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.

Jack Martin on a Just Punishment; Wilfred Owen Among the Literary Lights; Siegfried Sassoon Disabuses Lady Ottoline Morrell

Jack Martin, now waiting for reassignment to Italy, has an amusing story today, a century back, of generalship-as-moral instruction:

Had a practice stunt on the dunes repelling imaginary Austrians. I was running a Visual Station and of course we had divested ourselves of our equipment but the runners had to keep theirs on. Presently the Brigadier came along and after a few enquiries said ‘A shell has now dropped here and killed those men who are wearing their equipment. So they can get back to their billets at once…’ We leave here on Monday but I haven’t heard any details yet.[1]

Primary school teachers would greet this particular adverse stroke of artillery-fortune with approval, I think.

 

But the main action is not behind the lines in France today, but rather at home, in London and Edinburgh. Wilfred Owen’s letter, written tomorrow (a century back) to his mother, tells the tale best.[2] It’s a bit like one of those irritating “which living writers would you most like to eat dinner with?” questions. Except that he actually is:

Had a memorable dinner at the Reform last night, & stayed talking with Ross till one A.M. I and my work are a success. I had already sent something to the Nation which hasn’t appeared yet, but it seems the Editor[3] has started talking of me, and Wells told me he had heard of me through that Editor! H.G.W. said some rare things for my edification, & told me a lot of secrets. I only felt ill at ease with him once, and that was when he tried to make me laugh at Arnold Bennett. Wells is easily top dog when it comes to jests, and I’m afraid I took his side, and told Bennett I disapproved of his gaudy silk handkerchief!

…I got Bennett into a corner about Sassoon. I think they ‘noticed’ me because I stood up to them both politely when they shook hands to go, and argumentatively….[4]

 

Yesterday I quoted Siegfried Sassoon‘s biographer, Jean Moorcroft Wilson, on how Sassoon treated the visit of Lady Ottoline Morrell much as he had Robert Graves’s: by going about his business–namely playing golf–and only afterwards paying her some attention. But there was another sense in which LadyOttoline’s visit was similar to Graves’s: there were hard feelings deriving from an explicit clarification of sexual orientation.

While sexual attraction does not seem to have ever been an important element in the Graves-Sassoon relationship[5]–Graves had a crush of some sort but was not interested in sex, while Sassoon was not physically attracted to Graves–Graves opened a rift in the relationship when he announced his love for Nancy Nicholson. In this case, Lady Ottoline had evidently cherished certain hopes, but Sassoon will now definitively disabuse her. Today, a century back, they had a long walk and a short answer, in which “he told her quite specifically that he could ‘only like men, that women were antipathetic to him.'”

This wasn’t any lighthearted clearing of the air–“but, darling, I’m gay!”–but rather a fairly nasty encounter. Sexual preference aside, Sassoon has frequently shown a contempt for women bordering on (or making lengthy inroads into) misogyny, and he also apparently told Lady Ottoline, who was even more eccentrically dressed today than usual, that she was too “artificial” to take seriously. Sassoon, as self-absorbed as most poets and also as self-absorbed as most thoughtlessly immature young men, seems to be exhibiting merely a doubled cruelty, rather than any subtle binary vision. Lost in all this, too, is the context: he may have mocked Lady Ottoline behind her back the whole time he accepted her hospitality and made use of her connections, but adding this belittling sting to his rejection of her may not just be callousness or callowness–he is also clearing his flank as he retreats, leaving no question that he no longer wants anything to do with the pacifist/protest movement…[6]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Sapper Martin, 123.
  2. Hibberd, Wilfred Owen, 280-1.
  3. H.W. Massingham; the poem in question is "Miners," to be published in January.
  4. Collected Letters, 507.
  5. This with all this with the usual caveats about reading between the lines in situations where openness about homosexuality was not possible, plus the usual complexity of parsing lines of love in tumultuous relationships.
  6. Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 418-9.

An Unwelcome Arrival, A Literary Lunch, and a Rueful Transfer

Wilfred Owen‘s first day in London as the new find/friend of Siegfried Sassoon began well: he lunched with Robbie Ross, who was both a central hub of literary London and the most important contact that a young gay Englishman could make. And it seems to have gone well: Owen left with an invitation to dine at the Reform Club tomorrow.[1]

 

As for Sassoon, left behind at Craiglockhart instead of among new friends and old in London, he found yet another reason to bemoan his company and circumstances, today, a century back: Lady Ottoline Morrell, his erstwhile friend and Pacifist/protest backer, has stubbornly insisted on visiting him in Scotland, despite the fairly obvious “I don’t really want to see you” tone of his recent letters.

Having failed to put off Ottoline’s threatened visit… he made the most of her stay. Though she felt neglected and complained bitterly of his thoughtlessness in booking her into one of Edinburgh’s most expensive hotels… he had accorded her exactly the same treatment as he had Graves, that is, fitted her round his games of golf.[2]

And just as Owen’s London literary life will hit a new high tomorrow, Sassoon’s relationship with Morrell will reach a new low.

 

And finally, today, there was an exchange of ordeals for Alfred Hale, our poor (but independently wealthy), clumsy (but musical), hopelessly incompetent airman. After two miserable months as a batman serving a Royal Flying Corps officer at a training facility–which meant long days of chopping wood and tending the officers’ stoves–“he was shunted to clerical work.” This would seem like a reprieve–but not so fast, dear reader. Hale may not be a hale or hardy outdoorsman or gifted with the skills and personality of a capable servant… but he is also utterly befuddled by machines, even those as simple as the typewriter or telephone…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Hibberd, Wilfred Owen, 280-1.
  2. Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 418-9.
  3. The Ordeal of Alfred Hale, 119.

Wilfred Owen is Almost Ready to Leave; Siegfried Sassoon Fights to the Finish; Frederic Manning is Simply Finished

Frederic Manning‘s battle against alcoholism–although perhaps his “fighting retreat in the face of overwhelming alcoholism” would be a better metaphor–ended in defeat today, a century back. Manning’s C.O., Major Milner, “obviously hoping to save his subordinate from further embarrassment while allowing the army its due,” let Manning attempt the fig-leaf gesture of quitting before being fired.

2nd Lieut. Manning has submitted his resignation and if this is to be accepted I cannot see that any useful purpose will be served by again trying this officer.

2nd Lieut. Manning is a gentleman but apparently has no strength of will and is quite unsuitable as an officer.

This was kind, considering the circumstances, but there was no way around the M.O.’s report: “This officer is in a stupor, quite unfit for any duty evidently the result of a drinking bout.” Even if some honor is salvaged, it’s clearly the end of Manning’s military career.[1]

The more relevant question, perhaps, for Manning, was “and what next?” He’s out of a commission, but not free from conscription. It seems likely that Milner’s sympathy might save Manning more than mere pride, namely by making it more likely that he will be swept aside as a broken man best left in a backwater rather than sent directly back into combat–a private soldier once more–by way of punishment for his failures as an officer.

 

In Edinburgh, Siegfried Sassoon is fighting his own losing campaign to avoid seeing Lady Ottoline Morrell face to face before he faces his next Medical Board, at which he plans to conditionally abandon his allegiance to her cause.

My dear Ottoline, It would be jolly to see you but it seems a terrible long way for you to come, especially If you are rather broke, as I gather you and Philip generally are! However, if you decide to come, let me know what time you arrive.

I can’t see any way out of it except in France. Nothing definite has been heard from the War Office. They are very fed up with me here, as I was supposed to attend a Board last Tuesday, and didn’t go.

At least, today, he’s faced up to this and told Lady Ottoline about his erratic behavior. At least this helps to demonstrate, in a way, that he has been not so much erratic as consistently bifurcated (in an earlier era we would have lightly said “schizophrenic”) about his feelings on the war. He has reacted to the news of the Étaples mutiny and the role of the First Royal Welch in quelling it by writing another of his lacerating pro-troop, anti-leader poems.

Rivers thinks my ‘Fight to a Finish’ poem in the Cambridge Magazine very dangerous…

 

Fight to a Finish

The boys came back. Bands played and flags were flying,
And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street
To cheer the soldiers who’d refrained from dying.
And hear the music of returning feet.
‘Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought.
This moment is the finest.’ (So they thought.)

Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob.
Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel.
At last the boys had found a cushy job.

I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal;
And with my trusty bombers turned and went
To clear those Junkers out of Parliament.[2]

 

This really should almost be dangerous–in wartime, with no great freedom of speech permitted, he has once again written a fantasy in which the violence of the front lines is visited on the hypocrites at home. This time, however, it’s not a third-person wish, involving the impersonal violence of a newfangled tank. This time it’s Mad Jack himself who wants to lead his favored men, his crack bombing team, on a raid on his own national legislature.

I wonder how much confidence Rivers has that this make-up Medical Board next month will go well?

 

If Wilfred Owen knows anything of his friend’s state of mind, he still probably wouldn’t mention it in a letter home to his mother, to whom he famously tells most things… but not all. Naturally, his thoughts turn to his own Medical Board, and what it might mean for him.

Monday

It seems really likely that I shall be evacuated on Tuesday. Some time ago the Grays made me promise to stay 2 or 3 days with them before leaving Edinburgh. I am going there this afternoon, & if they ask me again, I may stay one day in order to get my picture done. Sassoon is anxious for me to spend a day or two of my 3 weeks with some people at a Manor near Oxford.

Ah, now there is another aspect of his new friendship that Owen is keeping from his mother. The manor in question is Garsington Manor, home of Phillip and Lady Ottoline Morrell.

I have not made up my mind. We went to the Astronomer’s yesterday, & saw the moon.

I wonder how I shall find you all. I shall be in a desperate excited state when I arrive…

But not so desperate as to make a beeline:

So, then, I may turn up on Tues. Night, or Wednesday Morning, or any day until Sat., for I want to stay on here a few days (if it won’t shorten the 3 weeks) to be able to return all my borrowed books, & make a graceful exit from  these scenes.

W.E.O. [3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Marwil, Frederic Manning, An Unfinished Life, 185.
  2. Diaries, 193-4.
  3. Collected Letters, 504.

Edmund Blunden Marches West of Ruin and into Dreary New Quarters; Frederic Manning Confined to His; Siegfried Sassoon Hastens to Explain Himself to a Looming Lady Ottoline

Frederic Manning reported himself sick today, a century back. But, unfortunately, everyone knew that he had been out drinking the night before, and the Medical Officer refused to acknowledge the fiction, ordering him confined to quarters. Manning’s C.O., however, dragged his feet, no doubt debating how exactly to report this lapse–so soon after an exonerating Medical Board–to the War Office.[1]

 

Siegfried Sassoon, meanwhile, is keeping up with his correspondence. Lady Ottoline Morrell, who took Sassoon’s deflection from the anti-war cause in stride, seems to be less enthused about his coming defection. I’m not sure exactly what she has written to him, but there is a strong sense that she has demanded an explanation about how exactly he plans to rejoin the war effort without considering himself a traitor to her cause.

28 October 1917, Craiglockhart

My dear Ottoline,

The trouble is that if I continue my protesting attitude openly after being passed for General Service they will call it a ‘recrudescence’ or relapse and keep me shut up here or elsewhere. They will never court-martial me. The only chance would be—after being passed fit—to get an outside opinion from a man like Mercier. I don’t quite know how they’d act if he said I was normal.

So Sassoon is still thinking of his return in terms of guarantees and bureaucratic arm-twistings on the matter of his sanity, rather than success of the appeal, made by Rivers and Sassoon’s other friends, to his sense of loyalty to the fighting troops. What Sassoon writes doesn’t make a great deal of sense, and he says nothing, yet, to Lady Ottoline about his having skipped a medical board… It’s hard to tell if he acts as if he holds the cards in order to reassure her that he is still a principled pacifist or in order to conceal from himself that he has decided to give in–and that he only has Rivers’s assurances that this is a compromise rather than an unconditional surrender.

At present the War Office has been informed that the only conditions under which I will undertake soldiering again are with my old Battalion in France, which makes it fairly clear. I mean to get a written guarantee from them before I do anything definite, as I know their ways too well. I am glad you like ‘Death’s Brotherhood‘. It is the best that is in me, however badly I may have expressed it.

Nor does he want a visit from the eminent pacifist:

It isn’t worth while your corning all the way to Edinburgh in this awful weather. Wait a bit—I may be getting away soon…

I am not depressed—only strung up for supreme efforts—whether they’ll be out in that charnel-place or not is in the hands of chance. Only I want to be active somehow because I know I can do it. Strength is something to be glad for—and one needs it to be able to face the bare idea of going back to hell…[2]

 

Speaking of hell, Edmund Blunden has been in and out all autumn. Today, a century back–matching his memoir to the Battalion War Diary–he made it as far back as, if not quite paradise, something approaching the appropriate pastoral antithesis of Third Ypres…

A day or so later (my company being reconsigned to its ordinary commander) the battalion marched back several miles to another camp. The route lay through Kemmel, where we made a halt, wondering to see the comparatively sound state of the houses and particularly the chateau’s ridiculous mediaeval turrets in red brick. Its noble trees were a romance and poetry understood by all. The day was gloomy, but to be “stepping westward” among common things of life made it light enough. Gently the chestnut and aspen leaves were drifting down with the weight of the day’s dampness. We passed over hills still green, and by mossy cottages, with onions drying under the eaves. It was as though war forgot some corners of Flanders…

But that doesn’t mean that western Flanders can forget the war: their camp is no clutch of cozy cottages.

Our camp by Westoutre at length appeared, through a drifting rain, in the bottom of a valley, undisguised slabby clay; the houses hereabouts were mean, and no entertainment for the troops could be anticipated. Indeed, the mere physical needs were unanswered by the tattered canvas of this wretched open field. Protests were “forwarded,” and we were moved to a hutment camp in a wood, called Ottawa, as fine as the other was miserable…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Marwil, Frederic Manning, An Unfinished Life, 185.
  2. Diaries, 193.
  3. Undertones of War, 255.

Sassoon Sets About Answering Lady Ottoline–and Death’s Brotherhood: “When Are You Going Back to Them Again?”

Lately I have been giving Siegfried Sassoon a pretty hard time. He’s in a difficult and very unusual position, after all. But of course he is a grown man and responsible for the mess he has gotten himself into… well, except for the whole problem of that mess, in the larger sense, being a miserable, mired, horribly destructive war directed by those who are, at a minimum, insensitive to the sufferings of the troops…

His protest was brave, idealistic, and foredoomed–which makes it sound quite a bit like volunteering for the war in the first place. Now, Sassoon’s complaints–not to mention the many fruits of his privilege–can be hard to take. After refusing to fight he was not jailed, or shot, or dishonored in any way, but rather shunted aside through the ministrations and misrepresentations of friends, some of them quite influential.

So he doesn’t like where he is… but he was only stuck with an aggravating Theosophist roommate because he is occupying a bed in a overcrowded hospital intended for those suffering from shell-shock; he is only at that hospital because his friends pulled strings and got him to accept that it was the only course out of his predicament (which probably wasn’t true, but never mind); and he only got to that point because he decided (under severe stress of combat, wounds, and survivor’s guilt) to put his principles before his prior duties to country, Regiment, and platoon. It’s a difficult situation, but he is not a helpless victim–not so much as many others.

This he knows, but he now wants to change his decision without having to change his mind–officially, at least.  Most soldiers don’t get to revolt, return unscathed, and insist on a rider pointing out that they didn’t really return after all.

And is it compounding or redeeming his initial naivete (“I, a lieutenant with an MC and a new volume of verse, will protest, and thereby halt this out-of-control war machine!”) that he now “agrees” to return only with an impossible condition? On some level he must recognize that a “guarantee” from the War Office–to send him back out to be killed rather than making him look like a hypocrite by keeping him safe–is nothing of the sort.

It’s not a question of victory–there was never any chance of that–or defeat. Sassoon still made his protest, after all, and neither the statement nor the poems can be unwritten or unpublished. And if he really is sent back to the front he will be able to erase any taint of possible malingering that might attach to him when he suffers in whatever Passchendaele comes next. But it’s still a thorny problem of self-expression.

So rather than speak for Sassoon–or point out what Wilfred Owen and Robert Graves think of him, what with their own tickets for overseas service either punched or in the offing, and their friend the protester playing golf–I should at least let Siegfried try to wriggle out of his own knots.

Today’s letter addresses much of all of this, as well as how he sees the future playing out. It is to Lady Ottoline Morrell, the charismatic aristocrat who served Sassoon as a sort of shadow minister Eddie Marsh–she was, on other words, Sassoon’s friend and fixer among the pacifist intellectuals who influenced his decision to protest.

So he has some explaining to do…

Wednesday, Craiglockhart

My dear Ottoline, Your letter reached me just as I was moving my belongings into the ‘garret’ which I have at length secured and am now free from theosophy and conversation, though somewhat chilly. As they say, the war situation looks more hopeless than ever, and the bolstering speeches only make it seem worse. I am afraid I cannot do anything ‘outrageous’. They would only say I had a relapse and put me in a padded room. I am at present faced with the prospect of remaining here for an indefinite period, and you can imagine how that affects me. Apparently
nothing that I can do will make them take me seriously (and of course it is the obvious course for them to adopt): I have told Rivers that I will not withdraw anything that I have said or written, and that my views are the same, but that I will go back to France if the War Office will give me a guarantee that they really will send me there. I haven’t the least idea what they will do. But I hope you and others will try to understand, what I mean by it.

With greater sympathy, then, than I have recently mustered for Sassoon’s plight, I still want to break in here to point out that Sassoon must know that a “guarantee” is another polite fiction–like accepting being sent to a shell shock hospital–that merely prevents him acknowledging the checkmate. Also, that if Rivers is back and Sassoon has finally gotten his own room (the unfortunate and hopefully bygone collegiate term “psycho single” comes tom mind), his most pressing worries about Craiglockhart’s “affecting” him are now removed… but back to Sassoon:

After all I made my protest on behalf of my fellow-fighters, and (if it is a question of being treated as an imbecile for the rest of the war) the fittest thing for me to do is to go back and share their ills. By passing me for General Service (which Rivers says is ‘the only thing they can do’) they admit that I never had any shell-shock, as it is quite out of the question for a man who has been three months in a nerve hospital to be sent back at once if he really had anything wrong. If the War Office refuse to promise to send me back I shall let the people here pass me for
General Service and then do a bolt to London—and see what course they adopt. Oh I wish I could talk to you about it. It’s so hard to say what one means. I have written to Lees-Smith telling him what is happening. You must see how futile it would be for me to let them keep me here in these intolerable surroundings.

Surely my poems in the Cambridge Magazine are enough to show that I’ve not altered my views!

Let me know what you think, and if you are angry with me–say so.

Yours ever S.S.

There is a poetic post-script to come–and it is powerful. Any one of these long-dead writers deserves the last word, whatever their venial sins of confusion and muddled motives, and Sassoon earns today’s more than most. But I do want to duck in here again in order to point out something that has not perhaps been clear enough: Sassoon is not a child, or a fool, but even as he has been receiving something like hero-worship from Owen (however tempered by Owen’s burgeoning confidence) he is susceptible to the same habit himself. Whoever sent Sassoon here was an evil genius: whatever Rivers thinks about sending Sassoon back to war (and whatever Rivers thinks of the war itself) what(ever) Rivers thinks is pretty much the only thing that matters, now, to Sassoon. (Read Pat Barker’s Regeneration, or Sherston’s Progress–two brilliant but none-too-dated books that track the relationship). There is no suspicion that Rivers might not be completely honest about the possible outcomes of the next Medical Board (despite the fact that Graves lied about the last one), and no willingness to face the primary weakness of his argument, namely the idea that to declare him healthy now means he always has been…

The next two sentences are strong, as strong as the poem which follows–and they are true. But of course they do not address desperate conflicts of different duties, or delicate questions of right and wrong among the living and breathing.

This poem will show you what I feel like. And it is the truth.

 

Death’s Brotherhood

When I’m asleep, dreaming and drowsed and warm,
They come, the homeless ones, the noiseless dead
While the dim charging breakers of the storm
Rumble and drone and bellow overhead,
Out of the gloom they gather about my bed.
They whisper to my heart; their thoughts are mine.

‘Why are you here with all your watches ended?’
‘From Ypres to Frise we sought you in the Line.’
In bitter safety I awake, unfriended;
And while the dawn begins with slashing rain
I think.of the Battalion in the mud.
‘When are you going back to them again?
‘Are they not still your brothers through our blood?'[1]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. This poem will be retitled 'Sick Leave.' Diaries, 190-1.

David Jones Draws His Gun; Edward Heron-Allen is Dull to Fear; Kate Luard on Leave at Last; Siegfried Sassoon on Hunters and Dreamers

“Boche Machine Gun Captured by the 15th R.W.F.”

David Jones had some time on his hands today, a century back. Or so it would seem from the drawing–a beautiful thing–he made of one of his battalion’s trophies from the first day of the battle. A German machine gun, probably one that had been firing into the assaulting troops that very morning, is caught in a pose at once slightly tense–like the animal it should recall, at least metaphorically, but never fully does–and infinitely calm. It’s a charismatic machine, made for killing by means of gears and trajectories, but its roughed-in foot gives it less the air of a trophy suitable for mounting than of a predator that might yet spring again.

 

Edward Heron-Allen got a good chance to say “I told you so,” today, a century back, as German aircraft returned for the first raid on London in months, and the first night raid by the new generation of heavy bombers:

On Tuesday (the 4th) I went up to town with a friend who was firmly convinced that the aeroplane danger was at an end as far as London was concerned… I incurred much pitying contempt by saying that I did not believe this…

That very night I was wakened at midnight by my housekeeper at Hamilton Terrace… I got up and went to the window. The air was full of the loud hum, and throbbing reverberations which announce the presence of the new big German ‘Gotha’ aeroplanes. As I looked out, a crash shook the house…

It was a fine night with overhanging clouds, and I went out into Hamilton Terrace. The enemy machines were directly over our heads, and I could follow their roar as they went off to the southward, and I went back to bed and to sleep. An hour later another rapping on my door…

This time I did not bother to get up but lay and listened for about 20 minutes when the infernal racket went on. I cannot account for the fact that there never entered my head for one moment the idea that at any moment my house might be blown to pieces, and I was asleep again before it was over! It was not bravery or pluck–it was simply that our sense of fear is dulled…[1]

Heron-Allen, at least in his own estimation, is a quick study. After several years in disgruntled letter-to-editor mode, he has only recently been fitted with a home guard uniform, but he enjoys being a soldier.  And by his second air-raid warning (in the person of a servant, not a klaxon–this is only a foreshadowing of the greater Blitz) he is dull to the fear of death from above…

 

Not that courage under fire–even if it is the fire of a handful of bombers attacking an enormous city–isn’t praiseworthy, but it’s amusing to think of Heron-Allen as a self-satisfied middle-aged veteran when we also have a letter, today, from Kate Luard. Fortunately for her–and unfortunately for us, a century on, since her diary kept the various swellings and burstings of Third Ypres in focus for us these last five weeks–she is now going on leave.

Wednesday morning, September 5th. Dazzling and deafening. We scuttled in and out of the Elephant [shelter] till 3 a.m. and every one is alive this morning. Probably we shall all be off somewhere to-day. I’ll wire from Folkestone if and when I get there…[2]

After her leave there is another gap in her published letters as Luard is sent to supervise other units. It will not be until February that she returns to C.C.S. 32 and we will hear from her regularly once again.

 

Finally, today, Siegfried Sassoon is still living his strange life as a healthy officer in a war hospital, a recovering pacifist still in the army, and a well-known poet mentoring a greater talent. His letters to Lady Ottoline Morrell, a sponsor of his anti-war protest phase, tend to display this discomfort from rather unflattering angles, but today he writes to her of one thing that fighting soldiers and pacifists must agree upon: the pain of loss. And yet something about the tone of these letters is still distinctly snobbish, even if the ideas expressed are not necessarily awful…

5 September 1917, Craiglockhart

My dear Ottoline, I am glad you have forgiven me! I would have written, but have been knocked flat once again by the best sporting friend I ever had getting killed on August 14—in France. He was indeed my greatest friend before the war—a Winchester boy named Gordon Harbord, whom I met in 1908 and saw constantly afterwards. When the unintellectual people go it is much the worst–one feels they’ve so much to lose.

I had been busy writing a cub-hunting poem for him during the days between August 15 and the time I heard of if.

Things go on the same here.

I wonder if Massingham would care to use the sonnet in The Hydra—show it to him when you see him.[3]

So, interestingly enough, it is not just Wilfred Owen who is proudly posting out copies of The Hydra. The sonnet in question is “Dreamers,” which Sassoon gave to his new friend for the September 1st issue of the magazine.

 

Dreamers

Soldiers are citizens of death’s grey land,
Drawing no dividend from time’s to-morrows.
In the great hour of destiny they stand,
Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.
Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win
Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.
Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin
They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.
I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,
And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,
Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,
And mocked by hopeless longing to regain
Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,
And going to the office in the train.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Journal of the Great War, 114-5.
  2. Unknown Warriors, 158.
  3. Diaries, 184-5.

Kate Luard on Models and Women; Edwin Vaughan Rests; Siegfried Sassoon Keeps in Touch with the Old Views

Today, a century back, in both Belgium and Scotland, is another “day after.” Two nights ago Kate Luard reported that three nurses at a nearby hospital had been wounded–a “dirty trick,” since the hospitals should be identifiable from the air–and that her “letters to relatives of died-of-wounds are just reaching 400 in less than three weeks.” Of these she tries to write “about a dozen every day or night.” But today is quiet–another lull just behind the glassy eye of the still-gathering storm.

I’ve noted before that Sister Luard enjoys exploring, no matter where she is, and will take country rambles or sight-seeing trips on any rare occasion when the hospital is calm enough to spare her for a few hours. In the midst of a battle she can’t go far but–gratifyingly–she is as efficient as ever in discovering and taking in the newest sight of the behind-the-lines tour:

I went with two Sisters to Evening Service at the Church Army Hut at the cross-roads, only standing room, all men soon going over the top. Very nice hymns. Then we went a bit up the road continuous with this, parallel to the line, all of it camps, Archies and all the various paraphernalia of War. There was an aeroplane caught in a tree and there was a model of the present offensive laid out in miniature in a field, with dolls’ rails, trenches, cemeteries, farms and dug-outs – a fascinating toy.

But after nightfall the war resumed, and Luard had to face it–as well as a sexist but complimentary colonel and the mute demand of her diary that she try to record her true feelings about the war. She answers both like the old campaigner she is:

The mosquitoes are appalling to-night, so are the Gothas… [one] dropped a bomb about 200 yards from our quarters – it made a red flare and heavy cloud of black smoke and knocked my photos off my shelf.

Colonel F. said to me just before they came, ‘We’re going to be bombed to-night.’ I said, ‘Yes, probably.’ Then he said, ‘I don’t know how you women stick it – it’s much worse here than in London, where you can go into your cellar.’ I said, ‘Well, we’ve got to stick it,’ and he said, ‘Well, I’m amazed at the level of calm of you Sisters.’ I am too sometimes. They’d rather die than show any windiness, though everyone hates it. And to-day there has been shelling too – one just now. Personally, I wouldn’t be anywhere else while the hospital is here, but it’ll be a relief when the War’s over![1]

 

Edwin Vaughan‘s last few days have been the most intense and miserable of his life. His diary maintains a steady, somewhat anesthetized calm throughout, but his eyes are always open. Relief has come at last–for his battalion and for his beleaguered psyche–and today he reaches his reserve billet, a muddy tent near the Yser canal.

Harding was asleep in his valise, and I sat down on the floor and cut my puttees off with a knife. I had shed my sodden clothes and rubbed down with a towel when Martin came in with my supper. He, like all the others, was rather uneasy and made no reference to the attack. I got into pyjamas and ate my stew lying in bed. It was wonderful to have a hot meal and I was grateful for it after my four days of nibbling at filth.

The tent flaps were laced over, the rain had ceased, the guns were silent and Jimmy Harding lay motionless. I ate
slowly and dully, staring at my candle. I took my Palgrave from the valise head; it opened at ‘Barbara’ and I read quite coldly and critically until I came to the lines

In vain, in vain, in vain.
You will never come again.
There droops upon the dreary hills a mournful fringe of rain

then with a great gulp I knocked my candle out and buried my face in my valise. Sleep mercifully claimed me before my thoughts could carry me further and after my four days of strain I slept for eight hours—and at noon I was awake and sitting up with Jimmy eating sausage and bacon with the sun streaming in through the wide opened tent flaps.

‘It’s all wrong,’ said Jimmy whimsically.

‘What is?’ said I, with a mouthful of toast.

‘That coughing Lizzie out there.’

I regarded him questioningly and he assumed his shocked expression. ‘Is it possible that you were so debased as to indulge in Aunty’s Ruin last night? For my part I didn’t sleep a wink all night,’ said he blandly. ‘Ugh! There she goes again, the spiteful cat!’ and I spilt my tea as a terrific roar shook the earth.

‘What on earth is it?’ I asked.

‘Oh, merely a 12-inch gun that has been firing all the morning.’ And walking to the tent door I saw the smoking barrel of a naval gun towering over the hedge 30 yards away. I could hardly imagine myself having slept through a number of explosions like that, but Jimmy assured me that I had. ‘Incidentally,’ he added, ‘it’s not going to be too healthy for us here when Jerry starts trying to find her.’ I agreed…[2]

 

Yesterday’s meeting between Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon was, to put it plainly, a bigger deal for one than the other. If Owen–or Sassoon, looking back–was aware of a touch of hauteur in Sassoon’s attitude, the same quality is visible from a different angle as he writes to Lady Ottoline Morrell. Despite Sassoon’s abandonment of the pacifist cause, they seem to be on relatively good terms still. And, not coincidentally, they even discuss an important work of war literature in its new role of anti-war literature, namely Henry Barbusse’s Le Feu, which will be the most important non-English influence on Sassoon’s writing… Sassoon seems to plead agnosticism, now, on all matters of war and politics…

19 August, Central Station Hotel, Glasgow

I am never sniffy or snubby with my friends–as you ought to know by now! I thought you understood that when I don’t feel like writing letters I don’t write them.

Barbusse’s French is beyond me, but the translation is good enough to show the truth and greatness of his book, so you needn’t be so superior about it!

I have been working at new poems lately, and a few of them are shaping themselves all right.

A man has motored me over to this large city and I have lunched ponderously.

Your delightful tiny Keats has been my companion lately, but most of my days have been spent in slogging golf-balls on the hills above Edinburgh. I admire the “views” prodigiously: they are bonny. A month ago seems like a bad dream. ‘And still the war goes on, he don’t know why’.

S.S.[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Unknown Warriors, 147-8.
  2. Some Desperate Glory, 212-14.
  3. Diaries, 184.

The Eve of Battle, and Other Matters: Alfred Hale Abandoned to His Fate; Siegfried Sassoon Has His Day in the House; Wilfred Owen Regales His Mother; Isaac Rosenberg a Georgian at Last; Edmund Blunden and Kate Luard in the Salient at the Stroke of Midnight

It’s the eve of battle–the Battle of Pilckem Ridge, first phase of Third Ypres, to be precise–and we are all over the place.

First, and least relevant to the coming battle, Alfred Hale received a remarkable letter from his father today, a century back:

I saw Colonel Crommelin this morning, and he told me that he had written to your CO and that the answer was “not very satisfactory… It will depend very much upon yourself, i.e., “whether you show alertness and keeness in your work” which might be a reason for giving you a step upwards. Colonel Crommelin added… that commissions are reserved for those who have done something to earn them, such as having been out at the front, and who show capability. I spoke to him about the cook and his ways, and he said that this kind of thing is always the case, and that the only thing to do is to use considerable tact with people of that sort. This is just what an educated man can do.

Incredibly, Hale’s father (his son, Alfred, is, again, forty-one years old) has been to a recruiting colonel and both asked for a commission for his son and complained that Alfred was being bullied by a cook…  And the italicized emphasis is mine– Hale, because I read him in Fussell, first, usually looms large as a sort of comic anti-hero, an oblivious Tramp or an Edwardian Gentleman Good Soldier Švejk. But at times like this it is perhaps well to be reminded how monumentally clueless and self-centered he is: his father, after failing to belatedly use influence to advance his career, must remind him that experience and competence are also frequently considered in matters concerning sudden change of status that skip a man ahead of a few million of his countrymen.

The letter goes on to state that even though Hale, the younger, is no good as a batman, he should probably stick to the work, as the only alternative is indoor clerical work “and I doubt if that would suit you.” Even more incredibly, Hale takes this letter promptly to his own officer, whose exasperation was no doubt heavily ameliorated with an admixture of baffled bemusement…[1]

 

And while father has paid a call on behalf of Alfred, Mother has at last been to visit Wilfred Owen at Craiglockhart War Hospital. And he is doing very well: not only is he making progress on his classical allegory Antaeus, but today he gave a lecture to the Field Club–entitled “Do Plants Think?” (which sounds remarkably modern but was in fact–or was also–eminently Victorian)–and he has now taken up the editorship of the next issue of The Hydra, the hospital’s well-funded literary magazine.

Monday, 30 July 1917, 11 p.m.

My own dear Mother,

The Lecture was a huge success, & went on till 10.20!! At least I was answering cross-questions until that time…

I have only once since getting through the Barrage at Feyet felt such exultation as when winding up to my peroration tonight…

The ‘only once’ was when I saw you gliding up to me, veiled in azure, at the Caledonian. I thought you looked very very beautiful and well, through the veil, and especially on the night of the concert. But without the veil I saw better the supremer beauty of the ashes of all your Sacrifices: for Father, for me, and for all of us…

This is the point where a commentator feels some pressure to acknowledge the unusual fulsomeness of the prose here, and the peculiar intensity of Owen’s regard for his mother. A traditional–and surely misguided and oversimplified–response is to place the relationship in the context of Owen’s homosexuality (which is not openly revealed in his surviving letters, but is nonetheless a secure part of his historical identity, as such things go). It is undeniable that he was a much-loved, much doted-on, and promising eldest son who grew to repress his sexual feelings… but that is not a very nuanced description and doesn’t quite explain why the two would write and (presumably) enjoy reading such perfervid prose. It’s about style, in other words, and anything sexual is smothered well beneath, as under the overstuffed cushions of a horse-hair sofa…

The other thought that occurs to me is that this is like reading the letter that Marie Leighton would have loved to receive from her understandably standoffish son, but never will.

Which leads to an even more speculative thought: Owen, a station master’s son who never made it to University, is socially fortunate to ascend to the editorship of a journal that will be contributed to by men better-born and University-educated. Yes, it’s at a shell shock hospital, but it’s still a press and a budget and a readership. And isn’t this just where Roland might be, now, if he had lived?

This is a letter of parentheses. It is itself a parenthesis between my work. I must have the Magazine ready
by tomorrow morning.

Your own W.E.O.[2]

 

And speaking of well-connected men of private means who are writing letters from Craiglockhart War Hospital, here is Siegfried Sassoon, writing to Lady Ottoline Morrell. Is Sassoon being less than honest about how far his last two weeks have taken him from the pacifist resolution toward which she had encouraged him? And does he aim to please with a display of snobbery? Yes, yes he is, and yes he does.

My dear Ottoline,

I am quite all right and having a very decent time. Letters aren’t interfered with. It’s simply an opportunity for marking time and reading steadily…

There is just time (it’s a short letter) for some nasty remarks about other patients before he introduces the mentor who will come to supplant all previous ones:

My fellow-patients are 160 more or less dotty officers. A great many of them are degenerate-looking. A few genuine cases of shell-shock etc…

My doctor is a sensible man who doesn’t say anything silly. His name is Rivers; a notable Cambridge psychologist. But his arguments don’t make any impression on me. He doesn’t pretend that my nerves are wrong, but regards my attitude as abnormal. I don’t know how long he will go on trying to persuade me to modify views.

Yours ever,    S.S.

I have got lots of books, and go in to Edinburgh whenever I like.[3]

 

At around 7:00 the same evening that Sassoon was denying his savior in this letter to one of his sponsoring semi-disciples, the Labour M.P. Hastings Lees-Smith rose to read out Sassoon’s “Statement” to the House of Commons. He was answered by government ministers who made pointed references to the author’s current whereabouts…

As Sherston, Sassoon brushes off this episode with brittle attempts at humor, emphasizing the irrelevance of the proceedings without making it clear that his decision to accept his second medical board rendered his protest irrelevant. Graves had bluffed him by declaring that he might be involuntarily committed but never court martialed, and Sassoon had folded, handing the army a perfect defense against the charges in his statement: he was now a brave officer suffering from shell shock who had fallen into the clutches of unscrupulous operators on the left…[4]

 

Briefly, we also have Isaac Rosenberg, resuming his acquaintance with Eddie Marsh, his patron/friend and Sassoon’s friend/patron. Marsh may have had a hand in rescuing Sassoon, and now he will take a hand in elevating Rosenberg into one of the most important wartime poetic anthologies. I have just been discussing class and schooling… so it seems pointlessly cruel to abide by my usual practice of letting the editors’ decisions on correcting mistakes of punctuation and spelling stand. But consistency is its own reward…

My Dear Marsh

Im glad youve got your old job again and are Winston Churchills private sec. once more, though it will be a pity if it will interfere with your literary prjects. I thought that would happen when I heard hed become Minister of Munitions. I can immagine how busy you will be kept and if you still mean to go on with your memoir and G.P., you perhaps can immagine me, though of course ray work pretty much leaves my brain alone especially as I have a decent job now and am not so rushed and worked as I was in the trenches. I will be glad to be included in the Georgian Book, and hope your other work wont interfere with it.[5]

 

Another aspiring Georgian–more self-assured but less far along in personal poetic development–is Edmund Blunden, now just behind the front lines in the Salient, where he has received a package from home which included a novel and book of poems by Leigh Hunt. Late tonight he will take out his diary to record his thoughts, and give us century-back life writing to the very moment:

Heavy rain again for part of the day. . . . Since we have been in, we have been quite unlucky and have had between forty and fifty casualties. The weather looks none too promising–but perhaps ‘everything will come out in the wash’. . . . So far all quiet. But how these tunnels reek! I finish the page on the stroke of twelve, which brings on tomorrow.[6]

Thus Blunden in the moment. Like the War Diary of the 15th Royal Welsh, he matter-of-factly plays down a high toll in the skirmishing and bombardments that have preceded the assault. When he comes to write the memoir, however, there is much more attention to the collateral psychological damage, as well as to another cruel fact of the coming assault. Although it had been postponed for several days on the advice of a meteorologist, it will soon begin to rain steadily.

Nature tried her hand at a thunderstorm; then the last colourless afternoon arrived. Before that a number of our men had been killed, and all drenched and shaken. That afternoon I saw the miserable state of a little group of houses called La Brique, now the object of a dozen German guns, and, escaping death, I well understood the number of bodies lying there. Presently I stood with my friend Tice looking over the front parapet at the German line. Tice, though blue-chinned and heavy-eyed, showed his usual extreme attention to detail, identifying whatever points he could, and growing quite excited and joyful at the recognition of Kitchener’s Wood in the background. To-morrow morning———. The afternoon grew pale with cloud. Tice went along one trench and I along another, with some such absurd old familiarity as “See you in the morning, old boy.”[7]

 

Finally, and only a few miles away–for the nurses have won their way back to the forward abdominal hospital–Kate Luard is writing at precisely the same moment:

Monday, July 30th, midnight. Brandhoek. Cars came for us at 5 p.m. and here we are. By the time you get this it will be history for better or for worse… everything is organized and ready up to the brim… We have 33 Sisters altogether, and they are all tucked into their bell-tents with hankies tied on to the ropes of the first ones to be called…

The din is marvellous. Some Grandmothers (15-inch guns) on each side of us are splitting the air and rocking the huts… The illumination is brighter than any lightning: dazzling and beautiful. Their new blinding gas is known as mustard-oil gas; it burns your eyes–sounds jolly, doesn’t it?–and comes over in shells. I wonder how many hundreds or thousands have got only four more hours to live, and know it?[8]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. The Ordeal of Alfred Hale, 97-8.
  2. Collected Letters, 478-9.
  3. Diaries, 185.
  4. Complete Memoirs, 519.
  5. Collected Works, 318-9.
  6. Webb, Edmund Blunden, 76.
  7. Undertones of War, 169-170.
  8. Unknown Warriors, 132-3.

Alfred Hale Cuts His Teeth on Army Toffee; Jack Martin Admires a Model; Edwin Vaughan on a Long Day’s Journey; Eddie, Bobbie and Ottoline Advise Siegfried Sassoon

I’m going to wager that readers are willing to go through three of our peripheral writers before finding out what Siegfried Sassoon has been up to.

 

Jack Martin‘s diary has been intermittent of late, and, to be frank, a bit boring. But kudos to the young signalman today, a century back, for catching on to a new theme of ours:

Received a parcel of books from Elsie and resumed my office of distributing librarian. The field in which we lives slopes downwards  towards Flêtre and at the bottom of the dip a Hants Corporal is making a model of the ground over which the next advance is to be made by our Brigade. It is really a work of art consisting of only earth, bits of stick and pieces of stone and wire. All the trenches, both ours and the enemy’s, are shown, the whole model being constructed from a large-scale map.[1]

 

And how is the emphatically middle-aged Alfred Hale doing in camp?

10 July: chocolate and other things of a kind fit to make a supper off had run out at the canteen. My weekly parcel of food had not arrived. So while the officers sat down to a good late dinner, I had nothing to eat of an evening but penny bars of toffee. Began to break my false teeth in consequence, as the said bars were very hard to bite.[2]

 

And, from Edwin Vaughan we have a model “battalion on the march” piece. I’ve cut the “diary” down a bit, but I’ve had to keep most of it so that we can trudge a long through the uphills and downs of this brutal but typical day afoot.

July 10

Marched out in high spirits at 10 a.m., the only drawback being the fact that we were carrying a blanket each and the sun was very hot. The troops sang heartily and unceasingly during the first hour as we swung down sunken country lanes and through deserted, battered hamlets. Song after song was started and taken up by the whole Company, Cole and Taylor being the leading choristers.

Towards the end of the second hour the sweat began to pour and the spirits to flag. A few of the old crocks like Bishop and Dredge were limping markedly and rifles began to shift restlessly from shoulder to shoulder. The singing died away completely and at once we began to get busy. Up and down the ranks we went, joking, encouraging and cursing. I could hear Radcliffe’s voice singing a forlorn solo in front and Harding was already carrying two rifles. Ewing had sent his horse to the rear of the Company and was trying to pull the leading platoon together. We managed to keep every man in his place until the next halt when we flopped out by the roadside.

We had to enforce rigid discipline to keep the waterbottles corked and several names had been taken before we fell in. We moved off with the crocks weeded out and placed in rear of the Company, and a song was started in the leading platoons. This soon died away, however, and the step broke. Soon we came upon a man from ‘B’ Company sitting by the roadside, then some of ‘A’ and more ‘B’, and then there was a sudden rush from our platoons as men fell out to join them. We pounced at once upon them and cursed them back into the ranks, but the effect was heartbreaking and our work was doubled. I finished that hour carrying an additional pack and two rifles while the other officers were doing more or less the same. Three packs were slung from Porky’s saddle and a limping soldier grasped each stirrup.

When we dropped exhausted into the edge of a cornfield, Ewing came down the column telling the troops that we were almost at our destination. This cheered them somewhat, and when we got on to the road again all eyes were fixed on the horizon where our village was due to appear. Cresting the hill ten minutes later we saw a small village a mile ahead, and a quiver of relief ran down the column; on reaching it, however, we found that it was in ruins and a notice board proclaimed it to be Monchy-au-Bois.

A cyclist met us here and reported to each company commander that the Brigadier was waiting just ahead to see us march past. So we bucked up the troops a bit and swung past him in great style, only to fall to pieces again on
emerging from the village on to the open plains. The whole Battalion was now silent, and everywhere could be seen the strained looks, bent shoulders and straggling sections that denote whacked troops. And thus we crawled across the plain for another 20 minutes, when suddenly from No 13 platoon the voice of Private Cole arose in a lovely and very vulgar song: after a few lines. Corporal McKay joined in, then Taylor and Kent and a few more until the whole Company was roaring out the song with their last breaths.

The effect was magical for the whole Battalion pricked up its ears and after a few shudders and syncopations, shook down to a good stride and curled steadily along the winding roads until we reached a charming cluster of trees, through which shone the red roofs of Berles-au-Bois.

A burst of cheering rose from the troops at the sight of the quartermaster sergeants who were waiting for us on the road…[3]

 

I’m very glad for this next letter. Eddie Marsh has been with us since the beginning, but always in the wings, as it were. He is the center of several networks of great importance to this project–of the young painters and poets, of gay literary London, of a social network that connects many promising young men with the center (or the periphery, this last year) of great power. But we don’t get to see much direct evidence of why he has so many friends and why he seems to play a consistently positive role in their lives and literary developments. But this letter to Siegfried Sassoon: shows all of that, and through it, I think, we may get a clearer concise view of what Siegfried Sassoon was in 1917 than we can even through the stereoscopy of his own writings. He is good and honorable, and foolish and headstrong and self-centered, yet easy to influence if only gently.

10 July 1917
5 Raymond Buildings, Gray’s Inn

My dear Siegfried,

Thank you very much for telling me what you’ve done. Of course I’m sorry about it, as you expect. As a non-combatant, I should have no sort of right to blame you, even if I wanted to. But I do think you’re intellectually wrong—on the facts. We agree that our motives for going to war were not aggressive or acquisitive to start with, and I cannot myself see that they have changed. And it does seem strange to me that you should come to the conclusion that they have, at the very moment when the detached Americans have at last decided that they must
come in to safeguard the future of liberty and democracy—and when the demoralised Russian Army seem—after having been bitten with your view—to have seen that they must go on fighting for the sake of their freedom.

I cannot myself see any future for decent civilisation if the end of the war is to leave the Prussian autocracy in any position of credit arid trust.

But now dear boy you have thrown your die, and it’s too late to argue these points. One thing I do beg of you. Don’t be more of a martyr than you can help! You have made your protest, and everyone who knows that you aren’t the sort of fellow to do it for a stunt must profoundly admire your courage in doing it. But for God’s sake stop there. I don’t in the least know what ‘They’ are likely to say or do—but if you find you have a choice between acceptance and further revolt, accept. And don’t proselytise. Nothing that you can do will really affect the situation; we have to win the war (you must see that) and it’s best that we should do it without more waste and friction than are necessary.

Yours

Eddie

Marsh is writing, in other words–and it must be in other words, for a clear statement of the obstacles he faces would cause Sassoon to put his head down and butt–to make sure that Sassoon’s protest remains nothing more than a misguided romantic gesture. In which, ironically, it has a great deal in common with other actions by brave and idealistic young men over the last few years. Sassoon has written that he knows what he is letting himself in for–prison and blustering threats of a firing squad. But if he could clearly imagine that happening–just as he can’t imagine his own martyrdom in barbed wire and shrapnel very clearly, no matter how beautifully he rages and mourns–then he would write about it differently. He is young and foolish, still.

But the most important unspoken element in Marsh’s letter comes from his deep experience of military bureaucracy (he is, after all, Churchill’s secretary). It is, again, as foolish to imagine a young knight waving a sword and successfully defying the entire German war machine as it is to imagine on infantry lieutenant forcing the War Office into a position it does not want to take. Sassoon might be gambling on the machine’s slow stupidity making a martyr out of them, but if he was, he shouldn’t have told his friends. Marsh, Robert Graves, and others are acting now–betraying their friend and protecting him–to shunt the would-be confrontation into an empty corner of the military mind.

And Graves, though impetuous, can also be a ruthless tactician. He quickly notified Bobbie Hanmer, a handsome, non-intellectual fellow officer of whom Sassoon was fond, surely so that Sassoon would be reminded what the loss of his friends’ respect might entail. Hanmer’s letter to Sassoon was likely also sent today, a century back:

Tuesday

1 War Hospital, Block C 11, Reading

My dear old Sassons, What is this damned nonsense I hear from Robert Graves that you have refused to do any more soldiering? For Heaven’s sake man don’t be such a fool. Don’t disgrace yourself and think of us before you do anything so mad. How do you propose to get out of the Army for the first thing? You are under age and will only have to join the ranks unless you become a Conscientious Objector, which pray Heaven you never will.

Let me have a line soon, Yours ever Robert H. Hanmer.

Will Sassoon’s morale be able to weather such bombardment? Perhaps, but the supporting fire he is receiving seems as if it would be far less effective, and he may find himself advancing almost alone… which is, of course, how he likes to do things, although others do tend to follow. Anyway, here is some of that supporting barrage, in the form of a recent letter from Lady Ottoline Morrell:

Garsington

I saw Bertie [Russell] in London yesterday and he showed me your statement which I thought extraordinarily good. It really couldn’t have beep better, I thought. Very condensed and said all that’s necessary. It is tremendously fine of you doing it. You will have a hard time of it, and people are sure to say all sorts of foolish things. They always do—but nothing of that sort can really tarnish or dim the value and splendour of such a True Act…

It is beastly being a woman and sitting still, irritating. Sometimes I feel I must go but and do something outrageous.[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Sapper Martin, 85.
  2. The Ordeal of Alfred Hale, 96.
  3. Some Desperate Glory, 175-6.
  4. Diaries, 178-9.