Miners and a Black Book; Max Plowman Hears from Rivers; Siegfried Sassoon Rides the Emerald Isle; Isaac Rosenberg is Not Strong

Two very different publications of today, a century back, are worth noting. The Nation, one of the few periodicals willing to publish “anti-war” poetry, ran Wilfred Owen‘s poem Miners. The poem was written, despite its unusual pararhyme, in a matter of hours, promptly submitted, and is published now only two weeks after the event–a topical and quietly political work, and as such a confirmation of Owen’s complete and Sassoon-influenced departure from his youthful aestheticism.

And The Imperialist, Noel Pemberton-Billing’s histrionic nativist scandal sheet, ran an article claimingthat German intelligence held a “black book” which contained the names of 47,000 British gay men and lesbians who had been blackmailed and compromised. This might be insanity (quite literally, in the case of Pemberton-Billing’s assistant Harold Spencer), but Pemberton-Billing’s ridiculous lies played ably enough on existing hatreds for the political effects to be distressingly real. The Imperialist specialized in anti-German polemic (with virulent anti-Semitism lumped in for good measure) and was prepared to exploit not just homophobia but class resentment, using salacious allegations to get traditional folks all worked up against fancy London types and their immoral goings on, which must of course conceal deep disloyalty to a vague and negatively-defined ideal of British greatness…

So Wilfred Owen has gotten a poem in the paper–and earned two guineas for it–and on the very same day that the gay literary community he has just had the privilege of joining comes under siege.

 

Elsewhere, today, Max Plowman wrote to his close friend Hugh de Selincourt. The letter opens with an apology for not having written sooner–it runs along the lines of the “I wrote the simple letters first” excuse.

…My dear, I feel rather like a snake that has forgotten to shed its skins for the past few years & now begins the healthy business. I didn’t expect my self-assertion to have that effect particularly but it seems to be happening… I see now that preface & my Right to Live (in large measure), & those little topical verses, very much as signs of irritation the snake has with skins which did not fit it. Bitterness comes through low living & I see now that mine was all the more acute because I thought the low living inevitable…

Plowman eventually moves past this high-minded metaphorical mode and writes of reading about bellicose speeches given by leading politicians in both Germany and Britain.

And then it slowly dawned on me that it wasn’t my duty to stand between men with consciences of tanned hide & try & filter the stream of lies & hypocrisy they poured at one another…

In any actual fighting for peace I feel I should now be useless… I’ve got to start more or less where I left off 3 years & more ago & work like a galley slave to catch up.

He has come to see his service as an infantry officer–as A Subaltern on the Somme, in fact–as an unbecoming interlude in the life of a politically aware pacifist. But, of course, he is still an army officer, under arrest and awaiting trial–at least in the loose and philosophical sense of the word, if not necessarily the juridical.

…What shall I tell you about my affairs? …I live in a top room of a large house… & there I have my meals brought me as I don’t want to inflict my necessarily chilling company on the “Mess”, & all day long (subject to conditions) I do just what I damned well please. And this will last I think until next Friday when I go for my ordinary Board. I expect to be put under arrest any day after that… the charge will be “Refusing to obey an order.”

What is to be done? And who might be able to help?

Oh you know I wrote to X——-? He did not reply but evidently sent my letter on to Dr ________, F.R.S. (The Camb. psychological Professor) we were both under at Edinburgh.

We know who this is. I can’t be certain, actually, that X is Sassoon, but it certainly sounds like him. In any case, Sassoon and Plowman shared a doctor who was a Cambridge professor and an FRS–W.H.R. Rivers. Thus it must be Rivers who, as we will read below, is willing to help with Plowman’s “case.” But in what way, exactly? Is this another offer to “cure” a patient by thinking him through the ramifications of his pacifism?

Plowman and Sassoon are both writers, both young officers troubled by all that they have seen. And Plowman was even quite literally shell shocked before being sent to Rivers to be treated. But as that distinction suggests, the differences in the manner and motivation of their pacifist protests are considerable.

______wrote the day I came here saying he was at Hampstead & would like to know if he could be of any use… which is extraordinarily decent of him, don’t you think? If I were to have any trouble with the Medical people he might be an excellent Court of Appeal. He says X—–has returned to duty & is quite happy in it, & of course as X——-merely acted on the question of British war aims he was to be satisfied. A queer half-way house, but I daresay it was useful…[1]

This logic is a bit hard to follow. What is “useful,” to Plowman? Does he want Rivers to help shunt his protest aside, and have it be deemed an after-effect of shell shock? I don’t think so. I think he may want the opposite–but does he imagine, then, that Rivers offers to help him to pacifist martyrdom by asserting his sanity and full recovery from shell shock?

Well, at the very least it’s clear that Plowman is not at the stage where he desires any sort of half-measure. He won’t fight any more, and his objection is not on the score of war aims, a minor detail in the monstrosity of war without end…

 

Speaking of Siegfried Sassoon, as I think we probably have been, it’s quite true that he is back on duty and “quite happy:”

January 26

Motored with two Irishmen to a place eighteen miles from Cork—Roore’s Bridge—to meet of the Muskerry Hounds. A grey, windy day, southwest wind. Rode a chestnut of J. Rohan’s—good performer. A poor day’s hunting, but very enjoyable. Fine country—along the River Lee–a wide, rain-swollen stream, flowing down long glens and reaches. The whole landscape grey-green and sad and lonely. Ireland is indeed a haunted, ancient sort of land. It goes deep into one’s heart.[2]

 

Finally, today, another writer both slightly connected to all of the turmoil of literary London–he has long been in touch with, and occasionally helped by, Eddie Marsh–and very far away from it. Isaac Rosenberg writes to remind his old patron that he still lives, however miserably, and that he still reads, and writes. After a long bout of illness, Rosenberg is back in the trenches, and it is not going well.

My dear Marsh,

I have been in topsy turveydom since I last saw you and have not been able to write. Even now it is in the extremest difficulties that Im writing this. I wanted to talk about the Georgian Book which I had sent over to me but have not had time to more than glance through. I liked J. C. Squire poem about the ‘House’ enormously and all his other poems. Turners are very beautiful and Sassoon has power. Masefield seemed rather commonplace, but please don’t take my judgment at anything because I have hardly looked at them. I am back in the trenches which are terrible now. We spend most of our time pulling each other out of the mud. I am not fit at all now and am more in the way than any use. You see I appear in excellent health and a doctor will make no distinction between health and strength. I am not strong…

Yours sincerely

I Rosenberg[3]

Rosenberg does not ask, but it is unlikely that there are any strings near enough to Marsh’s hand (through Winston Churchill’s) to pull him all the way out of the trenches…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Bridge into the Future, 93-4.
  2. Diaries, 206.
  3. Collected Works, 320-1.

Wilfred Owen Reports to Mother; Kipling’s Soldier Breaks Down

We take a deep breath today after the excitement of seeing one of our poets married off–and two of our writers hit if off. (What could go wrong?)

We heard something of Wilfred Owen‘s impressions of the wedding, yesterday, but I might as well give the rest of the letter–a prompt after-action report to his mother–that he wrote upon returning to duty, today, a century back.

Thursday, 24 January 1918 Scarborough

Just five minutes and half a sheet of paper left to tell you what a good, full, & profitable 24 hours I had in London.

Lunched with Ross. Wells was there, but at another table, whence he waved to me from afar. Had a few words after lunch, but we were in a hurry to drive off. The wedding was nothing extraordinary…

Dined at the Reform again with Roderick Meiklejohn of the Liquor Control Board. (Lord Rhondda was the nearest person to me at lunch!) Then repaired to Half Moon St. with Meiklejohn, & passed the evening with Ross and two Critics. At 2 a.m. found my way to Imperial Hotel, and started up this morning by the 10 a.m. from King’s Cross.

Feel much refreshed. Dearest love. W.E.O.[1]

The presence of Charles Scott Moncrieff in this letter is, perhaps not surprisingly, heavily veiled: he is merely one of “two critics!”

 

And in the fictional future-past of today, a century back, Strangwick, the traumatized soldier at the heart of A Madonna of the Trenches, breaks down, unable to bear the weight of confusion and guilt about the death of his “uncle” three days earlier.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 528.

A Madonna of the Trenches

Rudyard Kipling was three things: a prodigious storyteller, a problematic political figure, and too old to fight in the Great War. (He was many other things, it’s true, but I do like to hew to the main argument, once in a while.)

So it is only a venial violation of the rules against post-century-back peeking to note that Kipling will survive the war, and write about it. But that writing–the two volumes of the History of the Irish Guards in the Great War, as well as a number of short stories–will still be overshadowed by death. By the millions of combat dead around the world, the nearly a million British dead, the many hundreds of officers and men of the Irish guards, but, more than any of them, by the death of Kipling’s only son, Jack, while serving in that Regiment. The work is a memorial of sorts, but it also stretches toward a less well-lighted exploration of grieving. Several stories–including the incomparable “The Janeites“–are set in a rather peculiar Masonic lodge, where men come together for ritual and for learning, and to talk through the experiences that haunt them. The story takes place at about the time of its composition–several years after the war, when Kipling was researching and writing the histories, and steeping himself in the lives of the two Guards battalions.

“A Madonna of the Trenches” is strange, fascinating, and–depending upon your taste and Kipling-appreciation-tendencies–either a strangely double-filtered and portentously spooky story or a harrowing spine-tingler that crosses over from mere frisson to real tragedy. The story involves traumatic trench horrors, doomed love, suicide, a ghostly visitation, an obnoxiously masterful doctor, and the misery of a soldier, standing in for so many surviving soldiers, who is condemned to perpetually recall both the many ways that the trenches can kill a man, and the ways they keep the dead literally unquiet. But why continue to crib from an able summary and discussion which is available online?

One of the many “controversial”–which is, I think, here, only to say “not easy to settle”–aspects of the story is the significance of the date of the main (past) action of the tale, a date which is mentioned several times during the story. It’s today, a century back, which is also St. Agnes’s day, and, as such, may may refer to a poem by Keats (whom Sassoon is reading about just now) concerning star-crossed lovers both like and unlike the ones in the story.

The events of the story do not seem to have any direct connection to the factual action of the war or the experiences of the Irish Guards on this January 21st–but there’s the date in the text, plain as plain, nevertheless. Did I recently recommend reading a huge four-book Modernist novel just because an apparently haphazardly-chosen January 1918 date appears in it? That was silly… don’t do that

But do read this story–just a yarn, just a ghost story that revets its pathos with the horrors of the trenches. And also, just maybe, a short story of real affective power… What happened, in that trench, today, a century back?

“A Madonna of the Trenches” is available online here, at the website of the Kipling Society.

 

Rowland Feilding Braves the Train; Siegfried Sassoon’s Moment of Waking; Thomas Hardy’s Fond Display; The Nerves and Lungs of Robert Graves

The holidays are over, now, and the war must resume. Rowland Feilding, who secured a Christmas leave at the last moment, is headed back to the front–and not best pleased.

January, 1918.

Front Line, Lempire.

Once more I have vowed that never again if I can help it will I travel by the “leave” train. I had forgotten to bring a candle, so, the cold being bitter and the windows broken, I shivered in the darkness.

It is beyond my powers adequately to describe the horrors of the “leave” train, the scandal of which still continues after 3 1/2 years of war. Though timed to arrive at Divisional Railhead in the early morning we did not do so till the afternoon, and, after fifteen hours on the train, I reached my transport lines near Villers Fauçon at 2 p.m. in a blizzard, having had nothing to eat, since last evening.

At the transport lines I found officers and men still under canvas and as the ground was deep in snow the appearance of everything was very uninviting and conducive to nostalgia:—I believe that is the word…

The line is very quiet.[1]

 

Siegfried Sassoon arrived in Limerick yesterday, a century back. It will be a “fresh start,” away from England and the dismal Litherland Camp and the memories of his strange and conflicted months of protest. Now, on garrison duty and with nothing in particular hanging over him, he will begin writing verse again. Immediately:

 

A Moment of Waking

 

I awoke; evilly tired, and startled from sleep;
Came home to seeing and thinking; shuddered; and shook
An ugly dream from my shoulders: death, with a look
Of malice, retreated and vanished. I cowered, a horrible heap.
And knew that my body must die; that my spirit must wait
The utmost blinding of pain, and doom’s perilous drop,
To learn at last the procedure and ruling of fate.
… I awoke; clutching at life; afraid lest my heart should stop.

January 8

 

Journey’s End

 

Saved by unnumbered miracles of chance.
You’ll stand, with war’s unholiness behind.
Its years, like gutted villages in France,
Done with; its shell-bursts drifting out of mind.
Then will you look upon your time to be.
Like a man staring over a foreign town.
Who hears strange bells and knows himself set free;
And quietly to the twinkling lights goes gladly down.
To find new faces in the streets, and win
Companionship from life’s warm firelit inn.

January 8[2]

 

While Sassoon is busily writing away, another writer is writing to him, with the sort of emphatically enthusiastic courtesy that suggests real esteem. And the esteem of Thomas Hardy is not so easily won.

Max Gate, Dorchester

Jan 8, 1918

Dear Siegfried Sassoon:

We have read out loud the poems you mention,[3] & liked them. Perhaps R. Nichols brings off his intention best in “To —”, & “Fulfilment.” But it is impossible to select, after all.

Strangely–but the past is a strange country–Sassoon had sent Hardy not only Georgian Poetry (and possibly Nichols’s volume) but also, apparently, a photograph of his recent portrait, without covering letter.

Yes, it’s a striking portrait of a handsome young man–but how, exactly does this is advance his poetry or their friendship?

That photograph!—We divined it to be you, but I was not certain, till a friend told us positively only a day before your letter came. It has been standing in my writing room calmly overlooking a hopeless chaos of scribbler’s litter. I shall be so glad to see you walk in some day.

Always sincerely,

Thomas Hardy[4]

That, one imagines, is an invitation that Sassoon will have to nerve himself to accept–but how could he resist?

 

Meanwhile, Robert Graves, to be married now in only a fortnight, is under pressure from his future in-laws to make more certain of his future. He traveled today to London to see Dr. James Fowler,

who told him, to his great relief, that his lungs were ‘soundish’, despite the fact that he had bronchial adhesions, and that his wounded lung had only a third of its proper expansion. This was good enough to satisfy Nancy’s mother; though Sir James had also noted that Robert’s nerves were still in a very poor state… active service in any theatre of war would lead to another breakdown.[5]

This accords with the decisions of Graves’s recent Medical Boards, and would have been good news for Graves as well as for his family-to-be: he is not likely to ever share Rowland Feilding’s experience of returning once again, and miserably, to the front line in France.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Letters to a Wife, 246.
  2. Diaries, 201-2. See also Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 432.
  3. In the volume of Georgian Poetry that Sassoon had sent to Hardy.
  4. The Letters of Thomas Hardy, V, 242.
  5. R.P. Graves, Robert Graves, The Assault Heroic, 190.

Max Plowman Prepares for Action; Thomas Hardy’s Best Wishes for Siegfried Sassoon

Max Plowman is coming to a decision. Nearly a year after being blown up on the Somme, he has progressed enough to go back to the beginning. Which, for him, was principled pacifism. Plowman began the war as a pacifist and trained for the ambulances, but then confronted the same dilemma of half-measures that bedeviled Olaf Stapledon–helping the allied wounded, I am still contributing to a military cause… so is it right that I run fewer risks, and that I do not take on the moral weight of doing violence directly? Plowman soon quit the ambulances for the infantry, and was sent out in time for the end of the Somme battle. He served well, was shell shocked (in the physical as well as the psychological sense), and was treated by Rivers, then wrote a lightly-fictionalized memoir, and then a pacifist “pamphlet.”[1] Now he is facing an un-rigged and problematic Medical Board–he’s Siegfried Sassoon in reverse!

Today, a century back, Plowman wrote to his friend Hugh de Selincourt about his situation: he has decided that he will refuse to continue to fight, instead making a formal protest and resigning his commission. But should he do this before or after the Medical Board? When will it have the most effect? When will it look best? And should that matter?

…Time is all that bothers me… I am due for a Medical Board on Jany. 1st It is quite possible that I shall be labelled “General Service”. You know what is happening–they are simply bunging everybody out they can lay hands on…

Well it seems to me that the worst possible time for making a move would be after receiving overseas orders, & if that could be avoided almost any policy is preferable. It would be simply asking for a false & the worse possible interpretation.

On the other hand what I had in mind was to take the direct line immediately the pamphlet was either accepted or refused… it seems simply silly to let them have the first move once my mind is made up. However I suppose there’s nothing for it now & for the sake of appearances I shall be glad if the Board happens to give me Home Service again…

It’s tangled, but logical: Plowman, who has proved his courage and been seriously injured, wants to be spared orders for another tour in France so that the course of protest on which he has already decided to embark might not seem like cowardice, or even a convenient alliance of self-interest and principle. Once again he seems to be traveling in the opposite direction to Sassoon, to whom he may well be referring in this next section.

I don’t overestimate my own little public importance, but the fact remains that I openly advertised the fact that I was in favour of fighting in 1915 & now I have written directly about the War more than once & incidentally been received into the elect circle of “our soldier” poodles. Not from any false desire for martyrdom but simply out of comparative fairness to those whom I advised to do as I did, I am strongly inclined to feel that I should come out at least a publicly as I went in…

Soberly & literally, prison has no terrors for me after my three years of army regime, & would in many respects be a relief & on sympathetic grounds a pleasure now…

I feel sometimes like a person who has found a clean hard road under his feet after miles & miles of mud & water…[2]

 

We will hear more from Plowman soon. But, coincidentally, Sassoon himself comes up today, if not in his own voice. We have seen Robert Graves and Isaac Rosenberg, among others, enthusing over the latest Georgian Poetry anthology. Sassoon, quietly, has used it as an opportunity to reopen his correspondence with a family friend and major literary idol. Today, a century back, Thomas Hardy responded, doing Sassoon the strange compliment of writing in honesty and, in the old-fashioned sense, with condescension: he writes as to a sort of equal, a fellow writer. And, of course, with a quibble…

Max Gate, Dorchester. 28 Dec: 1917.

Dear Siegfried Sassoon:

I write a line to wish you as good a New Year as is possible in our day, & to thank you for the volume of Georgian poetry containing some of your work. I see one or two of yours that I like, though I have hardly looked at it yet, & my mind has strayed to a point on which I have before wondered—one that has nothing to do with your verses, as you did not invent it—I mean the title of the collection. What are we to call the original Georgians, now that the post-Victorians have adopted their name. Still, I don’t suppose the shades of Shelley, Byron, Wordsworth, &c will mind much.

With renewed thanks I am

Sincerely yours

Thomas Hardy.

P.S. I hope you are quite recovered: I don’t know where you are!

Th. H.[3]

Hardy is either too delicate to mention Sassoon’s brief fame as a protester and disingenuous hospitalization or, just possibly, has no idea that he wasn’t, in fact, simply suffering from a war-related breakdown.

I wonder when Sassoon sent the volume–and I wonder, too, if Hardy was thinking of Henry Hoare when he decided to write back, in friendly fashion, to a luckier young officer.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. The Right to Live," published later in this collection.
  2. Bridge into the Future, 88-9.
  3. TheCollected Letters of Thomas Hardy, V, 236.

The Master of Belhaven Masters the Mimeograph; A Regenerating Tale of Cowardice; Ford Madox Ford’s “Footsloggers;” Wilfred Owen, Fourth Musketeer?

The Master of Belhaven has never been the savviest of our writers. But he is a good officer–energetic and competent and cool under fire, be it literal artillery fire or the pressure of a Christmas Eve faux pas:

All the battalions and brigades have been sending us Christmas-cards. We had not thought of it, so feel rather left. So I spent the morning printing off a hundred little double sheets on the duplicator, with 106th Brigade Royal Field Artillery on one side and “With best wishes for Xmas and the New Year from Lt.-Col. The Master of Belhaven and Officers 106th Brigade, R.F.A.”[1]

 

It sounds like a merry Christmas Eve for Wilfred Owen. Not that he is home with his family or in the bosom of his friends (or vice versa). No: he is back in Scarborough after a brief leave in Edinburgh, but the post has been kind to him. He began a letter to his mother yesterday morning, a century back:

My own Mother,

Came back last night… A good journey, and as a show well worth the money in itself. The sun began to think of setting about two o’clock and so there was a three hours’ winter sunset over the Northumberland moors…

Having been interrupted, he continued the letter today.

Have now had your lovely parcel, & opened it but not broken into the scrumshies.

And what did he get from the schoolboys that he taught and mentored?

The Scotch boys gave me 100 Players Cigarettes. It was most touching…

Those were the days. But this is mere preamble:

I can think of nothing at the moment but Robert Graves’ letter, which came by the same post as the parcel.

He says ‘Don’t make any mistake, Owen, you are a —— fine poet already, & are going to be more so. I won’t have the impertinence to criticize . . .

Puff out your chest a little, and be big for you’ve more right than most of us . . .

You must help S.S. & R.N. & R.G. to revolutionize English Poetry. So outlive this war.

Yours ever, Robert Graves.’

I have never yet written to him![2]

So there it is: the implied offer, from Robert Graves–lo, even as he is about to threaten the group with a permanent female presence–that Owen, the young man from the provinces with the unfashionable accent, might become their D’Artagnan.

 

A major contemporary writer, half-realized master Modern novelist, and occasional poet, Ford Madox Hueffer is surely too old to be included on such a list of future revolutionaries, and still too young to mind all that much. Also, he probably wouldn’t care in the least, since his dance card of literary adversaries is already overfilled with those whose barbs have drawn blood, and I’ve seen nothing to indicate that he has any regard for Georgian War Poetry.[3] Ford will be after bigger fish as soon as he can sit down and really write. A novel, that is.

But, as it happens, he did sit down today and begin to write a long, elegiac, apparently fairly traditional poem… which gets ironic and weird before it even begins. It is titled after the nameless infantry, then dedicated to the British propaganda chief (and friend of Ford’s) C.F.G. Masterson.

 

Footsloggers

To C. F. G. M.

I

What is love of one’s land?
. . . I don’t know very well.
It is something that sleeps
For a year — for a day —
For a month — something that keeps
Very hidden and quiet and still
And then takes
The quiet heart like a wave,
The quiet brain like a spell,
The quiet will
Like a tornado; and that shakes
The whole of the soul.

II

It is omnipotent like love;
It is deep and quiet as the grave
And it awakes Like a flame, like a madness,
Like the great passion of your life.
The cold keenness of a tempered knife,
The great gladness of a wedding day,
The austerity of monks who wake to pray
In the dim light,
Who pray
In the darkling grove,
All these and a great belief in what we deem the right
Creeping upon us like the overwhelming sand,
Driven by a December gale,
Make up the love of one’s land.

 

It goes on for several more stanzas, a poem that lulls–or deceives?–with its prettiness and music, even as it works around central issues of the conflict. Is Ford a very good poet tossing off something with deceptive lightness? Or is this another game, another none-too-serious expenditure of prodigious talent on a production which might acquiesce too easily to a narrowly patriotic reading, allowing the unwary reader to fall into a trap?

I’m honestly not sure what to make of it… Ford evidently worked on it over the next few days; the entire poem can be read here.

 

And finally, today, in Pat Barker’s novel The Eye in the Door (the second of the Regeneration trilogy), Charles Manning, an older, erudite officer and family man who has an affair with the protean Billy Prior (and has also been treated by W.H.R. Rivers), will recall staying with Robbie Ross this Christmas Eve, along with Siegfried Sassoon. (In reality, Sassoon is at Litherland.) Tonight was–in Manning’s telling, in the novel–the occasion of an air raid with a predictably ironic outcome. It was his first raid, and he “was a complete bloody wreck,” although Ross’s housekeeper was perfectly calm. Manning adds, in this perhaps doubly fictitious anecdote, that Sassoon was also windy, commenting “All that fuss about whether I should go back or not. I won’t be any bloody good when I do.”[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary, 422-7.
  2. Collected Letters, 518-19.
  3. He will shortly write, in fact, a letter hawking the poem below as a rare example of poetry written by a man who has actually been at the front.
  4. Barker, The Eye in the Door, 166-7.

David Jones Under Fire, while Wilfred Owen Draws the Blinds

Today is another quiet day–between the rehearsal and the big poetry reading in London, that is. On the actual front, at least where David Jones‘s battalion of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers is holding trenches, it is less so:

On 11 December the bombardment was so intense that they retreated from the forward trench. The enemy advanced, entered the trench under cover of the barrage and, finding it empty, retired.[1]

 

And that’s all I know about that. At Scarborough, Wilfred Owen wrote to his mother, mixing news of his minor doings with strong reassurances that she remains his most favored correspondent.

Tuesday!!!
My own Mother,

I wonder how you are disporting yourself at Alpenrose. Life here is a mixture of wind, sand, crumbs on carpets, telephones, signatures, clean sheets, shortage of meat, and too many money-sums. But I like it. For one thing I fell so suddenly into mental preoccupations that there was no dallying with regrets for leaving Home. I have not even written to Sassoon or anyone.

Yup, the same old bouyant tone… covering up a bold faced lie?  Unless there is a worse-than-usual mix-up about the dating of Owen’s letters (which is far from impossible), he wrote to Sassoon only five days ago.

Is something afoot? Perhaps! (Probably not). Owen natters on uneventfully for the rest of the letter:

We are getting four maidservants and a page, as these boys are being overworked at present. You would love to see me keeping an eye on the charwoman…

I ‘get out’ for an hour or two daily, if only to promenade the ‘arrested’ subaltern… There is also a Major under arrest for striking a private. I have to keep looking them up.

The Hotel is a pleasanter place even than the Queen’s at Southport, well furnished & commodious. My room has hideous furniture, but a comfortable bed—and fireplace. My personal servant had a bad shell shock in Gallipoli, while lying sun-stricken. He was about a year in hospital, but has all his wits about him now. . . .[2]

I must now go and see that every blind is drawn, aye and double-drawn.

Always your own W.E.O![3]

it is only a coincidence, I think–but an eerie one–that one of his best poems ends with the same action, “And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.”

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Dilworth, David Jones and the Great War, 179.
  2. Here, with no clue as to why, the editor, Harold Owen, omits "seventy-seven words."
  3. Collected Letters, 515-16.

Epilogue and End for John Lucy; Siegfried Sassoon Goes a-Hunting, and Confesses Cold Feet and Tight Nerves; Wilfred Owen Buys a Nice Table

If one were to suggest that this project might be losing its way, I would protest, and on the following two grounds. First, that its “way” was always to be determined by source-dowsing, as it were, and therefore there is no true path to stray from. We follow the wanderings of the writers we decided to read. Second, I would argue that whatever collective “way” does still exist now leads deliberately away from the war, because those soldier-writers who have survived into the dying days of 1917 intentionally keep their minds as far off the war as possible. And then I would concede that, yes, we’re wandering: there is little hope that the next big push will really be the one, and very little military aspiration left in the old soldiers’ writing. They are dispirited, and hunkering down for duration. And the irony, too, is beginning to turn: they have no idea how short that will be, and the strange form it will take.

But in any case, imaginary reader, don’t worry too much: today’s post will end bloodily and in a trench. But on the way there, today, a century back, we could hardly be less warlike.

Wilfred Owen, for instance, is going antiquing:

Friday Night

Dearest Mother,

…I went to an Auction yesterday, & got an antique side table wondrous cheap. It will arrive addressed to Father at Station. A beautiful old piece—to be my Cottage sideboard. There were none but Dealers at this sale! They would double the price in their shop, I was told…

your W.E.O.[1]

 

Siegfried Sassoon is out for blood, but in peacetime fashion:

Hunted Friday.

Good hunt from Trueleigh Osiers—forty-five minutes. Back to the Stone Staples and to Toddington. Rode Stamp’s old grey.[2]

After which he sat down to write to Robert Graves. And gradually, gradually, the war bleeds back in… until it’s everything again.

7 December

Dear Robert, I am having some leave and return to Litherland next Tuesday. I was passed General Service at Craiglockhart on November 26. The Board asked if I had changed my views on the war, and I said I hadn’t, which seemed to cause surprise. However Rivers obtained, previously, an assurance from a high quarter that no obstacles would be put in the way of my going back to the sausage machine.

I am not sure if I shall go up to this Poetry Show on Wednesday. It will be an awful bore, and means going up for the day from Liverpool. Bob Nichols came to Weirleigh for two nights and was charming. He is quite different when in town among a lot of people.

Ah, the poetry show. Despite surviving the first one, with Nichols, and despite the fact that this newly close friend is organizing the second one, Sassoon is planning to beg off. Typically, he was not direct about this to Nichols (or even explicit in this letter to Graves), who is still hoping that Sassoon will show up to play an agreeable second fiddle to himself in the “young war poets” category at what he hopes will be a notably star-studded charity reading.

Sassoon has a number of reasons for avoiding society, including shyness, laziness, paradoxical displeasure with social success,and  the awkwardness of having to explain the current status of his military career and feelings thereabout. And to come from Liverpool to London to read poetry for five minutes does indeed seem ridiculous… but it’s interesting that he couldn’t tell Nichols that. And less than surprising that Nichols might not understand: Sassoon, for all his flaws, writes to write; he writes as driven by his thoughts and passions, that is, and with a not-entirely-debauched sort of ambition. Nichols, it’s clear, has been bitten by the literary celebrity bug, and wants, unambiguously, to shine. He will be what he needs to be to do so.

Sassoon still wants to figure things out. And, to his credit, he is not willing to make peace with the war. He won’t move on and focus on a poetic career, with the war–and his relationship to it–unresolved. (He is, after all, a healthy young officer in uniform who has been insisting on going back to the front. Nichols has been discharged and Graves is in for the duration but with damaged lungs that will keep him from the front.)

But if Sassoon can’t figure everything out, then he would like, for the moment, to forget. He rides toward the war, or he rides against it.

I forgot the war to-day for fifty minutes when the hounds were running and I was taking the fences on a jolly old
grey horse.

But the safety curtain is always down and I can’t even dream about anything beyond this cursed inferno.

And then, in this letter to a trusted (more or less) friend and (more importantly) a fellow combatant, Sassoon is direct about another fear, the fear that’s always there, inseparable from that other ambition of facing the war and acquitting oneself honestly:

The air-raid on Thursday gave me an awful fright (I was at Half Moon Street). I don’t think I’ll be any good when I get to the war.

Yours S.S.[3]

 

Right–the war!

 

It would seem to be today, a century back, that brought an end to (the epilogue to) John Lucy‘s story. Still, after four days in close proximity to the Germans–sharing the same trench with only a barricade or “block” between them–he finds himself “queerly fascinated” and falls into an old soldier’s trap: trying to deter German belligerence through escalation. His men are being bombarded at close range by heavy German trench mortars–“pineapples”–to which he orders a response of “showers” of grenades.

My scheme did not work. The enemy stubbornly increased to rapid fire, and a bomb fight followed.

When his platoon runs low on ammunition, he orders a response of rifle fire, only, “So the affair simmered down.” Lucy, a responsible and practical officer, then orders a rifle inspection, because “such inspections retain a desirable normal atmosphere, and have a steadying effect.” But they also distract the platoon commanders conducting them. Lucy is telling off a man with a dirty rifle barrel when the next pineapple hits.

I saw my two feet above my head for a moment. I heard no explosion, but to myself I said: ‘This must be it.’ It was. I was benumbed, and I did not feel the slightest pain. Actually there were sixteen holes in me.

The bomb had landed behind the man Lucy was scolding, killing him. The sixteen fragments all passed through his body before wounding Lucy.

Part of my left buttock was blown away. A large lump of metal had passed through one thigh and bruised the other. Another piece was sticking in the bone of the side of my left knee. There were two wounds in my left arm, a small hole in my stomach, and my back was bleeding in a couple of places.

Only the stomach wound worries Lucy, but within a few hours an American doctor at a C.C.S. assures him not only that it is superficial but that he can rest easy in the knowledge that the American army will soon take care of the ongoing unpleasantness. With his revolver and his shredded greatcoat packed away as souvenirs, Lucy is evacuated by ambulance, next to a trembling and mute victim of “shell shock.” In the hospital, in Rouen, he will have a bed next to a man dying from a gangrenous wound in his back, and lie to him when the man asks him to look and see whether the wound is bad.

They took him out at night so that the other patients would not notice. He had died quietly. Alone.

The last dead man I saw in France.

But the writer survives. By the end of the month Lucy will be in England, out of danger, but neither out of pain or back home in Ireland. Each move opens his wounds. It’s a memoir worthy of the tired adjective “unflinching,” but it shrugs through the last pages quickly, and comes to this:

The war was over before they cured me.

I had seen the travail which God had given the sons of men to exercised therewith, and at the beginning of life it was proved to me that great calamity is man’s true touchstone.

THE END[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Collected Letters, 515.
  2. Diaries, 197.
  3. Diaries, 196-7.
  4. There's a Devil in the Drum, 386.

Wilfrid Ewart in Bourlon Wood: What They Asked Us to Do Was Impossible; Doctor Rivers in Another Doctor’s Hell

The Battle of Cambrai has seen an unprecedented advance, a failure to break through, and stiff German resistance in another torn and terrible wood. The Guards have been called in, now–on both sides.

Although Cambrai is one of the few battles not to feature in his novel Way of Revelation, it provided the most harrowing moments of Wilfrid Ewart‘s war experience. At first light, three companies of the First Scots Guards were ordered to clear Bourlon Wood.

This of course was sheer open fighting, and quite different than anything we had done before except on field days.

But it didn’t last long. Machine guns pinned down one flank of the assault, and after several hours of stationary fighting it became clear that the British were outnumbered, and the attackers withdrew.

Then orders came up that they must try again, at two o’clock.

This was at 1.15, so there was not much time to arrange it, and I had the wind up as never before, feeling certain that it was impossible to take the place owing to the machine-guns which were supposed to be rushed with the bayonet…

It is now, I think, that the poor planning of the Cambrai offensive–the first few hours markedly improved in conception and execution, the rest abandoned to foolish hopes–becomes most clear.

There was a short and quite useless machine-gun barrage, no artillery. Just after we had gone over, Tyringham tried to stop us, as the Command realized the hopelessness of it, but it was then too late.

One company was “laid out together trying to rush the machine-guns.” The two guns then turn on Ewart and two men, out in front of his platoon, only fifteen yards away. They throw themselves down behind “a young oak-tree.”

The machine-gun fired absolutely point blank, but could not quite reach us on account of the tree… two Lewis Gunners… kept firing for all they were worth…working their guns in the open until they were killed. Every man was killed one after the other…

By this Ewart probably means every man among the Lewis gunners and their support teams. He is pinned down between the Germans and his men, watching the one kill the other, helpless. Some of his platoon are able to withdraw, it seems, but the Germans now begin throwing phosphorous grenades among the wounded, “which set light to them and burnt them up.”

Ewart and the two men are soon alone, and make a desperate retreat, crawling for the rear. One makes it, then the next is hit heavily (he will die of his wound). Ewart goes last.

I waited about five minutes and then did a lightning sprint on my stomach, and by all natural laws ought to have been hit–the bullets were knocking stones up into my face… It was an experience I shall never wish to repeat… what they asked us to do was impossible.[1]

The First Scots Guards were relieved that night, and due for a longer rest; but their Battle of Cambrai was not yet over.

 

So goes the latest of the war’s bloody battles. But what of those who have survived the earlier battles, their bodies undestroyed and yet not intact?

A good deal of the literature of the war has focused on the question of psychological trauma–“shell-shock”–and how it was diagnosed, treated, experienced, remembered, and written. We have, first and foremost, the poetry of the surviving soldiers who struggled with “shell shock” or post-combat “neurasthenia.” These are the most primary of sources, of course, but “shell shock”–with its dramatic traumas, unstable psyches, and uncertain social reception–calls out for third party treatment, as it were. The novel remains one of the best tools we have for exploring the human mind, and especially for depicting the attempt of one mind to reach another, over particularly terrible gulfs of experience. One series of such attempts, mediated through the mind of Dr. Rivers, becomes the central subject of Pat Barker’s incomparable Regeneration trilogy.

Readers of this project may remember that Dr. Rivers–pioneering neurologist, skilled and sensitive therapist, and father-figure-hero to Siegfried Sassoon–is currently on leave in London after a staff dust-up at Craiglockhart, and working on an academic paper about his work with “war neuroses.” Today, a century back (in the novel, at least), he takes the cruelest sort of busman’s holiday, going to the National Hospital to observe the methods of of Dr. Lewis Yealland, who has boasted of a 100% cure rate for cases of hysterical war neurosis. Readers of Regeneration will certainly remember this scene–it’s awful. Yealland is the villain of the piece, but as far as I can tell it (not far at all! caveat!) Barker represents his methods more or less accurately. Yealland takes patients who have been shocked/traumatized into mutism or who exhibit physical contortions that cannot be explained by physical injuries and he shocks them–literally–back into health.

Yealland believes, as most men once did, that such symptoms are merely the result of a failure of nerve–of a sort of hysterical cowardice rather than damage that has been done to honorable and healthy human beings. So, armored with contempt–Barker portrays him as so thorough a bully that he has no idea he is, in fact, torturing war victims–Yealland uses physical pain and pressure, including electrical shocks and even cigarette burns to force men to speak or unbend their twisted limbs.

It works: they walk again, and speak; they even go back to war.

Enough summary–if this sounds bearable, then read the book. You will come to see the scene–once its horrors are half-forgotten–as a clever piece of fiction, and a major step toward what becomes the most important theme of the trilogy. Not Sassoon’s growth or the renunciation of his protest, but Rivers’ journey from mere saint to fellow martyr: he becomes a witness to the harrowing of the lost generation, one of the few older men in Britain who, through their proximity to the minds of traumatized men, sufferer the war themselves.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Scots Guard, 148-9.
  2. See Regeneration, 223-35.

Wilfred Owen Churns Out Six, Isaac Rosenberg Writes “In War;” Frederic Manning Resigns His Commission; Ford Madox Hueffer Meets the Next Woman

Isaac Rosenberg wrote to Gordon Bottomley today, a century back, a letter in much the same vein as his recent missive to G.M. Trevelyan–but this one includes a new poem, composed during Rosenberg’s hospitalization for influenza:

Dear Mr. Bottomley

I enclose a poem Ive just written–its sad enough I know–but one can hardly write a war poem & be anything else. It happened to one of our chaps poor fellow–and I’ve tried to write it…

I do hope for that time to come when I shall be free to read and write in my own time; there will be the worries again of earning a livelyhood; painting is a very unsatisfactory business; but I can teach–though after the life I have lived in the army I don’t think it would matter much to me what I did. I will write again soon.

Yours sincerely, Isaac Rosenberg.

 

In War

Fret the nonchalant noon
With your spleen
Or your gay brow,
For the motion of your spirit
Ever moves with these.

When day shall be too quiet,
Deaf to you
And your dumb smile,
Untuned air shall lap the stillness
In the old space for your voice–

The voice that once could mirror
Remote depths
Of moving being,
Stirred by responsive voices near,
Suddenly stilled for ever.

No ghost darkens the places
Dark to One;
But my eyes dream,
And my heart is heavy to think
How it was heavy once.

In the old days when death Stalked the world
For the flower of men,
And the rose of beauty faded
And pined in the great gloom,

One day we dug a grave:
We were vexed
With the sun’s heat.
We scanned the hooded dead:
At noon we sat and talked.

How death had kissed their eyes
Three dread noons since,
How human art won
The dark soul to flicker
Till it was lost again:

And we whom chance kept whole–
But haggard,
Spent-were charged
To make a place for them who knew
No pain in any place.

The good priest came to pray;
Our ears half heard,
And half we thought
Of alien things, irrelevant;
And the heat and thirst were great.

The good priest read: ‘I heard.
Dimly my brain
Held words and lost. . . .
Sudden my blood ran cold. . . .
God! God! It could not be.

He read my brother’s name; I sank–
I clutched the priest.
They did not tell me it was he
Was killed three days ago.

What are the great sceptred dooms
To us, caught
In the wild wave
We break ourselves on them,
My brother, our hearts and years.[1]

 

Wilfred Owen, too, has been very productive, even while meeting new poet-friends and gallivanting with local ergotherapeutic acquaintances. Owen is very busy, but not front-line-soldier busy. And, although technically still hospitalized, he is physically healthy and psychologically something close to… serviceable, as it were. It is Owen’s good fortune that instead of writing to patrons and entrusting his manuscripts to the mails, he has an influential friend at his elbow and need only report on his progress in chatty letters to his mother…

…I wrote quite six poems last week, chiefly in Edinburgh; and when I read them to S.S. over a private tea in his room this afternoon, he came round from his first advice of deferred publishing, and said I must hurry up & get what is ready typed. He & his friends will get Heinemann to produce for me. Now it is my judgment alone that I must screw up to printing pitch…

Yours ever W.E.O. x[2]

 

So we’ve had two writers living the writing life: writing, networking, writing. But is that, really, the whole story? These are poets: where’s the trauma and the poisonous, self-destructive drinking? Where’s the selfish, relationship-destroying sexual unrest? Come on!

Well, first we have Frederic Manning. A sympathetic Medical Board forgave him his latest alcohol-related breakdown, and assigned him to light duty without blaming him for his conduct. But this may have been a deal, a way for both Manning and his superiors to avoid disgrace. He’s still drinking, and today, a century back,

he formally requested that he be “allowed to resign my commission on the grounds of ill health. Owing to nervousness and constant insomnia I feel that I am unable to carry out competently my duties as an officer.”[3]

There’s honor there, or an attempt at an honorable exit before another inevitable failure.

 

Ford Madox Hueffer, like Manning, had been shelled on the Somme. And like Manning, it’s not quite clear to what extent his military experiences exacerbated underlying personality issues. He has consulted the eminent Dr. Henry Head in recent months, and remains something between terminally melodramatic and clinically paranoid.

But though it no doubt made things worse, Ford can’t blame all his bad behavior on the war. He and Violet Hunt, who have for years considered themselves married (Ford being unable to obtain an English divorce from his wife), are… on the rocks. Hueffer has found himself to be impotent, and came up with a brilliantly original excuse: it wasn’t his problem, it was hers.

Despite writing in her diary that “He is not sane,” Hunt nevertheless decided to humor her pseudo-husband’s contention that “he could have her ‘through another woman.'”

This seems less like one of those times when modern bohemians are on the cutting edge of sexual experimentation than  one of those times when men serve up ridiculous lines and get away with it, perhaps because the woman in question is cornered and feels that she has no better option. Hunt had recently met Stella Bowen, an attractive 24-year-old Australian painter, and she decided to invite Bowen and her roommate Phyllis Reid to stay the weekend when Ford was next due home on leave.

So today, a century back, Ford–forty-three and not in the best physical or mental condition, met Bowen and was evidently attracted to her. Nothing happened tonight–he and Hunt argued after another unsuccessful sexual encounter of their own–but the plan to have Hunt tempt him “through” another woman will end in disaster. Or it will be all too successful, depending on how one looks at it. In any case, Ford and Bowen will soon be conducting an affair…

Something rather similar will show up, in due time, in the Parade’s End tetralogy, where the love between Tietjens and Valentine Wannop is presented as pure and powerful rather than sordid and grim. Eschew biographical criticism though perhaps we should, it also looks every bit like a fantasy of female devotion concocted by an aging, frustrated novelist…[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Liddiard, Poetry Out of My Head and Heart, 112-5. I have used instead of Liddiard's transcript a later version of the poem, with few changes other than corrections and a switch of old-fashioned pronouns for modern.
  2. Collected Letters, 502-3.
  3. Marwil, Frederic Manning, An Unfinished Life, 185.
  4. Saunders, Ford Madox Ford, A Dual Life, II, 38-9.