Hugh Quigley Expects Exaltation; Wilfred Owen on Siegfried Sassoon: The Man, The Friend, The Poet

Hugh Quigley has only recently arrived in the Salient, and he has not yet experienced battle. This will change, shortly–and sharply.

Courcelles-le-Comte, 12 September, 1917

This morning the Colonel summoned the whole battalion to the concert-hall, a ruined house with a roof of yellow tarpaulin. We knew perfectly well what was coming. A fortnight’s training in bombing, firing or rifle grenades, shooting at disappearing targets, and practise of assault-formations going in waves over a hill, gave us an inkling of hot work in front of us. He told us of the traditions the division stood for, the high position it held in the regard of the Army Commander, appealed to the courage of an army which had triumphed at Messines, Vimy, Arras, and Ypres; recalled us to the German treatment of our prisoners, and of harmless Belgian and French civilians, violation, seduction, murder, until it appeared a sacred duty to die fighting in such a cause. At the last he warned us solemnly of the penalties attached to cowardice in the field. “If the Hun shells too heavily, side-step, but for God’s sake don’t go back…”

So: the motivations are to include avenging murder and rape, and yet the green men of the next division in are also reminded of the penalty–death–that their own army metes out to men who flee. I’m not sure about the carrot, but the stick is quite clear.

And yet Quigley is drawn to the idea of battle. This next bit provides a stiff reminder that not every soldier–not even in late 1917–is disillusioned or disenchanted. One may, in fact, be fully aware of two long years of failed attacks and enormous casualty tolls yet still able to conceive of battle in Romantic/Religious terms: Passchendaele may be a bloody disaster, but then again in might be a “quest,” not to be missed.

When he had finished and we went out into the clear air, into the quietly smiling sunlight, a feeling not exactly of pain or even fear overtook me: a dim sense of exaltation, as if a definite vocation in life had been assured, a definite reward, a final gathering of all forces of soul and will to answer a great call, an obliteration of every quavering and hesitation, as if the new quest was nobler than that legendary one of Parzival. This was the real thing at last, not a mere toying with life and fate. The balance would be decided between life and death–death with no lingering and in a full glory of achievement, life after a stern battling with danger and crowned with joy in the thought of courage proved. I think the real religion must be a development of that uncertain exaltation, a strange concurrence in the unseen and perhaps inevitable, a definite view of soul across a broad world of shadow, a surrender to the great power we call God…

In such a time we are all believers, cannot help it. There is a need of sympathy and sustenance, of belief in a certain mission and of reward for play with death, and that is the spirit’s will and way.[1]

 

Needless to say, it will be interesting to check in with Quigley after the battle–provided that he finds himself on the right side of the balance of life and death–or after even a spell of muddy-miserable trench warfare, bombardment, and the inevitable failure of mere “exaltation” to carry a human spirit through the shapeless, miserable, un-quest-like gantlet of attritional warfare.

Which brings us, more or less, to Wilfred Owen, who has not been the same since he was shelled for days in the deep, freezing dugouts of last winter’s front line.

But that is a long time ago, now, in one man’s experience, and he is riding hard on a much sweeter quest–life after danger, and poetry proved:

Tuesday [22] September 1917

My own dear Mother,

Many true thanks for your long letter. I have read it many times. You also find letter writing a fitter mode of intimate communication than speaking.

The enclosed came out of my Parcel of Portfolios rec’vd this evening…

Ah! The Mysterious Portfolios! Did they contain evidence of forbidden love? Hidden prodigal poetry?

We’ll never know… but probably not:

The MSS. arrived in perfect order. Did I classify them as Angels & Devils ? I meant simply; Live Ones and Duds. I have written no Barrack Room Ballads!

Alas. It was probably only bad poetry, and thus a more or less empty vault for the biographically-minded critic. The letter returns now to the most important topic of Owen’s recent letters: the mentor, Siegfried Sassoon.

You may be a little shocked by Sassoon’s language. He is of course, with W.E.O. practically the only one in the place who doesn’t swear conversationally. He is simply honest about the war.

Your questions concerning him are searching. You will do well to put them on all similar occasions.

For it is very true there are not a few whom I like, say, as a poet only, as an actor only, as a table-companion only, as a trench-mate only, as a servant only, as a statue only, as a marble idol only.

Sassoon I like equally in all the ways you mention, as a man, as a friend, as a poet.

The man is tall and noble-looking. Before I knew him I was told this and by this much only I spotted him! I quote from a publication: ‘very slim and shy, with eyes which may be blue or brown when you come to examine them closely.'[2]

He is thirty-one. Let it be thoroughly understood that I nourish no admiration for his nose or any other feature whatever.

The Friend is intensely sympathetic, with me about every vital question on the planet or off it. He keeps all effusiveness strictly within his pages. In this he is eminently English. It is so restful after the French absurdities, and after Mrs. Gray who gushes all over me. But there is no denying to myself that he is already a closer friend than, say, Leslie. Just as this assertion is not the result of having been with him so much lately, neither is it derogated by the shortness of our acquaintance-time. We have followed parallel trenches all our lives, and have more friends in common, authors I mean, than most people can boast of in a lifetime.

As for the Poet you know my judgement…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Passchendaele and the Somme, 117-119.
  2. A quote from a preface to Sassoon's parody The Daffodil Murderer.
  3. Collected Letters, 493-4.

A Mole Hill for Bed and Cake for Dinner in Jack Martin’s Trench; Kate Luard is Nearly Halfway Through Her Letters

Two nights ago, a century back, Jack Martin

felt a small strange upheaval underneath me. My first thought was of rats, but I soon discovered that it was a mole working away under the canvas on which we lie. A molehill in the middle of your spine is not conducive to comfort so I had to move myself one pace to the right…

Martin is an engineer, and so happy, apparently, to practice “live and let live” with rival tunnelers. Or perhaps he was simply biding his time, unwilling to risk conflict before the next mail call. Yesterday was Martin’s 33rd birthday, which netted him a tidy total of four parcels, leaving his tent looking “like a canteen.”

4.9.17

At 10 p.m. last night Glasspoole and I proceeded on night duty with my parcels. There was too large an assortment for us to sample everything but we started on a chocolate cake… then we tackled a bottle of preserved mixed fruits with grape nuts and condensed milk…[1]

The feast will continue…

 

But the interlude of comparative peace will not. Yesterday was a quiet day for Kate Luard, too, although her time was occupied with less agreeable correspondence.

Crowds of letters from mothers and wives who’ve only just heard from the W.O. and had no letter from me, are pouring in, and have to be answered, from my book of addresses and notes of cases; it takes up hours. I’ve managed to write 200 so far, but there are 466.

Then yesterday’s quietly devastating task led into a long and far less quiet night.

1 a.m. Another spell of hell let loose, and now brilliant moonlight, desultory banging of our heavies and occasional squeakers whining over from him. Peace for the minute overhead. Nearly all the patients are sleeping.

Later. Shells getting nearer had me back in the hospital. The last shell looked to be on the edge of 44; it was a big crash and spattered me with spent splinters. His damnable engines are now approaching in the sky – must be off.

2.30. I just got to a ward where the Sister is alone with one patient when the bomb fell and blew one of our Night Orderlies’ sleeping tents out of existence: it is one of a group of Orderlies’ and M.O.’s tents and one of the only empty ones at night. Wasn’t it wonderful? They’d all have been wiped out if they’d been in bed, but they were all on Night Duty. No other tent was touched. Just left an excited group of M.O.’s in pyjamas, and men round the hole…

Today has reminded me, strangely, of the last days of Edward Thomas. He had a birthday not long before the end, though the parcels were delayed; he also spent a morning pondering a mole, his habitat disturbed by guns and engineers; and Thomas had one long argument about the theology of ignoring artillery shells that found their mark while praising a matrix of near misses as a pattern of miraculous escapes… all of this is echoed, today, both by skeptical engineers and world-weary but conventionally religious nurses.

Conventional–but not unreflectively pious.

Tuesday morning, September 4th. Got to bed in my clothes, at 4 a.m., up at 7.30. Slept well. Brilliant morning; Archie racket in full blast. This acre of front so far bears a charmed life, but how long can it last? Shells and bombs shave us on all four sides. Mad, isn’t it? Capt. B. and Capt. P. (the all-night-duty men) are topping people. We have huge jokes in the middle of it all – no one could stick it if everybody behaved with fitting solemnity and sang hymns. There is a bit of Thank God sometimes, but praying doesn’t somehow come in, which seems funny! You can be
doing that!

Later. Orders have come for the final evacuation of the Hospital – site considered too ‘unhealthy.’ We close down to-day, evacuate the patients still here, and disperse the personnel. I stay till the last patient is fit to be moved, probably to-morrow, or next day – then probably Leave for 14 days! But don’t count on it, as you never know.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Sapper Martin, 99-100.
  2. Unknown Warriors, 155-7.

The Master is Promoted; Ivor Gurney Packs his Tragedies and Versifies his Thanks; Wilfred Owen’s Shy Hand is not Shy of Praising Sassoon

Less than a week ago, the Master of Belhaven was all alone, pistol in hand, in advance even of the infantry. Dodging a grenade that mortally wounded the infantry Captain behind him, he shot and killed a German soldier at point-blank range. But only two days after these accidental front line heroics he found himself suddenly in command of two brigades of artillery.

Larch Wood, 25th August, 1917

Another tragedy. At 10 o’clock this morning Colonel Street was killed as he was standing outside his Headquarters. The adjutant telephoned to me and I at once went over and took command of the group. It is perfectly extraordinary how history repeats itself; this is now the third time my colonels have been killed and wounded.

Hamilton, by contrast, was doubly lucky–it might well have been him. On the 27th, the Germans captured the very infantry post from which he had gone out with the unfortunate Captain Flack and run into the German grenade ambush.

Today, a century back, he was rewarded for his good work–and his survival:

Larch Wood, 29th August, 1917

During breakfast this morning the staff captain rang up and said “Good morning, colonel.” I asked him if he was pulling my leg, but he told me a wire had just come through appointing me to command the 106th Brigade with the rank of lieut.-colonel; so I have reached that exalted rank at last![1]

 

Ivor Gurney, meanwhile, is preparing for another tour near the front lines (now with the machine guns, he is never quite in the very front line, but rather in support or reserve, which are shelled just as much). Writing once again to Marion Scott, he would prefer to treat the war only in passing. He is more interested in his own personal preparations: he lists the books he will carry with him, and he sends a “pome” back for her.

My Dear Friend: We are off up again, and this is the last letter written in the quiet. (We can write up there however, and do you write). I go up with Brent Young, Harvey, 6 Tragedies of Shakespeare and “The Bible in Spain”, with nothing to fear on that account therefore.

You will find a fresh pome below, though there is no question of volunteering . . . .

And here I break off because they say no letters will be censored up there. “May all the infections that the sun sucks up — fall upon Fritz and make him by inchmeal a disease.”

(Today is August 29)

To M.M.S.

O, if my wishes were my power.
You should be praised as were most fit.
Whose kindness cannot help but flower.

But since the fates have ordered
So otherwise, then ere the hour
Of darkness deaden all my wit.

I’ll write: how all my art was poor.
My mind too thought-packed to acquit
My debt. . . And only, “thanks once more”.[2]

 

Gurney sometimes seems too pure a soul–pure in his devotion to poetry and music and the Gloucestershire countryside, though riven, also, but doubt and madness–to go in for mere wit. But it’s not really so–he does like to be clever in a quiet way. He is often hurried and muddled–by nature, and because of war’s ill nurturing–and without Scott to collect and collate and edit he would be nowhere near the book of poetry that is soon to be published. So thanks are due, and amidst preparations for a march toward the German guns he dashes off a few credible verses on how he is too benumbed and befuddled to manage a credible thank-you…

 

Wilfred Owen, has been so busy of late–that Field Club, writing and editing the hospital magazine, the amateur dramatics, hanging out with Siegfried Sassoon–that he has still a backlog of signed copies of The Old Huntsman to distribute to family members. Today it is his sister Mary’s turn to receive the Huntsman, along with a promise of The Hydra, and a cover letter to boot.

Thursday, 29 August 1917, Craiglockhart

My dear Mary,

I was grieved—almost aggrieved—to hear you had had some bad days at Aberystwyth…

The family vacation on the Welsh coast was, evidently, rather unsatisfactory. Owen rolls this familial “cloud”–a little briskly, perhaps–into his pessimism about the course of the war.

… it is not to be wondered at that I was a bit snappy in my Editorial, which you shall have in a day or two.

But a word from Sassoon, though he is not a cheery dog himself, makes me cut capers of pleasure.

My dear, except in one or two of my letters, (alas!) you will find nothing so perfectly truthfully descriptive of war. Cinemas, cartoons, photographs, tales, plays—Na-poo.

Owen has been fond of that word lately–and perhaps I should have glossed it before. Tommy slang, from the French “il n’y a plus,” it means “it’s done, over, kaput.” But Owen seems a bit more confident that Mary will accept his praise of his new mentor and not be “na-poo” for him as a respected reader of war literature. (Dad is another matter.)

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive

Now you see why I have always extolled Poetry.

The ‘Redeemer’, I have been wishing to write every week for the last three years.

Well, it has been done and I have shaken the greater hand that did it.

‘The Death-Bed’, my dear sister, should be read seven times, and after that, not again, but thought of only…

There is no hint of a Board for me yet! I’m going down to make my Evening Tea now.

Just a card will tell me how you & dear Mother are.

Your loving Wilfred[3]

No hint of a “Board:” he will have some time, yet, to work on his poetry in Craiglockhart. Although he only sings his song of Sassoon in the letter to Mary, Owen is also working on his own poetry. He has begun, by today, a century back, to draft the atypical sonnet “My Shy Hand.” A later fair-copy can be seen at right:

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 378-80.
  2. War Letters, 191.
  3. Collected Letters, 489.

Night and Day in the Salient: The Master of Belhaven Empties his Pistol; Kate Luard Returns; Edwin Vaughan in Laughter and Terror; Ivor Gurney Finds Truth and Beauty in Siegfried Sassoon

Today, a century back, seems to be one of those days where any strange thing could happen–and many of them did. I suppose that a vague thematic connection among our first three entries might be the growing nastiness and desperation that characterized the fighting around Ypres, but that hardly even hints at the scope of the sudden violence we’ll encounter.

 

The Master of Belhaven‘s story should probably come first: it’s an unlikely escapade, told with nearly breathless disbelief by a man who is exhilarated to have survived. But it happened. It was a completely new experience–the veteran artillery officer in the midst of real trench fighting–and one which, despite the suffering and death involved, he writes, from beginning to end, as an adventure yarn. He has been writing of gas, shell-shock, and madness lately–but not today. Today was

The most exciting day I have had since I came out. It brackets with the first time I shot a rhino in East Africa.

The sentiment is clear, even if that comparison has not weathered the century well. Hamilton means to evoke the manly excitement of the hunt, rather than what we might see as joy in needless killing of a rare animal… but even a century back there would have been many to point out that the analogy is troubling: these are men that Hamilton is hunting, not beasts.

At dawn this morning I got a telegram… there was another gun firing from 50 yards north of the place I knocked out. I wired back to say that it should have my personal attention.

Hamilton has been praised for his initiative and his effectiveness, and he found it thrilling to actually watch his guns’ rounds hit from a mere few hundred yards away–this is an experience he would like to repeat.

First, however, Hamilton prepares for the “shoot” with exacting care. He registers a new gun and then re-registers his entire battery, firing on known targets to confirm that his calculations are precisely in accordance with each gun’s current state. Next, he lays new wire from the Observation Point back to the battery to ensure real-time communication. Only then does he proceed to the front line to lay his eyes on the target. But, as it turns out to be not-quite-visible even from a front-line post, he asks the Company Commander on the spot–Captain Flack of the First Royal Fusiliers–if he can go even further forward. Flack agrees, since the nearby trenches are not being held in force.

I must now describe the situation in some detail in order to make intelligible what follows.

The tension builds… but I will still cut in: Hamilton’s laying of the land is too detailed and repetitive, and we are familiar (I hope) with the idea of opposing groups of infantry holding “block” or “barrier” positions along a defunct communications trench which has come to serve as a sort of No Man’s Trench between them. In the present case the British barrier is 30 yards from a right-angle in the trench, which presumably turns again (these right-angle-bends are “traverses” meant to limit the effectiveness of enemy fire) and eventually meets a lateral trench still held by the Germans.

Even beyond this traverse, however, the Germans are believed to be “a long way off.” So it is safe to take a peek. Flack accompanies Hamilton in the spirit of a local guide or proprietor.

We drew our pistols and saw that they were loaded and in good order, and then proceeded to climb over the barricade… We crept along yard by yard, holding our pistols in front of us. We got almost up to the bend in the trench, that is, 30 yards from our barricade, when I saw an old hurdle across the trench just at the bend. Flack was about 5 yards behind me at the moment. Suddenly without any warning a German, with a pork-pie cap on, jumped up from behind the hurdle where he had been lying, and without a word flung a bomb in our faces.[1] It went over my head and burst with a crack between Flack and me. As the German rose up I threw myself forward onto my left hand, at the same time firing; at the moment I fired he had his hand above his head, having just let go the bomb. My bullet caught him in the throat; he threw up his other arm and collapsed like an ox that has been pole-axed…

The infantry captain, Flack, is wounded by the bomb. The German–rhino, ox, or human being–is dead, shot through the neck and chest by Hamilton. Our artillery battery commander has suddenly become a front line trench fighter, and, like Han Solo routing a party of storm troopers, he empties his pistol blindly around the corner to cover the retreat, as Flack’s men drag his limp body back over the barricade.

As soon as Flack had been got over, I turned and ran for it, scrambling over the barricade in record time. I knew I had been hit in the left knee, because I could feel the blood running down my leg… but I felt positively no pain at the time. I fired a parting shot just as I reached the barricade and immediately loaded a fresh magazine full of cartridges into my pistol. I was thankful I had an automatic and not an ordinary service revolver. Flack was lying in the bottom of the trench, simply covered with blood.

Hamilton takes command of the infantry detachment, orders the men nearby to prepare to defend against any German follow-up attack, and does what he can for Flack, who was “terribly wounded,” torn open in several places by the grenade’s explosion.

A few minutes later Hamilton hands over command to an infantry lieutenant and sees Flack carried to a dressing station. Captain W.G. Flack had been wounded four times and won the MC and bar, but this was his last fight–his CWGC entry indicates that he will die of these wounds in a few weeks in Étaples (among the hospitals where Vera Brittain now works).

Hamilton’s mission continues nonetheless. The idea of physically seeing the new gun position is now abandoned, of course, but he still wants to destroy any German guns that he can, and he knows approximately where they are located. Using the old vantage point and his high-powered binoculars, Hamilton discovers that–in a rather shocking lapse of tactical attention–the gun pit he destroyed a few days earlier has been reoccupied.

I could see numbers of the enemy walking about in the shade of the wood, so as soon as I got through [reaching his battery on the telephone] I turned all my guns on to it at the fastest rate of fire. The result was excellent…

This, presumably, was more like bagging pheasants than facing down a rhino.

I limped back to Battalion Headquarters, where I had a drink. They offered me food, but I could not touch anything with my hands, as they were simply caked with blood…

I went on to our Brigade Headquarters and reported the result of my day to the colonel, who was much horrified at my going out in front; however, I pointed out to him that if valuable information is to be obtained a certain amount of risk must be taken…[2]

Hamilton has proved his courage, initiative, and–although he would not have thought much of the utility of these at the beginning of the day–his reflexes and pistol marksmanship. He has earned the rather haughty tone of his last comment about risk–and then some. I don’t know how many artillery commanders drew their pistols–let alone fired them–in order to lay eyes to local targets (they stood greater risks for longer periods of time just by being with their guns while the enemy artillery searched for them, but that was the ordinary courage expected of them) but it can’t have been many.

Hamilton did not begin the day bloodthirsty; he was merely eager to do the very most with the means available to him. Yet it still feels–have I tried too hard to inculcate the infantryman’s “live and let live” attitude?–as if the killing today was in some way unnecessary. This despite the fact that it was warfare well done, and to refrain from it would have been foolish and irresponsible in strictly military operational terms. But.. must this sudden surprise killing be recounted in the style of a Boy’s Own Paper adventure?

Well. I may not like it, but I’m not sure that my distaste has any standing–Hamilton is not a great literary stylist, but he wrote out of his own experience, both his prior reading and his emotional state in the immediate aftermath of the events themselves. So perhaps he should be forgiven the adventure yarn/hunting story/action flick style in which people died today, a century back.

 

Next we come to Kate Luard. Her day, yesterday, was similarly intense, but in an almost opposite way. After weeks of near misses from German artillery and aircraft, a direct hit killed one of her nurses. And after weeks of misgivings, practical arguments, praise, and reflexive chauvinism, the medical powers-that-were immediately pulled the nurses out of their forward hospital, sending them to St. Omer. Kate Luard was torn, surely, to be sent back–but she also looked forward, with frank relief now that the test was over, to the idea of leave. For a few hours.

Thursday, August 23rd. No. 10 Sta. St. Omer. I’m afraid you’ll be very disappointed, but we are to re-open on the same spot so Leave is off. The Australians are not to go back, but we are to carry on the abdominal work alone as we did before they came up…

In tracing these reversals of course, Luard describes the initial decision, yesterday, to pull out. After the deadly shells, a discussion among the ranking medical officers “on our middle duckboards” about whether and how to relocate the hospitals ends in harrowing, cinematic fashion.

At that moment Fritz tactfully landed one of his best with a long-drawn crescendoing scream and crash, just on the railway. ‘Oh,’ said the General, ‘that was rather close.’ ‘That settles it,’ said the Q.M.G. firmly; ‘all three will evacuate.’ I made off to the Wards to tell the patients they were leaving, and you should have seen their looks of joy. ‘But you Sisters don’t stop here?’ they asked everywhere with great anxiety, bless them.

In an hour all were packed into Ambulances whether fit or dying, and the Padre was burying the dead. It took us a few hours to get away ourselves and one shell came slick into the Wards of 44 (which was then cleared of patients and Sisters) and blew an Orderly’s arm and leg off and tossed the Sergeant-Major, but he came down intact. By this time Ambulances were waiting for us and our kit, and the poor C.O. was frantic to get us away.

We reached St. Omer about 10 p.m., and it took till 1 a.m. before all were housed and fed and bedded (without any beds!) on the floors of an empty house. The personnel of our three C.C.S.’s came to over 100 and was divided between various Matrons here. We were dropping with fatigue by this time…

But back they will go: once again the belief that soldiers shouldn’t die because essential medical staff are being kept back from the guns wins out over the belief that women should not be exposed to the direct fire of the enemy. But the enemy are everywhere

Of course there was a Raid that night – there would be! – and one had to tear upstairs and order them all down on to the next floor out of their beds; 10 civilians were killed and a lot wounded. We, however, looked on that as child’s play; it seemed so far off, compared to our nightly entertainments…

It is only when you leave off that you realise how done you are, but fortunately having to begin again will correct that. I’m indulging in a pestilential cold, and a toothache. Otherwise I am very fit! The 36 Sisters to a man are loyal and good and vie with each other in attentiveness! The only real worry would be if they were tiresome.

The older Surgeons think it’s dreadful having us there, but as the C.O. says, without us they couldn’t carry on at all, so it’s worth it.[3]

 

With Edwin Vaughan we have yet another emotional reversal. Yesterday, a century back, the constant shelling was a laughing matter:

Pepper and the doctor—Carroll—amused me mightily by feigning abject terror and fighting to stand behind a tiny sapling about five inches across, whence they leered at the reeking shell-holes while chunks of iron sang about them. Pepper is awfully good fun nowadays…

Today, however, not so much:

During the night I was awakened by half a dozen tremendous crashes, apparently close to our tent. There were no yells and I was too tired to get up, but the next morning we found that the shells had all fallen within a hundred yards of us…

I got sudden windup this morning, for no reason whatever…

Later, after a ride with a tank unit, Vaughan’s courage returns. It would seem that, even under constant fire in reserve, the battalion’s morale remains impressively high:

I went to bed at 10 p.m. and at about midnight was awakened by an unusual sound. Far in the distance was the clanging of a gas gong—a warning that was taken up and came nearer and nearer until our own gong was struck. I woke Harding and went out of the tent to find the air faintly charged with a sweet scent of peppery butterscotch. I put on my gas-mask and went round the tents to find the men wearing theirs and playing at being lions and bears. Ewing, who had his tent flaps laced, did not smell the gas, so took no notice of the warning. He was not affected and the gas had dispersed in under half an hour.[4]

 

Three deadly back-and-forths in the Salient is enough for any one day, but bear with me for one more brief post. This one is a treat–from my point of view, at least. Some of our writers are writing in safety, some are in great danger. But while Owen sweats his guts out for Sassoon‘s approval, another poet in the firing line is traversing his critical eye across the horizon of The Old Huntsman.

Ivor Gurney‘s machine gun team is now in action, and, although he is personally in support, that is nevertheless well within the range of the guns. He too, shares all the difference the chances of a day can make, in war:

…last night on fatigue I had the roughest chanciest hour I ever had. My shrapnel helmet has an interesting dent in it….

We got caught in a barrage for an hour on the fatigue, and shrapnel caught me twice — once on the blessed old tin hat, (dint and scar) and once on the belt (no mark.) Pretty hot just there.

But today all is well, and he has time to read. And what? Well, Marion Scott is a very good friend/editor/patron, and she has promptly sent him a recent book of poems in which he had previously declared an interest:

I hope you will send me some more Sassoon, for his touch of romance and candour I like. He is one who tries to tell Truth, though perhaps not a profound truth…

Gurney is well off into a letter about his poetic hopes and his desire for long friendly conversations when another parcel arrives. He leaps into the book and dashes off his initial reactions–Sassoon’s poetry is something that strikes Gurney, evidently, as immediate in a way other art is not. And his criteria? Truth, and beauty, of course.

My Dear Friend: Your letter with Conan Doyle’s “Guns in Sussex” arrived yesterday, and Sassoon today. Thank you so much for the trouble and patience it must have cost you to copy them. The Conan Doyle is not very good; sincere but dull. The Sassoons not so good as a whole as they might be — but true…

Wisdom‘s last line is good.
Whispered Tale. True and good.
Absolution beautiful. But — one finds in it the fault of minor poets who make beautiful lines of unmeaning or not of any particular significance.

Why is time a wind, a golden wind, why does it shake the grass? I’ll tell you; because of “pass” and because it is a good line as a whole. He was proud of it, and may have written the poem round it.

Golgotha” is strained, though true, but not poetry.

They” needed to be said, but is journalism pure and simple…

Gurney now goes line by line through Sassoon, separating the inspired and “true” from the journalistic and merely verse-smithing. But he also comments with acuity (and, yes, the authority of himself being a poet in combat) on what Sassoon’s emotional intent might be:

…you must remember that a lot of this has been written to free himself from circumstance. They are charms to magic him out of the present. Cold feet, lice, sense of fear—all these are spurs to create Joy to such as he; since Beauty is the only comfort.

Stand-to: Good Friday Morning.

Not perfect; not what he meant, but good; and the end absolutely true, save perhaps “old”…

Thank you again. These thing stimulate me and give me hope. My Anthology enlargens.[5]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. I don't like to break in to this paragraph, in the midst of describing a deadly fight only hours after it occurred, but it is interesting to note how much "genre"--by which I mean the expectations that go into Hamilton's processing of his experience between when it happens and when he writes it down--influences his account of this sudden violence. "Without any warning?" Of course not! "Without a word?" Would we expect a real life German trying to kill two armed, approaching men to take the time to shout "Gott strafe England?" But this is, to an extent, what Hamilton expected...
  2. War Diary, 375-77.
  3. Unknown Warriors, 151-3.
  4. Some Desperate Glory, 215-6.
  5. War Letters, 187-190.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

France, 13 August 1917

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

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

Kate Luard is Open For Business Once Again; Edwin Vaughan Heads Back to the Front; Wilfred Owen Drops his Cheek and Dreams of Vengeance

Through Kate Luard we learn today, a century back, that the offensive is lurching forward once more. Five miserable days of rain, followed by three dry days (not nearly enough to dry the mud) and then another downpour on the 8th had entirely halted the offensive. But yesterday and today were fairly clear, and better weather was in the offing. The major effort on the Gheluvelt plateau was aimed at capturing remaining objectives from July 31st–essentially the “black line” of secondary objectives rather than the furthest “green line.”

The Attack began on the two corners of the Salient to-day… A lot of abdominals and some femurs are still coming in… Sir Anthony Bowlby came round to-day… A bashed-to-pieces Officer with both legs, both arms, face and back wounded, gassed, and nearly blind, saluted with one bandaged arm… (Died at 8 a.m.)[1]

In an increasingly familiar pattern, the initial gains under a well-planned barrage will be considerable, then largely lost to German counter-attacks later in the day…

 

Edwin Vaughan has missed the battle so far–his unit is in reserve and he has been on leave. But now he returns, in a cascade of inauspicious signs. There was the night at the “hateful, uncomfortable, ill-administered rest camp” near Southampton, then a crossing in “a filthy old tub,” and then this welcome to the old battalion:

When I reached Jans-ter-Biezen, I found the Battalion on the other side of the road, sharing a large field with the Brigade Trench Mortar Battery. I received a cheery welcome and we had a happy little dinner of celebration, to which we invited Sullivan who is now with the TMBs. Later a Boche plane came across and dropped a lot of bombs—fortunately into the other camps. We were untouched but the night was rent with crashes, by the screams of archies and the frantic spluttering of Lewis guns.[2]

 

Lastly today, we are once again back in Britain with a shell-shocked officer. Wilfred Owen has been flourishing at Craiglockhart, but regaining self-confidence and a sense of balance and self-mastery is not the same as forgetting or moving past the war.

Tonight’s letter to his mother is both unusual and significant. It begins ordinarily enough, however, with reports in the old intimate-conversational style on the doings of the Field Club and his upcoming appearance in a play being put on by a group of patients, some with previous professional theater experience.

Friday Night

My own dear Mother,

The Field Club went a long walk over the Pentland foot-hills this afternoon… between us we managed to observe and philosophize the country to about half the extent that say Belloc would have done, had he taken that walk.

I held my own in the matter of Water Plants, and my ancient chippings at Geology came in useful… it is very kind of the Army to provide this free-and-easy Oxford for me. It was a unique walk. We had lunch on the roadside, and tea in a cottage…

I read your letter by a waterfall. The Parcel has not yet come. Many thanks for the considerable trouble of packing it off. Where then is my green cap? So glad you thought of socks. The Expense will be refunded by the Club. I forgot to tell you this…

But it is through his mother’s report of her intended charitable work that Owen’s thoughts turn from his activities back to their looming, inescapable context. The next statement, unfortunately, also obliges us to overlook casual racism in order to see his point. It is a bad example, too–the “white man’s burden” is not the main thrust of the thought here. Instead, Owen’s rejection of Christianity as it is practiced by the belligerents moves from a diffident satiric pose toward purposeful, concerted, protest. The stock reference to the “heathen” other points us back to the culprit: Christianity, yes, but as it is embodied in what Owen sees as a deeply hypocritical “civilized” culture.

I’m overjoyed that you think of making bandages for the wounded. Leave Black Sambo ignorant of Heaven. White men are in Hell. Aye, leave him ignorant of the civilization that sends us there, and the religious men that say it is good to be in that Hell.

(Continued, because important) Send an English Testament to his Grace of Canterbury, and let it consist of that one sentence, at which he winks his eyes:

‘Ye have heard that it hath been said: An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth:

But I say that ye resist not evil, but whosoever shall smite thee on thy right cheek, turn to him the other also.’

And if his reply be ‘Most unsuitable for the present distressing moment, my dear lady! But I trust that in God’s good time . . . etc.’—then there is only one possible conclusion, that there are no more Christians at the present moment than there were at the end of the first century.

Toward protest, I think–but he is not all the way there. To act out these intentions in a fantasy in a letter to his mother is a very different thing than taking on the church–or, more generally, patriotic militarist cant–in public writing. It’s hard to tell how much Owen means this mood (indeed, he will write tomorrow that he does not trust himself to re-read the letter) but this is still more than mere maudlin sentimentality.

While I wear my star and eat my rations, I continue to take care of my Other Cheek; and, thinking of the eyes I have seen made sightless, and the bleeding lad’s cheeks I have wiped, I say: Vengeance is mine, I, Owen, will repay…

The emotion is genuine, and even if the conviction is not fully empowered to production, he’s on the cusp. Dominic Hibberd, working from the physical remains of the archive rather than the printed text, notes that “[t]he handwriting of this letter, scribbled late at night on 10 August 1917, slants awkwardly across the page, and around the phrase ‘made sightless’ there are marks that could be blots or tears.[3]

Or perspiration, or archival water damage… or tears. The last few letters might have led us to believe that Owen’s course of ergotherapy and his intense-yet-superficial bond with his mother are healing his outer self without addressing the inward–yet intellectual–revulsion stemming from his war experience. Owen still doubts whether these grand phrases and feelings can quite be trusted:

I fear I’ve written like a converted Horatio Bottomley.

And to you who need no such words.

That is why I want you not to destroy them; for I write so because I see clear at this moment. In my eye there is no mote nor beam, when I look through you across the world…[4]

And that intensity of vision will, I think, now be essential to his growth as a poet. The rhetoric is not there, but the habit of unrestrained emotional outpouring–albeit in prose, and to a completely supportive audience–has readied him to write something that, unlike Sassoon‘s tortured attempt to wrestle a gift for satire into a posture of humane protest, can transmute the suffering of the soldiers into effective, moving poetry.

All that he needs is someone to reorient his gifts and his gaze, and give him a little push…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Unknown Warriors, 142.
  2. Some Desperate Glory, 188-9.
  3. Hibberd, Wilfred Owen, 262.
  4. Collected Letters, 482-4.

The Many Threads of Wilfred Owen; Kate Luard Has Boys to Remember and Two Hundred Letters to Write

Wilfred Owen is a busy bee these days.

Tues. Night[1]

Dearest of Mothers,

So pleased to have Father’s letter & your note this morning… Last week passed unmercifully quickly. The only way to lengthen time is to add more miles to the roads of our journeys. And the only way to lengthen life is to live out several threads at a time and join them up in crucial moments.

At present I am a sick man in hospital, by night; a poet, for quarter of an hour after breakfast; I am whatever and whoever, I see while going down to Edinburgh on the tram: greengrocer, policeman, shopping lady, errand boy, paper-boy, blind man, crippled Tommy, bank clerk, carter, all of these in half an hour; next a German student in earnest; then I either peer over bookstalls in back-streets, or do a bit of a dash down Princes Street,—according as I have taken weak tea or strong coffee for breakfast…

The next paragraph makes Craiglockhart–especially for those undergoing Dr. Brock’s “ergotherapy”–sound much like a sort of summer camp for grown men. It’s not work therapy, really, but rather activity therapy. Golf and tennis and swimming and arts and crafts… and for Owen, who aspires so fervently to be a writer and has always had an interest in theater, magazine-making and the amateur stage:

This afternoon I spent with a Daily Mail sub-editor, Salmond… When we had discussed together many mighty things and men, and an Emersonian silence fell between us, we went upstairs to the Cinema, & so finished a very pleasant afternoon. Tonight Pockett enrolled me as Mr. Wallcomb, in Lucky Durham, a fashionable young fellow, whose chief business in the play is introducing people.

Thus I need at once:
1) 1 Green Suit,
2) 2 or 3 Green Shirts,

The list runs to seven items, mostly green, that might do for his costume, and then segues into a long and rambling discussion of poetry and other matters. Owen is having a very good time–but he has as yet no confidantes to describe it to, save his mother.

It’s too late o’night to talk like this. Time I snuggled myself away.

Goodnight, dear Mother.

X W.E.O.[2]

 

In painful contrast to this evidence of a young man on the mend is Kate Luard‘s letter from Ypres, today, a century back. We have seen this pattern before: during the excitement, trauma, and back-breaking work that fills the days after an attack, she writes to record events, to praise the heroically praiseworthy, and, perhaps, to help manage the stress of the situation, controlling things that are out of anyone’s control by putting them on paper. Then, when the pace of work slows, the diary shifts into an elegiac mode, and she writes to express something of the pathos, misery, and suffering she has witnessed. The pattern follows that of her work as the senior nurse, which shifts now from crisis management toward administrative tasks, and there is one terrible duty in particular that will now take up much of her time and emotional energy.

The very nice Australian Sister in charge of the Australian C.C.S., which is not yet working, is getting my 209 break-the-news addresses into order for me to begin upon some day, and that since yesterday week. Does that give you some idea of what is has been like?

Luard shakes off this mood, now, and discusses other goings-on in the hospital, including rivalries between the surgeons, experimental treatments, the various emotional and physical needs of the patients and her efforts to meet them, and even her campaign to establish something of a normal social life by leading the nurses in hosting an “At Home” gathering for the doctors and friendly area officers.

But Luard’s thoughts come back, before the end of today’s entry, to the pity of war.

A boy called Reggie in the moribund Ward was wailing, ‘I do feel bad and no one takes no notice of me.’ When I comforted him he said, ‘You’re the best Sister in the world–I know I’m a nuisance, but I can’t help it–I’ve been out there so long and I’m so young–Will you give me a sleeping draught and a drop o’ champagne to make me strong?’ He had both and slept like a lamb, but he died to-day. A dear old dying soldier always would shake hands and say, ‘How are you to-day?’ He died last night. One boy in the Prep. Hut implored me to stay by him until he had his operation…[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Incorrectly dated by the editor of his letters--Tuesday was the 7th, not the 8th.
  2. Collected Letters, 480-2.
  3. Unknown Warriors, 139-40. I also want to take the opportunity here to thank Tim Luard for his invaluable work in adding some of Kate Luard's letters to individual siblings to the published text of her open letters, as well as for all of his work on his great aunt's writing. His recent article gives a great deal of more information about Luard's experience during Third Ypres than I have been able to include, including both illustrations, and descriptions of several memorable events of the battle's first week.

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

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

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

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

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

Now if he would only date his manuscripts…

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

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

July 8, 1917

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

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

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

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

 

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

8 July 1917

My Dear Friend:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your sincere friend,

Ivor Gurney[4]

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

 

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

8 July 1917
Hotel Albion, Brighton

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

Let me know at once if anything happens.

Ever your devoted

Robbie[5]

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

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

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

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

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

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

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

Roker, Sunderland, 11 June 1917

Dearest Vera —

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

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

Edward[1]

 

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

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

11 June 1917

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

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

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

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

Rondels

1. Letters

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

2. Shortage

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

3. Paean

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

4. Strafe (1)

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

5. Strafe (2)

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

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

With best wishes; Yours sincerely Ivor Gurney[2]

 

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

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

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

Wilfred Owen Goes Nowhere; A Dire Change for Victor Richardson

As the dust of Messines–or rather the thousands of upheaved tons of earth–settles, we go back to London. A week ago Vera Brittain returned to spend her time with the terribly wounded Victor Richardson, whom she intends to marry.

Only a week later–the day after a strange early morning shock like an earthquake had shaken southern England with its sinister intimation of the terrific mine-explosion at Messines Ridge–my mother and I went to Chelsea to find the usually cheerful, encouraging Matron with a face grown suddenly grave and personal. There was an unexpected change, she said, in Victor that morning. He had told his nurse that during the night something had “clicked” in his head, like a miniature explosion; since then he had gradually grown vaguer and stranger… She thought that perhaps it wold be wise to send for his people.

After a period of delirium, Victor returns to consciousness later in the afternoon, but Vera is not reassured.

So much human wreckage had passed through my hands, but this . . . well, this was different.

‘Tah dear Tah!’ I whispered, in sudden pitying anguish, and I took his fingers in mien and caressed and kissed them as though he had been a child. Suddenly strong, he gripped my hand, pressed it against his mouth and kissed it convulsively in return. His fingers, I noticed, were damp, and his lips very cold.[1]

Victor’s family are summoned, and hurry to visit him in the hospital. Afterward, with Victor seeming to stabilize, they come to stay with the Brittains at their flat in Kensington.

 

And in France, Wilfred Owen continues in limbo. His wounds are psychological, and perhaps not severe enough to merit a return to blighty. Two days ago he had essayed a jokey list-letter to his mother, thus forming a crucial literary bridge between those odd questionnaires of Proust’s days and the plague of internet listicles of the early 21st century.

6 June 1917 41st Stationary Hospital

Dearest Mother,

I go down today. Where to?—Nobody knows. May be in the Hosp. Train for days.

Health: quite restored.
Mood: highest variety of jinks.
Weather: sub-tropical.
Time: 11 a.m.
Appearance: sun-boiled lobster.
Hair: 8% Grey.
Cash in hand: 5 francs.
Size of Socks: same as previous consignment.
Sole Complaints: Nostalgia
Mosquito Bites
Last Book Read: A picked Company by Belloc.
Clothing: sparse, almost faun.
Religion: Primitive Christian.
Aim in War: Extinction of Militarism beginning with Prussian.
Aim in Life: Pearls before Swine.
Medicine: Iron
Nerve: Iron—(over?-) wrought.
Favourite Metal: Silver.
Favourite Colour: Sky-violet.
Favourite Drink: Natural Lemon Juice.
Favourite Animal: Children…

And today, a century back, he confirmed the inevitable disappointment of yet another attempted move.

8 June [1917] 41st Stationary Hosp.

Dearest Mother,

Two days ago we started forth in motors for the Railhead: The Train was there, but no accommodation for Officers. The O.C. Train a minute doctor, with many papers and much pince-nez, refused to let us board: especially as a Major who was with us expressed himself thus: ‘Aw I decline. I ebsolutely decline, to travel in a coach where there are—haw—Men!’

…It was slightly too hot that afternoon: they put some twenty Germans into this sumptuous train, and left us stamping on the platform: some indeed lying on stretchers in blankets under the staring sun. When we got back to the Hospital we were.the objects of some very ungratifying applause from the unlucky ones left behind. I am still on the List, & the thing may come off more successfully tomorrow or on Monday.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Testament of Youth, 356-7.
  2. Collected Letters, 467-8.