ourselves in the middle of a number of men in flat caps, obviously a German patrol. For a moment English and Germans stared at each other in amazement. I had my loaded revolver hung round my neck on a lanyard and in my excitement I raised it and fired into the mass of strangers. I thought I had fired one shot, but found afterwards that I had emptied all six chambers. I certainly hit a man near me and saw him fall. Then I saw a blinding flash and heard a tremendous roar. The next thing that I remember was regaining consciousness on a stretcher in our front line with a bandage round the bottom of my face and my mouth full of blood, feeling that, perhaps, my lower jaw had been blown off. Later I learnt that after I fired my revolver a German threw one of their stick-bombs, which exploded above my head and knocked me unconscious…

At the dressing station Pinto learns that his jaw is intact, but that “various teeth were knocked out and pieces of bomb were lodged in my tongue and left cheek.” Eating became something of a challenge in the short term, as, even equipped with a rubber tube, “it tended to spout out through the hole in my cheek.”

There followed a very long and uncomfortable journey on a motor ambulance to the railhead, where I was carried on my stretcher to a hospital train by two stretcher-bearers in strange uniforms with broad-brimmed hats like those of boy scouts. ‘Americans!’ I said to myself, and was thrilled by the thought that American units were now in France…[2]

Remarkably, his recovery will be so swift that Pinto will not see Blighty, but instead move directly from the American hospital to a convalescent home near Dieppe…

 

Duff Cooper has not been shot in the face. But he’s still taking his transition into the army rather hard.

July 8, 1917

I arrived in London at about 5 and went to my flat which seemed very desolate with everything put away. It was still raining hard. I telephoned to everyone I knew but not a soul was in London. Then a great cloud of depression came upon me and I felt even more miserable than I had been at Bushey and without hope.

This is a private diary, and surely he showed a stiffer upper lip–not to mention charm and wit–to the outside world. But still… it’s a bit melodramatic! Which befits, I suppose, one of the last of the devoted friends-and-pursuers of Diana Manning. But today, unexpectedly, Cooper turns a corner, emotionally. It must be the radiant love of the divine Diana, right?

Nope–maybe tomorrow. Today, it’s a stiff drink and a dose of Lewis Carroll that does the trick.

I went to the Junior Carlton, drank a pint of champagne and some sherry with a small dinner and read Through the Looking Glass. As if by enchantment my melancholy left me and I knew that I should not be unhappy again. Courage came back to me which I had lost, and I despised myself for having done so. I went back to my flat, changed into my uniform, spoke to the Montagus who had just returned and motored down to Bushey feeling perfectly happy.[3]

 

This sort of mood shift–and its means–might be one of the very few things that Cooper could share with Ivor Gurney. But Gurney’s spirits rise today through the usual pleasures: good food and fond memories of home. And alas that his reading, today, is significantly less fantastic.

8 July 1917

My Dear Friend:

…This village is still delightful, and today the weather is perfect.

Two days ago, I had a dinner of salad and deux pain-beurres. It was perfectly wonderful to have such a dainty meal after aeons of shackles (Englished — skilly: stew.)

Your parcel has arrived, and thank you very much for it. Especially the lemonade powder and the fruit, which are summery things; but do not suppose that the cake, cheese, biscuits and OXO go unappreciated.

Gloster county is packed full of beautiful things, and pink dogroses of the most delicate miraculousness find place therein. Also wild strawberries by the million, and would I were on Coopers Hill looking over to Malvern and Wales while easing my back at times. O God, that goes too deep though!

Then the letter turns on a dime–its import, that is, even though the tone remains light.

We are having really a pretty easy time now, and this means Over the Top, I think. Well, let come what come may, as the Victorians said, I shall have had my day. (And a — poor one at times.)

Alan Seeger’s poems must be interesting. I like “I have a rendezvous with Death” very much…

I have no change now, but next letter shall contain a 5 fr note to be applied to the purchase of Ralph Hodgson’s “Poems”, for you… Or would you prefer the Second Book of Georgian Verse…?

A Frenchwoman told me she never heard French soldiers sing half so much as English. This pleased me, and indeed 7 Platoon has been songful of late…

Your sincere friend,

Ivor Gurney[4]

Singing, then, and thinking of the summer beauties of Gloucestershire… and remembering another soldier’s prophetic/poetic rendezvous…

 

Finally, today, an update of sorts on the Siegfried Sassoon drama. First–and this will prove significant–Robbie Ross is now on the case.

8 July 1917
Hotel Albion, Brighton

Dearest Siegfried, I am quite appalled at what you have done! I can only hope that the C.O. at Litherland will absolutely ignore your letter. I am terrified lest you should be put under arrest.

Let me know at once if anything happens.

Ever your devoted

Robbie[5]

Sassoon has made an interesting choice–out of idleness, he will claim, but perhaps more truly out of a semi-conscious instinct for self-preservation. He informs his influential friends of his dramatic action when it has only half-begun: the letter is sent to Litherland, but the “Statement” is not yet published.

Among the immediate actions Ross will take is to send a letter to Robert Graves, on the Isle of Wight. But today, a century back, Graves is still in ignorance of Sassoon’s action. His letters of today and recent days are all poetry–or, rather, about the placement of poetry. He is drumming up support for his own book and negotiating with Eddie Marsh about the next Georgian Poetry anthology–in which he, Sassoon, and Robert Nichols will be prominent. And in each of these letters to mutual friends he both praises some of Sassoon’s verses and takes behind-the-back potshots at other poems…

Ironically, then, since Graves is about to throw up his poetry-mongering to take up his friend’s dangerous case–Sassoon is risking not only disgrace but imprisonment and, theoretically at least, capital punishment–Sassoon himself has not been as entirely idle as he would have us believe. He has also been tending to his poetic fortunes, and recently wrote to complain about a sharp review–to Charles Scott Moncrieff, as it happens. And today, a century back, Scott Moncrieff replied:

I enjoyed your book much more than I have said, but I do confidently think that you are too ‘good at’ poetry to waste your talents on such London Mail storyette effects as you have secured in ‘The Hero.’ If I had written it I should talk about myself for years after, on the head of cleverness. But that is another matter.[6]

It’s busy times, these days, what with poetry, literary maneuvering, and attempting to provoke a court martial…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Whelpton, Poet, Soldier, and Writer, 152-3.
  2. The City That Shone, 202-3.
  3. Diaries, 56.
  4. The Ordeal of Ivor Gurney, 174.
  5. Diaries, 179.
  6. Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, 361.

Siegfried Sassoon is Signed and Sealed; Duff Cooper is Beside Himself; The Irish Guards in a Doll House Garden

Topographical models are becoming something of a theme, as well as an irresistible literary device. They might stand for the increasing professionalism and preparation of the British staff, or–just as well–for the monstrously perverse allocation of time and skill that this war of attrition has demanded: pilots, photographers, surveyors, cartographers, and skilled artisans and artists devote themselves to producing detailed simulacra so that they next costly and non-war-winning assault can be rehearsed in precise detail.

But will the models actually help? We seen some of our officers ratifying the idea, and others doubting it. And how about Rudyard Kipling‘s Irish chorus?

His Majesty the King came on the 6th July to watch a brigade attack in the new formation. It was a perfect success, but the next week saw them sweated through it again and again in every detail, till “as far as the Battalion was concerned the drill of the attack was reduced almost to perfection.” In their rare leisure came conferences, map- and aeroplane-study, and, most vital of all, “explaining things to the N.C.O.’s and men.” They wound up with a model of a foot to a hundred yards, giving all the features in the Battalion’s battle area. The men naturally under-
stood this better than a map, but it was too small. (“‘Twas like a doll’s-house garden, and it looked you would be across and over it all in five minutes. But we was not! We was not!”)[1]

The follow-up question would be, then, whether the models helped less by making the visualization of tactical detail possible than by increasing confidence. But every false inflation of morale is a double or nothing gamble…

 

Duff Cooper, meanwhile, remains mired in misery.

July 6, 1917

…This morning I had a telegram from Diana saying ‘Be brave darling, already I feel derelict’. I had indeed need of her exhortation. Never have I felt so miserable as this morning… There were really moments when I could have cried. The strangeness, roughness, and degradation of it all appalled me. I wrote to Diana and told her how unhappy I was. The worst of all was to think that these lovely summer months which I ought to be spending with her are being wasted.[2]

Now that does sound horrifically spoiled, privileged… even weak. Which is to say that I am grateful for the publication of diaries (intrusive? perhaps, but remember how Duff behaved with Diana’s diary!) as an antidote to too many well-managed memoirs. This is how he felt, privately–and precisely today–a century back. It’s something quite close to emotional history…

So let Duff write exultantly of sexual farces at house parties, idealistically about love, frankly about the allure of war, and despondently about the lumpy beds and sad loneliness of training camp… it will be interesting reading.

 

Lastly, today, the continuing story of Siegfried Sassoon. There is no diary entry today–in fact he will be abandoning his diary for some time. Which is, frankly, quite a blow. We will now have no way of keeping tabs on him except through the letters of his many friends, the letters of the new friends he will shortly make, the letters of his literary frenemies, the memoirs of his many friends, his doctor’s notes, his several appearances in major newspapers and journals, an insightful later novel, his own memoir, and his other memoir.

But I digest.

Sassoon did write something in his diary today, a century back: he copied into it a letter that he has just posted.

If it has been a meandering journey from decorated officer to military rebel, this, today, was much the most firm of several hesitantly fateful recent steps.

Copy of letter to the C.O of the Third R.W.F. Sent off July 6th.

I am writing you this private letter with the greatest possible regret. I must inform you that it is my intention to refuse to perform any further military duties. I am doing this as a protest against the policy of the Government in prolonging the War by failing to state their conditions of peace.

I have written a statement of my reasons, of which I enclose a copy. This statement is being circulated. I would have spared you this unpleasantness had it been possible.

My only desire is to make things as easy as possible for you in dealing with my case, I will come to Litherland immediately I hear from you, if that is your wish.

I am fully aware of what I am letting myself in for.[3]

There are several unlikely statements in that letter–but the last sentence stands out among them in its naiveté.

Sassoon will now also begin informing his eminent friends, but not as swiftly, and not all at once…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Kipling, the Irish Guards in the Great War, II, 129.
  2. Diaries, 55.
  3. Diaries, 177.

Lady Dorothie Feilding All in White; Duff Cooper in Despair

Today we stay safe in England–and well up amongst the aristocracy.

Lady Dorothie Fielding and Captain Charles Moore of the Irish Guards were married today, a century back, despite her last-best jape of sending a tongue-in-cheek runaway bride telegram:

5th July 17

To Commandant Newnham Paddox Monks Kirby

Got cold feet decided take single ticket to Skegness

Diddles

No, it was a white wartime wedding, after all, for Diddles, and the tabloid press–which had showered attention on Feilding in 1914–had a field day (naturally). Out of kindheartedness, noblesse oblige, and/or media savvy, the newlyweds posed not only with the wedding party and guard of honor, but also with local nurses and convalescent soldiers–“wounded soldiers greet their heroine” reads the headline’s afterthought.

A short honeymoon will follow–and then a more intensely focused period of working with the wounded and worrying about Guardsmen.[1]

 

But another rather newer guardsman-in-love, Duff Cooper, had a less auspicious day. He may be leaping from the Foreign Office straight to a commission in the toniest infantry regiment around, but he still must touch down briefly in a regular old officer’s training camp.

July 5, 1917

After lunching with Lady Essex I hired a motor and came down to Bushey arriving soon after four… The men here are not only men who are applying for commissions in the Guards as I thought but for all regiments–and a great many, indeed the majority of them, have risen from the ranks. I was first taken into a large room with about 80 others where we had to fill up papers about ourselves. I was then shown my sleeping quarters at which my heart sank. A room with 11 beds in it. Plain iron bedsteads–a mattress in three parts piled on top of one another–and four blankets on top of that–a wooden box at the foot of each bed, a plain wooden floor and not another stick of furniture in the room. Tea followed, reminding me of my private school and how miserable I was there… Dinner only increased my depression…

And then there is the extinction of privacy which can be such a difficult part of the adjustment to military life–especially at bedtime.

There were others in the room with me–nearly all men risen from the ranks. They smoke sickening cigarettes and some of them slept in their shirts…[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Lady Under Fire, 216.
  2. Diaries, 55.

Henry Williamson on the Shelf; Duff Cooper Closes the Office Door; Edmund Blunden of the Flashing Wit

Today a century back, two very different men have their recent hopes confirmed. Henry Williamson, ill once again–his condition perhaps aggravated by inhaling small amounts of phosgene gas–went before a Medical Board and was ruled “unfit for General Service for three months, unfit for Home Service for two months, and unfit for Light Duties for one month.” Long, long ago, he had joined the Territorials in order to escape some office drudgery and make friends, and this brought him into the bloody open warfare of the war’s early months. By now he has few consistent illusions or ambitions about the army, and he is surely overjoyed to have escaped the front for another summer.[1]

 

Duff Cooper–older and moving in much higher social circles–has stayed at his government job while so many of his friends volunteered, and fought, and were killed. Now, his way opened by the broadening pressure of conscription (and by his belated self-assertion as a volunteer), he has escaped the office at last, and may soon face the trenches for the first time.

June 22, 1917

Today I left the Foreign Office without a single regret…  I love to think of the dreary files of papers that I shall not see again. Even if I survive the war I doubt whether I shall go back to the Foreign Office. I should hate to face that monotonous routine again.[2]

 

But we’ll catch up today with Edmund Blunden. I may weary my readers with praise of his subtle, restrained, gorgeous prose… but that’s the memoir. It’s good to see him writing in a different vein to his younger school friend from Christ’s Hospital, Hector Buck–it’s a reminder that Blunden’s intelligence and coming excellence as a writer is not a guarantee of precocious wisdom.

A letter of June 9th begins in fine fettle, and in medias res (we’ll skip the Greek epithet at the beginning; but I will remind readers that Blunden was Senior Grecian before he was subaltern of infantry, and therefore it was hardly a stretch to come up with a sobriquet for a friend called “Hector”…)

Behold, yet a time again for my Indomitable Energy to foot the boards and imitate the well-rounded humours of those famous men Hy. Champion & Jas. Godden…

To my disgust and bile, it is nearly a fortnight since I had any news from anyone — for down at the Rest Camp I missed my mail, and after leaving there was sent on to this Rayless Void (Musketry School). So nothing has come from my probably exasperated Friends & Acquaintances. See to it my Son that this is altered at an Early Date…

I have been here since the evening of the 3rd; and I wrote to my battalion, with an exceeding bitter Cry, to be ransomed from this exile the day after; so I should be hearing very soon now what is happening to them and get back to them I hope.

This, in other words, will be something like a Music Hall turn. The high spirits may be due as much to the fact of having missed the danger of the Battle of Messines as to knowledge of the British success–but then again Blunden is always happier with his battalion than without.

Nevertheless, this is very much a school letter, and although Blunden jokes about how their old French master would approve of his scandalous new practical French, his questions about school and county cricket are in earnest. He betrays more anxiety about the pitch than the battlefield:

This capture of Messines is commonly called champion. I remember when I came out, there was a legend that the Guards had offered to take it if every man surviving could have a fortnight’s leave. But there was nothing doing. At that time too there was another fairy fable that any man capturing a German Very Light would in like manner receive a fortnight furlough. ‘O dream too Sweet, too Sweet, too Bitter’ (whose? why Christina Rossetti’s or some spinster). Walk march. Hop along Sister Mary, hop along.

Forbear, for I am more fool than knave, to be angry with my letter–is it not a little one? Mine’s a Malaga Mademoiselle. Alliteration alcoholic. No compris Zig-Zag. You plenty bon. How’s everyone?

Right. Since I’m not following that either, we’ll skip the part where Blunden stops doing imitation Carroll and just quotes the Jabberwock, and move on to today’s letter.

22nd June [1917]
Feast of Ancient Trulls
B.E.F.
Gaul Blimey

Sir Knight as it seems,

Gratitude be heaped on your head for your last letter to me, which came like Hy Champion on the vaudeville firmament, full of beans and grace. My feeble frame was strengthened as with Tono-Bungay. I was as
one that tasteth of the ripe October after marching from foreign parts through a Burning Heat & do not be dismayed if my answer is more like a glee party of wombats and armadillos in full cry than anything else yet devised by the wit of man…

But style is not substance. Although Blunden keeps up the jokey-referential schoolboy patter, he also goes to the heart of the matter. It sounds jolly, but this is still a letter confessing poisonous despair about the war, and suggesting the use of large doses of pastoral (or, rather, Georgic) recourses as an antidote:

I need not ‘stress’ (the Northcliffe influence) the depth of despondency to which I am permanently lowered. The ancient humour comforts me no more. I have lately taken all chances of studying Flanders farmers urging on their horses with cries reminiscent of sea-sickness perpetually threatening–I have stood for hours watching the Carnivora or whatever they are that live in farmyards, hoping to mimic the White Leghorns praising Jah [i.e. Jehovah], the Goat requesting food, the barn dog-proclaiming the moon, and the Oldest Inhabitant filling up the swine’s swill trough.

The clamour and tinsel heroics of Bayonet Fighting Instructors, the malapropisms and arm gestures of our R.S.M. [Regimental Sergeant-Major], the rages and quiffs of Generals and Staffs–I have noted them all and gone away in despair. The War is a sort of slow poison to me that keeps on drugging and deadening my mind. And I can tell you that the shelling just lately is far worse than anything we have been through before except for actual attacks. The Bosch is so windy that he puts on a barrage every few hours in case we are just assembling to attack him. But as far as the battalion is concerned, we are back now for a few days’ training.
Anyway I loathe the war & the army too. To hell with same.

Not only has Blunden rounded up the usual suspects–the bayonet instructor, the staff–but he has joined the ranks of the wrathful. Sensitive port-officers have been annoyed by the outcry against the loss of civilian life for more than two years now, but it has not been Blunden’s part yet to make the sharp angry complaint.

Nor does resentful ire bring out the best in him–there is another kind of puerility here too.

Why shouldn’t coves like Merk who go on in their petty self-inflations have some of the discomforts? There was more shriek in England over several hundred casualties in a bombing raid than there has been over several hundred thousand out here reported at a steady rate in Minion type on the back page among the advertisements of sheenies and toothwash wallahs. But forgive me…

I will consider it.

Why I am so cynical and tired of life lately I don’t know; but I expect Nature; is working normally and in due time I shall be removed to Bedlam.

The last few days have been stormy and I expect your hands are not being so buffeted by erratic fast bowling, but rather pushing awry the frequent wicket and startling the dozing Umpire into giving the incredulous Batsman Out…

So off the poise I am that I read the ‘Princess’ by Tennyson the Other day. Tennyson trying to be humorous, or realistic, is like a hippopotamus in violet tights attempting to cross Niagara Falls on a tightrope, so I laughed Long & Loud. But afterwards I read some of In Memoriam and repented myself.

But Literature languishes as a whole in the battalion except for two books ‘Flossie’ and ‘Aphrodite’ which the Archbishop of Canterbury has probably not read. I have got my ‘John Clare’s Poems’ and often tub thump over them, claiming him as one of the best. But no one wants to agree with me.

Please get the War stopped pretty soon. Some of us are as mummies, only we still carry on the motions of breathing, swathed round with red-tape and monotony. I wish you all jolly good luck…

My best wishes to you old son.

Keep on going.

Your friend,
E. Blunden[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Anne Williamson, Henry Williamson and the First World War, 165.
  2. Diaries, 54.
  3. More Than a Brother, 4-9.

Isaac Rosenberg’s Daughters of War; Francis Ledwidge’s Gods of Greece; Siegfried Sassoon Declares the Death of Youth

Some days we make do with an update and a diary excerpt or two… other days three important poets are writing about their minds and their methods.

Isaac Rosenberg posted a letter to Eddie Marsh today, which probably included a draft of his difficult, sui generis, mythological poem “Daughters of War.” It also contained an attempt to allay the perplexity the poem would cause:

I am now fearfully rushed, but find energy enough to scribble this in the minute I plunder from my work. I believe I can see the obscurities in the ‘Daughters’, but hardly hope to clear them up in France… The first part, the picture of the Daughters dancing and calling to the spirits of the slain before their last ones have ceased among the boughs of the tree of life, I must still work on. In that part obscure the description of the voice of the Daughter I have not made clear, I see; I have tried to suggest the wonderful sound of her voice, spiritual and voluptuous at the same time. The end is an attempt to imagine the severance of all human relationship and the fading away of human love. Later on I will try and work on it, because I think it a pity if the ideas are to be lost for want of work. My ‘Unicorn’ play is stopped because of my increased toil… It is to be a play of terror—terror of hidden things and the fear of the supernatural. But I see no hope of doing the play while out here. I have a way, when I write, to try and put myself in the situation, and I make gestures and grimaces.[1]

Of the play, more anon, I hope. And this almost touching personal detail is a reminder of just how difficult it must be to write poetry in the trenches, especially as a private. Of course he gestures and grimaces–and many writers talk to themselves, at their leisure, in rooms of their own…

As for “Daughters of War,” the poem has been long in gestation–Rosenberg sent an early draft to Gordon Bottomley in December–and it has been growing in power. Like the ancient poets who dreamt Valkyries and Amazons–and like David Jones and his Sweet Sister Death–Rosenberg summons up female embodiments of war’s power.

Space beats the ruddy freedom of their limbs,
Their naked dances with man’s spirit naked
By the root side of the tree of life…

I saw in prophetic gleams
These mighty daughters in their dances
Beckon each soul aghast from its crimson corpse
To mix in their glittering dances :
I heard the mighty daughters’ giant sighs
In sleepless passion for the sons of valour
And envy of the days of flesh,
Barring their love with mortal boughs across–
The mortal boughs, the mortal tree of life.
The old bark burnt with iron wars
They blow to a live flame
To char the young green clays
And reach the occult soul; they have no softer lure,
No softer lure than the savage ways of death.

We were satisfied of our lords the moon and the sun
To take our wage of sleep and bread and warmth–
These maidens came–these strong everliving Amazons,
And in an easy might their wrists
Of night’s sway and noon’s sway the sceptres brake,
Clouding the wild, the soft lustres of our eyes…

 

Next to this wrenching vision, full of sex and death, the melodious prose and harmonious rhymes of Francis Ledwidge seem to come from an entirely different war, a different era. They don’t, of course–they come from the same day. These are very different sensibilities: our two poets in the ranks and out of the working classes share very little else than those three facts of their identity.

Ledwidge wrote another letter to the prominent writer Katherine Tynan today, a century back, and it begins with a strange confusion.

19.6.17

This is my birthday. I am spending it in a little red town in an orchard.

Actually, it is not his birthday. Which goes a longer way to show one of the larger cultural and social gaps among our writers than a ream of commentary about Ledwidge’s rural roots or Lord Dunsany‘s reflexive condescension towards his Irish “peasant” protégé. It seems that birthdays were little regarded in rural County Meath a century and another score of years back, and even when he enlisted Ledwidge did not know the date of his birth. His mother, flustered, confused his and his brother Joe’s, or so the story goes. Our Frank Ledwidge was born on the 19th, but of August–his twenties have two months left to run.

Again I think of how this sort of confusion might have arisen in Rosenberg’s family too, with an absent father and Yiddish-speaking mother, or how Ledwidge and his surviving siblings might have shared, like Rosenberg and his brother, the “family suit.” But for such similarities there are more striking differences. Rosenberg is a child of the London slums. And Ledwidge?[2]

There is a lovely valley just below me, and a river that goes gobbling down the fields, like turkeys coming home in Ireland… I was down here earlier in the spring, when all the valley wore its confirmation dress, and was glad to return again in the sober moments of June. Although I have a conventional residence I sleep out in the orchard, and every morning a cuckoo comes to a tree quite close, and calls out his name with a clear voice above the rest of the morning’s song, like a tender stop heard above the lower keys in a beautiful organ…

If you go to Tara, go to Rath-na-Ri and look all around you from the hills of Drumcondrath in the north to the plains of Enfield in the south, where Allan Bog begins, and remember me to every hill and wood and ruin, for my heart is there. If it is a clear day you will see Slane Hill blue and distant. Say I will come back again surely, and maybe you will hear pipes in the grass or a fairy horn and the hounds of Finn…

Ledwidge also enclosed three new poems, “The Find,” “Stanley Hill,” and “The Old Gods:”

I thought the old gods still in Greece
Making the little fates of man,
So in a secret place of Peace
I prayed as but a poet can:

And all my prayer went crying faint
Around Parnassus’ cloudy height,
And found no ear for my complaint,
And back unanswered came at night.

Ah, foolish that I was to heed
The voice of folly, or presume
To find the old gods in my need,
So far from A. E.’s little room.[3]

 

Siegfried Sassoon has not written in his diary since beginning to work on his “declaration.” Today, a century back, he is very much still in declaration mode, railing angrily at the waste of the war and the evil cynicism of those who prolong it.

June 19

I wish I could believe that Ancient War History justifies the indefinite prolongation of this war. The Jingos define it as ‘an enormous quarrel between incompatible spirits and destinies, in which one or the other must succumb’. But the men who write these manifestos do not truly know what useless suffering the war inflicts.

And the ancient wars on which they base their arguments did not involve such huge sacrifices as the next two or three years will demand of Europe, if this war is to be carried on to a knock-out result. Our peace-terms remain the same, ‘the destruction of Kaiserism and Prussianism’. I don’t know what aims this destruction represents.

I only know, and declare from the depths of my agony, that these empty words… mean the destruction of Youth. They mean the whole torment of waste and despair which people refuse to acknowledge or to face; from month to month they dupe themselves with hopes that ‘the war will end this year’.

And the Army is dumb. The Army goes on with its bitter tasks. The ruling classes do all the talking. And their words
convince no one but the crowds who are their dupes.

The soldiers who return home seem to be stunned by the things they have endured. They are willingly entrapped by the silent conspiracy against them. They have come back to life from the door of death, and the world is good to enjoy. They vaguely know that it is ‘bad form’ to hurt people’s feelings by telling the truth about the war…

The diary continues, wandering into violent territory as Sassoon decries the bloodthirstiness of women and imagines a mob awakening to “lynch” the “dictator” who has plunged it into war.

The soldiers are fooled by the popular assumption that they are all heroes. They have a part to play, a mask to wear. They are allowed to assume a pride of superiority to the mere civilian. Are there no heroes among the civilians, men and women alike?

Of the elderly male population I can hardly trust myself to speak. Their frame of mind is, in the majority of cases, intolerable. They glory in senseless invective against the enemy… They regard the progress of the war like a game of chess, cackling about ‘attrition,’ and ‘wastage of man-power’, and ‘civilisation at stake’. In every class of society there are old men like ghouls, insatiable in their desire for slaughter, impenetrable in their ignorance.

Soldiers conceal their hatred of the war.
Civilians conceal their liking for it…[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Works, 375; Moorcroft Wilson, Isaac Rosenberg, 359-61.
  2. See Curtayne, Francis Ledwidge, 183.
  3. The Years of the Shadow, 294-6.
  4. Diaries, 175-6.

We Discover Dorothie Feilding, as She Finds Perfect Peace and Happiness; Wilfred Owen is in Blighty, and Still Abed

Dorothie Feilding can be disarmingly frank, but she is also more than a bit elusive. There was little indication in her letters that her friendship with Charles O’Hara Moore was becoming something more. But during her leave in May things accelerated rather quickly. We’ll move back to the 7th of June, as her letters home pick up again:

Dearest Mr Da…

…it’s so wonderful to feel perfect peace & happiness again it seems almost another life since I have felt really happy. I was scared to death the 1st day wondering if everything would be all right but now I am quite quite sure of it. As for Charles he is sure enough for six!

And then on June 9th, we get a bit more context–or, at least, a context we can imagine applying to the sudden decision to marry: we see Dorothie getting in a last hurrah with her many friends (and brothers) still in Belgium, and then addressing herself to another stratum of needs, desires, and obligations.

Mother mine–

I’ve had the most lovely day. I had plotted with that long suffering man the Bloke, to go & hunt up Tubby & Peter today as they are quite close. It was all settled when at 5 am this morning they suddenly blew in here, bursting with excitement & awfully pleased with themselves. We had the greatest fun & in the afternoon begged an array of nags off the sailors & Mish & all went nagging down the beach & dunes. Then to tea with the sailors & then they went off about six. It was a joy having them & they are both looking frightfully well. Peter said he was due for a drop of leave about July & would try his best to be at Newnham to ‘see me pass away’ so if we can fix it up for 1st week in July that ought to suit everybody.

Mother dearest, I feel it’s almost wrong to be so happy these days. I wish I could bring some happiness into you too to make up for your dear Hughie

Will you be glad I’m not in Flanders getting potted at any more? Mairi Chisholm ran in this morning, looking worlds better, she was so touched at your having her at Newnham & I never thanked you half enough. It was because I know that awful desolation that sweeps over every corner of one’s soul & being that I wanted so to help her a little…

It was so awfully nice of you to have her, & thank you so much dearest.

But a letter of June 12th has an entirely different air. Is Dorothie giving her mother comfort, or is she finding another way to refuse a daughter’s obligation to care for her mother when the men have gone away?

We learn this, and more: lost love has long lain below the surface of her persistent courage and daffy nonchalance over several years of ambulance work in Belgium.

Mother my darling–

I got your sad letter last night, & I have been a selfish beast. It seemed so wonderful to feel at peace & a desire to live once more that I have left you thinking all the help I have been to you these years is at an end. Mother dearest, my being happy won’t come between us for ‘a daughter is your daughter all her life’ & our sympathy is too deep for
anything to change it.

At times I have wished I hadn’t the power to feel things deeply & that the superficial beings are the happiest. But it’s not so–God gives you a bigger soul in exchange for pain & the power to be capable things.

Some time before the war Charles & I were very near caring for each other. Then, for no particular reason, we drifted away imperceptibly back to just friendship. I think it was then I first began to think a great deal of Tom. Then Tom went to India & I never saw him again as I went straight to France. But we wrote to each other & in so doing had both felt a deeper & newer affection growing out of our old camaraderie.

We weren’t engaged but I know we should have been had we met again–we both always thought we would meet again quite soon. Then he died just as my love for him was beginning to waken & the bottom seemed to have fallen out of my life. I didn’t care whether I lived or not so you see it wasn’t very meritorious to be brave. I just threw myself heart & soul into the work out here & I got to love my soldiers like my children. It was a positive need to me, to share the life & dangers of this war with them. My whole soul cried out for it & no other kind of work would have helped me one fraction as much; out here right at the heart & pulse of things one finds realities & greatness. The best of everyone comes out…

This is so different from Lady Feilding’s usual style that it helps bring home the adjustment we must make in our understanding of her substance. Like so many of her male counterparts, a vague desire to “serve” and an interest in adventure were part of her initial motivation to endure hardship and danger; and like a very large subset of those officers, a mixture of personal unhappiness and frustrated love morphed into an abiding love for the men under her care.

And yet of course she is in a very different position, vis a vis the continuing possibilities of Romantic love. “The Front” was nearly an all-male world (and due to both standard social and legal prejudice and the additional problem of the effect of hidden love affairs on military discipline, gay men could seek love only at great risk) and she was a young, attractive heiress. There must have been a constant barrage of interest and pressure, much of it in a style that we would now consider harassment. Some of this she laughed off, much of it must have gone unmentioned. But she does have the option of marrying a soldier…

…the sadness of it all worked its way into my very soul. Of all these men who cared for me, it only made it harder & the last 6 months I had got into a sort of mental stupor. I can’t describe it. Just a great ache & loneliness. You see, God by teaching me suffering had given me a bigger soul capable of far deeper feeling, but had given me nothing else as yet to make up for the suffering.

Feilding’s Catholic faith–and her conviction that her suffering soul indicates a coming reward–set her apart from Vera Brittain, but this next paragraph shows how similar their situations might have been:

I used to try & force myself sometimes to care for people I saw who sincerely loved & needed me, so that I might make them happy. But then at the last minute there was never anything but bare friendship & it couldn’t suffice me & I was afraid to marry with only that.

And Vera Brittain would have, in the deeper subsuming to family loyalty and self-sacrifice, married her brother’s blinded friend. As it happens, the ghostly paths of these so-similar-yet-so-different women crossed, in a way, today, a century back. As Lady Feilding was planning her wedding, Victor Richardson was awarded a posthumous Military Cross for his leadership in the Battle of Arras.

So back, now, to the happier and happy Lady Dorothie Feilding, whom we now seem to know three times better than we did after her first eighty-seven appearances here:

Mon. Ritz Hotel London [18 June]

Mother darling–

We have decided Thursday 5th not the 3rd after all for the funeral if that suits you.

That, of course, would be the wedding.

Could you put up Binkie, Charles & best man? His regimental pals, one or two as really want to come, could come by Irish mail to Rugby. I’ve asked Mellins to let Billy & David be pages. I’m getting a little plain white frock & veil, no train or bridesmaids or fuss, but would love those stugs as minute guardsmen with their white clothes & guards belts.

Any immediate relations of Charles who insist on coming we intend billeting on Aunt A at Holthorpe but haven’t broken it to her yet…

I couldn’t bear the thought of being cremated in London for the amusement of Tit Bits, Mothers Home & Pigeon World

This is quite funny, and apt: Lady Feilding has already been a darling of the popular press–titled young ladies driving ambulances made great copy in 1914–and her wedding will prove irresistible to the nascent tabloids, if not perhaps to the pigeon-fancying community. So she is back to her happy-go-lucky early style as the wedding approaches…

And yet her style did change, there, for a moment, and we got a glimpse of her different feelings. She’s an indifferent speller and a casual aristocrat, and has shown no signs of well-read Edwardian Romanticism–nevertheless she feels things just as deeply as any fulsome, long-tressed provincial young lady.

Back, for a moment to the letter of the 12th:

When I met Charles the other day & he told me how he cared, I felt for the 1st time, that he could awaken my power to love (which I thought had died in me) if he loved me strongly & enough. At the very beginning I was afraid perhaps my loneliness was influencing me unduly & that I had not yet found the real thing. But so very soon I was quite, quite sure everything was right.

This, too, is a war romance:

The big things in Charles had not been stirred before the war. He was inclined to be idle & drift through life without being properly alive. The army & war generally has done to him what it has done to many people including myself. He loves me so much, Mother dearest, & so deeply that he has made me love him; it is not just a wild wave of sentimentality, it is [a] real thing which grows greater every day & is coupled with an infinite trust & confidence in him & in what the future will bring. Please God, he will be some months at home, before all the mental ‘angoisse’ [anguish] begins again. I am feeling so small & stormtossed…

I need just a little bit of peace & happiness so badly Mother dearest…

Yr loving
DoDo[1]

 

Wilfred Owen is also very happy and at peace… and also writing to his mother, and also in need of additional funds for new clothes… after that the similarities drop away precipitously.

Monday, Welsh Hospital, Netley

Dearest of Mothers,

I had your letter this morning—a great delight. This place is very boring, and I cannot believe myself in England in this unknown region… It is pleasant to be among the Welsh—doctors, sisters, orderlies.

And nurses.

They kept me in bed all yesterday, but I got up for an hour & went out today, only to be recaught and put back to bed for the inspection of a specialist…

There was no choice of Hospitals when we were detailed off from Southampton, tho’ I tried to get the Birmingham Train, which those officers who lived hereabouts had to take!

When I get away I shall try to journey through London. There are new clothes I want… Here also we fare much better than anywhere in France. I sleep well and show every sign of health, except in the manipulation of this pencil.

Your own W.E.O. x[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Lady Under Fire, 211-16.
  2. Collected Letters, 470.