Rowland Feilding Belatedly Locates the Machine Guns of the Somme; John Ronald Tolkien Still Suffers from its Fevers; Ivor Gurney on the Courage of Women

Rowland Feilding has been mixing light letters about life in reserve with accounts of how he is spending his own free time (which, as a battalion commander, can be considerable), namely walking the old battlefield of the Somme and remembering what he and his men endured during the Battle of Ginchy last September 9th.

You will remember what a terrific fire we encountered when we attacked at this place. I have ever since been curious to know where that fire came from, and how so powerful a concentration of machine-guns could have complete escaped our artillery. Now I know. A well-concealed and winding trench, branching into two, and worked in conjunction with nests of shell-holes adapted as machine-gun positions! That is what we ran into, and it was a hopeless task we undertook that day…[1]

 

One of the casualties of the Somme–of its infectious diseases rather than its bullets, shrapnel, or gas–was John Ronald Tolkien. He has yet to return to full health, and, after a severe relapse which put him in the hospital for nine weeks, he went before a Medical Board today in Hull. The report was middling:

He has still not recovered his strength; he suffers from debility and pain in his arms and shins, and he looks delicate

Declared “30 per cent disabled,” Tolkien was sent back to the 3rd Lancashire Fusiliers at Thirtle Bridge, for light duty. The board’s decision may be changed later, but for now Tolkien has some reason to hope that he has seen the last of the trenches.[2]

 

Alas for Ivor Gurney that this is not true. He remains in hospital, but with a wink and a nod: his lungs are more or less fine–it is his talented fingers which keep him there, accompanying all the would-be singers in their own recoveries.

16 October 1917

My Dear Friend: This is a most lovely morning, and I ought to be out on the hills somewhere instead of writing letters, even to you. For letter writing is work of a sort, though I like it not badly here, and in France it is often a pleasure.

There is not much to tell you, there is no masterpiece of chiselled and exquisite verse…

Is it wise of me to play music? Well, I do, but know only too well that the effort to forget will be an extra difficulty against the little serenity I shall have in France. Unless I grow stronger of soul of course, and so much stronger is unlikely. The things I should most like to write are things of beauty with a vinegary ending, something after “The Fire Kindled”. Heine I believe is famous for that sort of thing. It is best to be Shakespeare but good to be Heine — though not Thersites.

Gurney is almost always etceterative–and occasionally tremendous. What an idea–to write beautiful, vinegary things, like Heine. And Thersites is a rare reference, but an excellent one: Gurney perhaps remembers him as the one common soldier who makes a role for himself in the Iliad, where Thersites is an ugly, misshapen grumbler amongst the gleaming heroes and handsome demigods who lead the Greek army, a would be mutineer who is scorned and battered into silence by his betters. But he is, nevertheless, a common man with a voice in the great poem.

Gurney is, as usual, writing to Marion Scott, and he segues now from his own classically-cast ambition (and muted grumbling) to a consideration of women at war. It is typical of his intelligence that he takes an observation (and one which runs against the grain of all-too-typical prejudices) and proceeds without much fanfare to a sensitive (and sensible) reconsideration of a Big Concept–courage, in this case  .

…Nurses are really wonderful people to do so many things distasteful and still to smile. There is a very nice set of nurses here (have I told you?) that could hardly be better. They call this the “Ragtime Ward”, a name of envy given by men oppressed in places of female dragons and discipline. The courage of women is certainly not less than that of men. To my mind, that is. The serene performance of hateful duties, and the refusal to be depressed by them is the finest form of courage. The more sensational are the wilder forms — no higher. There are a few soldiers who go on till they are knocked out, not heeding wounds, most of these comparative few have supported their nerves only too freely beforehand. The rest may be the flower of earth, but the man who can be brotherly and crack a joke on a winter night in a shell hole has undoubted undeniable unsupported courage, which is not always certain of the spectacular gentlemen, who may be Berserk or drunk. But there! It is only my preference perhaps for serene and quiet strength rather than for the violent kind. Violence is waste of energy.

Here endeth the umptieth lesson…

Your sincere friend Ivor Gurney[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Letters to a Wife, 215.
  2. Chronology, 102.
  3. War Letters, 222-4.

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

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

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

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

Sat, Aug 4, 1917

William Blake, “Christian in the Slough of Despond”

Dearest G,

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

 

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The gods are not angry for ever. . .

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

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

 

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

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

 

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

4th August 1917

Dear Mrs Ledwidge

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

 

References and Footnotes

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

Siegfried Sassoon a Country Wanderer Once More; Wilfred Owen’s Faith Shifts: Christ is Literally in No Man’s Land; John Buchan in the Halls of the Great; Ralph Hamilton is Reassigned

Is the once and future thriller-writer Lt. Col. John Buchan taking to his role as head of the Information Office? He is. In France in April to win the acquiescence of Haig in his propaganda efforts, he is now working hand in glove with even more august personages.

16 May 1917. I was working till all hours yesterday. I had to go to the Palace this morning, for I have a shocking amount to do with Royalties these days. Then I had the War Cabinet in the afternoon and a long time with the Prime Minister; and after that correspondents and secret-service agents till all hours.[1]

 

Siegfried Sassoon remains ensconced in the charming, subtly galling precincts of Chapelwood Manor, Sussex. It’s the precincts that charm, however, and the priestess who galls–so today’s entry, heavy on countryside and light on human interaction, is a happy one.

May 16

For a while I am shaking off the furies that pursued me. I am an Orestes freed from the tyranny of doom. The War is a vague trouble that one reads about in the morning paper. The communiqués are almost insignificant. I no longer visualise the torment and wretchedness there.

The world is just a leafy labyrinth with clouds floating above the silence of vivid green woods and clean meadows bright with cowslips and purple orchis. My thoughts have the voices of the tiny brook that runs along the woodland, slipping and twisting over mossy stones, and bubbling out into a rushy field to gurgle merrily in its narrow bubbling channel.

I am a country wanderer once more—climbing gates and staring through tangled hedges at the mossy boughs of apple-trees laden with blossom, while the sun comes out after a passing shower. I roam the narrow lanes, light-hearted as a lambkin, emotionless as a wise gander. I desire nothing more than to stop and discuss.the weather with an old gaffer mending the gaps in a hedgerow. I could almost praise the Apostles Creed to the village parson if I chanced to meet him in the road, or saw him leaning over his garden gate as I passed. And the Sunsets are
yellow and serene—never dyed with crimson or hung with banners of war.[2]

This is too much, and Sassoon realizes it, of course. Hence the tongue-in-cheek gamboling: it’s so overdone that it becomes unsettling, as if some sort of overdecorated 18th century French baroque painting is being foisted onto unassuming, blooming Sussex. The landscape might pass with unaffected appreciation, but all these sun-drenched rosy-cheeked swains on swings, paradoxically, seem to remind us of the absent war, and the invisible, mud-caked, sallow-cheeked subalterns.

And this encounter with a wise old gaffer during a ruminative walk in the English countryside… it’s exactly like something Edward Thomas would write about. And yet nothing about the way it is written is anything like Thomas… Sassoon laughs, but bitterly, and he writes his country walk at a sharp angle…

 

This undated letter of Wilfred Owen‘s was probably written today–and if he seems confused, it is the fault of the bureaucracy: the 13th Casualty Clearing Station seems to have been reorganized around him, and shortly he will be in the same bed, but in a new Stationary Hospital… And yet perhaps he would be grateful for the metaphor: as he will explain in the letter, he has not altered in his Christian faith, but he feels the bureaucracy of his belief system shifting around him…

My own dear Mother,

Just had yours of Sat. Evening and was astonished to apprehend that the Great Shadow is creeping on towards Colin. What will he be next birthday, seventeen?

I wrote him a wholesome bit of realism in that last letter, as well as a fantasy in the language of the Auth: Ver: of 1611. I have changed my mind and see no reason why you should not have that letter and that fantasia…

I did it without any reference to the Book, of course; and without any more detraction from reverence, than, say, is the case when a bishop uses modem slang to relate a biblical story. I simply employed seventeenth century English, and was carried away with it.

Incidentally, I think the big number of texts which jogged up in my mind in half-an-hour bears witness to a goodly store of them in my being. It is indeed so; and I am more and more Christian as I walk the unchristian ways of Christendom. Already I have comprehended a light which never will filter into the dogma of any national church: namely that one of Christ’s essential commands was: Passivity at any price! Suffer dishonour and disgrace; but never resort to arms. Be bullied, be outraged, be killed; but do not kill. It may be a chimerical and an ignominious principle, but there it is. It can only be ignored: and I think pulpit professionals are ignoring it very skilfully and successfully indeed.

The letter rambles on into some stern criticism of institutional religion, both high church and evangelical. At first this reads rather as if Wilfred is concerned mainly to allay an sense of gross impiety that the letter to Colin may have imparted. He is not messing around with the Bible, he implies, but, rather, thinking seriously about how its precepts might apply. He is working up to a religious argument that rests on his own authority, as well:

Christ is literally in no man’s land. There men often hear His voice: Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life—for a friend.

Is it spoken in English only and French?

I do not believe so.

Thus you see how pure Christianity will not fit in with pure patriotism. I am glad you sent that cutting from Wells’ Book.

This would be The Soul of a Bishop, just out.[3]

I hope you understood it. I did not. Not a word of it can I make sense of. I would rather we did not read this Book. Now The Passionate Friends I found astounding in its realism but like all the great terrible books it is impossible to take sides. It is not meant to be a comfortable book; it is discussional; it refuses to ignore the unpleasant.

(This practice of selective ignorance is, as I have pointed out, one cause of the War. Christians have deliberately cut some of the main teachings of their code.)

Just as I was going to speculate that Owen is trying to disguise the reasonably radical (if logically irrefutable) opinion that pure patriotism and pure Christianity are incompatible by moving on to discuss secular literature, Own returns to his criticism. He blithely tacks away again into a discussion of his other reading material, but the point is made, and I do not think that his mother would consider it a light one, especially because it rests on that new source of authority: clergymen fulminating at home against the Germans do not understand what Christ might be like in the trenches, but Owen does. The experiential gulf has theological implications, now…

At present I am deep in a marvellous work of Hugo’s The Laughing Man. By the same post as your letter came two books from Leslie by O. Henry.

So I am well set up.

I am marked for the next Evacuation!!

…Many thanks for Punch, Yes Colin has been very good in writing to me. Keep him up to it. It will do him good, don’t-you-know! And as for me: they bring me Shropshire, even as yours bring me Home.

Expect me—before Christmas.

Your—one and only—Wilfred x[4]

 

Finally, a brief update on Ralph Hamilton, the Master of Belhaven. Hamilton began work today, a century back, in command of a new battery, part of the 106th Brigade, near Cassel. The transfer, he believes, is because he will shortly be promoted to command a brigade. The journey over the last two days was quite arduous, owing both to confusion about the location of the units and sub-standard railway porting–“I have got a lot of stuff… Bath and I… had to carry it ourselves”–but Hamilton made use of the day to get to know his new subordinates. The next task, of course, will be to announce his presence with authority…[5]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Smith, John Buchan, 204.
  2. Diaries, 167.
  3. In two days' time, Patrick Shaw Stewart will mention to Ronald Knox, future clergyman and popular writer, that "[b]y the way, I have of course ordered [Wells's] new book about God, and we shall probably disagree violently about it.’ Knox, Patrick Shaw Stewart, 197.
  4. Collected Letters, 460-2.
  5. War Diary, 285-6.

Alf Pollard’s Enthusiasm for the Game; Isaac Rosenberg’s Aching Feet; Patrick Shaw Stewart is Summoned; Wilfred Own Describes His Longest Tour

We have four letters today, in more or less a representative distribution: two to mother, one to a patron, and one to a comrade.

But the first letter-to-mum is an unusual one, from an unusual (here, at least) writer. Alf Pollard and the H.A.C. have a lull in the action today, and he is able to fill mater in on his latest doings.

Dearest Ladybird,

Here we are again, out once more. I have had some most interesting and exciting times since last writing, including going over the top again. I am once more in charge of the Company as the man senior to me got laid out with a bullet. I shall probably be a Captain again in a day or two but one never knows as somebody else senior may be sent along. You see, the present arrangement of the government is that all promotions are by seniority irrespective of fighting qualities. So really one has no chance of being more than a Second Lieutenant whatever one does. However I don’t care a bit what rank I am.

I had a most exciting adventure in a Hun trench the other day. I cut through their wire and got into their trench thinking it was unoccupied, but soon discovered it was full of Huns and consequently had to beat a hasty retreat. I got out all right fortunately. I heard a rumour that the Brigadier has recommended me for a bar to my M.C. in consequence of this little business so if you keep your eyes glued on the paper you may shortly see my name in it. Don’t think I have been taking any unnecessary risks because I have not. I have merely done what I have been asked to do.

Well, dear old lady…

Best of spirits and having a good time. By the way, I gave killed another Hun. Hurrah!

Well, cheerioh!

This letter is one of the few Pollard takes the trouble to preserve, and he does so with an explanatory comment, namely

…because it throws such a clear light on my attitude towards war… I thoroughly enjoyed going into action… People tell me I must have a kink in my nature; that my zest to be in the forefront of the battle was unnatural. I do not agree with them…[1]

No, he assures us, he is merely very highly motivated to win the war, and believes that the British Army can, and soon. If this is a gambit to convince those horrified by enthusiasm for killing into accepting what we might term the “realism” of his statements, it’s not a very good one.

Yes, it’s a war, and it is much more deeply illogical to believe that your side is in the right and yet still hope to bring about a satisfying conclusion without violence. But this is a pacifist’s dilemma, and it doesn’t explain the enthusiasm for personal violence. Invoking the common terminology of war and sport–“keen to win”–does nothing to show that there is some moral through-line from the young officer excited to get his name in the paper for killing people and the responsible adult who seeks to defeat German militarism and liberate France and Belgium, accepting that there will be a price to pay for this, in blood.

Then there is the question of the “kink.” I don’t think a discursus into human evolutionary biology and the sociology of violence is necessary here, but it’s tempting… Briefly (and sloppily), this is indeed a “kink…” and yet it is quite natural. Most of us are by nature (as well as nurture) horrified by direct physical violence unless driven to it by some extreme emotion–terror, jealousy, even rage have some clear evolutionary benefits. But we don’t generally kill without passion–we could hardly have evolved in small, cooperative groups otherwise. And yet, some people lack this inhibition… some of them may become violent sociopaths or psychopaths, others may lead normal lives unless they are at some point given a handful of weapons and asked to go and hunt down other people, for God and for Country. Presumably their sang froid during hunting for food over the thousands of generations of Prehistory preserved their genes despite their danger to the group–after all, they win decorations and bounties get their names preserved among the valorous…

Apologies for the fast-and-loose “science” without careful hypothesis or actual evidence, which is , of course, not science at all. But I do think a glance at the animal and the “early man” beneath the recently-civilized human being yields plausible explanations… What put me in mind of this, actually, was Pollard’s choice of the phrase “forefront of the battle.” This was probably borrowed, perhaps at some remove, from translations of ancient epic: nothing could be more Homeric than the idea that the best men–those who are the leaders of contingents, those who earn fame and glory and prizes–fight literally before (i.e. “in front of”) the rest of the men in the battle, those lesser men who prefer less direct, less deadly, missile-weapon-oriented conflict.

Pollard is not insane, nor is his happy warrior pose “unnatural,” but he is very unusual: he has the mentality of a Homeric hero, someone who values glory–“winning”–so highly that the taking of lives doesn’t really enter into the moral calculus, even though they recognize that in other contexts killing is wrong. Although Pollard is capable of recognizing the brutality and sadness of war, he is also more than capable of forgetting it. He does not see the unavailing suffering of other men as detracting from the meaningfulness of glory or the positive valence of skillful, violent action–and this, now, is beginning to put him at odds with several writers more prominent in this project.[2]

But we can continue to explore this attitude in subsequent posts. Pollard’s letter is also included in the memoir at this point because he wishes to connect his realistic “attitude towards war” with his exceptional talent for it. He can’t really claim to be modest, but he can argue that what he does next is all in the service of winning (which he could have phrased as “ending”) the war…

 

We followed several units-with-writers during the attack of the 23rd, and of course failed to discuss many others. One of these was the Hood Battalion of the Royal Naval Division, badly mauled during the advance. Two of the remaining “Argonauts” of the Gallipoli expedition are still with the Division–Bernard Freyberg now commands a brigade, while Arthur “Oc” Asquith, Raymond‘s younger brother, commanded the Hood battalion in the assault, leading it close behind the British barrage in the assault on Gavrelle. The attack was successful, but at the cost of nearly 200 casualties, including seven officers killed outright. Today, a century back, Asquith wrote to his old comrade Patrick Shaw Stewart. Shaw Stewart had schemed successfully to leave his cushy post in the East to return to the battalion, and danger. But there has been rather a long interlude, spent largely in futile pursuit of the divine Diana, followed by a stint on a refresher course at Le Touquet. Now he is summoned directly.

My dear Patsy,

Come as soon as you can. I lost 3 Company C.O.s the day before yesterday.

Love, yrs Oc.[3]

 

Also today, a century back, Wilfred Owen wrote to his mother. It was his first letter in a long while, and in it he describes the longest, hardest time of his service in France (we have drawn on this letter already). The 2nd Manchesters, down on the southern part of the British line, made an assault more than two weeks ago, before Owen had rejoined from hospital. Since then they have not been in an attack, but–no doubt due to the concentration of force for the Battle of Arras–they have remained an awfully long time in front-line trenches.

25 April 1917  A. Coy., My Cellar

My own dearest Mother,

Immediately after I sent my last letter, more than a fortnight ago, we were rushed up into the Line. Twice in one day we went over the top, gaining both our objectives. Our A Company led the Attack, and of course lost a certain number of men. I had some extraordinary escapes from shells & bullets. Fortunately there was no bayonet work, since the Hun ran before we got up to his trench…

The reward we got for all this was to remain in the Line 12 days. For twelve days I did not wash my face, nor take off my boots, nor sleep a deep sleep. For twelve days we lay in holes, where at any moment a shell might put us out. I think the worst incident was one wet night when we lay up against a railway embankment. A big shell lit on the top of the bank, just 2 yards from my head. Before I awoke, I was blown in the air right away from the bank! I passed most of the following days in a railway cutting, in a hole just big enough to lie in, and covered with corrugated iron. My brother officer of B Coy, 2/lt Gaukroger lay opposite in a similar hole…

This we have already read–but it is worth re-reading, as Owen will be dealing with the after-effects for a long time to come.[4]

 

And finally, today, and we get a rare update from Isaac Rosenberg, writing to Eddie Marsh:

My Dear Marsh,

My sister wrote me you have been getting more of my ‘Moses’. It is hardy of you, indeed, to spread it about; and I certainly would be distressed if I were the cause of a war in England; seeing what warfare means here. But it greatly pleases me, none the less, that this child of my brain, should be seen and perhaps his beauties be discovered. His creator is in sadder plight; the harsh and unlovely times have made his mistress, the flighty Muse, abscond and elope with luckier rivals, but surely I shall hunt her and chase her somewhere into the summer and sweeter times. Anyway this is a strong hope; Lately I have not been very happy, being in torture with my feet again. The coldness of the weather and the weight of my boots have put my feet in a rotten state. My address is different now

Pte I R 22311
7 Platoon
120th Brigade Works Coy
B.E.F.

There is more excitement now, but though I enjoy this, my feet cause me great suffering and my strength is hardly equal to what is required.

I hear pretty often from G Bottomley and his letters are like a handshake: and passages are splendid pieces of  writing. Have you seen Trevellyans ‘Annual’ which G.B. writes me of.

Rosenberg is a strange bird, and this is a strange letter. He writes to thank Marsh for any efforts he might be making on behalf of his poetry–“Moses” is conceived of as a major work. But the affectation of ease and middle class bonhomie and faux-classicism sits oddly alongside of the infantryman’s complaints about his feet… although surely Rosenberg knows this. So what is he up to?

Perhaps not much, other than making clear a fairly obvious fact: privates in labor battalions can’t do much to improve their large-scale literary undertakings, but hope to keep up their tenuous connections to the world of literary patronage nonetheless. Alas, too, that his connection to Gordon Bottomley came so recently–the “Annual” which Rosenberg is rather obviously hoping to have sent to him is the same publication for which Eleanor Farjeon edited eighteen poems by “Edward Eastaway.”

Do write me when you can.

Yours sincerely

Isaac Rosenberg[5]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Fire-Eater, 199-200.
  2. Which is not to say that Pollard wouldn't have held the more popular belief in 1917--he would have, by far. War heroes are popular; they always have been, and even if 1916 and 1917 and the Western Front were, to mangle some metaphors, the cradle of the grave of that illusion--even if skepticism about the virtues of violence will grow in the aftermath of this war, and remain higher than before it--the idea that talented warriors should be praised was many times more popular than the idea that they should protest the pointless murder they were involved in both perpetuating and risking. (And then, of course, there is Siegfried Sassoon, who wants to win a medal for just the sort of stunt Pollard describes, and also thinks that the war is pointless murder...
  3. Jebb, Edwardian Meteor, 226.
  4. Collected Letters, 452-3.
  5. Collected Works, 315-6.

Panpipes from Francis Ledwidge; Lark Song from Edward Thomas; Wilfred Owen Does Not Want Chocolate; Edwin Vaughan Returns Through Fire and Mud; Edward Hermon Loses His Padre

We begin in a light pastoral mood, today, with Francis Ledwidge… and then work quickly through a series of increasingly violent incidents.

Pan

He knows the safe ways and unsafe
And he will lead the lambs to fold,
Gathering them with his merry pipe,
The gentle and the overbold.

He counts them over one by one,
And leads them back by cliff and steep.
To grassy hills where dawn is wide,
And they may run and skip and leap.

And just because he loves the lambs
He settles them for rest at noon,
And plays them on his oaten pipe
The very wonder of a tune.

France,
March 11th, 1917.

 

The very wonder. But will there be divine music to lead the sheep safely through this coming spring? Ledwidge is never harsh, really, but I wonder if there is some gentle irony behind this idea of a shepherd god carefully numbering his sheep as he watches over them…

 

Before the guns arrive to drown them out, the song of the larks is spreading. From the diary of Edward Thomas:

Out at 8.30 to Tonville O.P. and studied the ground from Beaurains N. Larks singing over No Man’s Land—trench  mortars. We were bombarding their front line: they were shooting at Arras.

Later Ronville heavily shelled and we retired to dugout. At 6.15 all quiet and heard blackbirds chinking. Scene peaceful, desolate like Dunwich moors except sprinkling of white chalk on the rough brown ground… [1]

 

Wilfred Owen, it seems, is stuck in the middle. Neither tentatively exulting in spring nor in the war’s worst grips, he writes to give his mother an update on his whereabouts:

Another Place
More Deserted Village
11 March

No sooner had I set out my Kit and done a page for you, than I was boosted back nearer the Line on a special job; in charge of a party of Dug-Out Diggers. It is a soft job. I take the men up sometimes by day, sometimes by night, so that (as today) I lie snug in my blankets until lunchtime. We are 4 officers living in this cellar; our servants cook for us. It is a relief to be away from the Battalion for a while. How I hope it will last. It may spin out 3 weeks…

I have just been sweating along a dangerous road to a factory where there is a shower bath. There was no water today! I sweated some more coming back. (Methinks I am becoming something crude in my speech.) Tis a crude, vagabondage of a life…

And downright unbearable if one runs out of good books and is forced to fall back upon the press:

I am able to read here, but have nothing left now… do you think, now, that I am going to read the war-impressions of home-editors?  If, here & there, you get a true version of the business—so much the more unreadable. Punch, on the other hand takes humour too seriously. From Punch you would take a Sentry to be the laughingstock of Europe.

Spleen!

No, I still tipple Punch as hilariously as ever. But don’t send any, for some one or other is bound to have one.

What I should like would be a current Poetry Review.

Please don’t send anything special for my Birthday. You have sent so many specialities lately. For instance, expensive chocolate!

I hope to be able to write again tomorrow…

Longing unspeakably to see you, dear Mother, I look forward to Leave in about 3 more months!!

Your own Wilfred xx[2]

“Please don’t send anything, particularly not expensive chocolate for my birthday” has got to be one of the all-time disingenuinities of wartime soldier-maternal correspondence…

 

We are rejoined today by Edwin Vaughan, who, despite being fairly fresh from training, has just spent two and a half weeks at a refresher course at Amiens. There he “paid many visits to the Cathedral, which is very beautiful and dignified.” He returned to the battalion’s billets on the 10th. On the way back he saw a German airplane shoot down an observation balloon. The two observers jumped clear but the balloon, burning, caught up with their descending parachutes, burning them to death.

Today, coming up from reserve into the line, Vaughan and the other returning men were shelled by light trench mortars:

As we loosened ourselves in the mud, to continue our round, there was a faint ‘pop’ in the distance like a blank cartridge, followed by a rapid whistle and the sharp crack and flash of a bomb bursting about five yards away. Even as we ducked, there was another ‘pop’ and another bomb burst in the same place.

As we crouched low in the mud, they continued to fall about us, and Hughes whispered that they were grenatenwerfers–called by us ‘blue pigeons’ or ‘pineapples’. He said that the sounds of our squelching through the mud was perfectly audible in Jerry’s line, and he would follow us with these bombs until we reached our right post, when he would open with a machine gun…

Accidentally banging his ‘tin hat’ on an old iron pump, Vaughan attracts more fire:

…an angry burst of machine gun fire swept over our heads whilst a perfect hurricane of bombs fell about us. Several of them fell within two yards of us, but owing to the mud we were unhurt, one dud actually falling between us, and a few inches from where our faces were pressed into the side of the trench…[3]

This tour will not be an easy one for Vaughan, but so far it is nothing worse than a near miss.

 

Not so for Edward “Bob” Hermon. Now commanding the the 24th Northumberland Fusiliers, he is much burdened by the organizational and physical challenges of work just behind the Arras front. He strives to keep up his end of his voluminous correspondence with his wife, and he can’t really hide the fact that everyone in his part of the world is in danger.

11th March 1917

I’m very weary old dear & so you must excuse a somewhat short letter tonight. I’ve had an awful lot to do lately & life is pretty strenuous…

Nevertheless, Hermon musters the strength to comment—endearingly—on the pictures he has been sent of his daughters at their riding lessons. One daughter’s position is “good enough to print in the Cavalry drill book” while another must “keep her heels down a bit more.”  Tiny details, but the effort is not a negligible one.

Darling mine I can’t write you any more I’m too tired & must be up at 4 a.m. I’m rather in the dumps tonight as I’ve lost a few men these last few days & my friend Duncan the Padre was killed today. He was actually conducting a service at the time & a shell came in & killed him.

My love to you my darling.[4]

This is an unusual disaster, but not an isolated one. Any huge concentration of troops–necessary for any major attack–means that thousands of men who are not actually holding the line will still be going about their daily business well within the range of the enemy heavy artillery. The Rev. Edward Francis Duncan, MC went to the aid of men wounded by such a shell bursting just outside his makeshift church–a second shell from the same battery killed him.

 

References and Footnotes

  1. War Diary (Childhood), 168.
  2. Collected Letters, 442.
  3. Some Desperate Glory, 36-40.
  4. For Love and Courage, 334-5.

Isaac Rosenberg, Strained and Weak; F.S. Flint is Read (by Richard Aldington) and Freely Given (by Ford Madox Hueffer)

Today is a day of literary letters, headed back across the channel in loose formation, nodding to each other in terse recognition, and speeding their pleas to the same few destinations. First, a wilting off-shoot of the Georgian/Dymock set–and after him the Modernists.

Isaac Rosenberg had written to Gordon Bottomley in early January about his plans–lousy and otherwise–and his reading.  He was fairly chipper, then, even about his miseries: “I fancy it was a touch of the flue… I wonder if Aeschylus as a private in the army was bothered as I am by lice.” Less so, in a letter postmarked today, a century back:

Dear Mr Bottomley

Your letters always give me a strange and large pleasure; and I shall never think I have written poetry in vain, since it has brought your friendliness in my way. Now, feeling as I am, castaway and used up, you don’t know what a letter like yours is to me. Ever since Nov, when we first started on our long marches, I have felt weak; but it seems to be some inscrutable mysterious quality of weakness that defies all doctors… I believe I have strained my abdomen in some way…[1]

Still, the letter included a “sketch” of “Louse Hunting,” and all was not as dark as Rosenberg’s mood. Not long ago Eddie Marsh had written–informally, of course–to Rosenberg’s adjutant, with the result that he will be transferred, probably at some point this month, from the “works” battalion to a less labor-intensive job in a trench mortar unit.[2]

 

It’s a small literary world: Bottomley is good friends with Edward Thomas and central to the now far-flung Dymock crew. Rupert Brooke was the strongest connection between Dymock and the Georgian Anthology, but Bottomley and de la Mare are others, and even if Thomas has avoided Marsh’s influence they are known to each other. And Marsh, of course, is not intervening lightly in Rosenberg’s military career–he was also a crucial early patron. Between Bottomley and Marsh there are few promising young writers of somewhat traditional verse more than one friendly letter away.

But oh yes–there are other literary microcosmoi, and with our advantage of historical vantage, we know that another small world considering au courant and modern will grab the stage and boot Georgian Poetry into the footlights. Or footnotes.

The Modernists, grouped around a few small journals,[3] see the Georgians more as almost indecently exposed targets of opportunity, prim ladies showing a touch of ankle while the Imagists are stripping to their all togethers to describe. Although Richard Aldington ceded his editorial post at The Egoist to his wife, H.D., when he went for a soldier, he still knows who and what to read.

Yesterday, a century back, Aldington wrote to F.S. Flint, his good friend and fellow subaltern in the Modernist enterprise; today, the august Ford Madox Hueffer, something of an elder statesman among the young ruffians (how’s that?) aimed a missive at the same target. We may set a record, today, for box-barrage-style name-dropping.

Although Aldington could hardly be more unlike his fellow poetical footslogger Ivor Gurney in either personality or poetic  predilection–Gurney has made a literal Dymock pilgrimage–the two rising poets and private soldiers offer the same criterion for poetic appreciation: is it pack-worthy?

My dear Franky,

I carried your poem and Manning’s poems in my pack for I know not how many kilometres–what more devotion to
literature can you ask? I am immensely pleased by your poem, & as I wrote to H.D., feel that it justifies amply your months of silence… Certainly, compel Monro to print the poem in a chap-book & add any “dug-outs” you have…

The horrid thought strikes me that, if U.S. goes to war, Amy will insist on writing and publishing patriotic verse. This must be barred strenuously–we have foreborn to intrude our nationalism, to “let wrath embitter the sweet mouth of song”; so must she. I have sent H.D. a few scraps of vers libre put down from time to time recently. They may not be much good, for I think they are lazy due to a state of intoxication derived from the happy discovery that one can boil Quaker Oats in one’s “billycan”…

This concern–that Amy Lowell will influence the decline of Modern poetry in America even as she has helped to elevate in England, fades into yet another reverie about war’s end. A popular topic, this winter:

I am back for “a rest”, having shed no blood of my own or anyone else’s, save when I gashed my thumb on a bullybeef tin. And poor May Sinclair will go on thinking I’m an ’eroe”! What women have to answer for! After the war–when everything will of course be ideal–we must rendez vous in your earthly paradise & idle long days in sun and long grass… I desire my Horatian otium cum dignitate [leisure with dignity] just as much as ever. If I get back you will not find me a rampagious & lustful legionary, but the same apostle of pastoral culture as of old. Old books, old wine, old pictures–young women & young songs…

Well, I will conclude this empty raving…

Au revoir, old lad, & a hundred congratulations on your fine piece of work.

R.

“Empty raving,” quotha? Naturally, but this is something a man–a ponderous master like Ford Madox Hueffer–could do with a lighter sort of brio, especially if he is behind the likes of drunken junior Modernist officer cadets like Manning…

Attd. IX Welch, No. 6, 1.B.D.
B.E.F., France
19.2.17

I very ungraciously didn’t answer yr. letter–wh. reached me in the far South. However, I was lazy there–where the Mediterranean spurts up into the rosemary and lavender. But this is the bare, cold & trampled North, with nothing
but khaki for miles & miles…Bare downs… & tents… & wet valleys… & tents…& AAC guns… & mud… & bare
downs…& huts…& bare downs…& RFC…& mud…& motor lorries… & mud… & bare downs.

And I am promoted to Adj.–& run a Bn. much as I used to run the Eng[lish] Rev[iew]–It’s the same frame of mind, you know, & much, much easier–or more difficult, according to one’s mood…

Surely this great literary effort must in effect be some sort of preamble?

I want to ask you a favour: I somehow pine to publish a vol. of poems before the war ends or I am killed. Cd. you, do you think?, arrange for someone to publish:

Antwerp
The Old Houses
Two or three poems written in the trenches & other nasty places
& Heaven

in one volume? And could you collect and arrange them, somewhat in that order?

…I fancy it wd. make a pretty good volume. I have got rather a good one written to the dead of the Welch Regt & so on…. Let me know?

I do admire yr. work very much–you know. “Cadences” is an ever so beautiful volume.

And here’s the funny bit. “I admire your work very much.” Enough to schlepp it? Surely yes? You are, after all, an officer, with a servant, who hasn’t been in trenches in months, you must have trunks of books…

I gave it to some people in Mentone–not because I.did not value the gift, but because it wd. spread yr. fame a little–& because in my valise here it wd. only disintegrate amongst revolvers & straps & the mud in wh. one lives.

Goodbye, my dear.

I am personally very happy in this sort of life: in the end it suits me better to write:

“O.C. Canadaous will detail a fatigue party of 1 NCO & 10 men at 4:30 a.m…” than to watch the Mediterranean foam spattering over rosemary and lavender–for I don’t believe I am really, really Highbrow–as you truly are.

But God bless you, all the same…[4]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Liddiard, ed., 89-90.
  2. See Moorcroft Wilson, Isaac Rosenberg, ch. 18.
  3. E.G. Blast, tied to various writers we read here, including Ford, below; and the newer Wheels, featuring the Sitwells and other Grenadier Guardsmen, several Imagist Anthologies... and yes, there are also people like Pound and Eliot being published, somewhere, presumably...
  4. Imagist Dialogues, 182-6.

Edward Thomas Gets His Kit; Edward Hermon Resigns His; Ivor Gurney is Hungry for Books–and Also for Decent Food

Today, a century back, several battalions attacked Boom Ravine, near Miraumont, in force. Although an accurate German counter-bombardment on their assembly positions caused heavy casualties–which could have easily been predicted from J.R. Ackerley’s account of his brother’s wounding, but was more or less unavoidable if the attack had to go on–Boom Ravine was taken. The Germans still held a nearby hill, and more than two thousand British soldiers were killed, wounded, or missing after the action. I’m not sure what the strategic intent of these winter actions on the Ancre were. They seem pointless, and wasteful–more even than most attacks. Which is also to say they will be, in retrospect, completely useless–at the time they were only, perhaps, dogged and wasteful.

 

A little bit behind the lines, we can get a sharp little perspective on the material differences between a wealthy battalion commander from the landed gentry (Edward “Robert” Hermon) and a poor writer and artillery lieutenant (Edward Thomas). Hermon, back with his battalion after home leave and then a course at 2nd Army School, is cleaning house:

I have been having a drastic overhaul of my kit & am sending you a lot of stuff back (5 parcels) as I have far too much & even by doing this I have not in the least inconvenienced myself…[1]

And Thomas, with his battery at the front for less than a week, has been cold ever since his arrival. Some combination of bureaucratic brilliance–they are exchanging gear with the battery they will replace–and simple snafus has meant that half of his luggage was long delayed. Thomas even wrote for mending wool for his socks and underwear. But things are looking up. As he wrote in his diary today, his “kit arrived late last night.” This removes one worry, but there are others, including his responsibilities as mess officer, a job he can ill afford: “Grandes Graves 2.50 a bottle…”[2]

 

And Ivor Gurney wrote again to Marion Scott today, in high spirits despite hardship.

17 February 1917

My Dear Friend: Here we are, back in our little holes; with strict instructions not to show our heads above ground; in Reserve in fact — deucedly uncomfortable; and expecting to become still more so. To get to this haven of rest we had a 6 hours march with twenty minutes halt, perhaps. So, as you may imagine, there is no literary supplement this week.

Which is to say that it is not every day that an infantry private in wartime can complete a preface or a poem…

Nobody has any water; there may be none for 12 hours or more, and bully beef and biscuits and a little bread provide the wherewithal for philosophers and soldiers to exist. For God’s sake write letters, no-one knows how long this will last. Well, long enough I have existed upon hope, and why not now? And why should we not be cheerful, since this is better than the first line? Farewell, Canteen, thou not un-appreciated, but not overappreciated Home to me: thou wert at zero too oft, but there was freedom in thee and a fairly interesting occupation. Fare thee well. And only the day before yesterday, I was asking myself whether I ever should be able to write a good long movement, or how long it would take! O Evening Dreams!

Gurney makes an effort, here, to think himself onto the far end of the journey his letter will take–not the worst exercise for a cold and hungry man.

…You see, I am so over-wrapt up in myself, that there is little thought left for other people, but all the same it occurs to me that you are sick or sickish with influenza. Soon I hope your book will begin to swell in spite of all drawbacks. Flu or Female Musicians; and soon I hope, too, to be able to see it myself and let fly torrents of praise or vituperation. Duggy Haig seems pretty confident, and Germany must be having the worst sort of time; but O books of any kind seem a long way off.

He doesn’t just mean his own first book, which Scott is preparing. He means anything he might read. Any of us might have pet books, books we can hardly do without… but we don’t have to carry them through miles of muck…

As for my own — “Friends” is with a Trench Mortar Man. “Wild Wales” and R. Bridges “Spirit of Man” are with me. The rest are in the care of a Frenchwoman at Laventie, and someday I must send for them. Anyway, who could read ‘Aeschylus’ now? “Under the Greenwood Tree” is with the Sigs.

I will try to trace the Aeschylus reference–Rosenberg just made one, as well–but I must point out, of course, that in addition to the poetry he is reading, naturally, Thomas Hardy, whose poetry is to some degree immanent in his novels.

Harvey’s book is now known to be with the Brigade Major, so there is a chance of getting it still.

The French are on rations now, and their soldiers dont like it — the only drink about here being wine at 4 francs the bottle. They are a much more cheery lot than ourselves though; I cannot say what they are like in trenches, but out—they are quick to smile and move about quicker than we. All the German prisoners I have seen anywhere save at Havre seem very tame creatures and not at all savage creatures.

Well, we’ve covered the French and the Germans. Which leads us back… home. This is one of the best descriptions of the “Tommy”–or English front fighter–mindset that I’ve read.

Is there hate? And how about fate?

In the mind of all the English soldiers I have met there is absolutely no hate for the Germans, but a kind of brotherly though slightly contemptuous kindness — as to men who are going through a bad time as well as themselves… The whole thing is accepted as a heavy Burden of Fate. I have never been able to accept anything that way myself, and can only envy those who have such an attitude. Best luck with all sickness:

Your sincere friend Ivor Gurney[3]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. For Love and Courage, 328.
  2. War Diary (Childhood), 163.
  3. War Letters, 135-6.

Edward Thomas Sails for France; Dorothie Feilding Laid Low by Winter at Last; Edmund Blunden Astonied at Ypres; D.H. Lawrence Repays in Kind; Richard Aldington: Pioneer, Bibliophile, Dreamer

We have the departure of Edward Thomas and updates from a new soldier and an increasingly experienced officer in France, today, a century back, but first, from Belgium, a post-script to Dorothie Feilding‘s winter’s tale of frigid woe. She is a past master of the letter-of-comically-deflated-complaint:

29th Jan 17
Mother dear–

My fingers are frozen absolutely stiff & I cannot write you a sparkling letter in consequence for I am much too cross.

All the canals here are frozen the most amazing thickness & I go sliding in the evenings when we come in, until the ends of my toes are all blistered.

I shall have to give over for a day or two. It annoys me when I slide 10 yds & sit down hard to see a tiny Flam in vast sabots slide some 500 yds all out.

Lots of love
DoDo[1]

 

Edward Thomas acquired his blisters in more conventional fashion, visiting his youngest child one last time, in borrowed shoes. Now his road leads straight to France, via Southampton and the Mona Queen.

Up at 5. Very cold. Off at 6.30, men marching in frosty dark to the station singing ‘Pack up your troubles in your old kit-bag’. The rotten song in the still dark brought one tear… Southampton at 9.30 and there had to wait till dusk, walking up and down, watching ice-scattered water, gulls and dark wood beyond, or London Scottish playing improvised Rugger, or men dancing to concertina, in a great shed between railway and water… sailed at 7… I’m in 2nd officer’s cabin with Capt. and Horton, the men outside laughing and joking and saying fucking… Remember the entirely serious and decorous writing in urinal whitewash–name, address, unit, and date of sailing. A tumbling crossing, but rested.[2]

“Remember–” so the diary as well as the letters will serve as an aide-memoire to future writing.

 

Edmund Blunden is an old soldier by now, but almost all of his service has been on the Somme. Today, a century back, was his first acquaintance with Ypres, the great ruined city (large medieval town, that is) of the northern part of the British sector.

The battalion, being relieved from Potijze breastworks, occupied various billets of less or more insecurity in Ypres. Though many cellars existed in the town, most of them were battered in and waterlogged, and the Ramparts were overcrowded. Our principal shelter was the Convent, now the husk of a building, but concealing a many-chambered underground lodging for a considerable number of men, who might parade for working or carrying parties in its courtyard; that cobbled yard will ever be to me the stage on which Maycock stands glaring at the round white moon, and shaking his fist at her, and crying: “It’s that bloody old witch — until she changes we’ll keep being frozen.” At one corner was the entrance to a garden the paths of which had been adorned by some patient enthusiasts of the autumn before with their regimental badges done in coloured glass; and passing that way, as one would do, one had the choice of admiring their workmanship, or the sweet simplicity of the pigeons curving and glinting round the Cathedral’s tattered tower, or the fact that the German gunners were shooting high explosive to burst in the air innocuously round that aiming-mark of theirs.

Over the sepulchral, catacombed city airplanes flew and fought in the cold winter sun. Sentries blew their whistles in warning from broken archways; the brass shell cases used for gas gongs gleamed with a meaning beside them; and all of a sudden flights of shells came sliding into the town. Few people were seen on the streets, and it is difficult to recall in realistic sensation one’s compulsory walks in Ypres. The flimsy red post office, a blue poster for Sunlight Zeep, a similar advertisement for Singer’s Naaimaschinen, the noble fragment of a gateway to St. Martin’s Cathedral, interior walls with paintings of swans on green ponds, the rusty mass of ironware belonging to some small factory with an undestroyed chimney, ancient church music nobly inscribed on noble parchment, wicker chairs in the roadway outside St. Jacques, a scaffolded white building in the Place (the relic of a soon disillusioned optimist), a pinnacle, a railing, a gilded ceiling — those details one received, but without vivacity. One set out to arrive at a destination in Ypres, and even in quiet times one was not quiet. As if by some fantastic dream, the flush and abundance of life and memorial and achievement, such as blend into the great spirit harmony of the cities in that part of Europe, stole suddenly and faintly over the mind; then departed. This city had been like St. Omer, like Amiens. How obvious, and how impossible![3]

 

Before we get to Richard Aldington, we observe an oblique crossing of paths. Not long ago, on the same day an accused coward was shot, an accused pacifist defended himself. Today, a century back, D.H. Lawrence wrote again to Eddie Marsh, central node of all literary favor-asking. And look whose poetry he compliments in the post-script…

Monday 29 Jan. 1917

Thank you very much for your note and the green form. I hope they will let us go away.

Have I showed any public pacifist activity? …At any rate I am not a pacifist.

I have come to the conclusion that mankind is not one web and fabric, with one common being. That veil is rent for me. I know that for those who make war, war is undeniably right, it is even their vindication of their being. I know also, that for me, war, at least this war, is utterly wrong, a ghastly and unthinkable falsity. And there it is. One’s old great belief in the oneness and wholeness of humanity is torn clean across, for ever…

Well, amen to that. But note the rather more limited place to which the broad statement leads:

So how should I be a pacifist? I can only feel that every man must fulfil his own activity, however contrary
and nullifying it may be to mine.

Duckworth refused the novel…

Aha. But Marsh has apparently provided with a form that may enable emigration. What does he get in return?

I am getting ready another book of poems. My last and best. Perhaps I shall never have another book of poems to publish: or at least, for many years. Would you like to see this MS., when I have done it? Then, if there should happen to be anything you would like for Georgian Poetry, ever, you can take it. . . .

If I go to America, and can make any money, I shall give you back what you lent me. I do not forget it.

D. H. Lawrence.

P.S. Don’t you think H.D.—Mrs. Aldington—writes some good poetry? I do—really very good.’[4]

She does. And what about the man who cheated on her not long after a miscarriage, but then generously suggested that his friend might procure for her while he was at the wars? Mr. Aldington writes again to F.S. Flint:

29′” January 1917

My good, (to be as French as we can!),

I have well receive [sic] your letter so fair and blackguardly… It’s no good! I need the fantasies of language of Huysmans & Rabelais to write well in a letter. I can’t handle the epistolary style in English somehow.

…Dear boy, oh for one hour in either of our dens, with books & wine & smokes and the talk half French, half English, rolling from the latest Parisian poetaster to Meleager & from Marinetti to Folgore da San Gemignano!

Apropos, H.D. has sent Bubb my translation of Folgore–the best Italian work I’ve done – as well as the Konallis poems. So with the Imagist anthology & a possible small collection of prose poems, 1917 won’t be altogether a blank for me. Every day in which one begins nothing, every year in which one publishes nothing, is lost! How I yearn for the dear, musty smell of old vellum & the crisp rustle–like unto banknotes, yet how much more precious!–of those unreadable Aldines I collected with such gusto…

When oh when this armed strife is o’er I shall retire to Rome for a season, grow hyacinths in my shrapnel helmet–which I intend to purchase or abduct as a “souveneet” [s/c]–and mess about in the Vatican library. Also wander about that city with H.D. whose gusto for antiquities fits in gloriously with mine. There is a little church on the Aventine, dedicated to Santa Sabina, where I hope to sit one whole morning & listen to the silence. It has some fine Byzantine mosaics if I remember rightly, but hang them! Can you imagine the pleasure of listening to the silence, while the sunlight runs over the worn flag stones? What a place to think in! Perhaps you will abandon respectability & a government job & come with me. There’s nothing like vagabondage, freedom, the arts, starving & feasting together as luck turns. Then life has a tang where it is now insipid. Then one can dream great things besides one’s best friend–you know whom I mean–& be content if the year ends with nothing done…

I don’t like Aldington–I’ve read a good deal of what he writes–and I haven’t hidden that, here. I could ding him, too, for putting on his Old Soldier airs (although, in fairness, he did much more of that in other recent letters; old soldiers don’t wax rhapsodic about old books) without realizing either that a true veteran of the trenches would be ashamed to think of buying a souvenir or that such a figure would never “abduct” but rather “win” it.

But never mind. That above paragraph is the best “après la guerre” daydream I’ve read since Graves hymned Sassoon. And Aldington is including his wife in the reverie–how nice. I wonder if the post script will explain why he talks of her so much more fondly in this letter than in letters previous…

But I should give him some impartial credit for high spirits, in a pioneer battalion, in winter. It’s clearly rooted in self-regard, but hey–morale is morale.

One’s art, looked at selfishly, is less important for what it produces for others, than for what it adds to one’s own life making things poignant & strange & beautiful where otherwise they would be “just ordinary.”

Never feel angry or grieved about me–a prophet is not without honour!–and whatever happens I have something
that cannot be destroyed. I had a talk with a fieldmouse in the trenches the other day–we got on splendidly! And there are hawks & crows & chaffinches & sparrows & owls & starlings & grey crows to look at & understand. They are so delightfully unorganised, such vagabonds! So you see I have found friends.

Au revoir, dear boy; forgive all this babble. But my mind is becoming vegetable through disuse.

Thine
R.

P.S. I’ve forgotten your address so must send this via H.D. Couldn’t send Almanac–against regulations. Send your
poem when finished.[5]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Lady Under Fire, 197.
  2. War Diary (Childhood), 157-58.
  3. Undertones of War, 144-5.
  4. A Number of People, 232.
  5. Imagist Dialogues, 173-5.

Richard Aldington on the Soldier’s Lot; Rudyard Kipling’s Irish in the Mud

Today we can use to catch up with Richard Aldington, our most literary conscript–in that he’s deeply involved in foreign literature and is the only conscription-era writer we’ve been following closely…

I don’t like Aldington very much at all–he is alternately whingeing and bombastic, and his quickness to condescend to others once he was in the ranks (again, not before conscription forced his hand) is deeply unappealing to anyone who cannot help but feel an affinity for all the young writers who joined up in 1914 or 1915, and paid such a terrible price. And he’s not so great to his wife, the poet Hilda Doolittle (H.D.) For example, there is this letter of last week, a century back, to his friend F.S. Flint:

20455L/CpI. R.A.
“D” Company
44 T.R.B.
Westham camp
Weymouth
12/11/16

My dear Franky,

Your letter is so kind and affectionate–I was very happy to get it. You must know that this present trip to U.S.A. was suggested by H.D. herself, for I had not mentioned it for several weeks. She need not feel any pressure from me, though I do believe she would be more tranquil in U.S.A. But “let that rest”. If she wants to stay, she stays; whatever happens later is not my fault. The responsibility will be with her–and her advisers! You may or may not remember that 18 months [ago] I wanted to go to America… But “let that rest” too.

We shall, since I can’t pretend to know the intricacies of this relationship. What follows is interesting, in that it seems to show Aldington coming around to the life of the soldier. Or, at least, coming around to the usefulness of taking up the rhetorical position of the stout, uncomplaining Tommy. It’s not only for comic effect (e.g., “exasperates,” below):

Dear boy, your affection entirely exasperates my importance in the world! So many better men have perished in this foolish contest that I have no faintest right to claim a hope for exemption for myself. You misunderstand me a little, I think. I am not a suicide. I am a soldier, considered trained, and next week, tomorrow, I could be warned for a draft. I don’t say I shall be, but I might. And those who go out to this war run very grave risks. A man who runs those risks without being prepared to lose his life is deceiving himself, and–can’t you see?–it is not easy to die, but one makes it easier by renouncing those things which have made life dear or agreeable. To feel that you are making other people wretched by your own inconsiderable demise is a torture; and what I have done has been only an attempt to minimise the shock to the person I love most. It is not my fault that I have been misunderstood; but it won’t help me to stand knee-deep in mud under shrapnel if I knew H.D. is in an agony of apprehension in England. If she were in America, letters would be sent to her from England & she need never know I were abroad. Then any bad news might come as a shock, but without much preliminary agony; & if I came out safe, autant de gagner [at least that’s something]! As to being seen when one is ill or wounded – you ought to know that it is not easy to see a soldier in hospital & that many cases never even leave France… But, what is the use? I am only justifying what may see[m] a harsh or even cruel attitude to H.D. If I was cruel, it was from kindness.

So we haven’t let it rest, after all. It’s unkind and condescending, but there is a logic here that we should appreciate: to be in England is to be removed from the trenches by only two or three days–the postal service is still excellent. Every news item that mentions fighting in a certain general section of the line will occasion a few days of terror and anxiety, even though it contains little or no information that can actually be linked to higher risk. A soldier in the line might die any day, but to be far removed from news does enable an emotional distance from the ups and downs of a newspaper war…

And, dear boy, there are no “rights”–there are only those with power and those without power. I belong to the latter, and, I assure you, that, except for a very few personal friends, my extinction would as little trouble the world, & be as little loss, as that of my other junior N.C.O. in H.M. Army!

Cheer up, old boy; I hope to see you at Xmas,

Richard

 

Aldington’s next letter to Flint–which I included in due time on the 15th–is pure comedy, and worth quoting again in full:

Dear Franky,

Cheer up, you silly old bugger! We fuckers is off to the above bleedin’ hole to-morrow, and fucked if it won’t be cold. Us poor buggers has to sleep on bare floors to night, while you wallows in feathers, you old piss-tub. Well, I must fuck off, so I lays down me pen and bids you good-bye–bugger you.

T[on] A[mi]

 

High spirits! But this whole let’s-read-historical-experience-in-real-time-and-live-the-past-in-the-imperfect-tense project is a mug’s game. Today he’s down again:

20455 L/CpI. R.A.
“D” Company
44T.R.B.
Verne Citadel
Portland
Sat. [19“’ November 1916]

My dear lad,

I feel rather depressed to-night so you must pardon it if my letter is depressing. This is a wild desolate spot with dispiriting associations. The fortress itself is of course geometric in an ugly way and gloomy; the icy wind shoots, as if through a funnel, across the parade ground and freezes face, hands and feet until we almost weep with the pain. The barrack rooms are like a vast row of wine-cellars cut out of the ramparts: or rather in size and shape exactly the arches of a railway viaduct walled and windowed at each end. Along the back runs a long, gloomy, vaulted corridor, foul with smoke from the fires & impure air, echoing from end to end at one’s step, filthy with dust…

Am I too depressing? May I go on?

You may. This is depressing stuff, wallowing in the lot of the soldier in winter camp, in a nation still behind the curve of the modern nation-in-arms, struggling to support and train and equip its citizen army. But seldom has a writer lavished so much sharp, allusive language on the grim environs of training camp. It’s good stuff, too, a stony new twist on the theme of the eternal soldier:

Outside the fort (for from the inside one sees nothing but walls and the everlasting grey sky) there are cliffs of greyish-blue and pinkish-yellow Portland stone, rushing to the grey sea in rough waves of tumbled boulders and blocks. Everywhere there are desolate quarries, everywhere the traces of the unhappy convicts in the prison here. Useless heart-breaking toil is apparent everywhere–vast Cyclopean blocks of stone have been dragged with sweat from the living rock, chipped laboriously into shape–and then left abandoned!

If an arch is needed it is made of huge rough lumps of stone like those at Stonehenge. The effect of one arch was terrific in its rudeness, in its barbarity, its Egypt-like witness of forced slave-labour. Another was more regular, Homeric, like the gate of the tomb of Agamemnon–vast, desolate, implacable! Far below is the dismal, curdled sea, and beyond the grey, sickly greenish line of “England”: its edges lapped by a foul desolate marsh! Complete the picture by a few long, black warships at anchor, and numbers of oil-tanks along the shore and you have some idea of what the outside of Portland has to offer! It is grand and desolate, a little melodramatic if it were not so austere, so stonily toned in grey, so massive. To your impressionable friend here it was rather appalling–for, d’you know, in this great place, with its draw-bridges & walls & ramparts and ditches, one feels damnably like a prisoner! I feel horribly sympathetic towards the unfortunate convicts.

You mustn’t feel too sorry for me–my existence, after all, is less dreary and bitter than that of millions of our fellows in Europe. I have only pity for us all–but my pity explodes into hate for those imbeciles who pretend that there is
anything fine and ennobling or romantic in soldiering. It is simply dreary routine, dreary endurance, dreary “heroism” of dying at the word of command! Somehow some of us will endure to the end, but what shall we be worth? Don’t feel too many scruples at being out of it–you have a certain task (which by the way you don’t seem to be carrying out very enthusiastically!) & that is to keep alive something of the gradually enfeebled tradition of beauty in life which we have received from other times.

…I’ve written 12 poems & 3 essays since I’ve been in the Army (no swank intended!)–now produce your contribution, instead of those old “dug-ups” you sent for the next anthology!

All affectionate greetings to you, dear lad,

R.[1]

 

Speaking of both romance and the realities of soldiering, here’s a nice bit from the Old Guard to set against Aldington’s agitations.

Every Great War writer–even historians of a certain age writing from the other side of the experiential gulf–tries his hand at a “mud piece.” From Kipling‘s history of the Second Battalion, Irish Guards:

Their wholly unspeakable front line was five miles distant from this local paradise. You followed a duckboard track of sorts through Trones Wood, between ghastly Delville and the black ruins of Ginchy, and across the Ginchy ridge where the chances of trouble thickened, through a communication-trench, and thereafter into a duckboarded landscape where, if you were not very careful, the engulfing mud would add you to its increasing and matured collection of “officers and other ranks.” These accidents overcome, you would discover that the front line was mud with holes in it. If the holes were roundish they were called posts; if oblong they were trenches with names, such as Gusty Trench and Spectrum Trench. They connected with nothing except more mud. Wiring peered up in places, but whether it was your own or the enemy’s was a matter of chance and luck. The only certainty was that, beyond a point which no one could locate, because all points were wiped out by a carpet-like pattern of closely set holes, you would be shelled continuously from over the bleak horizon. Nor could you escape, because you could never move faster than a man in a nightmare. Nor dared you take cover, because the mud-holes that offered it swallowed you up.

Here, for instance, is what befell when No. 1 Company went up to relieve a grenadier company on the night of the 19th November. They started at 3 p.m. in continuous mud under steady shelling. Only three out of their four platoon guides turned up. The other had collapsed. Ten men were hit on the way up; a number of others fell out from sheer exhaustion or got stuck in the mud. The first man who set foot in the front-line trench blocked the rest for a quarter of an hour, while four of his comrades were hauling him out. This was five hours after they had begun. The two Lewis-guns and some stragglers, if men hip-deep in mud and water can straggle, were still unaccounted for. Lance-Sergeant Nolan brought them all in by hand at three in the morning under shell-fire. Then they were heavily shelled (there was hardly any rifle-fire), and three men were wounded. Luckily shells do not burst well in soft dirt. It was Private Curran’s business to shift two of them who were stretcher-cases to Battalion Headquarters one mile and a half distant. This took two relays of eight men each, always under shell-fire, and Curran’s round trip was completed in nine hours…

There was one time when a sergeant (Lucas) was buried by a shell, and a brother sergeant (Glennon) “though he knew that it meant almost certain death” went to his aid, and was instantly killed, for the enemy, naturally, had the range of their own old trenches to the inch. To be heroic at a walk is trying enough, as they know who have plowtered behind the Dead March of a dragging barrage, but to struggle, clogged from the waist down, into the white-hot circle of accurately placed destruction, sure that if you are even knocked over by a blast you will be slowly choked by mud, is something more than heroism. Equally, to lie out disabled on an horror of shifting mud is beyond the sting of Death. One of our corporals on patrol heard groaning somewhere outside the line. It proved to be a grenadier, who had lain there twenty-four hours “suffering from frost-bite and unable to move.” They saved him. Their stretcher-bearers were worn out, and what sand-bags at last arrived were inadequate for any serious defence. “We were fighting purely against mud and shells, as the German infantry gave us no trouble.” When No. 2 was relieved at the same time as No. 1 Company, they dribbled into camp by small parties from two till ten in the morning, and three of the men never turned up at all. The Somme mud told no tales till years later when the exhumation parties worked over it.[2]

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Imagist Dialogues, 150-4.
  2. The Irish Guards in the Great War, II, 104-5.

Siegfried Sassoon is a Man Ready for Arms Again; Sidney Rogerson in Amiens

For Sidney Rogerson today, a century back, the reward for his long trench labors is a lorry-ride to Amiens.

The lorry jerked protestingly in low gear along the crowded, pitted roads until Albert was reached. There we craned our necks from under the tarpaulin hood to catch a glimpse of the Virgin leaning at a perilous angle from the Cathedral tower. Few of us had seen this famous phenomenon, though all were familiar with it from illustrations in the papers from home.

It was the town’s one show-piece. All else was squalid and depressing…

Albert is neither a ruin–which an English mind can always manage to make picturesque even amidst squalor–nor free of war. It’s a dead town still inhabited, wasp-like. But then there is open, unspoilt country, and then the city.

…we ran into Amiens, coming to a halt in the square outside the station. We looked about us goggle-eyed. There was not one of us who did not feel a flutter of excitement…

But Amiens disappoints. The war is still dominant, and all the women seem to be wearing mourning. This is a tremendous let-down, somehow, for Rogerson and his fellow officers, who have come to think of feminine beauty as war’s opposite. So they content themselves with shopping for small luxury items, touring the cathedral (naturally), and eating an extravagant meal of lobsters and mayonnaise. And then it’s back to camp…

what with the cold, the jolting of the lorry, and the petrol fumes, we all felt numb and a little queasy when we were deposited on the road outside the Citadel about 6 p.m.[1]

 

Today, a century back,[2] Siegfried Sassoon attended his third medical board since his summer fever and lung infection. How did it go? Well… well enough. It’s not clear why Sassoon wasn’t sent back to duty in September or October, but by now he was clearly both fit and rested. His impressions of the board, then?

These he will give us, first in prose and then in verse:

Sport in Sussex was only a makeshift exhilaration, and early in November I went to London for a final Medical Board. At the Caxton Hall in Westminster I spent a few minutes gazing funereally round an empty waiting-room. Above the fireplace (there was no fire) hung a neatly-framed notice for the benefit of all of whom it might concern. It stated the scale of the prices for artificial limbs, with instructions as to how officers could obtain them free of cost. The room contained no other ornament. While I was adjusting my mind to what a journalist might have called “the grim humour” of this footnote to army life, a Girl Guide stepped in saying that Colonel Crossbones (or whatever his cognomen was) would see me now. A few formalities “put paid to” my period of freedom and I pretended to be feeling pleased as I walked away…[3]

So much for “George Sherston’s” experience–he, like his unfictionalized counterpart Sassoon, can now look forward to a period of “home service” at a base camp before another medical board clears him to return to France.

But there is always more than one Sassoon, even if the strands often run close together. The same waiting room notice also spawned this poem:

 

Arms and the Man

Young Croesus went to pay his call
On Colonel Sawbones, Caxton Hall:
And, though his wound was healed and mended,
He hoped he’d get his leave extended.

The waiting-room was dark and bare.
He eyed a neat-framed notice there
Above the fireplace hung to show
Disabled heroes where to go

For arms and legs; with scale of price,
And words of dignified advice
How officers could get them free.
Elbow or shoulder, hip or knee,

Two arms, two legs, though all were lost,
They’d be restored him free of cost.
Then a Girl Guide looked to say,
‘Will Captain Croesus come this way?’

 

The bitter jest at the top of this none-too-subtle poem is probably obvious: “Arms”–arma–is the first word of the Aeneid, still (if just barely) the one inescapable poetic text, and there it means “weapons” (or weapon-bearing-activities), not “limbs.” A sharp point–but it’s Sassoon in his more angry-young-mannish voice, and he doesn’t go in for rapier wit. No: this is a poem of irony that doesn’t pierce like cold iron but rather bludgeons–or, to take a middle voice of metaphoric brutality–that hacks and saws. Through shattered bones.

So, yes, it’s a nasty sort of irony, to pair this lilting light verse with the horror of a world which normalizes the crippling of so many young men. But is this notice over the cold hearth so cruel as to add measurably to the enormous cruelty of losing one’s limb–or limbs–in combat? If the answer is no, then the absent officers are patronized and pushed to the side by the military bureaucracy and the poet alike.

The harshness is perhaps mitigated by the way Sassoon makes some oblique fun of himself, giving the name of Croesus to the young officer through whose eyes we see this waiting room. He is paradigmatically rich–possessed, that is, of a wound that is “healed and mended.” Ah, but against this possibly, shall we say, disarming reference, there is the fact that Sassoon has avoided the most awkward fact of his situation–that he wasn’t wounded, but had simply gotten sick. Does that matter? It shouldn’t–he was serving bravely (too bravely) at the front when he got sick. But it must, for Sassoon didn’t change it merely for the rhyme…

And after the Medical Board had pronounced him fit to return to duty–with leave first, of course–Sassoon left London for a week in the country and a final farewell, for now, to fox hunting…

 

References and Footnotes

  1. Twelve Days on the Somme, 142-54.
  2. Or possibly tomorrow. See Moorcroft Wilson, Siegfried Sassoon, I, 308-9.
  3. Complete Memoirs, 379-80.