Kate Luard in the Slough of Despond; Rest for David Jones and Waxing Madness for the Master of Belhaven; Vera Brittain is Back on the Job; Wilfred Owen is Self-Published; Francis Ledwidge Remembered

We are all over the place once again, today: living well in Scotland, miserable in the mud of the salient, and coming to war-torn France for the first time. But we’ll begin near Ypres, where the battle is now in its fifth day.

Kate Luard keeps a “diary” in the form of letters written to be circulated amongst her many family members in England, so there is a compromise in her writing between an unvarnished honesty of expression and the recognition that what she writes will leave her hands and be read by many people, perhaps with varying opinions on the conduct of the war. She tells the truth–but she seems to think carefully of how she is presenting the suffering in her hospital.

The editors of her letters, however, have also included some private letters to individual siblings, and one of these shows that even the masterfully composed Senior Sister is struggling to keep her composure amidst the horror of Third Ypres–and willing to write more frankly of it. Or perhaps it’s the other way round: the act of writing about pain and suffering and death, every day, helps Luard keep a lid on her emotions, but writing to her sister Georgina nearly punctures the seal, letting out a torrent of grief. Nearly… but she saves it, in part, with the tried-and-true Fussell maneuver of adapting the literary heritage to new circumstances as a way of staving off the overwhelming. She’s the first of our writers to use a now-indispensable literary reference–Bunyan’s “slough of despond”–to describe the mud of the current campaign.

Sat, Aug 4, 1917

William Blake, “Christian in the Slough of Despond”

Dearest G,

Yours of Tue 31st arrived today with incredible speed. Yes, it is now chiefly ubc (utter bloody chaos) of the ghastliest and in the most midwinter conditions of night and day pouring rain and sloughs of despond underfoot–inside the wards as well as out. And all the Push a washout, literally. I think I’m getting rather tired and have got to the stage of not knowing when to stop. When I do I immediately begin to cry of all the tomfool things to do! But outside my Armstrong hut one can keep smiling. It is the dirtiness & wasted effort of War that clouds one’s vision…[1]

 

Not far away, the Master of Belhaven‘s battery enters its fifth day of continuous firing. The costs mount.

We were shelled again last night… A third man in my battery had gone off his head. I have been feeling horribly ill myself all day… It is all owing to the beastly gas… I wish I could get news of Bath. I am very worried about him.[2]

Hamilton’s concern is genuine, even to his unrealistic expectations: the hospitals are overwhelmed, and when they can send information about badly wounded or dying men, they send it homewards, rather than back to the front. But I think it is a strange sort of lifeline: with his lungs attacked by gas and his duty–as he sees it–compelling him to force broken men (those overwhelmed by “shell shock” to the point of nervous breakdown) to remain under fire, he needs to feel compassion about someone, somewhere…

 

There was relief for others, however. Today also marked the turn of David Jones and the rest of the 15th Royal Welch Fusiliers to slog back from the lines to reserve billets along the crowded Yser Canal. There,

they were given chocolate and cigarettes, hot food, clean clothes, and a fresh colonel, R. H. Montgomery. Here Jones heard from the survivors of the assault…what they had endured and learned who among his acquaintances had fallen. Their experience scoured his imagination differently than if he had fully shared it… He may have experienced survivor’s guilt…[3]

He surely did–I don’t think that sensitive men who survived major assaults just because they were on the right list and their friends on the wrong one ever escaped a sense of guilt. The “bureaucratic near miss” can occasion as sense of pious exaltation when the savaged unit that one was not with is a strange one–but when it is your friends and comrades that the paper-pushers have separated you from…

At some point in the next few days Jones will sketch one of his surviving comrades (at right) “writing something” in an apparent moment of repose.

 

Speaking of writing things, the section of Pat Barker’s Toby’s Room in which we are privy to Elinor Brooke’s diary continues today. Elinor is in the English countryside near Lewes, when she hears what she first believes to be the sound of thunder. But it is the roll of the guns in Flanders, where her brother Toby is serving with the infantry.[4]

 

There is something of Vera Brittain in the fictional Elinor Brooke, and–coincidentally–today, a century back saw Brittain in Boulogne, en route from London to her first posting at a hospital in France. She had abruptly left the V.A.D. in May, coming home from Malta intending to marry and care for Victor Richardson, but Victor had died soon after and her brother Edward has been sent back to France, leaving her isolated from the suffering members of her own generation. She soon decided to try to return to nursing, but, having broken her contract, had to apply for reinstatement.

Testament of Youth shares with so many young soldier’s memoirs the general expectation that all older administrative and staff types are either cold fish bureaucrats or self-righteous hypocrites–surely her misery will not be understood by officialdom.

I was interviewed by a middle-aged woman with a grave face and an “official” manner, who sat before a desk  frowning over a folder containing my record. She motioned  me to sit down, and I told her that I wanted to join up
again.

“And why,” she asked peremptorily, “did you leave Malta?”

I trembled a little at the sharp inquiry. Breaches of contract were not, I knew, regarded with favour at Red Cross Headquarters, and were pardoned only on condition of a really good excuse. My own reason, which could not help sounding sentimental, was not, I felt certain, a “good excuse” at all. But I could think of no plausible alternative
to the simple truth, so I told it.

“I came home meaning to marry a man who was blinded at Arras,” I said, “but he died just after I got back.”

To my surprise, for I had long given up expecting humanity in officials, a mask seemed to drop from the tired face before me. I was suddenly looking into benevolent eyes dim with comprehension, and the voice that had addressed me so abruptly was very gentle when it spoke again.

“I’m so sorry. … You’ve had a sad time. Is there anywhere special you want to go?”

I hated England, I confessed, and did so want to serve abroad again, where there was heaps to do and no time to think. I had an only brother on the Western Front; was it possible to go to France?

It was, and she arrived yesterday. Today, typically, she is alone in observing the notable anniversary:

Our train next day did not leave until the afternoon, so I spent the morning in the English Church at Boulogne commemorating the Third Anniversary of the War. The Chaplain-General to the Forces, once Bishop of Pretoria,
preached to the packed congregation of officers and nurses a sermon to which I only half listened, but I paid more
attention to the prayers and the collects:

“Remember not, Lord, our offences, nor the offences of our forefathers; neither take Thou vengeance of our sins;
spare us, good Lord, spare Thy people, whom Thou hast redeemed with Thy most precious blood, and be not angry with us for ever.”

A phrase from my Pass Mods, days at Oxford slipped into my mind; I had quoted it not long ago to Edward in a
letter from Malta:

“The gods are not angry for ever. . .

It came, I thought, from the Iliad and those quiet evenings spent with my Classical tutor in reading of the battles for sorrowful Troy. How like we were to the fighters of those old wars, trusting to the irresponsible caprices of an importuned God to deliver us from blunders and barbarisms for which we only were responsible, and from which we alone could deliver ourselves and our rocking civilisation!

But I did not, at the moment, allow my thoughts to pursue the subject thus far. Dreaming in the soft light that filtered through the high, stained-glass windows, I saw the congregation as a sombre rainbow, navy-blue and khaki, scarlet and grey, and by the time that the “Last Post ” — with its final questioning note which now always seemed to me to express the soul’s ceaseless inquiry of the Unseen regarding its ultimate destiny — had sounded over us as we stood in honour of the dead who could neither protest nor complain, I was as ready for sacrifices and hardships as I had ever been in the early idealistic days. This sense of renewed resolution went with me as I stepped from the shadowed quiet of the church into the wet, noisy streets of Boulogne. The dead might lie beneath their crosses on a hundred wind-swept hillsides, but for us the difficult business of continuing the War must go on in spite of their departure; the sirens would still sound as the ships brought their drafts to the harbour, and the wind would flap the pennons on the tall mast-heads.[5]

 

Two disparate notes to close a troubling day. There was triumph, of a sort, for Wilfred Owen. He “plunked” a pile of freshly-printed copies of The Hydra “outside the Breakfast Room Door” at Craiglockhart Hospital. It’s his first gig as an editor, and he has written several short pieces for the magazine as well. He’s proud–his “ergotherapy” is going well. But this isn’t just about literary success or professional rehabilitation–it’s about class, too (it usually is). Owen is not yet aware of his famous new fellow-patient, but as this anecdote suggests, he is already excited about the magazine’s providing new social opportunities.

I have had so far one poetical contribution—from a Guards Officer—which he timidly brought up to my room with his own towering person. I was trotting around the room talking to the furniture in German at the moment; but I affected what dignity I could, and tried to look as if I had 10/6 in my pocket, and fifty more contributions on my desk…[6]

 

Lastly, today, a very different sort of note to a mother. This is from Father Devas, chaplain of the First Royal Inniskillings, to the mother of Francis Ledwidge:

4th August 1917

Dear Mrs Ledwidge

I do not know how to write to you about the death of your dear son Francis. Quite apart from his wonderful gifts, he was such a lovable boy and I was so fond of him. We had many talks together and he used to read me his poems… The evening before he died he had been to Confession. On the morning of the 31st he was present at Mass and received Holy Communion. That evening while out with a working party a shell exploded quite near to them killing seven and wounding twelve. Francis was killed at once so that he suffered no pain. I like to think that God took him before the world had been able to spoil him with its praise and he has found far greater joy and beauty than ever he would have found on earth. May God comfort you and may his Holy Mother pray for you. I shall say a Mass for Francis as soon as I can.[7]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Many thanks, as ever, to Caroline Stevens, for the text of this letter and for all her work in preserving and publishing her great aunt's legacy. See Unknown Warriors, 204-5.
  2. War Diary, 360.
  3. Dilworth, David Jones in the Great War, 164.
  4. Toby's Room, 83.
  5. Testament of Youth, 366-9.
  6. Collected Letters, 480.
  7. Curtyane, Francis Ledwidge, 189.

Siegfried Sassoon Urges Robert Graves Not to Answer; Duff Cooper Restored to Paradise; Thomas Hardy Passes on Jane Austen; Max Plowman is Soul-Sick but Accepting; Ivor Gurney on Sea Chanteys and Machine Guns; Hedd Wyn on the March

Siegfried Sassoon needs his friends. Alone in a hotel in Liverpool–where his Regiment has told him to stay while awaiting a decision about his protest–Sassoon is “in a state of mind which need not be described.”[1] Technically, that state of mind belonged to George Sherston, but Sassoon himself reached out to Robert Graves, as yet unaware that Graves is currently rigging his own medical board so that he can ride to Sassoon’s rescue. (Graves has already begun working, by letter, to thwart Sassoon’s hopes for a public showdown on the matter of the war’s conduct.)

Sunday night [15 July 1917] Exchange Hotel, Liverpool

Dearest Robert,

No doubt you are worrying about me. I came here on Friday, and walked into the Orderly Room feeling like nothing on earth, but probably looking fairly self-possessed. Found ‘Floods’ there (the C.O. away on holiday).

Of course I was prepared for the emergency (and Tony Pryce had also been told). F. was nicer than anything you could imagine, and made me feel an utter brute. But he has a kind heart. They have consulted the General, who is consulting God—or someone like that. Meanwhile I am staying at the Exchange, having sworn not to run away to the Caucasus.

Their friendship is now strained, as Sassoon must realize, for through all of Graves’s inconsistencies and caprices, he has been very proud to serve in the Royal Welch Fusiliers, and has had a hard climb toward acceptance by his fellow officers. There would be a bitter irony in this, perhaps lurking under the surface of his exasperated but loyal response: Sassoon, whose easygoing manners, social fitness (he rode and hunted), and obvious courage (Graves was brave too, but this came as a surprise to his comrades) had won him immediate popularity in the regiment, is throwing it away now, and might even harm Graves’s hard-won position through their association.

Sassoon does not guess just how much their relationship will be transformed by his protest, but he is working hard here both to connect and to reassure (himself as much as Graves). There is the note of kindness, the sharp humor (“God–or someone like that”) and, most of all, the rather touching (or artful? Surely both!) reference to Graves’s lilting, friend-besotted poem of last summer. No, their planned jaunt to foreign parts is as far away as ever–and no word on whether Sassoon has a acquired a piccolo.

Then the letter continues with a reaffirmation of purpose: it’s as if Sassoon changes his mind, mid-letter, about whether he hopes Graves will interfere–before, of course, in the final line, seeming to demand that he doesn’t.

No doubt I shall in time persuade them to be nasty about it. I don’t think they realise that my performances will soon be very well known. I hate the whole thing more than ever—and more than ever I know that I’m right, and shall never repent of it.

Things look better in Germany, but Lloyd George will probably say it’s ‘a plot’. These politicians seem incapable of behaving like human beings. Don’t answer this.

S.S.[2]

Siegfried doth protest too much. (Ha!)

It’s hard to read between the lines of century-old letters, and hard to resist the pull of ex post facto historical knowledge… but it’s still almost impossible not to see this as an indication of Sassoon’s continued willingness to have his course shaped–and now corrected–by his friends. Graves recently wondered if “S.S. will let them hush it up”–but this letter seems to be written from a just-subconscious instinct to, at the very least, entertain the motion…

 

Following in Sassoon’s turbulent wake, a hodgepodge of notes and updates. First, Max Plowman, on his own journey from trench-fighting toward anti-war activism (although in his case the pre-trench phrase was also pacifist, rather than fox hunting), writes to his friend Hugh de Selincourt.

…I have come to think the Army has had all the useful service it will ever get out of me. –I don’t quite know how it has happened–whether the biff on the head has had little or much to do with it–but I know I shall never be anymore use in the Army. I’m too tired of it–too entirely soul sick of it. And the physical weariness is merely a reflex. –I’m sorry, in a way, because I should like to have stuck it out to the bitter end & this sometimes seems to me the fruit of a kind of moral cowardice or at least vacillation[3]

Plowman, who has just had a course of conversation with Dr. Rivers, is convinced that the war is wrong and yet driven to “see it out” and to take his chances. So far so much like Sassoon. But Plowman is also willing, at this stage, to acknowledge the state of his health and he shows little interest in attempting to make a public show of his war-weariness. Just like Sassoon–except without the fashionable friends and grandiose gestures toward political poet-martyrdom. But neither is Plowman, even with the excellent medical care and his own steady good sense, able to shake the feeling that to be worn down and finished with war is a kind of defeat…

 

In a lighter vein, it would appear that one of the war’s lesser-known casualties was a Thomas Hardy essay on Jane Austen:

July 15, 1917

Dear Symons:

I am sorry to tell you that some jobs other than literary that I have in hand prevent my writing anything about Jane Austen, even if I could add to the good things that have been said about her by so many. However you can do well enough without me…

Sincerely yours,

Ths Hardy[4]

 

And Ivor Gurney, writing once again to Marion Scott, has music on his mind even though his mood is not as high as it usually is when he discusses his first artistic love. Today, a century back, he answers her request for a melody.

My Dear Friend:

…I am sorry you are sick again, but hope this will be the final lookback and a short one, on your journey toward health…

Tomorrow “The Old Bold Mate” will come to you. It has been a grind to write it, please excuse the writing so scrappy and obviously hurried. The whole thing was more distasteful to me as it might have been the writing of something I loved, and even then I find it hard to settle all the details, which is the real meaning of setting stuff on
paper.

A grind to write it out for Scott, perhaps–and there is something in Gurney’s tone which suggest that it is not the song but rather his spirits which are difficult to conquer–but the song itself was written long ago. Early in his time in the Gloucesters, Gurney had composed a melody for a short lyric of John Masefield’s (properly known as “Captain Stratton’s Fancy”). Even now, a century back, Gurney’s air is being sung in German prisoner of war camps, the tune taught to his fellow inmates by Will Harvey. It’s a lighthearted song, a latter-day sea chantey good for male fellowship and the clouding over of present tedium with imagined adventure. But like all good songs of high-living, it’s not without its regrets: the penultimate line of Masefield’s poem is “So I’m for drinking honestly, and dying in my boots.”

But this is one of those days where we can watch mood and melody change almost in “real time.” Gurney’s luck changes in a matter of minutes, and he picks up his pen once again:

My Dear Friend: They have attached me but 5 minutes agone to 184 MGC; that’s my address for a bit, probably permanently, unless I turn out a dud.

This is a far, far better thing than I have ev — er done, and when one thinks of the Winter . . . .

True, it is a pity to lose so many good friends, but I console myself by thinking how many of those would have jumped at the chance. Thank you for the papers, very much:

Your sincere friend Ivor Gurney

The hope, here, is that the work in the Machine Gun Company will be lighter–and survivable. Gurney will elaborate, soon, explaining that a machine-gun crewman is “better fed… does not do fatigues… usually gets a dug out in Winter; does not go into the front posts… as I have said or hinted, [the Machine Gun Corps] is a safer service, on the whole.”[5]

 

Which should remind us that sensations of comfort and discomfort are as relative as anything else in human history.

No sooner has Duff Cooper recounted his daily travails as a cadet–all that drill and army food hardly leaves a fellow with the energy to play tennis of an afternoon!–then he receives yet another leave. Having hied himself to London without delay, Cooper gets to spend today, a century back, amidst luxury and comfort, love and beauty.

Oh the joy of waking in soft sheets and turning over to sleep again. At 9:30 I was called with tea and toast, at 10 a man came to cut my hair and shave me after which I returned to bed and book. These details, once the regular routine of my life, now seem rich luxuries and noteworthy. I got up slowly and had finished by half past 12 very soon after which Diana came to me, fresh and lovely as the morning which just before her arrival has been freshened and cleaned by a short, sharp storm with thunder…[6]

 

And today, a century back, Hedd Wyn and the 15th R.W.F. left Fléchin, France and marched toward Flanders, where they will receive advanced assault training in camps closer to the front lines.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Complete Memoirs, 505.
  2. Diaries, 181.
  3. Bridge into the Future, 68-69.
  4. Collected Letters, V, 221.
  5. War Letters, 175-7.
  6. Diaries, 56-7.

Robert Graves on Siegfried Sassoon’s Protest; A Day in the Life of Duff Cooper; Francis Ledwidge Begs a Bog-Flower; Alfred Hale’s Post-Box Dismay

It was today, a century back, that Siegfried Sassoon received a telegram ordering him to report to the Royal Welch Depot at Litherland, near Liverpool. Meanwhile, his friends conspire to knock him off his tentatively-pursued course toward political martyrdom. Robert Graves, now moving to escape his pleasant confinement on the Isle of Wight, wrote to Eddie Marsh:

12 July 1917
(In bed, 12 midnight)

My dear Eddie

What an excellent and sensible letter!

About Sassoon first. It’s an awful thing–completely mad–that he’s done. Such rotten luck on you and me and his friends, especially in the Regiment. They all think he’s mad: and they’d be prepared to hush it up if the Army Council don’t get to hear of the bomb shop incident, but I don’t think S.S. will let them hush it up.

Graves is never shy of speaking ill of his friends in letters to mutual friends, nor of foregrounding his own self-pity, but despite these words he is committed to saving his friend what he justifiably believes to be an action both futile and embarrassing. For once Graves’s penchant for unreflective action will provide the results he desires.

The ‘bomb shop,’ by the way is a pacifist bookshop in London now selling Sassoon’s statement in pamphlet form. But it has yet–I believe–to be widely disseminated, hence Graves’s hopes of nipping the protest in the bud.

I don’t know what on earth to do now. I’m not going to quarrel with Sassons… I think he’s quite right in his views but absolutely wrong in his action… I’m a sound militarist in action however much of a pacifist in thought. In theory the War ought to stop tomorrow if not sooner. Actually we’ll have to go on while a rat or a dog remains to be enlisted…[1]

I only wish I’d known about S.S. in time: it would never have happened if I’d been there but I’ve not seen him since January…[2]

This, again, is both self-dramatizing on Graves’s part and highly likely (never mind the fact that the ridiculous “militarist in action/pacifist in thought” statement is no improvement on Sassoon’s quandary). When Sassoon is with his hunting friends, he hunts, and thinks little of politics or poetry. When he is with poets, he writes, and when he is with soldiers he fights. Alone, dispirited, and seeing little of his officer-peers and much of the older, socially and/or intellectually impressive pacifists, he has written a tract.

 

It is very much 1917, now. But not for everyone. How does the war look from the point of view of a new officer cadet? Duff Cooper takes pains today to record for posterity an ordinary day in the life:

This was really my first normal day here and as the others will probably be similar I will describe it. I got up at a quarter to six, before reveille and before anyone else in my room. Had a cold plunge, washed, shaved, and dressed. Breakfast roll call parade at five minutes to seven. Then breakfast and time after it to enjoy a swift cigar and a glance at The Times. Parade at 8.30–physical training which is very exhausting. Then a lecture, then more drill and musketry instruction. Lunch at 12:30. It amuses me at about 11:00 when the day seems half over to remember myself a little while ago sauntering down to the Foreign Office at this hour to begin my work–but it saddens me in the evening at about 8.30 when my beastly dinner is finished and there is nothing more to do, to think how at this hour in London I should be setting forth upon an evening’s pleasure.

Sure, but it ain’t exactly the trenches.

To go on with my day–lunch at 12.30, a cup of coffee in the canteen afterwards to take away the taste of lunch. Then at 1.45 the most exhausting and unpleasant parade of the day under the broiling sun–company drill. Then lectures… Just time after tennis to write to Diana before the post goes and to have a hot bath before dinner. The evenings are the times I feel depressed and long for good food and wine and pleasure and beautiful women…[3]

Ingenuous Duff! Yes, drill in the hot sun sounds unpleasant. And perhaps a cigar and the paper, and two baths, and three meals (however substandard) are all not much to crow about… but tennis! It seems like an invitation to mock the travails of officer cadets. It’s not–it’s an honest man’s diary… but still. There is no regimen of truly bad food and agonizingly hard drill that leaves men choosing to play tennis at the end of the day…

 

And then there’s that lost life of food, wine, and that one woman. But it’s only been about three weeks since Cooper saw Diana Manning.

For Francis Ledwidge, it has been about two years since the love of his life, Ellie Vaughey, died. “His” Ellie had already spurned him to marry another–an act which may have contributed to his decision to enlist–but her death shortly thereafter somehow brought the loss home to Ledwidge, causing him to break off a blooming new relationship with Lizzie Healy. So it has been two years, more or less, for the poet without much thought of love.

Today, a century back, after a long silence, Ledwidge decided to write to Lizzie again. Is it because hope is in his heart this summer, or is it because battle looms again? A foolish question… soldiers’ minds rarely believe in separating the two strains of feeling…

You will be surprised to hear from me again after a silence neatly three years long. The reason I write is because I have been dreaming about you and it has made me rather anxious. I sincerely hope that nothing troubles you in body or soul.

It must be quite beautiful on the bog now. How happy you are to be living in peace and quietude where birds still sing and the country wears her confirmation dress. Out here the land is broken up by shells and the woods are like skeletons and when you come to a little town it is only to find poor homeless people lamenting over what was once a cheery home. As I write this a big battle is raging on my left hand and if it extends to this part of the line I will be pulling triggers like a man gone mad.

Please, dear Lizzie, send me a flower from the bog, plucked specially for me. I may be home again soon. In fact I am only waiting to be called home. God send it soon.[4]

 

And finally, today–although I suspect that my fascination with Alfred Hale is not shared by many readers–one amazing little detail that adds a quirky grace note to today’s tales of a privileged, disgruntled early volunteer, a privileged latecomer to the military life, and a working-class soldier long in the ranks.

Hale is a man in his forties, belatedly conscripted and now very belatedly hoping to be rescued from the ranks by means of an unlikely special commission.

How? Well, he hopes his parents will obtain one for him.

From whom? The chief of the boy scouts, naturally:

12 July: Letter from my mother. Sir Robert Baden-Powell had taken no notice of appeal for help from my father in getting me a commission. How I watched the post every day just then…[5]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. This letter also mentions the "worst possible news about my friend Peter." This would Peter Johnstone, with whom Graves was--or had been--infatuated at Charterhouse. Unintentionally or not, Graves muddies the waters with his account of the incident in Good-Bye to All That, seeming to conflate a 1915 revelation about Peter's alleged homosexual activity with today's bad news that he had been charged with soliciting a soldier. Being a well-connected young man--the grandson of an Earl--Johnstone was remanded to a doctor's care rather than to prison. On which more later...
  2. In Broken Images, 77-8. See also R.P. Graves, Robert Graves, The Assault Heroic, 177-9.
  3. Diaries, 56-7.
  4. Curtayne, Francis Ledwidge, 184-5.
  5. The Ordeal of Alfred Hale, 96.

Duff Cooper Adores Amidst the Intolerable; Robert Graves Learns of Siegfried Sassoon’s Protest and Leaps into Action

Just two brief updates, today, a century back. First, Duff Cooper, miserable cadet but happy man is back in camp. So far, at least, the happiness which came to him in a sort of romantic-religious epiphany is holding, sustained by infusions of glory from the divine object of his affections…

July 9, 1917

I slept badly last night as the beds are really intolerable but I was and remain happy. I have already had three letters from Diana, almost in the form of a diary like Swift’s to Stella, telling me all she has done since I left, and all full of love, wit and strangely enough wisdom, most beautiful documents which even at this distance increase my adoration of her.[1]

 

And in today’s episode of learning-about-Siegfried-Sassoon‘s protest, the main contestant is Robert Graves. Sassoon hinted at the coming protest in a letter Graves received at the end of June. But although the word is going out to many friends-of-Siegfried, he will not in fact mail a copy of the published protest until tomorrow. But Robbie Ross is in the know, and through him Robert Graves found out today, a century back.

His response was swift–impulsive, perhaps, but also focused and practical.

It’s awful about Siegfried: and he did it without consulting his friends or saying anything about it to anyone sane. In strict confidence, I may tell you that as soon as I heard I wrote to the dear old Senior Major at Litherland imploring him not to let the Colonel take S. seriously but to give him a special medical board and more convalescent home till I can get an opportunity for getting hold of him to stop him disgracing himself, his regiment and especially his friends.[2]

Self-interest, friendship, and esprit de corps, all acting in concert–at least in Graves’s view.

Also starring in today’s episode, back in London, is Ross himself. Now dealing with various petitioners after spreading the word, he is also dealing with the rueful–or, at least, playfully contrite–Sassoon, who wrote today asking “have you recovered from the shock, dear Robbie?”

Probably; he, too, will be involved in taking measures to protect Sassoon. And it was sometime around today that Ross received a visit from Herbert Farjeon–himself a conscientious objector–to discuss Sassoon’s situation. Farjeon is involved because he is the husband of Sassoon’s cousin Joan Thornycroft, and therefore Hamo Thornycroft’s son-in-law (and so also a stone’s throw from Thomas Hardy, as it were). And, of course, he is Eleanor Farjeon’s dear brother Bertie. That time at the ballet seems very long ago indeed, doesn’t it?

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 56.
  2. Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 382.

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.

Olaf Stapledon Has a Friend Who Won’t be Spared; Edward Brittain’s Unhappy Landing; Wilfred Owen’s Nerves Qualify for Treatment

We don’t often hear from Agnes Miller, who stands at the other end of the experiential gulf–not to mention two oceans–from Olaf Stapledon. But she seems to be a worthy young woman, and he a fortunate young man.

I have had two more letters from you today… & oh such letters! the 21st & 29th April. How thankful indeed I am that you are safe out of that dreadful battered village… I am so glad you tell me things, dear. They stir me up & make me stern & quiet & wild & envious, but I would not be kept in a glass case & have you tell me like most boys would, “The old Bosche made us sit up the other day for a few hours but it’s all over now etc.”

I want to see with you & feel with you (as much as I can). I’m your friend, your mate, your wife…  don’t spare me… I don’t want to be spared….[1]

 

Reading a letter like that must remind us of Vera Brittain and Roland Leighton, and what they had. But Roland is long dead, now, and she and her brother have lost the other two young men who meant most to them. When Edward Brittain returned to France nearly a year after his wounding on the Somme, she couldn’t bring herself to see him off at the station. And indeed, his return to active service will begin with the quotidian frustration familiar to veterans, and not the high drama of the innocent’s first immersion.

France, 25 June 1917

My valise is still lost but I thought I had better come on here yesterday so I left Boulogne about midday. As I have for the moment got a good servant I am quite alright as he was able to get me some blankets without any fleas and I managed to borrow a towel and such other things as I lack from other officers. That valise is an absolute mystery…

Then, later today, worse news:

Owing apparently to some foolish mistake of the War Office I am going to be sent to the 2nd Bn. instead of the 11th.

Toujours
Edward[2]

No valise and no friends or familiar men–comforts will be thin, this time out.

 

Also today, a century back, in a movement that seems to counterbalance Edward Brittain’s in several symbolic ways, Wilfred Owen at long last went before a Medical Board. The board drew no strong conclusions but sketched a character that will seem, if perhaps a little presumptuous given an acquaintance of minutes, not far wrong: “little abnormality to be observed but he seems to be of a highly strung temperament.”

With considerable wisdom, it would seem, the Board–which must conclude one way or the other about the legitimacy of his post-concussion symptoms–erred on the side of safety and therapeutic possibility. Owen was sent immediately to Craiglockahart hospital, near Edinburgh, which specialized in treating officers with “war neuroses.” While certainly relieved to have his condition given official medical recognition, Owen was initially quite annoyed that he was ordered to Scotland without any home leave. He made the best of it by stopping in London to see the Royal Academy Summer Exhibition and then caught the night train to Edinburgh, for whatever might await him in the North…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Talking Across the World, 231-2.
  2. Letters From a Lost Generation, 361.
  3. Hibberd, Wilfred Owen, 250.

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.

Scott Moncrieff Returns to London; Alfred Hale Endures Parental Bluster; Wyn Griffith in Red Tabs with Royalty; Vera Brittain on “The Profound Freemasonry” of Those Dead Beyond the Gulf

Today, a century back, we have rather a potpourri of four updates–and none are from the trenches.

First, we witness Charles Scott Moncrieff, now back in London, returning to a familiar literary orbit.

14th June

. . . Broadway (a brother officer here) is very good and faithful to me. He comes down after breakfast in a dressing gown and again (for messages) before he goes out. He has got me this writing pad. Colin came this afternoon and brought a great armful of roses. . . . My friend Robert Ross was in before Colin—fresh from a week-end with the Asquiths—and gave me a novel and a promise of all the latest poetry and other books. I was glad to see him as I wanted an expert’s eye cast on the portraits in this room. . . . I expect a good many brother officers this week. Broadway finds them. He is more obliging than words can say. This place is doing me a lot of good and I feel better already. Our surgeon is like the young villain in Hardy’s Laodicean—he looks about 14 but is very able…[1]

Reading Hardy, depending on Ross’s taste, Asquiths at arm’s reach… and, though he doesn’t mention it in this letter, he is also being regularly visited by Ronald Knox. It’s a small world… which I believe I’ve noted before.

 

While Moncrieff is returning from the war seriously wounded, Alfred Hale is slowly headed toward France. So slowly that he is still in the adjusting-to-training-camp stage. And it turns out that even our Old Man of the Air Force has parents. Hale may live a solitary life of privilege–before conscription that is–and see camp as an ordeal rather than an adventure, but he’s only 41… and he still has parents who write him their worries, reminding us that the generational gulf is, in terms of years on this earth, relative, and not absolute…

14 June: A letter from my father. A cousin had come to see him on Draft leave. He seemed to be bored with the War, especially with the prospect of death before his time from bullets or exposure… all of which surprised and shocked my father. ‘It didn’t matter how long the War lasted, but we must have a military victory at all costs’. (This last the burden of all letters from home)…

Hale senior also tells his son that at least his work as a batman is “setting free an abler man.” But Hale isn’t so sure. “Was I really doing that? Unfortunately, I much doubted it…” Nor is Hale accepting the idea that his music “must gain” from experience. He is fairly certain, in fact, that innocence of certain things is highly preferable…[2]

 

Llewelyn Wyn Griffith has recovered, to some extent, from the overwhelming disillusionment and horror at the murderousness of war that he felt after the death of his brother. Or perhaps he has just become more practical… and honest in his balance of emotional reaction and natural self-interest. In any event, he was very happy to be reassigned to the divisional staff a few days ago, replacing a wounded officer in an intelligence job running “an advanced information centre.” Griffith puts on his red tabs “with delight… I felt proud and important in red. Besides, I would be drawing pay at the rate of £400 a year, a tremendous jump for me.” And today, a century back, his elevated status put him in the way of royalty:

… the King and the Prince of Wales visited the headquarters on 14 June. The King shook hands with all the senior members of the corps and divisional staffs…[3]

 

A wounded young man of letters returning to the literary world, a middle-aged musician learning further humiliations, and a one-time trench fighter content to be on the staff. The war brings many changes–until the changes stop.

Vera Brittain comes to the end of the road, today, with Victor Richardson.

Five days after [his death] Victor was buried at Hove. No place on earth could have been more ironically inappropriate for a military funeral than that secure, residential town, I reflected, as I listened with rebellious anger to the calm voice of the local clergyman intoning the prayers: “Grant, we beseech Thee, O Lord, Thine Eternal Rest to all those who have died for their country…”

Eternal Rest, I reflected, had been the last thing that Victor wanted; he had told me so himself. But if, thus prematurely, he had to take it, how much I wished that fate had allowed him to lie, with other winners of the Military Cross, in one of the simple graveyards of France. I felt relieved, as I listened to the plaintive sobbing of the “Last Post” rising incongruously from amid the conventional civilian tombstones, that Edward had not been able to come to the funeral. The uncomprehending remoteness of England from the tragic, profound freemasonry of those who accepted death together overseas would have intensified beyond endurance the incommunicable grief which had thrust us apart.

But when, back in Kensington, I re-read the letter that he had written in reply to mine telling him of Victor’s death, I knew that he had never really changed towards me, and that each of us represented to the other such consolation as the future still held.

Vera then gives her brother the final words of the present chapter of her memoir, ending Edward’s fervent assurance of true brotherly love

I suppose it is better to have had such splendid friends as those three were rather than not to have had any particular friends at all, but yet, now that all are gone, it seems that whatever was of value in life has all tumbled down like a house of cards. Yet in Tah’s case I will not, I cannot say that I wished from the bottom of my heart that he should live…

Yes, I do say ‘Thank God he didn’t have to live it.’ We started alone, dear child, and here we are alone again… But we share a memory which is worth all the rest of the world, and the sun of that memory never sets. And you know that I love you, that I would do anything in the world in my power if you should ask it, and that I am your servant as well as your brother.

Edward[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Diaries, 135-6.
  2. The Ordeal of Alfred Hale, 95.
  3. Up to Mametz and Beyond, 153.
  4. Testament of Youth, 359-61.

Edward Brittain on Victor Richardson, and What Remains; Ivor Gurney on Food and Fatalism; Patrick Shaw Stewart Lolls and Reads

First, today, a letter from Edward Brittain to his sister Vera, his first to her since the death of Victor Richardson. There is something still clinging to this letter of the Romantic idealism that has always marked this group of friends–but not much. Edward is not in a mood to be sentimental about cruel wounds, or to fool himself about pain.

Roker, Sunderland, 11 June 1917

Dearest Vera —

I suppose it is better to have had such splendid friends as those three were rather than not to have had any particular friends at all, but yet, now that all are gone it seems that whatever was of value in life has all tumbled down like a house of cards. Yet in Tah’s case I will not, I cannot say that I wished from the bottom of my heart that he should live; I have a horror of blindness, and if I were blinded myself I think I should wish to die. The idea of long years without the light of the sun and the glory of its setting and without the immortal lamp of life is so abhorrent to me — and the thought of that has been hanging over me these 2 months — that I cannot altogether deplore the opening of the gates of eternal rest to that Unconquerable Soul, although I loved him in a way that few men can love one another. I am so very glad that you were near and saw him so nearly at the end; in a way too I am glad not to have been there; it is good to remember the cheerfulness with which he faced the living of a new life fettered by the greatest misfortune known to men.

Yes, I do say Thank God he didn’t have to live it. We started alone, dear child, and here we are alone again: you find me changed, I expect, more than I find you; that is perhaps the way of Life. But we share a memory which is worth all the rest of the world, and the sun of that memory never sets. And you know that I love you, that I would do anything in the world in my power if you should ask it, and that I am your servant as well as your brother

Edward[1]

 

So life goes on, even if there is nothing but love to get down behind in the mud and push.

Ivor Gurney, today, is thinking of life–and food… and poetry… and food again… and ends.

11 June 1917

My Dear Friend: Out of the line once more, but for once, not hungry, for the Lord and the ASC have been kind to us, and liberal gentlemen have bestowed cake upon me…

Yes, the College Mag. and the TLS have arrived. I am sorry I forgot to thank you. If there are any complementary copies please send them to Mrs Chapman and Mrs Hunt…

Today there are orgies of cleaning, and men brush and polish frantically at brass and leather. The weather is beautiful, and there is plenty of water to wash with, so we are not unhappy. Also there is plenty to eat…

Gurney is writing to Marion Scott, of course, and he includes several rondels in a similarly light-hearted vein. But see the last lines–light-heartedness is a passing mood, in the trenches, and never the note of resolution.

Rondels

1. Letters

“Mail’s up”! the vast of night is over
And love of friends fills all one’s mind
(His wife, his sister, or his lover.)
Mail’s up, the vast of night is over.
The grey-faced heaven Joy does cover
With love, and God once more seems kind.
“Mail’s up”! The vast of night is over
And love of friends fills all one’s mind.

2. Shortage

God God! No Jam! No Bread!!
No Butter!!!
Whatever are we coming to?
O desolation, anguish utter —
Good God! No jam, no bread, no butter.
I hear the brutal soldiers mutter.
And strong men weep as children do.
Good God! No jam, no bread,
No butter!
Whatever are we coming to?

3. Paean

There’s half a loaf per man today?
O Sergeant, is it really true?
Now biscuits can be given away.
There’s half a loaf per man today;
And Peace is ever so near they say.
With tons of grub and nothing to do.
There’s Half a Loaf Per Man today!
O Sergeant is it Really True?

4. Strafe (1)

I strafe my shirt most regularly.
And frighten all the population.
Wonderful is my strategy!
I strafe my shirt most regularly;
(It sounds like distant musketry.)
And still I itch like red damnation!
I strafe my shirt most regularly
And — frighten all the population………….

5. Strafe (2)

The “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute.
We crouch and wait the end of it, — or us
Just behind the trench, before, and in it.
The “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute;
(O Framilode! O Maisemore’s laughing linnet!)
Here comes a monster like a motor bus.
The “crumps” are falling twenty to the minute;
We crouch and wait the end of it — or us

I wonder if the proofs are with Sidgwick and Jackson yet. That will interest me, and also (when the time comes) to know what Gloucester people think. Last night I read some to a friend of mine, and was surprised to find how little I cared for them, and how remote they seemed. As for Spring 1917, it is as I thought long dull, and unvaried…

With best wishes; Yours sincerely Ivor Gurney[2]

 

Finally, today, an update from Patrick Shaw Stewart, now with the Royal Naval Division in France. It’s a discursive letter, and I’ll make some cuts to get us to the good parts… who could he be reading, now that he’s reached the Western Front at last?

…The battery commander is out, so I am lying flat on my tummy in the grass outside his habitat in the amiable sun, waiting till he comes in; one of the pleasanter phases of war. When I have written to you, and X, and Y, and Z, I will
go on with Tom Jones, which I am in the middle of and which is far and away the best book I ever read. Messrs Meredith and James are simply silly beside it, and as for the Victorians ——–. I got through Sense and Sensibility the other day, by the way, not bad, but not half as good as Pride and Prejudice, or Emma.

I did tell you about our time up the line? It was quite agreeable, good weather (though a lot of mud), and a quiet time, very few casualties. I had rather luck having a chain of posts very much advanced in a rather well-known place, so far advanced as to be clear of mud and also clear of shelling. The only trial was that I hardly got a wink of sleep—one has to re-acquire the habit of sleeping in a sitting-position on a petrol tin in the later half of the morning…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Letters From a Lost Generation, 355.
  2. War Letters, 168-70.
  3. Knox, Patrick Shaw-Stewart, 198-99.