Siegfried Sassoon Paints the Emerald Isle; Rowland Feilding Admires the French

A quiet day today, with only two writers to hear from. First, Rowland Feilding describes life “on a course.” He is an experienced senior officer, so he is sent now to learn not from elderly “dug-outs” or fulminating drill sergeants, but from the French, who are still the senior ally when it comes to land warfare. Feilding is no fool, and instead of rivalry or mild prejudice we get frank admiration for the seriousness and professionalism of the French. They are war-weary too, but with the Germans occupying French territory, there is no lack of clarity about war aims.

February 8, 1918.

Cours Supérieure d’Infanterie, Secteur 220, Vadenay.

It is like being at school again. We go to the lecture room at 8.30, or earlier, each morning, and are lectured to—in French, of course—for 3 1/2 hours, or more! Will you believe me when I tell you that I have sat through 4 1/2 hours of it to-day? In the afternoons we are motored to see different Army Schools, etc.

I am much struck with the thoroughness and efficiency of these Frenchmen, and the serious way—in contrast to ours—that they go about the war. I wonder if they overdo it. And the voluminous literature that is handed to us here to digest almost throws our army (which I have always thought held the record in this particular) into the shade. But it is an interesting and valuable experience, and I am being most hospitably treated, and am already getting into the French ways of eating and living.

The Commandant—Major Lemaire—is a very animated Frenchman of great personality, though small in stature;—a devotee to his profession and to France! He is so full of energy that he seems to be on springs…

Though between his lectures and sometimes during them he laughs and jokes almost incessantly, he has his troubles, and these are serious. For all his property and that of his wife is in the northern part of France, which has been devastated by the enemy so that he has only his pay–600 francs a month, out of which he supports himself and his wife, and her parents, and, I believe his own as well! He was in the trenches till a month ago and was severely wounded in the chest at Douaumont (Verdun). Hence his presence here. As he said to me when I first came, “I am no embusqué,”[1] and threw open his chest to show me the wound as he said it.

The one discomfort is the cold, since this is a woodless and coalless country, and one cannot get a fire very often. The French do not seem to mind, or else have got “habitué” (as they say) to this kind of hardship. Gardner and I have not, and we slink back from our evening walks with any old end of timber we can find, discarded from the Back Area defences, to warm our frigid billet. Saturday afternoons and Sundays are kept for “repos” and all are heartily glad of it…[2]

 

And Siegfried Sassoon, his bags packed (or, at least, his book list assembled), had the last hunt of his Irish idyll. It was a good enough hunt, it seems, but the main literary opportunity was to wax rhapsodic (to his diary) about the glories of the scenery. Sassoon really does landscape well…

…we scrambled about over walls and rough places… The country all round looked beautiful–shining with water and grey villages, and white cottages, and the green fields, and soft, hazy, transparent hills on the horizon–sometimes deep blue, sometimes silver-grey.

And that was that: luncheon with friends, a farewell to Limerick, an afternoon train to Dublin, then an overnight ship to London.

There is a long chapter in the Memoirs detailing the characters and scenery of this fox hunting interlude from the point of view of “George Sherston,” and it borrows from the diary (not least the above passage) but not for the purposes of expanding on “Sherston’s” inner life. It’s a chapter more in the manner of Surtees than Barbusse, to use two of yesterday’s touchstones. At the end of the chapter, we learn that Sherston/Sassoon made the Dublin train with “30 seconds to spare…” and then the book hops over his leave to begin again at the end of the next journey…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. I.e., malingering, or serving as a R.E.M.F.; he wouldn't be in such a safe job if weren't recovering from a wound.
  2. War Letters to a Wife, 250-1.
  3. Diaries, 210-11; Complete Memoirs, 584.

Olaf Stapledon on Elizabethan and Future Man; Rowland Feilding on the Offensive Spirit

The linking theme for today would seem to be high and mighty personages and their curious effects on the war at ground level. For Olaf Stapledon of the Friends Ambulance Unit, a mere general is the cause of a stir, as protocol and sartorial disreputability create embarrassment. But then–just after we had to throw up our hands in dismay over his foolish approval of (very early) Bolshevik policy–he spins a much more accurate and interesting query at the future.

On our run yesterday, in the midst of our breathless career, we met a real live general walking with a friend. His gorgeous hat flashed in the sun, and he was all splendid in blue & red & gold… The meeting of a general, all ornate with his golden oak leaves, is quite an event in this our reposeful life, & to be caught with no hats, bare legs and very ragged shirts, is as if you were to be caught in the city with your hair down, though alas in your case the vision would be charming & in ours it was merely disreputable. There is absolutely no other news at all to tell you except that they read “Henry V” aloud while I was lying on the bed of sickness [from dysentery]. I listened in great comfort and seclusion while Renard as Henry stirred all our hearts with mighty speeches. It was very interesting to compare it all with things of today. One dare almost prophesy that there is less difference between men’s minds in Elizabeth’s reign & men’s minds today than there will be between men’s minds today & men’s minds a hundred years hence. . .[1]

A hundred years hence, quotha? A good question! But I’m not so sure. Ready Henry V, well, good God, I hope so. But Stapledon the dreamer should think more of the Tempest, perhaps, and there I think we–and the Elizabethans–might have him…

 

And in France, it is Rowland Feilding and the perennial question–well, it’s the Fourth Annual Question, at least–of how exactly the Kaiser’s birthday will be observed. A pleasant disappointment leads Feilding into a more interesting discussion of a question that is well worth revisiting. It’s 1918, and the last year was a bad one for the allies (see the Bolsheviks, above). It is expected that Germany will try to win the war with a Spring Offensive. So what of the war of attrition, and the old arguments for the positive moral effects of constant, low-level murderousness instead of a more careful husbanding of lives?

January 27, 1918 (Sunday). Ronssoy.

To-day is the Kaiser’s birthday, and we half expected that things might happen, but there has been a thick fog, and all has been as silent as can be. I am afraid the troops are not so sorry as they ought to be.

“Am I offensive enough?” is one of the questions laid down in a pamphlet that reaches us from an Army School some 30 miles behind the line. It is for the subaltern to ask himself each morning as he rises from his bed.

Most laudable I But, as the Lewis Gun Officer remarked to-day, it is one of the paradoxes of war that the further you get from the battle line the more “offensive” are the people you meet!

The Brigadier called to-day just as I was finishing lunch, and I had a walk with him. He said he had sent in my name for three weeks’ attachment to the French Battalion Commanders’ School at Vadenay, near Châlons-sur-Marne,
which will be an interesting change—if it comes off.

The battalion is getting very weak, and something will have to be done before long.[2]

Feilding, again, is one of our most balanced voices–regular and reservist, field officer and now battalion commander, from an old army family but a sympathetic commander of volunteers and conscripts. And when with nothing more than a sigh he signs on to the idea that the exhortations coming up from the staff is ridiculously out of touch, we should conclude that the gap between the fighting units and the generals commanding them is growing ever wider… and that something will have to be done before long.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Talking Across the World, 275.
  2. War Letters to a Wife, 248-9.

Horseplay with Alf Pollard; Reading and Reflection with Vera Brittain, Olaf Stapledon, Cynthia Asquith, and Edmund Blunden; Wilfred Owen Goes Out a Poet; Thomas Hardy in the Moon’s Bright Disbelief

The last day of the year, with its predictable subjects of reflection and memorable rituals, is often described even in otherwise sparsely dated accounts. So we’ve got a lot of material, and will check in today with not only most of our remaining regulars but also a half-forgotten figure or two.

One of the latter is Alf Pollard, V.C., now spared further death-defying heroics in the front line. His tale of the year’s end foreshadows important developments on the Western Front. He has been assigned to teach at a Lewis Gun school, and without the Lewis gun, a mobile light machine gun, it is extremely difficult for infantry to sustain their own advance. Moreover, many of his students are particularly innocent, fresh, and eager for the fray:

There were nineteen Americans altogether in the school. They were all picked officers who had been sent on ahead of their army to learn as much as possible about British methods. They were a quiet, studious crowd, more like a party of bank inspectors than soldiers…

Of course they had their legs pulled unmercifully…

I was guilty of organising a rag against them on New Year’s Eve… According to custom we British had a merry party to see the old year out. The Americans on the other hand carried on with their studies all the evening and retired to bed as usual at ten o’clock.. It seemed to me that they might at least have thrown aside the dignity of being the advanced guard of the American Army for one night…

Close on one o’clock in the morning, I and three other fellows entered quietly by one door.[1]

Ah, but that’s next year, already. And that’s the sort of tale told by a man who was never deeply troubled by the violence of the war. Pollard is both psychologically suited to fighting, and more or less immune to doubt. Which does not make him less honest than more sensitive writers: many men–especially men who are not at the front and not likely to see it anytime soon–spent New Year’s Eve in a spirit of holiday horseplay, deliberately forgetful of other things. Others, no less honest, will nevertheless feel constrained to write something in a mood of solemn reckoning.

 

Edmund Blunden has been sustained through his long and relatively scatheless service by his feelings of fellowship with his battalion. But he is away from the old battalion as much as he is with it now, and this signaling course seems both endless and pointless… but it does allow Blunden, even without being on an active front, to close the year with one of its characteristic sights: the mute messages of signal flares, playing over a background noise of ordnance.

I began to be careless whether I was in the line or out of it; nothing seemed to signify except the day’s meals, and those were still substantial, despite the lean supplies of the people at home. The price of all luxuries in the shops was rising fast, but still one could manage it; why trouble about getting back to the battalion? This was the general spirit, and we did not lament when the course was lengthened and the year ended with us waving flags in unison in the snow, or rapping out ludicrous messages to the instructors’ satisfaction, or listening to muddled addresses on alternating current.

At the moment of midnight, December 31, 1917, I stood with some acquaintances in a camp finely overlooking the whole Ypres battlefield. It was bitterly cold, and the deep snow all round lay frozen. We drank healths, and stared out across the snowy miles to the line of casual flares, still rising and floating and dropping. Their writing on the night was as the earliest scribbling of children, meaningless; they answered none of the questions with which a watcher’s eyes were painfully wide. Midnight; successions of coloured lights from one point, of white ones from another, bullying salutes of guns in brief bombardment, crackling of machine guns small on the tingling air; but all round the sole answer to unspoken but importunate questions was the line of lights in much the same relation to Flanders as at midnight a year before. The year 1918 did not look promising at its birth.[2]

 

For the Asquiths, the old year ended with a pleasant surprise–an unexpected leave for Herbert Asquith (“Beb,” to his wife). Whether for convenience or out of courtesy–or a certain delicacy–Herbert had telegraphed ahead on the 27th to let her know that he was on his way. Not coincidentally, perhaps, Bernard Freyberg, a constant presence in Cynthia’s diary for weeks now, disappears.

Today, a century back, Cynthia and Herbert had a walk and a talk, in which she discovers how happy she is that her husband is not inclined toward the family business. Even the son of the former prime minister is aggrieved at what appears to be a callous prolongation of the war…

Beb and I walked up to the top of the New Hill and back via Coscombe. It was one of the most lovely-looking days I have ever seen. Beb is in very good form—in good, lean looks and very keen and eager—seething with indignation against the Government and the ‘hate campaign’ of the civilians. He is ashamed of the way England brutally snubs every peace feeler, and reiterates that, either we should negotiate or else fight with all our might, which he says would mean doubling our army in the field. He speaks with rage of the way we are not nearly up to strength at the Front and says it is to a large extent merely a paper army. In existing circumstances a military victory is quite out of the question until America can really take the field, which will not be for years—and he thinks all the lives now being sacrificed are being wasted, it’s like going about with a huge bleeding wound and doing nothing to bind it up. Thank God Beb isn’t in the House of Commons! I should never have the moral courage to face the reception given to the kind of speech he would make.[3]

Siegfried Sassoon may have had more allies than he knew.

 

Olaf Stapledon would disagree with little of what Asquith is saying. But he is neither politician nor officer, and he is possessed of a much sunnier spirit. Sunny enough, anyway, to relate this pleasantly furry little portent of the coming year:

The other day someone in clearing out some straw came on a queer little beast hibernating. He was rather smaller than a rat and far more elegant, having a delicate brown back, a white underneath, with a black line dividing the two shades. He had a long and furry tail; in fact he was rather like a dormouse, only bigger and fatter & greyer. I saw him lying on his back in someone’s hand with his four dainty feet in the air and his tummy rising & falling ever so gently with his slumberous breath. After a while he opened his mouth and yawned but did not wake up. Some sympathetic fellow put him by the fire, the warmth of which naturally came to him as a hint of spring, so that he finally woke up and ran away. The frost must soon have induced him to find another corner in the straw and turn in again for the rest of the winter. It was very strange to see the little beast in his winter trance, so peaceful he was, almost as still as death, but without death’s stiffness. He let people wind his tail round their fingers and move his legs about and he went on heavily sleeping all the while. One kept thinking of Bergson’s elan vital, the great universal Life, that lay in him patiently awaiting the spring & the opportunity of further creativeness.

It is the last day of the year. Best wishes for the New Year to my Agnes. May there be peace. May the world begin its new and happier age. May you & I meet and marry and begin our new & happier age also. With all my love

Your own Olaf Stapledon[4]

Stapledon is a good writer, isn’t he? With ingenuous brio and a near-total absence of cynicism he takes the microcosmic beast and the whole universe, the world war and the love that carries his hope through all the horror.

And even with all the power of the internet at my disposal (for a good four minutes or so) I can’t do better on beast-identification than Stapledon. This is perhaps not surprising… Anyway… probably a dormouse!

 

But some of those who are away from the front prefer not to think of the war at all, as its fourth year draws to a close. Wilfred Owen, writing to his mother, is not so much solemn as pompously/mock-pompously portentous. And why not? It has been a momentous year for him: action and injury, shell shock and recovery, promotion from poetic striver to protegé-of-the-young-poets. The full effect of their help–and, more importantly, of his new confidence in his poetry–will be felt this year. He is melodramatic and self-aggrandizing, here… and correct:

31 December 1917, Scarborough

My own dear Mother,

…I am not dissatisfied with my years. Everything has been done in bouts: Bouts of awful labour at Shrewsbury & Bordeaux; bouts of amazing pleasure in the Pyrenees, and play at Craiglockhart; bouts of religion at Dunsden; bouts of horrible danger on the Somme; bouts of poetry always; of your affection always; of sympathy for the oppressed always.

I go out of this year a Poet, my dear Mother, as which I did not enter it. I am held peer by the Georgians; I am a poet’s poet.

I am started. The tugs have left me; I feel the great swelling of the open sea taking my galleon.

Buoyant, and beautiful. But then the galleon bobs on the tide, and the lookout looks back.

I take Owen to task, in these boyish letters to his mother, for being a self-centered young man. And he is–but he is also possessed of enormous powers of sympathy.

Last year, at this time, (it is just midnight, and now is the intolerable instant of the Change) last year I lay awake in a windy tent in the middle of a vast, dreadful encampment. It seemed neither France nor England, but a kind of paddock where the beasts are kept a few days before the shambles. I heard the revelling of the Scotch troops, who are now dead, and who knew they would be dead. I thought of this present night, and whether I should indeed—whether we should indeed—whether you would indeed—but I thought neither long nor deeply, for I am a master
of elision.

But chiefly I thought of the very strange look on all faces in that camp; an incomprehensible look, which a man will never see in England, though wars should be in England ; nor can it be seen in any battle. But only in Étaples. It was not despair, or terror, it was more terrible than terror, for it was a blindfold look, and without expression, like a dead rabbit’s.

It will never be painted, and no actor will ever seize it. And to describe it, I think I must go back and be with them.

We are sending seven officers straight out tomorrow.

I have not said what I am thinking this night, but next December I will surely do so.[5]

 

I wondered, on Christmas, whether Vera Brittain‘s description of that night might have run into New Year’e eve. If not, her Christmas gifts may well have: she has begun reading poetry again, including two writers who have featured slightly here. She mentions not only “an impressive poem called ‘The City of Fear’ by a certain Captain Gilbert Frankau, who had not then begun to dissipate his rather exciting talents upon the romances of cigar merchants” but also reading

some lines from E. A. Mackintosh’s “Cha Till Maccruimein,” in his volume of poems A Highland Regiment, which Roland’s mother and sister had sent me for Christmas:

And there in front of the men were marching.
With feet that made no mark.
The grey old ghosts of the ancient fighters
Come back again from the dark. . . .

Her brother Edward, the one of her ancient fighters who has not yet failed to come back, is thinking along much the same lines as he wrote to her today, a century back:

Italy, 31 December 1917

It has been a rotten year in many ways — Geoffrey and Tah dead and we’ve seen each other about a week all told: so there’s a sob on the sea to-night. I don’t seem to be able to write decently; so often I feel tired and fed up when I’ve done my ordinary work and so waste what little spare time I have; I wish I could manage to write to you more…[6]

 

Often at the beginning of the month I discuss a poem that was written or published during the month (but can’t be fixed to a particular day). But this month-inaugurating habit has such a hopeful, generous cast to it, doesn’t it? Why not mention poems at the end of the month as well?

Well, in December 1917 Thomas Hardy published Moments of Vision, a tremendous collection by a great poet–an old, cranky, great poet still either disesteemed by many as a novelist of less than impeccable writerly morals or ignored as an eminent Victorian who could surely have little to say to the current moment. Well, the more fool them. But as Hardy himself predicted, the book attracted little notice, since it offered little solace and tended to make people face an uncomfortable truth and “mortify the human sense of self-importance by showing, or suggesting, that human beings are of no matter or appreciable value in this nonchalant universe.”

I don’t need the poem to bring Hardy into the end of 1917 as the voice of doom…  there are, too, several end-of-year letters that will also serve…

To James Barrie:

We wish you as good a new year as can be hoped for, & a better one than the old…

To Edmund Gosse, and picking up Owen’s nautical theme:

Just a word of Salutation to you & your house on this eve of the New Year, for which you have our best wishes as fellow passengers in this precious war-galley…

And to Henry Newbolt:

…I don’t know that I have ever parted from an old year with less reluctance than from this.

…Always sincerely

Thomas Hardy.[7]

Yes, always sincere. And what of the old man himself, tonight, a century back?

Went to bed at eleven. East wind. No bells hear. Slept in the New Year, as did also those “out there.”[8]

This, I think, is why Hardy, more than any other eminent older man of letters, will be pardoned, by the young solider poets, of all offenses related to the Experiential Gulf or the Conflict of the Generations. He thinks, in his private thoughts, of what it must be to be a soldier, cold, at the front. And when he gestures to the troubled times, he does not do so without noticing the discomforting dramatizing of just such a gesture, from an old man snug abed…

In this spirit, then, and to see out the year, one of my favorite (write it!) of Hardy’s poems from the recent book. Happy New Year!

I looked up from my writing,
And gave a start to see,
As if rapt in my inditing,
The moon’s full gaze on me.

Her meditative misty head
Was spectral in its air,
And I involuntarily said,
“What are you doing there?”

“Oh, I’ve been scanning pond and hole
And waterway hereabout
For the body of one with a sunken soul
Who has put his life-light out.

“Did you hear his frenzied tattle?
It was sorrow for his son
Who is slain in brutish battle,
Though he has injured none.

“And now I am curious to look
Into the blinkered mind
Of one who wants to write a book
In a world of such a kind.”

Her temper overwrought me,
And I edged to shun her view,
For I felt assured she thought me
One who should drown him too.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Fire-Eater, 241.
  2. Undertones of War, 202-3.
  3. Diaries, 385-6.
  4. Talking Across the World, 266.
  5. Collected Letters, 520-1.
  6. Letters From a Lost Generation, 387-8.
  7. The Collected Letters of Thomas Hardy, V, 236-9.
  8. The Life of Thomas Hardy, 378-9.

Dr. Dunn on Passchendaele: Unburyable Corpses and Magical Light; George Coppard in Blighty; Phillip Maddison at Cambrai; The Master Learns the Cathedral

Today, a century back, George Coppard, shot through the leg during the battle of Cambrai, arrived at Birkenhead Borough Hospital:

It was not a fancy place, but after the turmoil of war it seemed as near to heaven as I was likely to get. Britain was still celebrating the victory of the the Third Army [at Cambrai] and the bells of the churches had rung out in praise. At that time the tank thrust was regarded as the first real turn of the tide against German might… fresh from the fray, I attracted my little share of attention from the visitors and nursing staff… but there was trouble ahead.

And not just with the strategic failures at Cambrai; Coppard’s wound, which has severed the femoral artery and been staunched by his own none-too-sterile thumb, was both too deep to easily repair and liable to infection…[1]

 

Cambraiis no victory–but at least it took us away from Passchendaele. Remember Passchendaele? Tens of thousands of infantrymen are still there, holding the miserable wasteland into the winter. Today brings one of the most striking passages in Dr. Dunn’s narrative of the 2nd Royal Welch Fusiliers. He[2] has been on leave and, returning, is struck anew by the sheer wretchedness of the battlefield. Dunn would never make such a dramatic statement, but… only men could make such a hell.

At dawn I went with Radford round part of the line. Many scarcely recognizable dead lie about, a few of them Germans. Passchendaele is not quite levelled… Mud flows through entrances, and rain drops through the cracked cemented-brick floors roofing the cellars, on to the occupants… When the position is overlooked the men are pinned down by day, and numbed with cold by day and night… In the morning some of our planes came over in an objectless-looking way…

A rapidly filling cemetery… is a most unrestful place. It is the labour of a squad to keep the dead in their graves. A sapper officer was killed and buried in the morning; his tormented body had to be reburied twice during the day.

The next line comes as a shock. But should it?

But for all the havoc up here the effect of a glint of sunshine on the waste is magical.[3]

 

Ralph Hamilton, the Master of Belhaven, is in Amiens, on the way back from an officers’ course in England.

Let’s see: misery, destruction, attrition, mass death… all modern and unavoidable, now. But perhaps one of the more overlooked ways in which the Great War qualifies as the first modern war is that the regular rotations of leaves and courses–and habits like tourism while on military journeys–rarely stop.

I had a good lunch there and went to see the Cathedral with an excellent guide-book. I spent an hour there and discovered all sorts of interesting things that I did not know before…

He will reach his batteries, still on a quiet sector of the Somme, after midnight…[4]

 

Finally, today, Henry Williamson is still in England on Home Service, but Phillip Maddison, his tireless alter ego, is drawing nearer to the cauldron of Cambrai. His “diary,” which fills several pages of the novel Love and the Loveless at this point, is an improbably knowledgeable (he is still, despite his brush with greatness, a mere lieutenant charged with resupplying a Machine Gun Company currently in reserve) crib from the history books, explaining all the movements of, for instance, the Guards in Bourlon Wood.

But tonight the company moves up, and Williamson writes a long scene full of many familiar elements–the confusion of a night relief, the misery of a march under fire–and some stranger ones, such as the description of horses and mules “screaming” through their gas masks. When the German counter-attack breaks through, Phillip will be, as always, on the scene.[5]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. With a Machine Gun to Cambrai, 130.
  2. I believe it's Dunn himself; it's sometimes difficult to tell who the "speaker" is.
  3. The War the Infantry Knew, 417.
  4. War Diary, 414.
  5. Love and the Loveless, 333-49.

Carstairs on Leave; The Master Returns; Toby’s Room at Garsington

After the intensity of Bourlon Wood, today is a quiet day, a transfer day–with time, then, for a fictional foray.

When Carroll Carstairs came to write his narrative of the harrowing battle for Bourlon Wood, he did so with an oddly light yet gripping style–and he scanted neither the intensely subjective experience of being a man alone under fire nor the nature of infantry combat as a contest of small groups of men all negotiating fear, discipline, compassion, loyalty, and violence. His coda to the episode hints at the difficulties ahead for soldiers who pass through such experiences.

The next day—at a time when I was well able to appreciate it—my leave to England came through.

I made a wide circle to avoid a particular point being shelled; fearful, now that I was temporarily a detached human, of being hit.[1]

 

Going the opposite way, today, a century back, was Ralph Hamilton, the Master of Hamilton, returning from an apparently useless senior officers’ course on Salisbury Plain. He dutifully notes the stages of his approach, but has nothing, as yet, to say of the battle that awaits him.[2]

 

Finally, today, another fictional introduction. Well into the fourth year of this project, I am highly sympathetic to novelists who find a way to put their earlier research to a second use. Pat Barker’s novel Toby’s Room follows a brother and sister and a small group of friends through the war: there is a good deal about art and medicine, and, merging the two in Great War fashion, about the horrors of disfigurement. The novel, too, mines Vera Brittain‘s experience and opens a dialogue with Virginia Woolf’s fictional treatment of the war.

But I mention Toby’s Room now because it also makes a flying visit to Historical Sassoonland, the point of origin of Barker’s Regeneration books. Today, a century back, the novel’s protagonist, Elinor Brooke, begins keeping a diary… which coincides with a visit to Ottoline Morrell’s Garsington Manor, at which “the talk was all of Ottoline’s recent trip to Edinburgh to see Siegfried Sassoon, who… does seem to have treated her rather badly…” But Elinor’s sympathy is with Sassoon, hating the war and yet trying to find a place in it where he can do some good, even if it is only to take care of his men. The “diary” continues for the next few days…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Carstairs, A Generation Missing, 139.
  2. War Diary, 414.
  3. Toby's Room, 233-6.

A Gunner and a Poet in Transit: Wilfred Owen and the Master of Belhaven in London, to and from Shoebury and Shrewsbury

Things are (suspiciously) quiet, now, while so many of our writers are in transit. All we have today are two officers between assignments, converging on London between nearly-rhyming provincial destinations:

 

The Master of Belhaven is headed home, but he’s not particularly thrilled about it–he’s just had leave in October and this will mean only a brief stop in London en route to a course. How excited can one get about Blighty or Merry Olde England in the form of a “Higher Command Course at Shoeburyness” in November? “I am very bored with the idea,” Hamilton wrote four days ago, “and it is a beastly journey.”

But those four days have allowed him to come to terms with his relative good fortune.

We had quite a good crossing, though the sea was a little choppy, and reached London at 2 o’clock. I had lunch at Lennox Gardens, and did some shopping before arriving home to tea…[1]

 

Also arriving in London today, a century back–at Paddington, rather than Victoria–was Wilfred Owen, after only four days at home in Shrewsbury. After securing a room at the Regent Palace Hotel, his first stop was the Poetry Bookshop, where he was shocked to find that Alida Klemantaski recognized him from his brief residence there. Tomorrow Owen will begin his attempted conquest of literary London…[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 411-13.
  2. Hibberd, Wilfred Owen, 280-1.

Patrick Shaw Stewart Toddles After a Blanket

The lull in the action–for our writers, at least–in the Ypres Salient leaves us with only one notable piece of writing for today, a century back. Happily, it is a witty letter from Patrick Shaw Stewart (to his school friend, the newly Catholic Ronnie Knox) about the circumstances and characters of his new surroundings, in which he splits the difference between Wooster and Jeeves.

Three days ago, I was sent here to the Army School to do the Company Commanders’ course: rather suddenly, because my second in command was to have gone, and at the last moment they said they must have a real Company Commander, and I was the only one sufficiently badly educated to send. So I was packed off, and after a more than usually uncomfortable journey, fetched up here last night. No harm, I imagine, in saying that the School is in the famous Chateau d’Hardelot. The two remarkable points about it are (1) that it’s a lovely place (though restored from top to bottom), and in a lovely half-wooded valley with the sea the other side of the ridge; (2) that this is the place where the Duchess of Rutland tried to have a hospital—I never realised till I got here how complete the preparations were. I toiled up last night to try and draw a blanket and sheet. No, I am not billeted inside the chateau, but in a neat hut behind it; and the unfeeling lance-corporal in charge of the blankets said, “No, sir: these blankets are the private property of the Duchess of Rutland, and can only be issued to officers in the chateau.” The
temptation was almost irresistible to explain that I knew she would be delighted to let me have one, but I kind of felt that the lance-corporal had been told that too often; so I meekly toddled off to draw an Army blanket off the Quartermaster several miles away. To-day has not been strenuous, consisting mostly of roll-calls: to-morrow the course begins. What exactly they propose to teach me, I scarcely know, but apparently forming fours is an important part of it. Anyhow, it lasts five weeks, so you have no excuse for thinking of me as fighting battles during that period; and by that time I should be over-ripe for leave. The officers (innumerable) on this course are very like most modern representatives of their class: the nicest are the Canadians and Americans (we have a batch of them), which two nations have, in their wisdom, seen fit to amalgamate the upper and middle classes in one,
an arrangement by which, if you miss the former, you also (which is more important in the Army) miss the other.[1]

The blasé tone aside, this random assignment to an apparently useless “course” is actually “an amazing piece of good fortune.” Shaw Stewart is no shirker–in fact he worked hard to leave a safe liaison job in order to rejoin the battalion in France–but he has been strangely, consistently fortunate. His presence on this course means that he will miss a major attack by the Hood Battalion–for the fifth time.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Knox, Patrick Shaw Stewart, 202-3.
  2. Jebb, Edwardian Meteor, 233.

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

Sept. 18, 1917

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

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

Hugh Quigley Stoops Neatly For the Sun; Hail Fellow Edmund Blunden

For better or for worse–and certainly for reasons that lack proper theoretical purity–we tend to foreground experience when approach military life writing. In plain English, that is, we are particularly concerned to first get the facts that underlie a war book “right,” and only thereafter are we comfortable discussing the writerly transformations wrought upon them.

But sometimes style is all. Here is Hugh Quigley, once again. I have very little sense of who he is or what he has seen of the war (because I have been neglecting my reading!)–but how much does this matter? Here is a bare fact which leads to an attractive effusion:

Indigestion is troubling the battalion at the present hour… there has been a constant succession of fruit-patrols to all parts of the compass, each armed with a sandbag, which is always filled either with apples or pears. The child-natural element revives in war: prejudices, social veneers, little delicacies of taste and manner of life, choice actions dictated by a particular regard to decorum, become merged in a quiet comfort-seeking in the slightest gift, even a crab-tree studded with minute apples…

And we have seen sunsets, haven’t we. Does the date or position matter as much as, say, the stance?

I have admired a fine sunrise between my legs as I bent over a shallow dish of muddy liquid to wash a grey physiognomy. If everything were cut and carved, measured out nicely for us, and arranged to suit, lethargy would overcome us (it does set in, in a most deadly fashion, and one of war’s worst hardships is to defeat it) and we would be a sorry set of lifeless automatons…[1]

 

Very nice. But Edmund Blunden will come, in time, to do this sort of thing, and better, with a delicate touch, a sure hand for the reader’s sense of identification with a well-managed youthful protagonist, and an unmatched talent for lyric beauty. With an emphasis on “in time:” today, a century back–at least when swaggering out a letter to a youthful school friend–he sounds pretty awful:

Son,

Your letter, leaving a trail of violet light and all sweet savours and virtues in its wake, crossed the vasty foaming Deep and fell into my well-pleased Hands at lunch-time today…[2]

Here’s wishes for a very fine year, to be marked this term with the white stone of Peace (Nov. 29th) – and if possible by a visit of humble me. For you know, owing to my sarcastic and frequent appeals for leave, I obtained same and that while you were at Caine – returning into this sphere of spheres on the 26th of August, (going I have no doubt with the cuckoo, as befits my limited brain). Hence, unless an application I had made for transfer to the Tanks decides to come through at last, it seems unlikely that my homeward hand will hit sundry times on your study window at dusk this side of Christmas…

The strenuous jauntiness lingers, making it more difficult than usual to empathize with news of approaching suffering and danger:

I am learning (liar!) wireless, and have the great pleasure of not ‘fighting for the eternal principles’, as some old fogey put the damned war in St. Paul’s lately, for about a fortnight more. Then the pit opens again…

Meantime we are busy all day long except Sundays. If we weren’t, the village next to us offers small opportunity for debauch, bar liqueur chocolates…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Passchendaele and the Somme, 114-5.
  2. Coincidentally, just after yesterday's discussion of Alec Waugh, Blunden also discusses in this letter the fate of a mutual friend who was expelled from Christ's Hospital for refusing to give up a close friendship with a younger boy.
  3. More Than a Brother, 9-11.

C.E. Montague’s Tirade for Truth; Edmund Blunden Borrows an Ypres-in-Autumn Scene from a Certain Poet-Historian

C. E. Montague is in a ticklish position. A journalist strenuously devoted to the truth, he has been detailed to act as a censor and passive propagandist. But he will keep his integrity intact, not to mention his ire at those who choose, for reasons other than military necessity, to circumscribe their experiences in their personal writing. Our writers-of-letters tend to divide pretty squarely between those who will not write the worst home (often to mothers or sweethearts) and those who unburden themselves completely (often to wives), in the fervent hope that an experiential gulf will not make it impossible to go home again, as it were. Montague is emphatically of the latter camp:

Sept. 5, 1917

I’ve noticed… a sort of assumption, as a matter of course, that everybody writing out here keeps back all sorts of untold horrors of physical suffering from people at home. I can’t understand this a bit. Of course, just as in ordinary life one does not go out of the way to describe details of a friend’s death by cancer or locomotor ataxy, so one does not keep harping on details of incised, contused, and lacerated wounds and of the special agonies one has seen in some few cases But why should one? One assumes that every adult knows for himself that death by bayonet or shell wounds cannot be a pleasant experience or sight, any more than the horrible deaths at home in bed are, or the deaths by mountain or river accidents. I can’t help feeling that at the back of the minds of people like ———- there is an unconscious craving that we should go out of our way to make the incurring of probable death, in a good cause, a more terrifying and repulsive thing than it is for a natural-minded person. Forgive this tirade.[1]

 

And by a strange coincidence–unless it isn’t–Edmund Blunden crosses paths in memory with Montague on a day that might be today, a century back. Which is to say that, attempting to coordinate Blunden’s memoir with his battalion’s Diary, this may have been the day he was sent from his battalion to a signalling school in the rear. When he came to thinking back upon that day and write about it, Blunden thought of Montague’s writing. Got it? Perhaps we should go to the texts…[2]

…I was ordered to be ready for attending a signalling school in the real “back area.” This development, promising in itself a period of rest and safety, was bad news; for experience was that to be with one’s battalion, or part of it, alone nourished the infantryman’s spirit. Now amid a thousand tables I should pine and want food.

Next morning, therefore, while the young sunlight freshened the darkened greenery of the year, I was sitting among a load of equipment, officers, N. C. O’s, and men in a lorry, hurtling along the causeway toward Cassel, through villages where one imagined one would like to come from a normal trench tour, past cottages at whose doors women sat on chairs to pick the hop vines heaped about them…

The signalling school was a large camp in a meadow, with an ugly, depressing red house at the far end. Here days went by without incident; above, the sky was usually clear and calm; around, the spirit of apathy and unconcern with the war was languidly puffing at its cigarette or warbling revue melody. Yet only a few miles off was that commanding hill Cassel, whence radiated constantly the dynasty of the Ypres battle. The road thither secluded, ran between the amazing fruitage of blackberries in the low hedges; one climbed until presently at a bold curve the track joined the stone road, with its rattling railway. At the top, the cool streets of Cassel led between ancient shop fronts and archways, maintaining in their dignity that war had nothing to do with Cassel. There was one memorable inn in whose shadowy dining room almost all officers congregated. Far below its balcony the plain stretched in all the
semblance of untroubled harvest, golden, tranquil, and lucent as ever painter’s eye rested upon. Some confused noise of guns contested one’s happy acquiescence. But what one saw and what one felt at Cassel’s watchtower that September are taken from time by the poet-historian C. E. Montague.[3]

A claim for ex post facto memory influence–for the interposition of powerful writing between a man’s experience and his writing of it… a mickle blow is struck against simplistic views of historiographic fidelity and the continuity of life-writing!

Let us follow (or, rather, belatedly precede) Blunden by reading Montague: here we find, at the proper time and place, the War in Autumn, and as good a proof of the ability of war’s ugliness to provoke beautiful writing as we are likely to find:

In the autumn of 1917 the war entered into an autumn, or late middle-age, of its own. “Your young men,” we are told, “shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams.” The same with whole armies. But middle-aged armies or men may not have the mists of either morning or evening to charm them. So they may feel like Corot, when he had painted away, in a trance of delight, till the last vapour of dawn was dried up by the sun; then he said, “You can see everything now. Nothing is left,” and knocked off work for the day. There was no knocking off for the army.

But that feeling had come. A high time was over, a great light was out; our eyes had lost the use of something, either an odd penetration that they had had for a while, or else an odd web that had been woven across them, shutting only ugliness out.

The feeling was apt to come on pretty strong if you lived at the time on the top of the little hill of Cassel, west of Ypres. The Second Army’s Headquarters were there. You might, as some Staff duty blew you about the war zone, be watching at daybreak one of that autumn’s many dour bouts of attrition under the Passchendale Ridge, In the mud, and come back, the same afternoon, to sit in an ancient garden hung on the slope of the hill, where a great many pears were yellowing on the wall and sunflowers gazing fixedly into the sun that was now failing them. All the corn of French Flanders lay cut on the brown plain under your eyes, from Dunkirk, with its shimmering dunes and the glare on the sea, to the forested hills north of Arras. Everywhere lustre, reverie, stillness; the sinking hum of old bees, successful in life and now rather tired; the many windmills fallen motionless, the aureate light musing over the aureate harvest; out in the east the broken white stalks of Poperinghe’s towers pensive in haze; and, behind and about you, the tiny hill city, itself in its distant youth the name-giver and prize of three mighty battles that do not matter much now. All these images or seats of outlived ardour, mellowed now with the acquiescence of time in the slowing down of some passionate stir in the sap of a plant or the spirit of insects or men, joined to work on you quietly. There, where the earth and the year were taking so calmly the end of all the grand racket that they had made in their prime, why not come off the high horse that we, too, in that ingenuous season, had ridden so hard?

It was not now as it had been of yore. And why pretend that it was?[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Elton, C.E. Montague, 193-4.
  2. This hinges on the timing of Blunden's leave, which is not, unfortunately, recorded in the Battalion Diary--there is a letter in which he mentions returning on August 26th.
  3. Undertones of War, 231-2.
  4. Disenchantment, 156-8.