The Master of Belhaven Returns to His Guns; Edwin Vaughan Continues On; The Meaning of Gordon Harbord; Frank Richards on Leave

Two dispatches from the Ypres Salient today are quite similar. First, the Master of Belhaven‘s battery has been sent back into the firing line, and the recent German shelling has left both physical and psychological scars.

After four nights’ rest in the wagon-lines, we have returned to our position in the Valley of the Shadow. It gave me the usual reception–a salvo of gas-shells landing within 50 yards of us just as we reached the guns. I found the sergeant who had been left in charge of the guns in a horrid state of nerves. He says they have been shelled all the time and gassed every night for at least five hours at a time. There certainly are a lot of new and large holes everywhere; however, that what is to be expected in this charming spot…[1]

 

Though still in the rear, Edwin Vaughan‘s day today is very much a day after action.

August 14 The others were all astir and excitedly examining the walls and roof which were literally riddled with shrapnel. Each of us had had a miraculous escape. Over each bed was a hole through which had passed shrapnel and had any of the others been sitting up they would have been hit. A chunk had gone through my valise and would have gone through me had I been in bed. Three separate chunks must have missed my head by inches, for the biscuit tin, tobacco tin, whisky bottles and a Tommy’s cooker on the table were all smashed to bits.

The papers showed that one man was an HQ man, the other a sergeant from the Trench Mortars. His papers were chiefly indecent postcards and we had just burnt them when the padre came in. I handed him the remainder of the effects, put on some dry pyjamas and went to bed.

From dawn onwards we received a constant stream of visitors to whom we displayed our shell-splintered hut with great pride, enjoying considerable notoriety. Then after lunch we packed up, and taking various little zigzag roads in an easterly direction for about two miles, we found ourselves at Dambre Farm near Vlamertinghe. Here we marched into a little field furrowed with deep channels full of water with knolls and shell-holes everywhere, and a few leaky old tents into which we crammed the troops who were in a rotten temper—induced chiefly by the rain.

Two miles further east is, here and now, a significant descent toward the infernal regions. Once again Vaughan is scrupulously honest about his own fear–and his comrades’.

Bennett now went back to ‘C’ Company and the remaining four of us took one tent and settled down to a terrible night of anticipation. After dawdling over a miserable dinner, we lay on the ground wrapped in our oilsheets and listened to the rain beating on the tent and the booming of the guns. We talked a bit and drank a lot until Radcliffe fell into a nasty mood. He said that we were all implying that he had windup; then he told us one at a time and all together that we had windup. Finally he cried and said we were all brave boys and none of us had windup. Then he went to sleep.[2]

 

Nothing much happened to Siegfried Sassoon today, as far as I can tell. Perhaps he played golf and read and walked, and enjoyed a chat with Dr. Rivers in the evening. But two significant things are going to happen soon: he will learn that he has lost one friend, and he will gain another. The lost friend is Gordon Harbord, a captain in the Field Artillery, who was killed today, a century back, in Flanders. They had been fox hunting buddies–Sassoon and Harbord and Harbord’s brother Geoff hunted together frequently in the years leading up to the war–and they had kept in touch with frequent letters ever since.

Despite–or because of–the fact that Harbord was not a comrade in arms or a fellow poet or in any way connected to the turmoil of Sassoon’s disillusionment, heroism, protest, and capitulation, this death will affect Sassoon more than almost any other. And yet we have very little to read about this reaction (Sassoon will find out about Harbord’s death in about a week, and there is at least one dated poem). This is largely due to an interesting authorial choice: in Sherston’s” memoirs George Sherston has no family, yet he loses one of his closest pre-war friends, Steven Colwood, in the autumn of 1915–at precisely the same time that the real Hamo Sassoon was killed. The prewar Colwood is closely based on Harbord, and the date of his death is the only significant departure from reality. It is, in fact, one of the most important deviations from Sassoon’s actual experience in the fictionalized memoir, and this gives Harbord the status of a sort of surrogate brother. But with “Colwood” having been killed off long before August 1917, there will be an absence now where Sherston–enthralled with his new father figure–should soon be mourning the death of his “brother.”

 

We’ll stay with the Royal Welsh Fusiliers, now, and touch briefly in Belgium, England, and South Wales in noting a curious coincidence which might just be a slight mistake or fib. Dr. Dunn’s chronicle of the 2/R.W.F. includes a brief anecdote from a “senior N.C.O.” who went on leave today, a century back–the night before the battalion began to move from rest billets on the coast toward the Salient. It’s a good one-liner:

He was asked, after his return, what it was like at home. “I don’t know,” he said, “I got drunk the night I arrived, and was back in France again before I got sober.”[3]

Could this have been Frank Richards? Richards is an Old Soldier–a prewar regular who rejoined just after war was declared–but one who avoided promotion, so he’s not an N.C.O. Furthermore, in his memory (far from infallible) he went on leave not the night before but the very night the battalion went into the line–which would be tomorrow. And then there’s the fact that, in his own telling, he deviated from precisely the behavior described above. So perhaps this is just a coincidence, then, rather than a near miss/crossing of paths of two different tales stemming from the same source:

On the night the Battalion went in the line I went on leave. It was eighteen months since I had the last one and as usual I made the most of it. I didn’t spend the whole of it in pubs: I spent two days going for long tramps in the mountains, which I thoroughly enjoyed after being so long in a flat country… This time every man of military age I met wanted to shake hands with me and also ask my advice on how to evade military service, or, if they were forced to go, which would be the best corps to join that would keep them away from the firing line…[4]

So even the toughest miner-turned-soldier has taken to walking the hills of Wales for peace of mind and advising a sort of resistance. He writes with a touch of sardonic contempt instead of martyrous outrage–but otherwise it would seem that the officers and men are not as far apart as they are sometimes portrayed…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 366.
  2. Some Desperate Glory, 192-3.
  3. Dunn, The War the Infantry Knew, 374.
  4. Old Soldiers Never Die, 243-4.

Edward Heron-Allen in the Home Guard; Edward Brittain Admits it is Very Strange; A Fortunate Headache for Edwin Vaughan

Sir Edward Heron-Allen has previously turned up here only as the target of return fire in a rather ridiculous dispute with not-actually-an-enemy-alien Ford Madox Hueffer. But he kept a wide-ranging diary which is often very interesting despite itself. It charts a course somewhere between Duff Cooper‘s blithe privilege and Alfred Hale‘s proto-elderly schlimazzeling–it is privileged, high-spirited, yet cranky–and otherwise reflects the huge range of interests and self-interests proper to a middle-aged Late Victorian eccentric polymath. Still, who needs to read what one old county gentleman thinks of politics, farming, and the follies of the young?

Ah, but Heron-Allen has–like those other two–belatedly found his way into uniform. He’s a soldier now, too, of a sort, yet seldom does the diary have anything to do with the war that everyone else is fighting. Today, a century back, his local Home Guard unit (formed in 1914 but not recognized by the War Office until this year) is at last preparing for duty, and his account of his uniform and accessories has a bizarre but irresistible charm:

The Selsey Platoon has now got its uniforms… some of them like nothing on God’s earth but a foreign caricature of the British Tommy. My tailor could not do much to my uniform… I do not think I shall wear it very long however for the Sergent-Major tells me that soon after I am made Platoon Sergeant I am sure to be made Lieutenant…  All this is very trivial and Pepys-like, but I confess to a childish pleasure on this being ‘dressed up’…

I dined on Tuesday with my dear old mother, who was much interested in my military career! My father was one of the first volunteers (of 1859)… The old lady proudly presented me with his sword, a really beautiful weapon, elaborately etched with designs of various kinds… I have always wanted to possess it for it was always the admiration of my childhood…

I made a note on the exhibition of intensive hen-keeping, at the Zoological Gardens…[1]

 

Edwin Vaughan‘s diary is a different animal altogether. Less well-kept-hen than tense–but carefully groomed–rabbit, he has spent two days in a crouch, ears flared, near Poperinghe. But this is the real war…

August 13 We heard this morning that we are moving up again tomorrow and that on the 16th we will be in support to a battalion of Irish Rifles at St Julien. The imminence of the attack made me very frightened and I trembled so much that I could not take part in the discussion at first. But after poring over the map for a bit and passing on all information to my platoon, I grew calmer. Before noon we had learnt every detail of the ground from the map and, incidentally, had been issued with private’s clothing.

So this should be another stage of that slow journey up the line, from safety to misery and danger. But, especially in the Salient, the war doesn’t always follow the script.

After lunch Radcliffe, Harding and I went down to Pop for a farewell dinner. We have heard so much now, that we know what we are in for. We found the trench model quite close to Slaughter Wood and we stopped to examine it. At La Poupée we had a most wonderful dinner with many drinks so that when we started back through the darkness, we were all a little unsteady. When we got back into camp, Radcliffe and Harding were asleep in no time, but the champagne and the excitement of the attack prevented me from lying down even. I felt that my head was bursting, so in pyjamas and slippers I went out again into the wood. A gentle rain was falling and the mud came up over my bare ankles. I had walked about 30 yards from the hut when without warning there was a blinding flash and a shell burst close beside me. Staggering back I hurried to the hut as three more crashed down among the trees. Kneeling on the steps I groped along the floor for my tin hat; at the same moment another salvo fell around us, chunks whizzed past my head and I heard the splintering of wood and a clatter as if the table had gone over.

Then I heard a voice screaming faintly from the bushes. Jamming on my tin hat I ran up the track and stumbled over a body. I stopped to raise the head, but my hand sank into the open skull and I recoiled in horror. The cries continued and I ran on up the track to find that the water cart had been blown over on to two men. One was crushed and dead, the other pinned by the waist and legs. Other men ran up and we heaved the water cart up and had the injured man carried to the aid post. I took the papers and effects from the dead men and had the bodies moved into the bushes until morning. Then soaked with rain and covered in mud I returned to the hut.[2]

 

And finally, today, Edward Brittain has heard from his sister Vera, now stationed at a hospital at the Étaples base camp. He writes back to her with a mixture of dogged persistence in former roles (why write to a working nurse in Étaples about your six-weeks-lost valise?!?) and bemusement at her new circumstances. But neither of these subjects hold his pen for long: an officer who knows that battle is looming generally cannot entirely lift his eyes from the narrow horizon of future cares, and the “absurd” becomes a plan of attack without even a full stop.

France, 13 August 1917

Many thanks for your letters of the 7th and 9th. I think I know whereabouts you are though I don’t really know the side towards the sea…  I don’t want anything now thanks except that accursed valise…

It is very strange that you should be nursing Hun prisoners and it does show how absurd the whole thing is; I am afraid leave is entirely out [of] the question for the present; I am going to be very busy as I shall almost certainly have to command the co[mpan]y. in the next show because, as you know, some people are always left behind and Harrison did the last show just before I came out. I shall probably not be able to write at all regularly after the next few days though I don’t know for certain. . . Things are much more difficult than they used to be because nowadays you never know where you are in the line and it is neither open warfare nor trench warfare.[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Journal of the Great War, 111.
  2. Some Desperate Glory, 191-2.
  3. Letters From a Lost Generation, 371.

A Court Martial for Frederic Manning; A Quick Trial by his Peers for Siegfried Sassoon; Mud and Horror Before the Master Of Belhaven

We have only three short updates today, a century back.

First, Frederic Manning is up to his old tricks–but, perhaps, he is also under the influence of more recent experiences. By the time of his Court Martial today, a century back–the result of drunken conduct unbecoming the officer’s mess–Manning had been hospitalized for several days because “a sympathetic doctor diagnosed him as shell-shocked.” He was let off with nothing more than a reprimand–the Court Martial will shortly become a Medical Board.

Manning has had problems with drinking before–and with indulging in what might be either a personal or an Australian lack of due respect for the formal dignities of the British Officer Class. But he had a hard time on the Somme, and he has been having balance problems on the parade ground, so perhaps the doctor is as insightful as he is sympathetic–or perhaps Manning has luckily, narrowly escaped losing his second chance at becoming an officer.[1]

 

Yesterday was a day off from Ralph Hamilton‘s diary, here, but it was still a notable day–his first in the already-famous mud. He visited his Observation Post, the artilleryman’s foothold in the infantry line, which meant moving up through the battlefield–and getting stuck in mud “the consistency of porridge.”

It is really very dangerous, as the middle of the craters is so soft that one might easily sink over the head. As it was I got stuck to-day and it was all the combined effort of my party could do to pull me out. I was quite alarmed as I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper and could not move either foot…

Today, though perhaps less frightening, was more horrible.

We had just finished dinner and were having out cigars and coffee in our mud-holes when the S.O.S. broke out all along the front.

The German counter-attack–if that’s what it was–was stopped. But not without cost, of course.

…I saw a horrid sight. A gunner of some other battery ran right through the intervals of my guns. How he managed to avoid my shells I don’t know. I could hear him making queer noises as he passed, and by the light of the gun-flash I saw that he was holding one wrist from which the hand was missing…[2]

 

And last but not least, an interesting reaction, in today’s entry of Dr. Dunn’s chronicle of the 2nd Battalion, Royal Welsh Fusiliers, to the recent news from England.

Sassoon’s quixotic outburst has been quenched in a “shell-shock” retreat. He will be among degenerates, drinkers, malingerers, and common mental cases, as well as the overstrained.

It’s very easy to see where Sassoon got his snarky attitude towards his fellow patients at Craiglockhart–he, too, foregrounded the various “degenerate” types before admitting that there may in fact be some men there suffering from war-induced mental illness. But this is perhaps only the most obvious reminder–and Sassoon would have shared such prejudices before becoming an officer, anyway. In seeing how the battalion–or Dunn–view his fiery protest and its quick quenching, we’re reminded that part of the reason Sassoon might be dwelling on the poor lot among whom it is his lot to dwell is that he has belatedly realized just how completely the targets of his protest outmaneuvered him.

It is an astute means of denying our cold-blooded, cold-footed, superior persons the martyr they are too precious to find from their own unruly ranks. Sassoon gave a moral flavour to a gibe everywhere current at the front for a couple of years, that a lot of individuals in cushy jobs don’t care how long the War lasts. It used to be said laughingly, now it is said bitterly.[3]

No surprise, in other words, that the higher-ups who can’t sustain an offensive nevertheless know how to handle a political/publicity case. And–strikingly–no disagreement from the Voice of the Battalion about the grounds for protest, and no stronger condemnation than “quixotic”–and Quixote was an old campaigner of sorts, too, and a would-be martyr denied real martyrdom.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Coleman, The Last Exquisite, 132; Marwill, Frederic Manning, 183-4.
  2. War Diary, 360.
  3. Dunn, The War the Infantry Knew, 372.

The Gothic Vortices of Herbert Read; Frederic Manning Drinks Himself into Trouble; Wilfred Owen Steels Himself for Silk Stockings

We have a few shorter updates today, a century back. First, Herbert Read is on leave, and seeing the sights–and it is against the rules, here, to omit certain pilgrimages:

The Army is becoming quite a benevolent old gentleman, arranging little joy-rides for us when we are in reserve… We passed through the valley of the Somme–past Albert, with its leaning Virgin–(when it falls, according to the superstition of Tommy, the war ends.–I would like to have charge of a German battery for a few hours)–and finally arriving in Amiens…

Will Read, now a full-fledged zine-publishing Modernist, have the strength to resist the obvious pull? No… and yes, sort of:

Naturally we made for the Cathedral and spent an hour or so there. I can’t go into ecstasies about it. It is fine, of course, especially the exterior… There are some fine flying bastions, or whatever they call them,

They call them flying buttresses, although it’s possible this is a joke, since flying bastions sound like some sort of late-17th century excrudescence on a French étoile fortress now held against Teutonic machine guns…

which would make a finer ‘vorticist’ design.

Ah! That’s a pretty good call, actually… compare the link to the buttresses at right:

The interior is disappointing… After lunch more sightseeing… we saw the famous mural decoration of Puvis de Chavannes and a bust by Rodin.[1]

 

 

Next we have the long-neglected Frederic Manning. He’s getting a second crack, now, at being an officer–it befits his class status, after all, and his experience–he has seen combat service in the ranks. But once again alcoholism has gotten in the way. He joined a new unit on garrison duty in Ireland ten days ago, and only a few evenings later he had “broken all the rules of the mess out of sheer ignorance and no premeditated vice.’’

As he wrote to William Rothenstein today, a century back, he was”liable to be tried by court martial.” And yet he is oddly defiant about the mess (so to speak:)

…I rather like being under arrest, as it spares me the company of my brother officers at mess… Nothing, I think, will
happen; I am only to be ‘strafed’ in canting phrase; then I shall be told how vastly I have improved under the treatment.[2]

We shall see…

 

Henry Williamson, meanwhile, continues to recover in Cornwall–but slowly. Today he went before a board and was ruled “Unfit [for] G[eneral] S[ervice] 3mos.” His doctor at Trefusis Auxiliary Hospital wrote that “Lt. Williamson has during the last ten days begun decidedly to improve, but in my opinion he will need much longer than the time he has already had under treatment before one can report him recovered.”[3] Since Williamson has recently begun writing in earnest, this lull will provide a long runway for the early drafts of his autobiographical novel…

 

 

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

And Siegfried Sassoon, after having accepted a second chance at a Medical Board, will be on his way, very shortly, to “Dottyville,” the Military Hospital at Craiglockhart.

And how are things going up there?

Quite well, actually, at least as far as Wilfred Owen is concerned. He was even published today, a century back.

Patient-run hospital magazines were once what they aren’t, that’s for sure.

Owen had a hand in this rather polished production of The Hydra, seen at right. He not only wrote the note on the Field Club‘s activities but also, in all probability–the piece shows, in Dominic Hibberd’s estimation, all the hallmarks of Owen’s style–a light sketch about the awkwardness of going stocking-shopping with nurses. Racy stuff, although you may have to scroll down for the large scanned image of the magazine page:

 

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

 

 

References and Footnotes

  1. The Contrary Experience, 103-4.
  2. Marwil, Frederic Manning, 183. See also Coleman, The Last Exquisite, 129.
  3. Anne Williamson, Henry Williamson and the First World War, 167.

A Bloody Raid with Edwin Vaughan; Alfred Hale Doubles his Buckets; Siegfried Sassoon is One Step Closer to Revolt

Today was a tale of two raids for Edwin Vaughan. In the first, which seems to have occurred in the wee hours of the 3rd, he led his platoon out, scared off the Germans holding an advanced post, and then, with two fellow officers, “linked arms and with revolvers drawn marched up the road with all the swagger of the Three Musketeers.” Secure in their control of No Man’s Land, they then destroyed a rifle pit constructed by the Germans and “walked back in blobs, talking and laughing, for we felt that we had done a good night’s work and were entitled to treat No Man’s Land as our own preserve.”

Vaughan’s morale is so high–he is so eager to perform, to get the requested prisoner and present him to the General–that he plans to go out with the other platoon slated for tonight’s raid, “as a spectator,” just as one of his fellow “musketeers” had done for him. But he changes his mind: “Berry had been drinking…His party made a terrible din going out, and they appeared to me so unfitted to carry out a raid that I decided not to accompany them but to follow after a few minutes.”

Before he can, however, the raid goes awry–not, apparently, because of the drunk officer, but because of a “half-mad” sergeant. Vaughan recounts what the subaltern, Berry, told him:

He gave me his account of the fiasco in a high-pitched, almost hysterical voice. Having passed unmolested through the wire gap which I had reported, he had gone ahead with Sergeant Corbett, the half-mad fellow whom I had picked up at Eclulsier. They were walking warily along, when, long before they reached the post which I had indicated as they enemy post they had heard voices on their immediate left. Perceiving an occupied post Berry halted to bring up the platoon, but Corbett had sprung forward on to the parapet. The sentry yelled ‘Halte! Wer da?’ and answering ‘Anglais! You bastards!’ Corbett had promptly bayoneted him. The post was full of Boche, who for the moment were motionless with surprise. Disregarding them, Corbett grabbed the equipment of the dead man, dragged him on to the top, smacked his face and then kicked him back into the trench. Meanwhile the German officer drew his revolver and shot Corbett in the side…  The platoon raced back in utter confusion as the first flare went up, and Betty could do nothing but follow… I did not envy him his interview with the CO…[1]

 

If a madman going haywire with a bayonet–perhaps psychotically unhinged, certainly also suffering from combat-related mental illness–might represent one extreme of the Great War experience, Alfred Hale here presents a more common, but far less frequently recorded ordeal:

3 June. Mr Weir, a Royal Defence Corps man, considered my hauling of buckets of water from the tanks by the wooden hangar to the Officers’ Mess to be very good for my muscles… I was afraid that I could only haul one bucket at a time: but Mr Weir explained to me that if I could bring myself to haul the two buckets together, one in each hand, I would find that they would balance one another and that I should get on far better. He was right…[2]

 

And if Siegfried Sassoon–who might have a safe job training the likes of Hale and never again have to either lead a raid in “Mad Jack” mode or deal with the horror that follows actions like those perpetrated by the murderous Sergeant Corbett–has been tempted, recently to accept a long-term reprieve from the war. But today, a century back, might well have been the very day that he was tipped over into a firm resolve to rebel. He received another letter, today, from Joe Cottrell, his old friend the quartermaster, and it contained the details of the bloody, pointless action of the 27th. Two more of Sassoon’s friends are dead.

In the fictionalized memoir, a confrontation between “George Sherston” and “Lady Asterisk” (Lady Brassey) reminds us of what the fundamental, inevitable context of all this is for Sassoon/Sherston: it’s not a matter of Hale vs. Corbett; it’s a matter of soldiers who are suffering (as well as those who will come to suffer, as the war drags on) and civilians who refuse to even try to comprehend what the “sacrifice” of the troops really entails.

Viewed broadmindedly, the attack had been quite a commonplace fragment of the War… None of the bodies had been brought in… Dottrell had seen Ormand a day or two before the show, “He looked pretty depressed, though outwardly as jolly as ever.” Dunning had been the first to leave our trench; had shouted “Cheerio” and been killed at once. Dottrell thanked me for the box of kippers…

Lady Asterisk happened to be in the in the room when I opened the letter. With a sense of self-pitying indignation I blurted out my unpleasant information. Her tired eyes showed that the shock had brought the War close to her, but while I was adding a few details her face became self-defensively serene. “But they are safe and happy now,” she said. I did not doubt her sincerity, and perhaps they were happy now. All the same, I was incapable of accepting the deaths of Ormand and Dunning and the others in that spirit…[3]

If encounters like this only open small, temporary holes in the spiritual armor of the elderly, upper classes in England, Sassoon is going to have to give them a sharper shock…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Some Desperate Glory, 142-7.
  2. The Ordeal of Alfred M. Hale. 93.
  3. Complete Memoirs, 469-70.

Frank Richards is an Officer for a Day; Wilfred Owen is Healed in Body

The Royal Welch Fusiliers pride themselves on being a fine old regiment, full of their full two centuries of service. And the two Regular battalions–the 1st and 2nd–insist not only on maintaining a tradition of trench-fighting aggression, but on keeping up at least some of the old formalities and disciplines of the prewar army. But time waits for no battalion–or, perhaps, intramural rivalries are just the sort of happy old traditions too crucial to stand on old ceremony.

In any event, the two Regular Battalions, though in different divisions, found themselves close by in reserve today, a century back. It was a rare opportunity for fraternizing, and, as Doctor Dunn’s chronicle attests, all’s fair in war and tugs of war:

The 1st Battalion… invited us to their sports. Every Regular Soldier, and all officers who could be spared, went over. With “Ginger” Owens, our Mess Sergeant, and “Big Dick,” Richards–a signaller, two sterling fellows–as makeweight, we won an inter-Battalion tug-of-war for officers…[1]

That would be our own Frank Richards. His matter-of-fact description of the day is interesting in its understatement and framing:

a tug-of-war was arranged… twelve aside. Only ten of our officers were present, so Owens and I made up the number. After a long pull we were the victors. We spent a very pleasant evening, the First Battalion having a wet canteen…

Is the tug-of-war not such a big deal to him, or is this pride? He may be a humble signaller, averse to rising in the ranks despite many opportunities to do so, but he’s a strong and trusty man, and the officers chose him… Or is it ironic understatement, along the lines of “in the war I’m just a humble soldier, but for the tug of war I’m apparently a temporary gentleman?”

Some clue is offered by Richards’s tale of the aftermath of the field day. After that “wet” evening at the canteen, he, Owens, and another old soldier pal called Lane attempted the long walk back from the 1st Battalion’s camp to their own. They departed already “three sheets to the wind” and with a bottle of whiskey yet in hand. After drinking the bottle, they decided that a short nap would be in order, and passed out some miles short of their own battalion’s billets.

I was woke up some time during the night by what I thought was heavy rain falling. I was still half drunk and muddled and for a moment did not know where I was… Lane in his half-drunken condition had got up and had been mistaking the both of us for a shell hole. But Lane had unwittingly done us a good turn, saving us from a court-martial for desertion. We arrived back just in time to move off with the Battalion who were marching towards the line to make an attack the following morning…[2]

Colorful and amusing. But, as the last line makes so clear, there is another sort of pressure on this memory: retrospection forcing foreshadowing. Richards’s memory is off, but only by a day–the 2nd Royal Welch are slated to attack on the 27th.

Our only other piece of business, today, is a brief note from Wilfred Owen.

24 May 1917

41st Stationary Hospital

My own dearest Mother,

I feel normal today. Am sitting on the bed in the one Kimono left in this Rag Time Hospital. Have just had your Sat. evening (May 19) Letter, full of gracious truths: the most pleasing being the tales of your gardening. I am sure it will do you good, and I may indeed get Leave before the Summer falls, now that it is likely I am out of the ‘Area’ of the 2nd Battalion…

I am astonished at my Balance at Cox’s, but not so astonished as you.knowing it is deceptive. There have been, a number of Mess Bills, & other cheques drawn lately which are not yet entered at the Bank Moreover my Military Wardrobe will want renewing if there is another winter campaign.

On the other hand I confess—I mean I profess with pride—that I have not run into any kind of danger of losing moneys. My first Mess Bill for Jan. was £6: which I consider disgraceful for the kind of stuff we got…

It is evidently Trench fever I had, but I feel fine today…

Your own W.E.O.[3]

So Owen is cured of his fever; but this does not change the awkward fact that he is now in a Stationary Hospital which has been established to specialize in treating cases of “shell shock…” His frustrations mount, but there is no clear indication yet how the Army intends to recognize or treat his “neurasthenia…”

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Dunn, The War the infantry Knew, 347.
  2. Old Soldiers Never Die, 235.
  3. Collected Letters, 463-4.

Alf Pollard’s Happy Day; Edward Brittain Learns of Geoffrey Thurlow’s Death

Yesterday, Alf Pollard led an improvised, four-man counter attack that defeated a German assault and saved an entire division’s position. He writes about the morning after in two different places in his memoir. One follows immediately upon descriptions of yesterday, but it begins a new section, entitled “Book Three: Afterwards.” The other is the very beginning of the entire memoir, which begins today and then flashes back to 1914. So it is not a stretch to say that the book is built around yesterday’s heroics and today’s reward.

The morning of the 30th April, 1917, was bright and sunny. I was awakened at ten o’clock from a deep refreshing sleep by “Bun” Morphy, at that time second in command of the battalion, who burst into my tent in a state of the deepest agitation.

“Get up at once, Pollard!” he called in his rich Irish brogue.” The Divisional General wants to have a word with you!”

I rolled over in my flea-bag and smiled up at him. Bun was a favourite with all of us.

“I’m afraid he’ll have to wait,” I rejoined. “I can’t possibly get up at present. I haven’t any pyjamas on.”

It was lamentable, but it was true. We were lying under canvas at St. Nicholas on the outskirts of Arras, having only arrived from the line at three o’clock that morning after sixteen days in action. We were all dead tired. Our spell “up the line” had been particularly strenuous. In addition, I had picked up a slight dose of gas on the way down. Fritz was shelling the Arras-Douai road and I was too overjoyed at our relief to bother to don my gas-mask. The camp was a welcome end to a long march; the Mess tent a pleasing centre. Several whiskies were needed before I fully realised I was back at rest. I was a bit tiddley-boo before I retired in search of my bed.

I found my tent all right. I found my flea-bag, properly laid out for me by my servant. The devil of it was I could not find my pyjamas. Perhaps I ought to confess that my search for them was rather perfunctory. I have often wondered why I bothered to undress. I had not had my clothes off for sixteen days; one more night would have made very little difference. As it was, I stripped naked and crept in between the blankets.

Pollard’s memoir begins as a light comedy, then–and it remains a comedy, in the old technical sense. It is a story in which, though the characters are challenged, all comes right in the end.

Bun was too excited to grasp the situation.

“Never mind your pyjamas,” he declared impatiently. “The General’s waiting for you, I tell you.”

The General would have continued to wait as far as I was concerned. Fortunately he eased the situation by coming to my tent in person accompanied by Colonel Aspinall, his G.S.O.1. How should one salute a general when in the nude? King’s Regulations makes no provision for such a contingency. I merely sat upright and hugged my blankets to my chin. Bun clicked his shining spurred riding boots to attention.

“This is Pollard, sor,” he boomed.

I realised the feelings of a rare specimen at the Zoo being shown off to two interested fellows. Colonel Aspinall fitted his eyeglass to his eye. The General held out his hand.

“I’m proud to meet you, Pollard. I’ve been hearing all about what you and Haine[1] did yesterday and I want to tell you I’m recommending both of you for the Victoria Cross.”

The Victoria Cross!—the highest honour that any citizen of the British Empire can achieve. For a moment the tent whirled round me, the pole and the seams of the canvas hopelessly intermingled with khaki and field boots. In a daze I accepted the General’s hand, forgetting all about my nakedness.

The full title of the book is, naturally, Fire-Eater: The Memoirs of a V.C. 

“I—I’m sure it’s most awfully good of you, sir,” I stammered. All my life I’ve always stammered in moments of great excitement. “It’s most awfully good of you. Er—” I was at a loss for words; then I remembered. “I’m frightfully sorry I can’t stand up, sir. As a matter of fact I couldn’t find my pyjamas last night and—er——”

Major-General Lawrie was a very tactful man. He appreciated my embarrassment.

“I quite understand,” he interposed. “You’ve not had time to dress. Have your bath and we’ll have a chat later.”

He turned to leave the tent. Colonel Aspinall’s eyeglass dropped with a faint click. I felt that he was smiling. A moment later I was alone with my thoughts. The V.C.!

Had anyone told me on August Bank Holiday 1914 that I should ever receive the V.C. or even the D.C.M., or even that I should ever be a soldier, I should have roared with laughter…

But laughter is where it ends up. His subsequent account of today, a century back, notes that there was much laughing among the officers and men of the H.A.C. And why not? They had saved the day, yesterday, and today they were out of the line and safe. And two of their officers had won the Victoria Cross. Why shouldn’t they laugh?

Here is the official citation:

On 29 April 1917 at Gavrelle, France, the troops of various units had become disorganized owing to the heavy casualties from shell fire and a subsequent determined attack with very strong forces caused further confusion and retirement. Second Lieutenant Pollard realized the seriousness of the situation and with only four men he started a counter-attack with bombs, pressing it home until he had broken the enemy attack and regained all that had been lost and much ground in addition. This officer’s splendid example inspired courage into every man who saw him.

Skeptics might point out that when an attack fails (in the neighboring division), awarding rare and famous awards to two men who helped to prevent a disaster (rather than achieve an intended victory) is a good way of deflecting criticism. That’s a likely story, but it is hardly on point–pretty much any decoration may arrive through some combination of ulterior motives, but that does not necessarily detract from the valor it rewards. My complaint is more simple: The H.A.C. is now at the “climax of our fame” and proud of having protected the position without taking heavy casualties…

But Pollard does not describe what casualties they did take. I’m not sure, actually, that he mentions any casualties in his Regiment that day at all (one of the three companions in heroism–each was awarded the DCM–a soldier from the neighboring division, is killed today). There were probably few–the CWGC notes only five men of the H.A.C. killed yesterday near Arras, and perhaps none of these were in his company. But I don’t know. Nor do we hear a thing of the Germans Pollard shot and bombed–did they die immediately? Did they suffer? Were they given aid? Taken prisoner? Deliberately killed as a potential threat to the rear? I don’t know.

My point is, again, that it’s a comedy: Alf Pollard is a callow boy at the start of the war, and a hero at the end. He’s done good, and everyone who matters has a happy war–bravery, success, recognition. The people who die to make this happen do not make an impact on the narrative. Pollard will even go on to marry the girl who has spurned his advances throughout–the V.C. helped with that as well. So not only a comedy, but more, er, “proof” that there is something to the evolutionary argument for reckless aggression.

But I get ahead of myself, and that is against the rules. We will hear from Captain A.O. Pollard, V.C. a few more times, and he will continue to represent a literary style more popular than that of the vast majority of the writers we read here. Pollard, just like Sassoon or Owen, deserves to be read in context, and examined alongside (rather than condemned for) his assumptions: a general will write a forward for his book, pitching it as a how-to guide for boys, all of whom “must long to receive the Victoria Cross.” And perhaps it is. But it’s worth asking how the author of a book so staunchly enthusiastic about war might fare when the chances for such happy heroism vanish and the memories fade. And it’s also fair to ask what the literary and historical qualities might be that recommend further reading of this book for those who aspire to recognition that can be earned in more humane and less dire circumstances than the Victoria Cross.[2]

 

And, of course, even being able to look to the future, as Pollard can, is a gift of Providence–or an omission of Fate. Or happenstance. Edward Brittain writes to his sister Vera today, a century back, with more bad news.

Brocton Camp, Stafford, 30 April 1917

Dearest Vera —

I only heard this morning from Miss Thurlow that Geoffrey was killed in action on April 23rd–a week ago to-day–and  I sent you a cable about noon. No details are known yet as his people only got the War office telegram on Saturday evening; I have been afraid for him for so long and yet now that he has gone it is so very hard—that prince among men with so fine an appreciation of all that was worth appreciating and so ideal a method of expression…

Always a splendid friend with a splendid heart and a man who won’t be forgotten by you or me however long or short a time we may live. Dear child, there is no more to say; we have lost almost all there was to lose and what have we gained? Truly as you say has patriotism worn very very threadbare.

Victor seems to be much better; Mother will be able to tell you more about him than I can as she sees him every day. She says his voice has come back just as it was before and that he speaks quite sensibly though his memory is not yet very good. He has asked for me to come and see him again and I hope to get up next Saturday.

He doesn’t seem to realise that he is blind yet but thinks he has a bandage over his eyes; I am rather afraid of what may happen when he finds out. I will write again in a day or two as soon as I hear any more about Geoffrey. This is an unlucky place–I was here when Roland died of wounds, when Tah was blinded, and when Geoffrey was killed.

Good-night, dear child.

Your affectionate

Edward[3]

The letter will take weeks; a telegram arrive in Malta tomorrow.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Haine's actions preceded Pollard's--he slept late, you may remember--and so we skipped the regiment's initial heroics.
  2. Fire-Eater: The Memoirs of a V.C., 12-21, 227.
  3. Letters From a Lost Generation, 346.

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.:

28.iv.17

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.

Blackbirds for Edward Thomas; A Bad Report and a Chiff-Chaffing for Henry Williamson; A Gruesome Shortfall for Edwin Vaughan’s Warwickshires

Before we continue with Edwin Vaughan’s harrowing tour in the line we will catch up with Henry Williamson’s latest effort at self-sabotage… but before that, we should begin with Edward Thomas‘s early spring bird count. Yesterday, a century back, Thomas saw rooks nesting and heard partridges and “pipsqueaks.” Today, it was a

Blackbird trying to sing early in dull marsh. A dull cold day… I was in position all day.[1]

It seems an ominous addition after the uplifting larks, but then again, I suppose, nature is indifferent to its poetic resonances…

 

When we last saw Henry Williamson, on the night of the 10th, he was dining with Canadian officers–and overindulging. Whether by coincidence or unusually swift action, he was in hot water by the next afternoon.

His diary entry for the 11th:

Note from G.O.C. Brigade to attend at 4 oclock. Saw damning report from Capt. King ‘incompetent, useless etc’ Road shelled a bit.

The next day–we’re up to yesterday, a century back, now–he pleaded his case before a more sympathetic tribunal:

Dear Mother,

Am quite well and fit, but a rather unhappy as I fear I will lose my job—there has been trouble, but anyhow I don’t think I shall lose much, it is all work and no pay. So don’t be astonished if I go to the artillery or the A[rmy]S[ervice]C[orps]—I have had more during the last week than I got in 4 months in the Flemish sector. By God, it’s awful—we are shelled day & night—the roads are barraged and 12 inch How[itzer]s knock hell into us all day & night, but our guns knock the Bosche to hell & back…

Well I am just going along a  —– awful road with a little river along it (the only one here) & expect to get a blighty one… Well Cheero dear old thing…

This is a strange, almost recklessly cruel letter. He makes it clear that he has blundered and may lose his job; then he emphasizes (and probably exaggerates) his nightly danger, and then he shares a presentiment that he will be… safely wounded?

So is he dramatizing in order to give his mother relief in his next letter–a sort of manipulation that both the real Henry and the fictional Phillip are very prone to–or is he glossing over something like a suicidal mood?

His diary seems to demonstrate the latter:

Artillery ominously quiet early morning… Am taking Ammunition through Miraumont tonight. Have a presentiment…

But nothing happened, last night, except for (once more?) bungling his job:

Took 16 mules thro Miraumont. Got lost. Lost 2 mules. Arrived back at 3 o’clock dead beat…

So what will he tell his mother, today, hard on the heels of a letter that hinted at dejection and a shell with his name on it?

Dear mother,

Please send me April magazines. Have seen the March ones. The mud is awful—3 mules drowned in shell craters last night, it is terrible. Men lie down in the mud & ask to be allowed to die they are so exhausted & beat, it takes one 7 hours to go 4000 yards cross country. The Ger has an 8.2 armour piercing shell here… & has already killed ½ my drivers & mules & destroyed nearly all my waggons damn him. Love William. Don’t forget 1. Sweets (caramels etc) 2. Magazines (including Motor Cycle & Motorcycling) 3. 1 pair pyjamas. 4. Sox.

It’s a day-to-day life on the line, and in Williamson’s mind.

On the back of this letter is a (terrible) poem, containing–as a representative example–the line “are you weaving dreams of glory tinged with fames effulgent glow?”[2]

Evidently, he has entirely forgotten his baleful presentiment of a day before…

His diary for today adds little—another resupply trip, tonight—but it provides one important contextual fact: the Germans are now withdrawing in this sector, too, and this event allows us to find our place in Williamson’s enormous novel. In Love and the Loveless Phillip Maddison goes forward past happy British soldiers, and is given a copy of the Corps Summary of Intelligence—“Comic Cuts” to the sardonic troops—which is quoted at length. So instead of a letter to mother, his fiction reproduces an official document… strange.

But I’m more interested, naturally speaking, in two observations which surround the quotation:

Before going to sleep, he wrote in his Charles Lett’ Self-Opening Pocket Diary and Note Book for 1917 by candle-light, Heard a chiff-chaff in Miraumont, among some willows.

He didn’t–or, that is, this is fiction, an addition to the novel that is not based on the contemporary diary or his letters home. Williamson is a strange bird, but he always was a birder and a rambler and an amateur naturalist (one thing he very much shares with Edward Thomas, so different though they otherwise are). And after he quoted intelligence report, more birds–and no more writerly subtlety:

Then through the moonless dark came the cries of flighting mallard, flying west to the peaceful marshes of the Ancre. They would be nesting soon, he thought. For birds, the spring meant love–for men, the spring offensive, and the kiss of bullets.[3]

 

Between the contortions of Williamson and the horror that is to come, let’s have a bit of nearly-fatal slapstick. In the middle of the night, a century back, Wilfred Owen “was going round through pitch darkness to see a man in a dangerous state of exhaustion.” He then “fell into a kind of well, only about 15 ft.” but hit his head “on the way down.”

I am formally obligated to leave us in some suspense as to the outcome of his tumble, but even my cleverness in omitting the first person pronoun will probably not conceal the fact that he will live to tell the tale.

 

Now to darker doings. Edwin Vaughan has been back from a course for only a few days, but already he has been nearly killed, hastily buried four men, and almost cracked up when he mistakes another man for the risen dead. Today, at least, is the last day of their tour in the front line, and it passes pleasantly enough. Almost.

…we were to be relieved at 7 p.m., a thought which made us very bright and cheerful throughout the day.

At 5 p.m., as we sat in our dugout, a message in Playfair code was handed up by a signaller. It took some time to decipher and it was 5.15 p.m. when Holmes read out the following message: ‘Our heavy artillery will bombard enemy front lines, commencing 5.20 p.m. Withdraw advanced posts.’

Of course it was impossible to withdraw our posts, which were half an hour’s crawl away…

A few minutes later, Vaughan’s section of the line is bracketed by their own guns, firing short.

…Now they rained upon us; all along the trench we could hear them falling, as we sat with fixed grins upon our faces, trembling in every limb… a louder, fierce screech swooped upon us and a terrific crash flung us in all directions and into darkness.

It felt quite pleasant to be dead…

Reader, he has not died. Coughing out a mouthful of dust, Vaughan and his comrades in the company command dugout learn that they have

had a miraculous escape, for the shell had hit the corner of the cellar and blown it in… no one had been touched except Browne–Holmes’ servant–who had been hit in the back by a flying brick.

Our guns had now ceased fire, but we could hear them receiving a few shells from the Germans. I now found that during the few seconds when I had believed myself dead, I had closed my note book, snapped round the elastic and returned the pencil to its socket.

The command dugout now prepares for their relief, and while Browne is sent to alert the NCOs nearby, Vaughan begins piling sandbags over the hole in their roof.

After a few minutes Browne returned, rather white in the face, saying that he could not find the NCO’s dugout. This was only ten yards away… Holmes guessed that Brown was shaken up by the shelling, so he laughed and said, ‘Come on then, I’ll help you to search for it, perhaps someone’s pinched it.’ And they set off together down the muddy trench.

I was just finishing off the roof, when Browne came tumbling in moaning and laughing hysterically. He stared at me screaming ‘Oh God! It is. It is.’ Then we slung him in a chair, gave him a tot of rum, and ran off down the trench to the mine shaft which had been occupied by Sergeant Phillips, Sergeant Bennett, Corporal Everett and Corporal Hollins.

They are all dead, killed by their own artillery. And my guesswork work yesterday turns out not to have been very accurate: I erred in assuming that the Corporal Bennett who was killed yesterday is the Lance-Sergeant Bennett listed in the CWGC database as being killed today. He’s not: he’s his brother.

The last task before withdrawing to reserve then, will be the exhuming and reburial of the four men.

We started at once to pull away the wreckage of the entrance, and had just come to Sergeant Phillips, when Jerry started his “blue pigeon” strafe…

As we worked down the sides, we realized (in the darkness) that the beams and sides were splashed with blood and flesh. The stench of lyddite and fresh blood was ghastly, and the foulness of our groping in the dark cannot be described. At last we could stand it no longer, and regardless of consequences, we lit a candle and commenced working by its shaded light. This evoked a showed of ‘pineapples’ and bullets which continued to fall until we had cleared the shaft.

Of Corporal Everett we found no trace; he must have been struck by the shell and blown to atoms. Bennett was badly shattered and most of his head was gone, whilst Hollins, who had been sitting with his rifle between his knees, was unrecognizable and the twisted rifle was buried in front of his body.[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary (Childhood), 168.
  2. Anne Williamson, Henry Williamson and the First World War, 93-5.
  3. Love and the Loveless, 117-8.
  4. Some Desperate Glory, 42-8. The only discrepancy between this account and the records is that it is Bennett who is missing while Everett was buried. Perhaps Vaughan and his men mistook one mangled body for another, or perhaps one identity disc was lost while another was found. I'm not sure why Corporal Bennett, who was killed yesterday, is not mentioned. I suppose there is the barest possibility that Vaughan, working back over his diary notes of a traumatic few days, made some sort of mistake and assigned the same surname to two memories, thus creating a story of two brothers killed within a day of each other. But, although I do suspect Vaughan of heavily editing his story after the fact to achieve various effects without indicating where and why he is doing so (of making a "diary" into a "memoir," that is), it seems extremely far-fetched to imagine that he would run so far away with a confusion--the story continues, tomorrow--and even more improbable that he would consciously invent something like this. It is much more sensible to assume that he is correct, and that there has been a record-keeping error at some point after Corporal Bennett's death and up through my desultory searches of the CWGC database...

Larks for the Royal Welsh; A Bit Too Much for Henry Williamson; Kate Luard in Unspeakable Mud

The Second Royal Welsh Fusiliers–so recently relieved of the services of their erstwhile commander Robert Graves and so soon to receive those of his friend Sassoon–marched into rest today, a century back. Ah for the birds:

[March 10th] Overcast and raw. Another move, Camp 13 again. There are elements of comparative comfort that were not here before, but it’s a wat’ry nest indeed that larks leave in this sodden hollow, they are the only joyous creatures in the camp…[1]

 

So much for setting the scene. More interestingly, perhaps, we can stumble back, today, into Henry Williamson‘s peculiar brand of fictionalized experience. He sent his alter ego, Phillip Maddison, out with a machine gun unit well before he himself returned to France, where despite fitting in reasonably well with the easygoing (though well-born) commander of the unit, he gets into trouble in the usual ways: sloppy work, giving offense during one of his fits of high spirits, and coming across an old nemesis who raises the specter of earlier failures (which are also rooted in Williamson’s personal experience).

But the career of Phillip Maddison has been biding its time: Williamson “backdated” some of his own experiences–including the recent tour of the July 1st battlefield–but otherwise included few dates and moved the Machine Gun Company slowly into the line. It’s only today, a century back, that personal history catches up the novel. Williamson’s diary:

Early morning intense bombardment. Bosche prisoners. Building a dugout.

And the novel, now in the midst of the volume called Love and the Loveless, the seventh of the sequence:

On the 10th there was a dawn bombardment; towards noon prisoners came back, hatless and helmetless, in loose grey uniforms and knee boots, shorn heads, some with beards and spectacles, shuffling along covered with mud, looking (except for beards, spectacles,and cropped heads) like the unemployed he remembered at home, about 1906.

(That parenthesis with its three exceptions is not, by the way, intended as a joke: it’s Williamson all over–his clunkiness, his resistance to editing [one assumes!], and most of all his determination to honor all the remnants of his memories whether they fit the moment he is writing about or not.)

Rations and ammunition that night were taken up by twelve pack mules, to a mile beyond Baillescourt farm, where stood the remains of a village of shattered walls and rubble heaps…

And here the novel seems once again to surge ahead of personal history. It seems quite possible that, what with the mud and the dark and the new positions, he might get lost each night on his missions to resupply his unit’s machine guns, so he may well have gotten lost tonight, a century back. But tonight’s incident in the novel–being led in circles by a bewildered guide, with shells falling nearby–most likely borrows from Williamson’s experience of two days in the future.

In Love and the Loveless, the unit commander–always sympathetic to Phillip despite his foibles and occasional failures–accepts his explanations with only a brief surge of exasperation:

“That’s all very well, but where the hell have you been all the time?”

Phillip returns to the rear areas, arriving in the middle of the night to find “that his shirt and tunic were soaked with sweat.”[2]

And that’s the part that doesn’t fit with his diary. There is less-than-ideal performance, to be sure, but it hinges on his either getting back quickly from the daily supply mission or sending a subordinate in his place:

Went to dinner with Canadians. All got tight.[3]

This, too, will have its sequel.

 

Finally, today, a brief, brisk “mud piece” from Kate Luard, hard at work in preparing a new CCS not far behind the Arras front:

Saturday, March 10th. The frost has broken and left us in a quagmire, but the icy blast has gone. The roads are bad enough, but our Camp is unspeakable. The original field sticks to your feet and gradually works towards your knees, and if your shoes are not anchored on by puttie straps you leave them behind…

The Sergeant-Major in his shirt sleeves with a fork and shovel had a lot of men on path-making all day, but even laying down thousands of empty tins bottom upwards makes little impression as they get trodden out of sight almost at once.[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. The War the Infantry Knew, 302.
  2. Love and the Loveless, 115-7.
  3. Anne Williamson, Henry Williamson and the First World War, 93.
  4. Unknown Warriors, 98-9.