This poem entitled Christmas: 1915 by Percy McKaye captures the gloomy feeling that started to prevail. Gone was the optimism and hope of 1914 in its place was now a fear for what the future held.
Now is the midnight of the nations: dark
Even as death, beside her blood-dark seas,
Earth, like a mother in birth agonies,
Screams in her travail, and the planets hark
Her million-throated terror. Naked, stark,
Her torso writhes enormous, and her knees
Shudder against the shadowed Pleiades,
Wrenching the night's imponderable arc.
Christ! What shall be delivered to the morn
Out of these pangs, if ever indeed another
Morn shall succeed this night, or this vast mother
Survive to know the blood-spent offspring, torn
From her racked flesh? --What spendour from the
smother?
What new-wing'd world, or mangled god still-born?
(Percy MacKaye (1875–1956) was an American dramatist and poet. He wrote the plays The Canterbury Pilgrims in 1903, Sappho and Phaon in 1907, Jeanne D'Arc in 1907, The Scarecrow in 1908, Anti-Matrimony in 1910, and the poetry collection The Far Familiar in 1937. In 1950, MacKaye published The Mystery of Hamlet King of Denmark, or What We Will, a series of four plays written as prequels to William Shakespeare's Hamlet.)
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Christmas 1915 - Christmas in the Trenches.
This is a quite amazing article from The Great War in Different Light.
Originally it was published in ‘The War Illustrated’, on 25th December, 1915.
'Christmas in the Trenches' by our War Correspondent F. A. McKenzie offered the public at home a view of what it was like far way in France.
The fighting of 1915 had left a bitter taste for the English and it is with this in mind that when he writes about the Germans trying to recreate the fraternization of Christmas 1914 he observes: “Our armies have too many bitter recollections from the twelve months that have passed, recollections that cannot be effaced. They have read of the treatment of our own soldiers in German prison camps. They have experienced the German poison gas. Every soldier knows many cases of the shocking treatment of our wounded. There will be no friendly stretching out of hands this year. “
“CHRISTMAS in the trenches ! It strikes one as incongruous, doesn't it ? The celebration of the birth of the Prince of Peace amid all the surroundings of war ! Yet there it is, and nowhere will the great day be more observed than in the front lines of our armies.
One's mind inevitably goes back at a time like this to the two previous occasions in modern days when Northern France was the area of war at Christmas-time — December, 1870, and the Christmas of 1914.
Looking over the records and the pictures of 1870, when war was fought in the open, enables one to realise the vast gulf between then and now. But in 1870, as in 1915, the note of war was tragedy. There had been a long spell of bitterly cold weather. The Germans, then as to-day, had been counting on finishing the war before Christmas arrived, and were bitterly disappointed at their failure. France saw grim ruin daily approaching nearer. The French prisoners of war in German camps, revolting at their treatment, had conspired to rise up on the night of Christmas Day, to disarm their guards, and to fight their way back to France. Their plot was discovered.
Yuletide and Wars of Yester-Year
The French Army had few festivities. Food was scarce, money scarcer, and there was neither the time nor the spirit for even an hour of rejoicing. The Germans, however, had a merry day. Loads of gifts arrived by wagon from every part of their Fatherland. Deputations came to see that the gifts were properly distributed. There were Christmas- trees. In some of the places they started their festivities at 6.30 on Christmas Eve, with dances to the music of the regimental bands. They had feasts. The rooms were decorated with green branches, miniature candles, and toy confectionery. For a moment war paused. A few hours later deadly sorties and fierce advances set the ball rolling again.
The most remarkable feature in the trenches last year was the rapprochement that took place between the British and the German troops on parts of our lines, particularly on the Messines front. Who started it is by no means clear ; but for some days before Christmas arrived there was a decided slackening of hostilities. Then a voice from one trench spoke to the enemy in the opposite trenches, suggesting that there should be no more serious firing until New Year's Day. The soldiers started to come out from cover ; the British to the German trenches, the Germans to the British trenches. They exchanged drinks and smokes ; they had mutual sing-songs.
The Quaint Fraternity of Enmity
The thing was, of course, from a military point of view, a great scandal. If soldiers on opposite sides made friends with one another in this way, war would soon be impossible. Talking with the men who took part in these meetings weeks afterwards, it was easy to see how deeply they had been touched. They had. discovered that their enemies, who for weeks had been trying to kill them, and whom they had been trying to kill, were much like .themselves. The Saxon soldiers, who faced our troops at this point, were the best of the German Army, men who throughout had been most noted for their humanity, and who most nearly resemble our own lads. Surely these gatherings in the " No Man's Land " between the trenches were the very culmination of the irony of war !
There will be nothing of that this year. The Germans at many points are anxious to have an informal truce. They have already been calling out across their lines, "Christmas coming. No more shoot." But they are not meeting with any response. Our armies have too many bitter recollections from the twelve months that have passed, recollections that cannot be effaced. They have read of the treatment of our own soldiers in German prison camps. They have experienced the German poison gas. Every soldier knows many cases of the shocking treatment of our wounded. There will be no friendly stretching out of hands this year.
But Christmas will be observed in very marked fashion, and, unless some stern commander orders an advance on this day, things will be reported as "Quiet along the front." The parcels begin to arrive at least a fortnight before Christmas, and they arrive in such, overwhelming numbers that it is hardly possible to deal with them. Few soldiers but have at least some friend to send them something, and there arc organisations galore — Christmas pudding funds, cigarette funds, county leagues and societies, and regimental bodies — all pouring in seasonable fare. It would be a very good thing if all the luxuries that arrive around Christmas Day could be spread over the weeks before and after.
Signs and Symbols of Festivity
There will be decorations, if it is only of Christmas cards from home, even in the dug- outs. There will be feasts in the front lines. But the full celebration will be in the rest camps behind. There Christmas will be observed almost as elaborately as in barracks in England. The non-commissioned officers in many a regiment have already sent to England for their packages of vari-coloured tissue paper. From this the handy men of the company make all kinds of decorations — chains across the ceilings of the huts, roses around the walls, and Christmas mottoes pasted on white sheets, and stuck up on the walls. Even the mud of the rest camps — the thick, cloying, penetrating, indescribable mud, which must be felt to be realised — will not be allowed to spoil the good temper on this day.
Christmas will start early, and there will be music everywhere, for the loneliest and smallest outpost at least have their Jew's harp. The Highland regiments will forget for the time that the real Scotch celebration comes on New Year's Day, and not on Christmas Day, and the skirl of the pipers will liven the air of many and many a camp. The regimental officers will, as they always do at such a time, come into real hearty personal contact with their men.
I would like to be at one of the of the dinners in the rest camps. I can sec them as on the show occasions I- have known. There will be a shell-case, or a couple of shell-cases, carefully polished, in the middle of the table, to hold some flowers that have come from home. There will be candles around, stuck in ginger-beer bottles. The glasses or mugs will '6c of infinite variety. Dinner will probably be eaten in comparative peace, for the German soldier is eminently a sentimentalist.
Christmas is his great festival, and he will probably have no desire on his own side to force the fighting on that day.
Two Great Toasts of the Dying Year
There will be two toasts this year in many a hut and many an officers' mess that they did not have at home. One, drunk in silence, will be "To those who have gone' ; and the other, drunk sometimes with a lump in the throat, will be "To the dear ones at home." They will tell' tales of " Blighty," and think of us as we, seated around our own firesides, kept safe by their work, will be thinking of them.
That is how Christmas will probably be spent on the western front. I cannot think that there will be similar conditions in the Balkans. There our lads are likely to have nothing but strenuous, furious endeavour against desperate odds. Their parcels may or may not have come. Unless the situation has markedly changed between the moment of writing and Christmas Day, every man in the lines there will be on the qui vive all day, ready for anything.”
Originally it was published in ‘The War Illustrated’, on 25th December, 1915.
'Christmas in the Trenches' by our War Correspondent F. A. McKenzie offered the public at home a view of what it was like far way in France.
The fighting of 1915 had left a bitter taste for the English and it is with this in mind that when he writes about the Germans trying to recreate the fraternization of Christmas 1914 he observes: “Our armies have too many bitter recollections from the twelve months that have passed, recollections that cannot be effaced. They have read of the treatment of our own soldiers in German prison camps. They have experienced the German poison gas. Every soldier knows many cases of the shocking treatment of our wounded. There will be no friendly stretching out of hands this year. “
“CHRISTMAS in the trenches ! It strikes one as incongruous, doesn't it ? The celebration of the birth of the Prince of Peace amid all the surroundings of war ! Yet there it is, and nowhere will the great day be more observed than in the front lines of our armies.
One's mind inevitably goes back at a time like this to the two previous occasions in modern days when Northern France was the area of war at Christmas-time — December, 1870, and the Christmas of 1914.
Looking over the records and the pictures of 1870, when war was fought in the open, enables one to realise the vast gulf between then and now. But in 1870, as in 1915, the note of war was tragedy. There had been a long spell of bitterly cold weather. The Germans, then as to-day, had been counting on finishing the war before Christmas arrived, and were bitterly disappointed at their failure. France saw grim ruin daily approaching nearer. The French prisoners of war in German camps, revolting at their treatment, had conspired to rise up on the night of Christmas Day, to disarm their guards, and to fight their way back to France. Their plot was discovered.
Yuletide and Wars of Yester-Year
The French Army had few festivities. Food was scarce, money scarcer, and there was neither the time nor the spirit for even an hour of rejoicing. The Germans, however, had a merry day. Loads of gifts arrived by wagon from every part of their Fatherland. Deputations came to see that the gifts were properly distributed. There were Christmas- trees. In some of the places they started their festivities at 6.30 on Christmas Eve, with dances to the music of the regimental bands. They had feasts. The rooms were decorated with green branches, miniature candles, and toy confectionery. For a moment war paused. A few hours later deadly sorties and fierce advances set the ball rolling again.
The most remarkable feature in the trenches last year was the rapprochement that took place between the British and the German troops on parts of our lines, particularly on the Messines front. Who started it is by no means clear ; but for some days before Christmas arrived there was a decided slackening of hostilities. Then a voice from one trench spoke to the enemy in the opposite trenches, suggesting that there should be no more serious firing until New Year's Day. The soldiers started to come out from cover ; the British to the German trenches, the Germans to the British trenches. They exchanged drinks and smokes ; they had mutual sing-songs.
The Quaint Fraternity of Enmity
The thing was, of course, from a military point of view, a great scandal. If soldiers on opposite sides made friends with one another in this way, war would soon be impossible. Talking with the men who took part in these meetings weeks afterwards, it was easy to see how deeply they had been touched. They had. discovered that their enemies, who for weeks had been trying to kill them, and whom they had been trying to kill, were much like .themselves. The Saxon soldiers, who faced our troops at this point, were the best of the German Army, men who throughout had been most noted for their humanity, and who most nearly resemble our own lads. Surely these gatherings in the " No Man's Land " between the trenches were the very culmination of the irony of war !
There will be nothing of that this year. The Germans at many points are anxious to have an informal truce. They have already been calling out across their lines, "Christmas coming. No more shoot." But they are not meeting with any response. Our armies have too many bitter recollections from the twelve months that have passed, recollections that cannot be effaced. They have read of the treatment of our own soldiers in German prison camps. They have experienced the German poison gas. Every soldier knows many cases of the shocking treatment of our wounded. There will be no friendly stretching out of hands this year.
But Christmas will be observed in very marked fashion, and, unless some stern commander orders an advance on this day, things will be reported as "Quiet along the front." The parcels begin to arrive at least a fortnight before Christmas, and they arrive in such, overwhelming numbers that it is hardly possible to deal with them. Few soldiers but have at least some friend to send them something, and there arc organisations galore — Christmas pudding funds, cigarette funds, county leagues and societies, and regimental bodies — all pouring in seasonable fare. It would be a very good thing if all the luxuries that arrive around Christmas Day could be spread over the weeks before and after.
Signs and Symbols of Festivity
There will be decorations, if it is only of Christmas cards from home, even in the dug- outs. There will be feasts in the front lines. But the full celebration will be in the rest camps behind. There Christmas will be observed almost as elaborately as in barracks in England. The non-commissioned officers in many a regiment have already sent to England for their packages of vari-coloured tissue paper. From this the handy men of the company make all kinds of decorations — chains across the ceilings of the huts, roses around the walls, and Christmas mottoes pasted on white sheets, and stuck up on the walls. Even the mud of the rest camps — the thick, cloying, penetrating, indescribable mud, which must be felt to be realised — will not be allowed to spoil the good temper on this day.
Christmas will start early, and there will be music everywhere, for the loneliest and smallest outpost at least have their Jew's harp. The Highland regiments will forget for the time that the real Scotch celebration comes on New Year's Day, and not on Christmas Day, and the skirl of the pipers will liven the air of many and many a camp. The regimental officers will, as they always do at such a time, come into real hearty personal contact with their men.
I would like to be at one of the of the dinners in the rest camps. I can sec them as on the show occasions I- have known. There will be a shell-case, or a couple of shell-cases, carefully polished, in the middle of the table, to hold some flowers that have come from home. There will be candles around, stuck in ginger-beer bottles. The glasses or mugs will '6c of infinite variety. Dinner will probably be eaten in comparative peace, for the German soldier is eminently a sentimentalist.
Christmas is his great festival, and he will probably have no desire on his own side to force the fighting on that day.
Two Great Toasts of the Dying Year
There will be two toasts this year in many a hut and many an officers' mess that they did not have at home. One, drunk in silence, will be "To those who have gone' ; and the other, drunk sometimes with a lump in the throat, will be "To the dear ones at home." They will tell' tales of " Blighty," and think of us as we, seated around our own firesides, kept safe by their work, will be thinking of them.
That is how Christmas will probably be spent on the western front. I cannot think that there will be similar conditions in the Balkans. There our lads are likely to have nothing but strenuous, furious endeavour against desperate odds. Their parcels may or may not have come. Unless the situation has markedly changed between the moment of writing and Christmas Day, every man in the lines there will be on the qui vive all day, ready for anything.”
Monday, December 22, 2008
Christmas 1915 - A Story at the ANZAC Dinner.
This article appeared in The Times on 27th December 1915.
Sir George Houstoun Reid, GCB, GCMG, KC (25 February 1845 – 12 September 1918) was an Australian politician, Premier of New South Wales and fourth Prime Minister of Australia. He was also a very large man both in statue and personality and it was said he was well liked by the men.
A Story at the ANZAC Dinner
Six hundred wounded Australian soldiers were entertained at dinner at the Hotel Cecil on Christmas Day by the Australian War Contingent Association. Sir George Reid occupied the chair and others present were Lady Reid and Lady Birdwood, the Hon. F.W. Young (Agent-General for South Australia) and Colonel Buckley (Military Advisor to the Commonwealth Government in London).
Sir George Reid in proposing “Success to our Empire and Allies” said, “I met Sir Ian Hamilton in one of the clubs and told him I wanted to go to the front. I told him I wasn’t much of a walker, that when I went shooting I nearly shot myself and that when I got on a horse I didn’t know whether I should get off when I wanted to or not. But I said, Why can’t you let me go to the front as an armoured fort?” (Laughter).
Sir Ian looked at me up and down and said, “Well, Sir George, I don’t think we could send you to the front as an armoured fort, but I think we might make a base of you.” (Laughter)."
For more information on Sir George Reid - http://www.adb.online.anu.edu.au/biogs/A110362b.htm
Friday, December 19, 2008
Christmas 1915 - Alleged Impersonation in Widnes.
This story appeared in The Times on 28th December 1915. It was just too good to pass by.
I will let the reader make up their own mind to the real events. My money is that Mrs. O’Connor was ‘entertaining’ Mr Goulding and her brother found out about it and she made up this amazing story.
Enjoy.
Alleged Impersonation
Story of Wounded Soldiers Wife
"At Widnes yesterday, John Goulding, South Lancashire Regiment, was charged with an offence against Elizabeth Ann O’Connor.
A police-superintendent said the woman was standing at her door on Christmas Day looking out for her husband, who had been wounded at the front and was expected home.
Suddenly the prisoner pushed past her into the house saying, “I am your husband Matt. I have been travelling all day.” When she said he was not like her husband, about the face, he said,” I have been wounded here,” indicating the forehead. Two children of O’Connor’s were called “Queenie” and “Sonny” and the prisoner addressed them by those names. During tea he talked about family matters.
After the accused had retired to bed O’Connor’s brother came in and insisted on seeing him, but Goulding refused to get out of bed and covered himself with clothes. A struggle followed, other relatives arrived on the scene and in the confusion the accused escaped.
When charged the accused said, “I don’t remember anything. It is surprising how a woman can mistake her husband.”
Goulding was remanded."
I will let the reader make up their own mind to the real events. My money is that Mrs. O’Connor was ‘entertaining’ Mr Goulding and her brother found out about it and she made up this amazing story.
Enjoy.
Alleged Impersonation
Story of Wounded Soldiers Wife
"At Widnes yesterday, John Goulding, South Lancashire Regiment, was charged with an offence against Elizabeth Ann O’Connor.
A police-superintendent said the woman was standing at her door on Christmas Day looking out for her husband, who had been wounded at the front and was expected home.
Suddenly the prisoner pushed past her into the house saying, “I am your husband Matt. I have been travelling all day.” When she said he was not like her husband, about the face, he said,” I have been wounded here,” indicating the forehead. Two children of O’Connor’s were called “Queenie” and “Sonny” and the prisoner addressed them by those names. During tea he talked about family matters.
After the accused had retired to bed O’Connor’s brother came in and insisted on seeing him, but Goulding refused to get out of bed and covered himself with clothes. A struggle followed, other relatives arrived on the scene and in the confusion the accused escaped.
When charged the accused said, “I don’t remember anything. It is surprising how a woman can mistake her husband.”
Goulding was remanded."
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Christmas 1915 - The message of King George V.
This is the message given to all from King George V published in The Times on 27th December 1915, followed by the response of Major-General Maxwell. I wonder how it would have been received by the “Tommy” stuck in a cold, freezing trench somewhere unpronounceable in Belgium.
“The following message from the King to his navy and Army was published on Christmas morning in the Naval and Military Orders throughout the Empire:-
Christmas Day 1915
Another Christmas finds all the resources of the Empire still engaged in war, and I desire to convey on my own behalf and on behalf of the Queen, a heartfelt Christmas greeting and our good wishes for the New Year to all who on sea and land are upholding the honour of the British name.
In the officers and men of my Navy on whom the security of the Empire depends I response, in common with all my subjects, a trust that is absolute.
On the officers and men of my Armies, whether now in France, in the East, or in other fields, I rely with an equal faith, confident that their devotion, their valour and their self-sacrifice will, under God’s guidance, lead to victory and honourable peace.
There are many comrades now, alas, in hospital and to these brave men also I desire with the Queen to express our deep gratitude and our earnest prayers for their recovery.
Officers and men of the Navy and of the Army, another year is drawing to a close as it begun, in toil, bloodshed and suffering, and I rejoice to know that the goal to which you are striving draws nearer into sight.
May God bless you and your undertakings.”
“Cario Dec 26.
Major-General Sir John Maxwell, commanding the Bristish forces in Egypt, has sent the following reply to the King: -
The officers and men of your Armies in Egypt both in the ranks and in the hospitals drawn from the United Kingdom, the Dominions, and India, unite in humble thanks for your Majesty’s gracious and inspiring greetings. We are proud of the confidence placed in us and in this share we are taking in the fight for victory. We offer your Majesty and the Royal Family our humble and heartfelt greetings.”
“The following message from the King to his navy and Army was published on Christmas morning in the Naval and Military Orders throughout the Empire:-
Christmas Day 1915
Another Christmas finds all the resources of the Empire still engaged in war, and I desire to convey on my own behalf and on behalf of the Queen, a heartfelt Christmas greeting and our good wishes for the New Year to all who on sea and land are upholding the honour of the British name.
In the officers and men of my Navy on whom the security of the Empire depends I response, in common with all my subjects, a trust that is absolute.
On the officers and men of my Armies, whether now in France, in the East, or in other fields, I rely with an equal faith, confident that their devotion, their valour and their self-sacrifice will, under God’s guidance, lead to victory and honourable peace.
There are many comrades now, alas, in hospital and to these brave men also I desire with the Queen to express our deep gratitude and our earnest prayers for their recovery.
Officers and men of the Navy and of the Army, another year is drawing to a close as it begun, in toil, bloodshed and suffering, and I rejoice to know that the goal to which you are striving draws nearer into sight.
May God bless you and your undertakings.”
“Cario Dec 26.
Major-General Sir John Maxwell, commanding the Bristish forces in Egypt, has sent the following reply to the King: -
The officers and men of your Armies in Egypt both in the ranks and in the hospitals drawn from the United Kingdom, the Dominions, and India, unite in humble thanks for your Majesty’s gracious and inspiring greetings. We are proud of the confidence placed in us and in this share we are taking in the fight for victory. We offer your Majesty and the Royal Family our humble and heartfelt greetings.”
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Christmas 1915 - Miss Sarah Macnaughtan.
This account of Christmas 1915 comes from the remarkable Sarah Macnaughtan. Miss Macnaughtan is a heroine of mine. A quiet story writer who distributed comforts in the South African War but it was during the First World War where she was transformed as an “Angel of Mercy”.
At the outbreak of war she volunteered with the Red Cross and joined a band of nurses led by Mrs. Stobart. She endured shelling just before the fall of Antwerp and when her fellow nurses returned to England, she stayed on in Belgium at the newly made ‘capital’ Furnes. Subsequently, in the later part of 1914 she started a Soup Kitchen for the Belgian troops.
In 1915 she embarked on a boat to Russia to help aid the war effort on the Eastern Front. This amazing account from MY WAR EXPERIENCES INTWO CONTINENTS’ , describes Christmas 1915 in Russia and her reflections on England and the war.
"Christmas Eve at Tiflis, and here we are with cars still stuck in the ice thirty miles from Archangel, and ourselves just holding on and trying not to worry. But what a waste of time! Also, fighting is going on now in Persia, and we might be a lot of use. We came back from Batoum in the hottest and slowest train I have ever been in. Still, Georgia delighted me, and I am glad to have seen it. They have a curious custom there (the result of generations of fighting). Instead of saying "Good-morning," they say "Victory"; and the answer is, "May the victory be yours." The language is Georgian, of course; and then there is Tartar, and Polish, and Russian, and I can't help thinking that the Tower of Babel was the poorest joke that was ever played on mankind. Nothing stops work so completely.
What will Christmas Day be like at home? I think of all the village churches, with the holly and evergreens, and in almost every one the little new brass plates to the memory of beautiful youth, dead and mangled, and left in the mud to await another trumpet than that which called it from the trenches. There is nothing like a boy, and all the life of England and the prayers of mothers have centred round them. One's older friends died first, and now the boys are falling, and from every little vicarage, from school-houses and colleges, the endless stream goes, all with their heads up, fussing over their little bits of packing, and then away to stand exploding shells and gas and bombs. No one except those who have seen knows the ghastly tale of human suffering that this war involves every day. Down here 550,000 Armenians have been butchered in cold blood. The women are either massacred or driven into Turkish harems.
Yesterday we heard some news at last in this most benighted corner of the world! England has raised four million volunteers. Hurrah! Over one million men volunteered in one week. French takes command at home and Haig at the front."
To Mrs. Charles Young.
Hotel Orient, Tiflis,
26 December.
Darling J.,
It seems almost useless to write letters, or even to wire! Letters sometimes take forty-nine days to get to England, and telegrams are always kept a fortnight before being sent. We have had great difficulty about the ambulance cars, as they all got frozen into the river at Archangel; however, as you will see from the newspapers, there isn't a great deal going on yet.
I do hope you and all the family are safe and sound. I wired to —— for her birthday to ask news of you all, and I prepaid the reply, but, of course, none came, so I am sure she never got the wire. I have wired twice to ——, but no reply. At last one gives up expecting any. I got some newspapers nearly a month old to-day, and I have been devouring them.
This is rather a curious place, and the climate is quite good; no snow, and a good deal of pleasant sun, but the hills all round are very bare and rugged.
I have had a cough, which I think equals your best efforts in that line. How it does shake one up! I had some queer travelling when it was at its worst: for the first night we were given a shakedown in a little mountain hospital, which was fearfully cold; and the next night I was put into a newly-built little place, made of planks roughly nailed together, and with just a bed and a basin in it.
The cold was wonderful, and since then—as you may imagine—the Macnaughtan cough has been heard in the land!
Yesterday (Christmas Day) we were invited to breakfast with the Grand Duke Nicholas. A Court function in Russia is the most royal that you can imagine—no half measures about it! The Grand Duke is an adorably handsome man, quite extraordinarily and obviously a Grand Duke. He measures 6 feet 5 inches, and is worshipped by every soldier in the Army.
We went first into a huge anteroom, where a lady-in-waiting received us, and presented us to "Son Altesse Impériale," and then to the Grand Duke and to his brother, the Grand Duke Peter. Some scenes seem to move as in a play. I had a vision of a great polished floor, and many tall men in Cossack dress, with daggers and swords, most of them different grades of Princes and Imperial Highnesses.
A great party of Generals, and ladies, and members of the Household, then went into a big dining-room, where every imaginable hors d'œuvre was laid out on dishes—dozens of different kinds—and we each ate caviare or something. Afterwards, with a great tramp and clank of spurs and swords, everyone moved on to a larger dining-room, where there were a lot of servants, who waited excellently.
In the middle of the déjeuner the Grand Duke Nicholas got up, and everyone else did the same, and they toasted us! The Grand Duke made a speech about our "gallantry," etc., etc., and everyone raised glasses and bowed to one. Nothing in a play could have been more of a real fine sort of scene. And certainly S. Macnaughtan in her wildest dreams hadn't thought of anything so wonderful as being toasted in Russia by the Imperial Staff.
It's quite a thing to be tiresome about when one grows old!
In the evening we tried to be merry, and failed. The Grand Duchess sent us mistletoe and plum-pudding by the hand of M. Boulderoff. He took us shopping, but the bazaars are not interesting.
Good-bye, and bless you, my dear,
Yours as ever,
S. Macnaughtan.
At the outbreak of war she volunteered with the Red Cross and joined a band of nurses led by Mrs. Stobart. She endured shelling just before the fall of Antwerp and when her fellow nurses returned to England, she stayed on in Belgium at the newly made ‘capital’ Furnes. Subsequently, in the later part of 1914 she started a Soup Kitchen for the Belgian troops.
In 1915 she embarked on a boat to Russia to help aid the war effort on the Eastern Front. This amazing account from MY WAR EXPERIENCES INTWO CONTINENTS’ , describes Christmas 1915 in Russia and her reflections on England and the war.
"Christmas Eve at Tiflis, and here we are with cars still stuck in the ice thirty miles from Archangel, and ourselves just holding on and trying not to worry. But what a waste of time! Also, fighting is going on now in Persia, and we might be a lot of use. We came back from Batoum in the hottest and slowest train I have ever been in. Still, Georgia delighted me, and I am glad to have seen it. They have a curious custom there (the result of generations of fighting). Instead of saying "Good-morning," they say "Victory"; and the answer is, "May the victory be yours." The language is Georgian, of course; and then there is Tartar, and Polish, and Russian, and I can't help thinking that the Tower of Babel was the poorest joke that was ever played on mankind. Nothing stops work so completely.
What will Christmas Day be like at home? I think of all the village churches, with the holly and evergreens, and in almost every one the little new brass plates to the memory of beautiful youth, dead and mangled, and left in the mud to await another trumpet than that which called it from the trenches. There is nothing like a boy, and all the life of England and the prayers of mothers have centred round them. One's older friends died first, and now the boys are falling, and from every little vicarage, from school-houses and colleges, the endless stream goes, all with their heads up, fussing over their little bits of packing, and then away to stand exploding shells and gas and bombs. No one except those who have seen knows the ghastly tale of human suffering that this war involves every day. Down here 550,000 Armenians have been butchered in cold blood. The women are either massacred or driven into Turkish harems.
Yesterday we heard some news at last in this most benighted corner of the world! England has raised four million volunteers. Hurrah! Over one million men volunteered in one week. French takes command at home and Haig at the front."
To Mrs. Charles Young.
Hotel Orient, Tiflis,
26 December.
Darling J.,
It seems almost useless to write letters, or even to wire! Letters sometimes take forty-nine days to get to England, and telegrams are always kept a fortnight before being sent. We have had great difficulty about the ambulance cars, as they all got frozen into the river at Archangel; however, as you will see from the newspapers, there isn't a great deal going on yet.
I do hope you and all the family are safe and sound. I wired to —— for her birthday to ask news of you all, and I prepaid the reply, but, of course, none came, so I am sure she never got the wire. I have wired twice to ——, but no reply. At last one gives up expecting any. I got some newspapers nearly a month old to-day, and I have been devouring them.
This is rather a curious place, and the climate is quite good; no snow, and a good deal of pleasant sun, but the hills all round are very bare and rugged.
I have had a cough, which I think equals your best efforts in that line. How it does shake one up! I had some queer travelling when it was at its worst: for the first night we were given a shakedown in a little mountain hospital, which was fearfully cold; and the next night I was put into a newly-built little place, made of planks roughly nailed together, and with just a bed and a basin in it.
The cold was wonderful, and since then—as you may imagine—the Macnaughtan cough has been heard in the land!
Yesterday (Christmas Day) we were invited to breakfast with the Grand Duke Nicholas. A Court function in Russia is the most royal that you can imagine—no half measures about it! The Grand Duke is an adorably handsome man, quite extraordinarily and obviously a Grand Duke. He measures 6 feet 5 inches, and is worshipped by every soldier in the Army.
We went first into a huge anteroom, where a lady-in-waiting received us, and presented us to "Son Altesse Impériale," and then to the Grand Duke and to his brother, the Grand Duke Peter. Some scenes seem to move as in a play. I had a vision of a great polished floor, and many tall men in Cossack dress, with daggers and swords, most of them different grades of Princes and Imperial Highnesses.
A great party of Generals, and ladies, and members of the Household, then went into a big dining-room, where every imaginable hors d'œuvre was laid out on dishes—dozens of different kinds—and we each ate caviare or something. Afterwards, with a great tramp and clank of spurs and swords, everyone moved on to a larger dining-room, where there were a lot of servants, who waited excellently.
In the middle of the déjeuner the Grand Duke Nicholas got up, and everyone else did the same, and they toasted us! The Grand Duke made a speech about our "gallantry," etc., etc., and everyone raised glasses and bowed to one. Nothing in a play could have been more of a real fine sort of scene. And certainly S. Macnaughtan in her wildest dreams hadn't thought of anything so wonderful as being toasted in Russia by the Imperial Staff.
It's quite a thing to be tiresome about when one grows old!
In the evening we tried to be merry, and failed. The Grand Duchess sent us mistletoe and plum-pudding by the hand of M. Boulderoff. He took us shopping, but the bazaars are not interesting.
Good-bye, and bless you, my dear,
Yours as ever,
S. Macnaughtan.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Christmas 1915 - The First Canadian Division in France
This piece of First World War history comes from the book, “The Great War as I Saw It” by Canon Frederick George Scott, C.M.G., D.S.O. who was the Senior Chaplain to the First Canadian Division.
Christmas 1914 found the First Canadian Division camped on Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire, England. The Canon organized a midnight Christmas Eve Eucharist for the soldiers, seven thousand miles away from their home in Canada.
The second Christmas 1915 found them in France, their first Christmas "in the front" was looked on with foundness. “We had two more war Christmases in France, but I always look back upon that first one as something unique in its beauty and simplicity. “
Our First Christmas in France.
The 25th of December 1915, was to be our first Christmas in France, and as the day approached there was much speculation among our men as to which Battalions would be in the line. At last orders came out that the 13th and 16th Battalions would relieve the 14th and 15th on Christmas Eve. I determined, therefore, to spend my Christmas with the former two. Our trenches at that time were in front of Ploegsteert. The 16th was on the right and the 13th on the left. Taking my bag with communion vessels and as many hymn books as I could carry, and with a haversack over my shoulder containing requisites for the night, I was motored over on Christmas Eve to the 3rd Brigade Headquarters at Petit Moncque Farm. The day was rainy and so was not calculated to improve the spirits and temper of the men who were going to spend their first Christmas in the line. At dusk I walked up the road to Hill 63, and then down on the other side to Le Plus Douve Farm. It was not a cheerful Christmas Eve. The roads were flooded with water, and the transports that were waiting for the relief were continually getting tangled up with one another in the darkness. To make matters worse, I was met by a Sergeant who told me he had some men to be buried, and a burial party was waiting on the side of the road. We went into the field which was used as a cemetery and there we laid the bodies to rest.
The Germans had dammed the river Douve, and it had flooded some of the fields and old Battalion Headquarters. It was hard to find one's way in the dark, and I should never have done so without assistance. The men had acquired the power of seeing in the dark, like cats.
A Battalion was coming out and the men were wet and muddy. I stood by the bridge watching them pass and, thinking it was the right and conventional thing to do, wished them all a Merry Christmas. My intentions were of the best, but I was afterwards told that it sounded to the men like the voice of one mocking them in their misery. However, as it turned out, the wish was fulfilled on the next day.
As soon as I could cross the bridge, I made my way to the trenches which the 16th Battalion were taking over. They were at a higher level and were not in a bad condition. Further up the line there was a barn known as St. Quentin's Farm, which for some reason or other, although it was in sight of the enemy, had not been demolished and was used as a billet. I determined therefore to have a service of Holy Communion at midnight, when the men would all have come into the line and settled down. About eleven o'clock I got things ready. The officers and men had been notified of the service and began to assemble. The barn was a fair size and had dark red brick walls. The roof was low and supported by big rafters. The floor was covered with yellow straw about two feet in depth. The men proceeded to search for a box which I could use as an altar. All they could get were three large empty biscuit tins. These we covered with my Union Jack and white linen cloth. A row of candles was stuck against the wall, which I was careful to see were prevented from setting fire to the straw. The dull red tint of the brick walls, the clean yellow straw, and the bright radiance of our glorious Union Jack made a splendid combination of colour. It would have been a fitting setting for a tableau of the Nativity.
The Highlanders assembled in two rows and I handed out hymn books. There were many candles in the building so the men were able to read. It was wonderful to hear in such a place and on such an occasion, the beautiful old hymns, "While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night," "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," and "O Come All Ye Faithful." The men sang them lustily and many and varied were the memories of past Christmases that welled up in their thoughts at that time.
I had a comfortable bunk in one of the dugouts that night, and was up next morning early to spend the day among the men in the line. I was delighted to find that the weather had changed and a most glorious day was lighting up the face of nature. The sky overhead was blue and only a few drifting clouds told of the rain that had gone. The sun was beating down warm and strong, as if anxious to make up for his past neglect. The men, of course, were in high spirits, and the glad handshake and the words "A Merry Christmas" had got back their old-time meaning.
The Colonel had given orders to the men not to fire on the enemy that day unless they fired on us. The Germans had evidently come to the same resolution. Early in the morning some of them had come over to our wire and left two bottles of beer behind as a peace offering. The men were allowed to go back to their trenches unmolested, but the two bottles of beer quite naturally and without any difficulty continued their journey to our lines. When I got up to the front trench, I found our boys standing on the parapet and looking over at the enemy. I climbed up, and there, to my astonishment, I saw the Germans moving about in their trenches apparently quite indifferent to the fact that we were gazing at them. One man was sawing wood. Between us and them lay that mass of wire and iron posts which is known as the mysterious "No Man's Land." Further down the hill we saw the trenches of the 13th Battalion, where apparently intermittent "Straffing" was still going on. Where we were, however, there was nothing to disturb our Christmas peace and joy. I actually got out into "No Mans Land" and wandered down it. Many Christmas parcels had arrived and the men were making merry with their friends, and enjoying the soft spring-like air, and the warm sunshine. When I got down to the 13th Battalion however, I found that I had to take cover, as the German snipers and guns were active. I did not have any service for that Battalion then, as I was going to them on the following Sunday, but at evening I held another midnight service for those of the 16th who were on duty the night before.
The only place available was the billet of the Machine Gun Officer in the second trench. It was the cellar of a ruined building and the entrance was down some broken steps. One of the sergeants had cleaned up the place and a shelf on the wall illuminated by candles was converted into an altar, and the dear old flag, the symbol of liberty, equality and fraternity, was once again my altar cloth. The Machine Gun Officer, owing to our close proximity to the enemy, was a little doubtful as to the wisdom of our singing hymns, but finally allowed us to do so. The tiny room and the passage outside were crowded with stalwart young soldiers, whose voices sang out the old hymns as though the Germans were miles away. Our quarters were so cramped that the men had difficulty in squeezing into the room for communion and could not kneel down. The service was rich and beautiful in the heartfelt devotion of men to whom, in their great need, religion was a real and vital thing. Not long after midnight, once again the pounding of the old war was resumed, and as I went to bed in the dugout that night, I felt from what a sublime height the world had dropped. We had two more war Christmases in France, but I always look back upon that first one as something unique in its beauty and simplicity.
When I stood on the parapet that day looking over at the Germans in their trenches, and thought how two great nations were held back for a time in their fierce struggle for supremacy, by their devotion to a little Child born in a stable in Bethlehem two thousand years before, I felt that there was still promise of a regenerated world. The Angels had not sung in vain their wonderful hymn "Glory to God in the Highest and on Earth Peace, Good Will towards men."
Christmas 1914 found the First Canadian Division camped on Salisbury Plain in Wiltshire, England. The Canon organized a midnight Christmas Eve Eucharist for the soldiers, seven thousand miles away from their home in Canada.
The second Christmas 1915 found them in France, their first Christmas "in the front" was looked on with foundness. “We had two more war Christmases in France, but I always look back upon that first one as something unique in its beauty and simplicity. “
Our First Christmas in France.
The 25th of December 1915, was to be our first Christmas in France, and as the day approached there was much speculation among our men as to which Battalions would be in the line. At last orders came out that the 13th and 16th Battalions would relieve the 14th and 15th on Christmas Eve. I determined, therefore, to spend my Christmas with the former two. Our trenches at that time were in front of Ploegsteert. The 16th was on the right and the 13th on the left. Taking my bag with communion vessels and as many hymn books as I could carry, and with a haversack over my shoulder containing requisites for the night, I was motored over on Christmas Eve to the 3rd Brigade Headquarters at Petit Moncque Farm. The day was rainy and so was not calculated to improve the spirits and temper of the men who were going to spend their first Christmas in the line. At dusk I walked up the road to Hill 63, and then down on the other side to Le Plus Douve Farm. It was not a cheerful Christmas Eve. The roads were flooded with water, and the transports that were waiting for the relief were continually getting tangled up with one another in the darkness. To make matters worse, I was met by a Sergeant who told me he had some men to be buried, and a burial party was waiting on the side of the road. We went into the field which was used as a cemetery and there we laid the bodies to rest.
The Germans had dammed the river Douve, and it had flooded some of the fields and old Battalion Headquarters. It was hard to find one's way in the dark, and I should never have done so without assistance. The men had acquired the power of seeing in the dark, like cats.
A Battalion was coming out and the men were wet and muddy. I stood by the bridge watching them pass and, thinking it was the right and conventional thing to do, wished them all a Merry Christmas. My intentions were of the best, but I was afterwards told that it sounded to the men like the voice of one mocking them in their misery. However, as it turned out, the wish was fulfilled on the next day.
As soon as I could cross the bridge, I made my way to the trenches which the 16th Battalion were taking over. They were at a higher level and were not in a bad condition. Further up the line there was a barn known as St. Quentin's Farm, which for some reason or other, although it was in sight of the enemy, had not been demolished and was used as a billet. I determined therefore to have a service of Holy Communion at midnight, when the men would all have come into the line and settled down. About eleven o'clock I got things ready. The officers and men had been notified of the service and began to assemble. The barn was a fair size and had dark red brick walls. The roof was low and supported by big rafters. The floor was covered with yellow straw about two feet in depth. The men proceeded to search for a box which I could use as an altar. All they could get were three large empty biscuit tins. These we covered with my Union Jack and white linen cloth. A row of candles was stuck against the wall, which I was careful to see were prevented from setting fire to the straw. The dull red tint of the brick walls, the clean yellow straw, and the bright radiance of our glorious Union Jack made a splendid combination of colour. It would have been a fitting setting for a tableau of the Nativity.
The Highlanders assembled in two rows and I handed out hymn books. There were many candles in the building so the men were able to read. It was wonderful to hear in such a place and on such an occasion, the beautiful old hymns, "While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night," "Hark the Herald Angels Sing," and "O Come All Ye Faithful." The men sang them lustily and many and varied were the memories of past Christmases that welled up in their thoughts at that time.
I had a comfortable bunk in one of the dugouts that night, and was up next morning early to spend the day among the men in the line. I was delighted to find that the weather had changed and a most glorious day was lighting up the face of nature. The sky overhead was blue and only a few drifting clouds told of the rain that had gone. The sun was beating down warm and strong, as if anxious to make up for his past neglect. The men, of course, were in high spirits, and the glad handshake and the words "A Merry Christmas" had got back their old-time meaning.
The Colonel had given orders to the men not to fire on the enemy that day unless they fired on us. The Germans had evidently come to the same resolution. Early in the morning some of them had come over to our wire and left two bottles of beer behind as a peace offering. The men were allowed to go back to their trenches unmolested, but the two bottles of beer quite naturally and without any difficulty continued their journey to our lines. When I got up to the front trench, I found our boys standing on the parapet and looking over at the enemy. I climbed up, and there, to my astonishment, I saw the Germans moving about in their trenches apparently quite indifferent to the fact that we were gazing at them. One man was sawing wood. Between us and them lay that mass of wire and iron posts which is known as the mysterious "No Man's Land." Further down the hill we saw the trenches of the 13th Battalion, where apparently intermittent "Straffing" was still going on. Where we were, however, there was nothing to disturb our Christmas peace and joy. I actually got out into "No Mans Land" and wandered down it. Many Christmas parcels had arrived and the men were making merry with their friends, and enjoying the soft spring-like air, and the warm sunshine. When I got down to the 13th Battalion however, I found that I had to take cover, as the German snipers and guns were active. I did not have any service for that Battalion then, as I was going to them on the following Sunday, but at evening I held another midnight service for those of the 16th who were on duty the night before.
The only place available was the billet of the Machine Gun Officer in the second trench. It was the cellar of a ruined building and the entrance was down some broken steps. One of the sergeants had cleaned up the place and a shelf on the wall illuminated by candles was converted into an altar, and the dear old flag, the symbol of liberty, equality and fraternity, was once again my altar cloth. The Machine Gun Officer, owing to our close proximity to the enemy, was a little doubtful as to the wisdom of our singing hymns, but finally allowed us to do so. The tiny room and the passage outside were crowded with stalwart young soldiers, whose voices sang out the old hymns as though the Germans were miles away. Our quarters were so cramped that the men had difficulty in squeezing into the room for communion and could not kneel down. The service was rich and beautiful in the heartfelt devotion of men to whom, in their great need, religion was a real and vital thing. Not long after midnight, once again the pounding of the old war was resumed, and as I went to bed in the dugout that night, I felt from what a sublime height the world had dropped. We had two more war Christmases in France, but I always look back upon that first one as something unique in its beauty and simplicity.
When I stood on the parapet that day looking over at the Germans in their trenches, and thought how two great nations were held back for a time in their fierce struggle for supremacy, by their devotion to a little Child born in a stable in Bethlehem two thousand years before, I felt that there was still promise of a regenerated world. The Angels had not sung in vain their wonderful hymn "Glory to God in the Highest and on Earth Peace, Good Will towards men."
Friday, December 12, 2008
Christmas 1915 - with Danish Hospitality.
This article entitled “My Three War Christmases In Flanders, Denmark, and Old England by Basil Clarke” comes from the excellent site “The Great War in A Different Light.”
Christmas 1915 by War Correspondent Basil Clarke was spent in the North Sea nearing the port of Copenhagen, with Danish hospitality.
1915
Her name was Flora or Dora or Stella or Bella, and she was the horriblest, nastiest, beastliest little boat I ever sailed in. First we were kept in dock for thirty-six hours after "sailing day," and not allowed to leave the ship. Then, after hauling out of the dock, she lay tumbling off the coast for twenty-four hours waiting for her sailing signal before she turned her bosom to the sea and shaped "a course round the North Sea mine-fielda” and hit the port of Copenhagen.
What a voyage ! They say we were only seven days on board. We rolled, then we pitched, then we pitched and rolled, then we rolled and pitched. The wind blew, and the rain fell. Once we passed within twenty feet of a great red mine rolling sleepily in the angry seas. Our Dutch skipper nearly "threw a fit" on the bridge — as a Tyneside steward expressed it — in dodging his craft to the starboard of it. He cursed the sea and the wind and the war and his luck in life. The gale had caused that mine to drift from its charted ground, and he had all but run into it.
Danish Hospitality
Bad as the sea was, bad as the boat was, bad as the world seemed, Christmas was in the air. Passengers began to emerge from their cabins. The saloon piano began to tinkle. The weather picked up one night and the moon shone. A party of us younger folk dragged out the saloon piano to the deck. First they sang Danish songs. Then I played while they danced on the tarpaulin covers of the after hatch ; then I danced while someone else played. We danced and sang till 3 a.m., when the moon sank into the sea.
Among themselves that night those delightful Danes hatched a little conspiracy. It reached me in my hotel in Copenhagen next day in the form of an invitation from some half-dozen of them to spend the following day in their company. They had arranged a little Christmas-party together, men and girls, and made me their guest. The day after Christmas, 1915, I began my round of investigations in Scandinavia as to how Germany was getting food and supplies through neutral countries. But that is another story.
My Christmas Day was the one bright spot in that journey.
Christmas 1915 by War Correspondent Basil Clarke was spent in the North Sea nearing the port of Copenhagen, with Danish hospitality.
1915
Her name was Flora or Dora or Stella or Bella, and she was the horriblest, nastiest, beastliest little boat I ever sailed in. First we were kept in dock for thirty-six hours after "sailing day," and not allowed to leave the ship. Then, after hauling out of the dock, she lay tumbling off the coast for twenty-four hours waiting for her sailing signal before she turned her bosom to the sea and shaped "a course round the North Sea mine-fielda” and hit the port of Copenhagen.
What a voyage ! They say we were only seven days on board. We rolled, then we pitched, then we pitched and rolled, then we rolled and pitched. The wind blew, and the rain fell. Once we passed within twenty feet of a great red mine rolling sleepily in the angry seas. Our Dutch skipper nearly "threw a fit" on the bridge — as a Tyneside steward expressed it — in dodging his craft to the starboard of it. He cursed the sea and the wind and the war and his luck in life. The gale had caused that mine to drift from its charted ground, and he had all but run into it.
Danish Hospitality
Bad as the sea was, bad as the boat was, bad as the world seemed, Christmas was in the air. Passengers began to emerge from their cabins. The saloon piano began to tinkle. The weather picked up one night and the moon shone. A party of us younger folk dragged out the saloon piano to the deck. First they sang Danish songs. Then I played while they danced on the tarpaulin covers of the after hatch ; then I danced while someone else played. We danced and sang till 3 a.m., when the moon sank into the sea.
Among themselves that night those delightful Danes hatched a little conspiracy. It reached me in my hotel in Copenhagen next day in the form of an invitation from some half-dozen of them to spend the following day in their company. They had arranged a little Christmas-party together, men and girls, and made me their guest. The day after Christmas, 1915, I began my round of investigations in Scandinavia as to how Germany was getting food and supplies through neutral countries. But that is another story.
My Christmas Day was the one bright spot in that journey.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Christmas 1915 - 5th Leicestershire's.
The next account comes from the excellent book “The Fifth Leicestershire (A Record Of The 1/5th Battalion The Leicestershire Regiment T.F., During The War, 1914-1919)by J.D. Hills.”
Christmas 1915 was the 5th Leicestershire’s first in France, away in Foreign Fields.
“On the 19th we moved to the little hamlet of Tannay, still on the edge of the woods, between Haverskerque and Thiennes. As we paraded in the morning there were many who said they could smell gas, but as the wind was N.E. and the line very far away, we thought they must be mistaken. However, the next day the official communiqué told us of a big gas attack at Ypres on the 9th and 49th Divisions, and though Ypres was 18 miles away, it must have been this that could be smelt. In these new billets we spent Christmas—the first Christmas in France for us, and managed with the aid of plum puddings and other luxuries sent out to us by the good people at home, to enjoy ourselves immensely. Not only were many good things to eat sent us, but we also received some very welcome gifts of tobacco, cigarettes, books and stationery from the "Leicester Daily Post and Mercury" funds. Both these papers have been most faithful throughout the war, never failing to send us "themselves," and often adding boxes of comforts for all. Our celebrations included a Brigade Football Cup competition, for which we entered a hot side, including many of our old players—"Banger" Neal, "Mush" Taylor, Toon, Archer, Skelly, Fish, Serjt. Allan, Kirchin and others. We met the 5th Lincolnshires in the semi-finals and beat them 2—1, and then turned our attention to their 4th Battalion, who after beating our 4th Battalion, our old rivals, met us in the[Pg 103] final and went down 1—0. The final was a keen, hard game, played well to the finish, and we deserved our win. The trophy—a clock, mounted into a French "75" shell—was taken back to Leicestershire by Capt. Farmer when he next went on leave.
On the 27th we again moved, this time to some farms round Widdebroucq, just west of Aire, to be nearer our entraining station Berguette, which with Lillers had already been reconnoitred. As Captains Hills and Ward Jackson had already gone forward with an advance party to Marseilles, it began to look as though we really should go East before the end of the war—a fact which some of us were beginning to doubt. Training still continued each day, special attention being paid to open warfare tactics, which fortunately included more musketry and less bombing, and we also carried out a number of route marches and field days. Scouts, having become obsolete, were resurrected, and Field Service Regulations rescued from the dim recesses of valises. It was a pleasant change after the previous nine months' trench work.”
Christmas 1915 was the 5th Leicestershire’s first in France, away in Foreign Fields.
“On the 19th we moved to the little hamlet of Tannay, still on the edge of the woods, between Haverskerque and Thiennes. As we paraded in the morning there were many who said they could smell gas, but as the wind was N.E. and the line very far away, we thought they must be mistaken. However, the next day the official communiqué told us of a big gas attack at Ypres on the 9th and 49th Divisions, and though Ypres was 18 miles away, it must have been this that could be smelt. In these new billets we spent Christmas—the first Christmas in France for us, and managed with the aid of plum puddings and other luxuries sent out to us by the good people at home, to enjoy ourselves immensely. Not only were many good things to eat sent us, but we also received some very welcome gifts of tobacco, cigarettes, books and stationery from the "Leicester Daily Post and Mercury" funds. Both these papers have been most faithful throughout the war, never failing to send us "themselves," and often adding boxes of comforts for all. Our celebrations included a Brigade Football Cup competition, for which we entered a hot side, including many of our old players—"Banger" Neal, "Mush" Taylor, Toon, Archer, Skelly, Fish, Serjt. Allan, Kirchin and others. We met the 5th Lincolnshires in the semi-finals and beat them 2—1, and then turned our attention to their 4th Battalion, who after beating our 4th Battalion, our old rivals, met us in the[Pg 103] final and went down 1—0. The final was a keen, hard game, played well to the finish, and we deserved our win. The trophy—a clock, mounted into a French "75" shell—was taken back to Leicestershire by Capt. Farmer when he next went on leave.
On the 27th we again moved, this time to some farms round Widdebroucq, just west of Aire, to be nearer our entraining station Berguette, which with Lillers had already been reconnoitred. As Captains Hills and Ward Jackson had already gone forward with an advance party to Marseilles, it began to look as though we really should go East before the end of the war—a fact which some of us were beginning to doubt. Training still continued each day, special attention being paid to open warfare tactics, which fortunately included more musketry and less bombing, and we also carried out a number of route marches and field days. Scouts, having become obsolete, were resurrected, and Field Service Regulations rescued from the dim recesses of valises. It was a pleasant change after the previous nine months' trench work.”
Monday, December 08, 2008
Christmas 1915 - 28th Battalion, A.I.F.
Last year I posted many articles on the First Christmas of the First World War 25th December 1914.
This year (a year on) I am going to take a look at Christmas 1915. A lot had happened during 1915, the first Gas Attack by the Germans in April 1915 certainly changed many opinions about the way the war should be fought. The major actions of Gallipoli and Loos also confirmed the fear that the war was going to be long one.
To open up this account comes from the book “The 28th: A Record of War Service in the Australian Imperial Force, 1915-19, Vol. I, by Herbert Brayley Collett.” The 28th Battalion in December 1915 was stationed on the island of Lemos after having evacuated from Gallipoli.
“Christmas Day was now approaching, and preparations for making the season as enjoyable as possible were taken in hand. Tents were decorated and the ground around laid out in designs formed with the aid of the stones from the sea beach. A competition had been arranged and prizes were given for the parties securing the best results. One man constructed from the soil some models of kangaroos and swans. A supply of beer was ordered from the Canteen, and a consignment of Swallow & Ariell's tinned plum puddings having been received were issued in the proportion of one tin to every two men.
On the afternoon of the 24th December arrived the "Christmas Billies." These were two-quart cans which had been filled with comforts by the people of Australia and despatched for the use of the troops. Each can contained a card whereon the sender had written a seasonable greeting. By a touch of irony, painted on the outside of the receptacle was a representation of an Australian kicking a Turk off the Peninsula. Beneath was inscribed a line from "Dryblower's" well known song, "This bit of the world belongs to us." The contents of the "billies" covered a fairly wide range of articles, and an inventory made of one gave the following result:--
1 tin shortbread.
1 tin cheese.
1 tin tobacco.
1 pack playing cards.
1 corkscrew.
1 mouth organ.
Safety pins.
1 piece soap.
1 tube toothpaste.
1 toothbrush.
1 packet prunes.
1 packet boracic acid.
1 writing pad with envelopes.
1 pipe.
6 cigars.
Although each State of the Commonwealth sent its proportion of gifts, the whole lot were pooled and distributed pro rata. The 28th thus received mostly Victorian gifts, but they were none the less welcome, and many men answered by letter the greetings of the senders.
The receipt of these gifts excited considerable interest and gave infinite pleasure. The scene when the cans were being opened was absorbing. Men were behaving like children, exhibiting the articles to one another, exchanging when not quite to taste, rendering impromptus on the mouth organs, and laughing over their own interpretations of the messages. In these last, as might be expected, little incongruities were discovered, and the commanding officer of a neighbouring battalion, who admitted an age of 40 and a weight of some 200 lbs., felt flattered when he read the enclosed inscription, "To my dear little soldier boy."
That night went pleasantly enough--the men singing and talking until a late hour. Next morning, in beautiful weather, the Battalion paraded for divine service, which was conducted by the Rev. S. McBain, a chaplain of the 6th Brigade, in a manner that interested and pleased all. The dinner was a feast as compared with the meals of the previous months, and afterwards the Western Australians played their first, and a victorious, game of football in the A.I.F.--on this occasion against the 24th Battalion. A visit was also received from Colonel Burston, who was now located on the island in command of a large reinforcement camp. That evening in his own Mess he very pleasantly entertained some of the officers. Boxing Day was also observed as a holiday and passed without incident except for a visit from a hostile aeroplane which passed over the camp travelling eastwards at a considerable height.
Probably owing to the dislocation of the services brought about by thevacuation, the Battalion received no Australian mails for some time, and its latest news from home was quite two months old. About the 20th December, however, information was received that several thousand bags were in the vicinity. Later, curious members located these on the east side of the Bay. Representations made to higher authority failed to secure delivery, the statement being made that no transport was available but that battalions would receive their portions on reaching the next theatre of operations. This answer not proving satisfactory, a mild conspiracy was indulged in which covered the chartering of a local fishing boat and a trip across the Bay. Lieut. Nicholls was master, the owner pilot, and 28th men formed the crew. This and other measures were successful, and the Battalion got its letters just before the end of the month.
As time went on the Battalion so far improved in health and training that unit and Brigade route marches were undertaken. Here the Western Australians came under the eye of the Divisional Commander (Brig.-General W. Holmes, D.S.O.), he complimented them on their march discipline. On the 31st December he inspected them in close order drill and the practice of formations when under artillery fire. So pleased was he with their performance that he characterised the unit as "a damned fine battalion. I have never before seen such good work done in the Division."
On the 27th December was received, and read on parade, a message from the King congratulating the troops on the successful evacuation of the Peninsula. About this time arrived news of the deaths at Alexandria of Captain H. B. Menz and Lieut. H. E. C. Ruddock, both of whom had succumbed to disease.
A series of evening open-air concerts, arranged in the Brigade, concluded on New Year's Eve with that given by the 28th. Visitors from other units attended in considerable numbers and all enjoyed the following programme:--
28TH BATTALION.
_Camp Concert--Programme._
Song - "The Deathless Army" - Private Allanson.
Song - Private "Sport" Edwards.
Song - Private Bolt.
Recitation - "Voice of Gallipoli" - Private Carr.
Song - "Queen of Angels" - Private Rolfe.
Song - Private Allanson.
Song - Private Piggott.
Sketch - "Chrysanthemums" - Corpl. Haydock.
Song - Private Carr.
Recitation - Lieut. Field.
Song - Private Vicaridge.
Song - Private "Sport" Edwards.
Song - Private Thomas
Chorus - "28th Anthem"
Chorus - "Auld Lang Syne"
Lemnos Island, 31st December, 1915.
Many sat awake in their tents that night awaiting the arrival of the New Year and wondering what their future lot would be. At midnight whistle and siren sounds, so familiar, came from the vessels in the Bay.
About the 28th December instructions were received that the troops would re-embark within a few days and that a small party would precede each battalion in order to make the preliminary arrangements at the next assembly point. Captain E. A. Coleman was placed in command of the 28th details, and marched out on the 31st of the month.
January 1st was observed as a holiday, but training was continued on the following days, when the weather, which was now becoming broken with rains and cold winds, permitted. Definite instructions were issued to embark on the 5th, but these were cancelled later on account of heavy seas. However, at 7.30 a.m. on the 6th the camp ground was vacated, and two hours later 24 officers and 667 other ranks of the 28th began to file along North Pier and embark on the "Ansonia" (7,900 tons)—another Cunard boat.
The transport also took on board 3 officers and 53 others of the 2nd Divisional Train, under Captain S. Walker, and 6 officers and 717 other ranks, details of various units, under Lieut.-Colonel R. A. Crouch.
No difficulty was encountered in regard to quarters, and when the transport left the harbour next morning at 7.30 everybody had settled down.
The danger from submarines had become more acute recently, consequently special precautions were taken. No lights were exposed, and all life belts were kept handy. However, the voyage was without incident and, travelling rather slowly down through the Grecian Archipelago, Alexandria harbour was entered during the afternoon of the 9th January.”
This year (a year on) I am going to take a look at Christmas 1915. A lot had happened during 1915, the first Gas Attack by the Germans in April 1915 certainly changed many opinions about the way the war should be fought. The major actions of Gallipoli and Loos also confirmed the fear that the war was going to be long one.
To open up this account comes from the book “The 28th: A Record of War Service in the Australian Imperial Force, 1915-19, Vol. I, by Herbert Brayley Collett.” The 28th Battalion in December 1915 was stationed on the island of Lemos after having evacuated from Gallipoli.
“Christmas Day was now approaching, and preparations for making the season as enjoyable as possible were taken in hand. Tents were decorated and the ground around laid out in designs formed with the aid of the stones from the sea beach. A competition had been arranged and prizes were given for the parties securing the best results. One man constructed from the soil some models of kangaroos and swans. A supply of beer was ordered from the Canteen, and a consignment of Swallow & Ariell's tinned plum puddings having been received were issued in the proportion of one tin to every two men.
On the afternoon of the 24th December arrived the "Christmas Billies." These were two-quart cans which had been filled with comforts by the people of Australia and despatched for the use of the troops. Each can contained a card whereon the sender had written a seasonable greeting. By a touch of irony, painted on the outside of the receptacle was a representation of an Australian kicking a Turk off the Peninsula. Beneath was inscribed a line from "Dryblower's" well known song, "This bit of the world belongs to us." The contents of the "billies" covered a fairly wide range of articles, and an inventory made of one gave the following result:--
1 tin shortbread.
1 tin cheese.
1 tin tobacco.
1 pack playing cards.
1 corkscrew.
1 mouth organ.
Safety pins.
1 piece soap.
1 tube toothpaste.
1 toothbrush.
1 packet prunes.
1 packet boracic acid.
1 writing pad with envelopes.
1 pipe.
6 cigars.
Although each State of the Commonwealth sent its proportion of gifts, the whole lot were pooled and distributed pro rata. The 28th thus received mostly Victorian gifts, but they were none the less welcome, and many men answered by letter the greetings of the senders.
The receipt of these gifts excited considerable interest and gave infinite pleasure. The scene when the cans were being opened was absorbing. Men were behaving like children, exhibiting the articles to one another, exchanging when not quite to taste, rendering impromptus on the mouth organs, and laughing over their own interpretations of the messages. In these last, as might be expected, little incongruities were discovered, and the commanding officer of a neighbouring battalion, who admitted an age of 40 and a weight of some 200 lbs., felt flattered when he read the enclosed inscription, "To my dear little soldier boy."
That night went pleasantly enough--the men singing and talking until a late hour. Next morning, in beautiful weather, the Battalion paraded for divine service, which was conducted by the Rev. S. McBain, a chaplain of the 6th Brigade, in a manner that interested and pleased all. The dinner was a feast as compared with the meals of the previous months, and afterwards the Western Australians played their first, and a victorious, game of football in the A.I.F.--on this occasion against the 24th Battalion. A visit was also received from Colonel Burston, who was now located on the island in command of a large reinforcement camp. That evening in his own Mess he very pleasantly entertained some of the officers. Boxing Day was also observed as a holiday and passed without incident except for a visit from a hostile aeroplane which passed over the camp travelling eastwards at a considerable height.
Probably owing to the dislocation of the services brought about by thevacuation, the Battalion received no Australian mails for some time, and its latest news from home was quite two months old. About the 20th December, however, information was received that several thousand bags were in the vicinity. Later, curious members located these on the east side of the Bay. Representations made to higher authority failed to secure delivery, the statement being made that no transport was available but that battalions would receive their portions on reaching the next theatre of operations. This answer not proving satisfactory, a mild conspiracy was indulged in which covered the chartering of a local fishing boat and a trip across the Bay. Lieut. Nicholls was master, the owner pilot, and 28th men formed the crew. This and other measures were successful, and the Battalion got its letters just before the end of the month.
As time went on the Battalion so far improved in health and training that unit and Brigade route marches were undertaken. Here the Western Australians came under the eye of the Divisional Commander (Brig.-General W. Holmes, D.S.O.), he complimented them on their march discipline. On the 31st December he inspected them in close order drill and the practice of formations when under artillery fire. So pleased was he with their performance that he characterised the unit as "a damned fine battalion. I have never before seen such good work done in the Division."
On the 27th December was received, and read on parade, a message from the King congratulating the troops on the successful evacuation of the Peninsula. About this time arrived news of the deaths at Alexandria of Captain H. B. Menz and Lieut. H. E. C. Ruddock, both of whom had succumbed to disease.
A series of evening open-air concerts, arranged in the Brigade, concluded on New Year's Eve with that given by the 28th. Visitors from other units attended in considerable numbers and all enjoyed the following programme:--
28TH BATTALION.
_Camp Concert--Programme._
Song - "The Deathless Army" - Private Allanson.
Song - Private "Sport" Edwards.
Song - Private Bolt.
Recitation - "Voice of Gallipoli" - Private Carr.
Song - "Queen of Angels" - Private Rolfe.
Song - Private Allanson.
Song - Private Piggott.
Sketch - "Chrysanthemums" - Corpl. Haydock.
Song - Private Carr.
Recitation - Lieut. Field.
Song - Private Vicaridge.
Song - Private "Sport" Edwards.
Song - Private Thomas
Chorus - "28th Anthem"
Chorus - "Auld Lang Syne"
Lemnos Island, 31st December, 1915.
Many sat awake in their tents that night awaiting the arrival of the New Year and wondering what their future lot would be. At midnight whistle and siren sounds, so familiar, came from the vessels in the Bay.
About the 28th December instructions were received that the troops would re-embark within a few days and that a small party would precede each battalion in order to make the preliminary arrangements at the next assembly point. Captain E. A. Coleman was placed in command of the 28th details, and marched out on the 31st of the month.
January 1st was observed as a holiday, but training was continued on the following days, when the weather, which was now becoming broken with rains and cold winds, permitted. Definite instructions were issued to embark on the 5th, but these were cancelled later on account of heavy seas. However, at 7.30 a.m. on the 6th the camp ground was vacated, and two hours later 24 officers and 667 other ranks of the 28th began to file along North Pier and embark on the "Ansonia" (7,900 tons)—another Cunard boat.
The transport also took on board 3 officers and 53 others of the 2nd Divisional Train, under Captain S. Walker, and 6 officers and 717 other ranks, details of various units, under Lieut.-Colonel R. A. Crouch.
No difficulty was encountered in regard to quarters, and when the transport left the harbour next morning at 7.30 everybody had settled down.
The danger from submarines had become more acute recently, consequently special precautions were taken. No lights were exposed, and all life belts were kept handy. However, the voyage was without incident and, travelling rather slowly down through the Grecian Archipelago, Alexandria harbour was entered during the afternoon of the 9th January.”
Thursday, December 04, 2008
Australia to England by Archibald T. Strong.
This stirring poem was published in August 1914 by Archibald T. Strong.
It certainly captures the spirit of the moment, the last line ‘Thy sons may stand beside Thee strong and free.’ Echoing the bond felt my many in the Empire.
AUSTRALIA TO ENGLAND
By all the deeds to Thy dear glory done,
By all the life blood, spilt to serve Thy need,
By all the fettered lives Thy touch hath freed,
By all Thy dream in us anew begun;
By all the guerdon English sire to son
Hath given of highest vision, kingliest deed,
By all Thine agony, of God decreed
For trial and strength, our fate with Thine is one.
Still dwells Thy spirit in our hearts and lips,
Honour and life we hold from none but Thee,
And if we live Thy pensioners no more
But seek a nation's might of men and ships,
'T is but that when the world is black with war
Thy sons may stand beside Thee strong and free.
Archibald T. Strong
(Sir Archibald Strong was the son of Professor H.A. Strong (Professor of Latin 1884-1909), and studied Classics at University College, Liverpool, 1893-96.
Archibald T. Strong was a scholar, a writer whose most successful essay in verse is a translation of the ballades of de Banville.
Strong, who had the reputation as Australia’s most widely read and cultured person, had produced an acclaimed translation of Beowulf in 1925 and had published his own poetry on Australian themes. ..)
It certainly captures the spirit of the moment, the last line ‘Thy sons may stand beside Thee strong and free.’ Echoing the bond felt my many in the Empire.
AUSTRALIA TO ENGLAND
By all the deeds to Thy dear glory done,
By all the life blood, spilt to serve Thy need,
By all the fettered lives Thy touch hath freed,
By all Thy dream in us anew begun;
By all the guerdon English sire to son
Hath given of highest vision, kingliest deed,
By all Thine agony, of God decreed
For trial and strength, our fate with Thine is one.
Still dwells Thy spirit in our hearts and lips,
Honour and life we hold from none but Thee,
And if we live Thy pensioners no more
But seek a nation's might of men and ships,
'T is but that when the world is black with war
Thy sons may stand beside Thee strong and free.
Archibald T. Strong
(Sir Archibald Strong was the son of Professor H.A. Strong (Professor of Latin 1884-1909), and studied Classics at University College, Liverpool, 1893-96.
Archibald T. Strong was a scholar, a writer whose most successful essay in verse is a translation of the ballades of de Banville.
Strong, who had the reputation as Australia’s most widely read and cultured person, had produced an acclaimed translation of Beowulf in 1925 and had published his own poetry on Australian themes. ..)
Monday, December 01, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - Dan Walker
To finish off my little look at the different ways the Armistice in 1918 was greeted I have chosen this excerpt from the book “A Stillness Heard round the world by Stanley Weintraub.”
I think that this little anecdote somehow captures an under lying feeling amongst soldiers.
Whilst there was relief and joy that peace had come and that the war was over. There was also a sense of loss, in that the private world all soldiers shared was now gone forever and only ‘wreckage left behind.’
For all of us that never experienced the horror of the First World War there is no way we could ever imagine what it meant to those who went through it.
"Dan Walker was in a military hospital in the country, a collection of huts on the edge of the wood, when the matron, trailed by a doctor, entered to make an announcement to the ward. “The War is over,” she said. “This is not a rumour. This is official. An Armistice has been signed. The War is over!” Almost any announcement in the past had been greeted with practical joking and handicaps ignored – “Tippling each other out of bed, bashing at each other with pillows, pushing ourselves along the floor on our bottom, stumps waving….” But what Walker remembered most sixty-one years later was the “uncanny silence,” akin to the eerie quiet on the line when the shooting stopped.
“Our world, a bloody world, a world of suffering….at time’s close to the ultimate, also a world of laughter, excitement and comradeship beyond description. Our world, and now it was gone – ended – Napoo fini….Now we were just some of the wreckage left behind.”"
I think that this little anecdote somehow captures an under lying feeling amongst soldiers.
Whilst there was relief and joy that peace had come and that the war was over. There was also a sense of loss, in that the private world all soldiers shared was now gone forever and only ‘wreckage left behind.’
For all of us that never experienced the horror of the First World War there is no way we could ever imagine what it meant to those who went through it.
"Dan Walker was in a military hospital in the country, a collection of huts on the edge of the wood, when the matron, trailed by a doctor, entered to make an announcement to the ward. “The War is over,” she said. “This is not a rumour. This is official. An Armistice has been signed. The War is over!” Almost any announcement in the past had been greeted with practical joking and handicaps ignored – “Tippling each other out of bed, bashing at each other with pillows, pushing ourselves along the floor on our bottom, stumps waving….” But what Walker remembered most sixty-one years later was the “uncanny silence,” akin to the eerie quiet on the line when the shooting stopped.
“Our world, a bloody world, a world of suffering….at time’s close to the ultimate, also a world of laughter, excitement and comradeship beyond description. Our world, and now it was gone – ended – Napoo fini….Now we were just some of the wreckage left behind.”"
Monday, November 24, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - in Aberdeen & Belfast.
There was of course all over Great Britain great rejoicing and celebrating as these two accounts from the book “A Stillness Heard round the world by Stanley Weintraub.” Give witness.
The first describes the celebrations in Aberdeen and the second Belfast.
"Winifred Deans, a student at the University of Aberdeen, remembered the Scot restraint giving way to jubilation, which first arose from church bells and ships in the harbour. Then came the students, who tied up Union Street with an impromptu, piper-led procession. “Ignoring tramcars and other vehicles. There was tremendous excitement; newsboys were shouting, apprentices from the shipyards were dashing about, all sorts of people had abandoned their work and were out on the pavements shouting and hurrahing. I never expected to see such a stir in Aberdeen, where people are on the whole staid and undemonstrative…In the days that followed I have often thought of Wordsworth’s lines, written in the early days of the French Revolution: “Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive…..”
"In Newtonards, near Belfast in Northern Ireland, a lieutenant who had served in the Salonika campaign was training a unit of Royal Dublin Fusiliers when the colonel paraded the troops at midday to announce the Armistice. The men were given a few pounds in advance pay and told to report to the camp next morning. Five hundred empited their barracks and “most of the lads were by sundown well and truly sizzled. I myself with two other subalterns and a Scots captain of the Cameron Highlanders complete with kilt safety reached the local railway station where we took the train to Belfast, all of us in fine fettle. We were met by hoards of Mill girls, who lay in wait for the train. They laid hands on us and produced a motor car of sorts, crammed three of us inside, placing the Scotsman astride the bonnet with is kilt pinned under his chin. The car was then pushed by theses harridans to the local Unionist Club where we were decanted, being welcomed by such members as could still stand up.” The next morning he found himself awakened “by a very majestic and disapproving butler who revived me sufficiently to go downstairs to breakfast with my host, who I didn’t know from Adam. He and his good lady treated me as one of their family.”"
The first describes the celebrations in Aberdeen and the second Belfast.
"Winifred Deans, a student at the University of Aberdeen, remembered the Scot restraint giving way to jubilation, which first arose from church bells and ships in the harbour. Then came the students, who tied up Union Street with an impromptu, piper-led procession. “Ignoring tramcars and other vehicles. There was tremendous excitement; newsboys were shouting, apprentices from the shipyards were dashing about, all sorts of people had abandoned their work and were out on the pavements shouting and hurrahing. I never expected to see such a stir in Aberdeen, where people are on the whole staid and undemonstrative…In the days that followed I have often thought of Wordsworth’s lines, written in the early days of the French Revolution: “Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive…..”
"In Newtonards, near Belfast in Northern Ireland, a lieutenant who had served in the Salonika campaign was training a unit of Royal Dublin Fusiliers when the colonel paraded the troops at midday to announce the Armistice. The men were given a few pounds in advance pay and told to report to the camp next morning. Five hundred empited their barracks and “most of the lads were by sundown well and truly sizzled. I myself with two other subalterns and a Scots captain of the Cameron Highlanders complete with kilt safety reached the local railway station where we took the train to Belfast, all of us in fine fettle. We were met by hoards of Mill girls, who lay in wait for the train. They laid hands on us and produced a motor car of sorts, crammed three of us inside, placing the Scotsman astride the bonnet with is kilt pinned under his chin. The car was then pushed by theses harridans to the local Unionist Club where we were decanted, being welcomed by such members as could still stand up.” The next morning he found himself awakened “by a very majestic and disapproving butler who revived me sufficiently to go downstairs to breakfast with my host, who I didn’t know from Adam. He and his good lady treated me as one of their family.”"
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - by an American Soldier.
This article entitled 'War is Over' a Memoir by an American Soldier, sourced from the excellent website “A Great War in a Different Light.” Is well worth a read.
It really captures the last few days of the war in a combat unit. Even within his own platoon the news was greeted with mixed feeling, some wanting to party and get drunk others just grateful that they had got through unharmed.
It is well worth a read.
“I was fully awake long before reveille, sleepy and unrefreshed, and when reveille came we received orders to move within two hours.
Four of us and one N.C.O. were left behind to load a lorry. And then we too packed up and set out to follow the unit.
Thinking to take a short cut across country, we ascended the hill-slope, jumping and clambering across shell-holes and striding through long grass An Australian soldier lay on a lom and weeds. Now and again we would chance upon some narrow winding track that soon lost itself again amid the tangled growth. Low clouds burdened the sky and a fine rain began to fall. The top of the hill was hidden in grey mist.
We passed a heap of broken concrete blocks from which the twisted ends of iron rods projected. A little farther on a concrete shelter stood intact except for deep vertical fissures. I peered into the narrow entrance that sloped steeply down. I slipped in the soft mud, but by stretching out my arms and clasping the outer wall I just saved myself from falling flat on to a rotting corpse that lay half-immersed in greenish-black water. I drew slowly back, sick with horror.
The devastation increased with every mile and the shell-holes came closer and closer together. Dead horses, shattered guns, wagons, and limbers lay overturned in the ditches. At one spot on the roadside the legs and buttocks of a man, all brown and shrivelled, slanted upwards from a deep, wide rut, many heavy wheels having passed across the small of his back.
Gradually the houses, trees and bushes disappeared entirely. We reached the site of a village that before the war had sheltered several thousands of people. Nothing remained except small bits of brick mingling with the bare soil, piled up and scooped and churned and tossed by shell fire.
Here, too, there were many dead. A little way off the road lay an Englishman who could not have fallen more than a few days before. His hands were clenched, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed and staring. Near him was a tall German. He lay at full length with arms outstretched and legs crossed. His left hand, immersed in a pool, was white and puffy. His right hand was half closed and only slightly wrinkled. His side had been ripped open and fragments of entrail projected from the rent. The water beneath and around him was stained with blood. His pockets were turned inside out and papers and postcards lay scattered around in the usual manner. His cloak had been thrown across his face.
Other bodies had lain unburied for several months; others for several years, and of these only the mud-stained bones were left.
We marched in silence through this dismal land of ruin and desolation. At length, in the distance, we saw a solitary fragment of a brick wall standing in a wide hollow, a sign that we were nearing a habitable region once again.
We passed by riddled German sign-boards, and came to a litter of wreckage that had once been a village, and then we left the main road and entered a little wood, or rather an assembly of scarred tree-trunks leaning at all angles. It was crossed by a zigzag trench and all the refuse of battle lay scattered about.
An Australian soldier lay on a low mound. His head had dropped off and rolled backwards down the slope. The lower jaw had parted from the skull. His hands had been devoured by rats and two little heaps of clean bones were all that remained of them. The body was fully clothed and the legs encased in boots and puttees. One thigh-bone projected through a rent in the trousers and the rats had gnawed white grooves along it. A mouldy pocket-book lay by his side and several postcards and a soiled photograph of a woman and a child.
An attempt had been made to bury some of the dead, and several lay beneath heaps of loose earth with their boots projecting. But the rats had reached them all, and black, circular tunnels led down into the fetid depths of the rotting bodies. The stench that filled the air was so intolerable that we hastened to get out of this dreadful place.
As we walked on, the scattered houses drew closer and closer together until they formed continuous rows. A civilian passed by, pushing a wheelbarrow that clattered over the cobbles. Then there followed a woman with a bundle on her back.
We turned a corner and entered another street in which the houses had not been rifled. Several were occupied by civilians.
Before us, in an open field, lay our camp. Scribbled in chalk on a piece of board nailed across a broken window were the words:
"Der Friede wird stundlich erwartet"-Peace is expected every hour.
Ever since we had received news of the German peace offers and President Wilson's replies, rumours had multiplied enormously - the Kaiser had been assassinated, the German Fleet had surrendered, German troops were deserting in masses, German submarines were floating on the surface and flying white flags, a German Republic had been proclaimed with Liebknecht as President. One evening after a day of unusually hard labour, we were laying exhausted in our tent. Suddenly the flap was thrown open, a man pushed his head in and shouted excitedly:
"I say, you chaps, the Armistice has been signed-it's official!"
" Who says so? Did you see it in print?"
"No, I just heard it from a despatch-rider. He got it from his C.O. it's official."
"Don't believe it. We've heard that tale too often."
"All right, then, don't!" the man shouted angrily, and walked off.
No sooner had he gone when our Corporal said:
"It wouldn't surprise me if he were right. In any case, even if the Germans haven't signed yet, they'll have to do so soon. Bulgaria, Turkey, and Austria have collapsed. The Germans have decreasing resources and no reserves. The Allies have increasing resources and unlimited reserves. The longer the war goes on, the more desperate is Germany's position. She must accept our terms, she can't help herself."
"I do not think they will sign," I replied. "I think we can expect at least another year of war. I know Germany is in a bad way, but our terms mean unconditional surrender. The Germans will not be silly enough to imagine that, once they are disarmed and helpless, we shall stick to the Fourteen points or be bound by any promises of any kind. No, the Germans will fight on, they will shorten their front, and they will at least keep the Allies off German territory for an indefinite period until they can secure better terms."
"You overrate the strength of the Germans. I think the German army is becoming completely demoralized. I also think that the blockade has done its work amongst the civilian population. We shall have an armistice within the next few days. Perhaps rumour is correct for once and the war is already over. We haven't heard any guns for a long time-the front is extraordinarily quiet."
"Yes, but we would have heard officially - news like that would never be kept from us."
"That's true enough - I expect the thing is being discussed and a decision will be reached before long."
We all agreed that as soon as the fighting ceased, we would be informed. The news of the Armistice would be telegraphed to every unit and it would reach us within a few minutes from the actual signature. And then, what would we do then? How would our feelings find an outlet? It was impossible to say. Shouting, singing, dancing, would they give us relief? Speculation was useless, painfully useless. And yet what else could we think about?
It was Sunday, the 10th of November. We had no work to do and wandered restlessly round the town. An official communiqué was posted up outside the Mairie, but it contained nothing new. There was a crowd of soldiers round a Belgian boy who was selling English papers. We bought the last copies, but they were of the previous Thursday and did not add to our knowledge. The suspense was becoming unbearable. My conviction that the Germans would reject the terms of the Allies was shaken-not by any further evidence, but by the general atmosphere of excitement and hopeful expectation which communicated itself to me. I kept on repeating to myself, "They will not sign, they will not sign," and intellectually I believed my own words. And yet I was continually imagining the war already over and what I merely thought seemed unessential and irrelevant. The stress of wild hopes and mental agitation became almost a physical pain.
Darkness came on and we retired to our tents. I gradually became aware of a faint noise, so faint that I hardly knew whether it was real or not. As soon as I listened intently I could hear nothing. Then one of us said: "What's that funny noise?" There it was again, a low, hollow sound like that of a distant sea. It grew louder and then ceased. Then it became audible once more and grew louder and still louder. Suddenly we realized what it was-it was the sound of cheering. It came nearer and nearer, gathering speed. It flooded the whole town with a great rush, paused a moment, and then burst over our camp.
Everybody went mad. The men rushed out of the tents and shouted: "It's over - it's over - it's over!" I could hear one shrill voice screaming wildly: "No more bombs-no more shells-no more misery." The deafening clamor from innumerable throats was topped by the piercing blasts of whistles and the howling of cat calls. A huge bonfire was fit in the camp and sheets of flame shot skyward. The brilliant stars of signal-rockets rose and fell in tall parabolae and lit up all the neighbourhood. The Sergeant- Major blew his whistle with the intention of restoring order. He was answered by a hullabaloo of derisive hoots and yells. He gave up the attempt and instead he headed a procession that marched into the town, banging empty tins and whirling french-rattles. An anti-aircraft battery opened fire with blank charges. Aeroplanes flew overhead with all lights on.
Many of us went back into our tents and sang with all the power of our lungs.
So the war was over! The fact was too big to grasp all at once, but nevertheless I felt an extraordinarily serene satisfaction. Then someone said: "The people who've lost their sons and husbands - now's the time they'll feel it." The truth of his remark struck me with a sudden violence. My serenity was broken and looked into the blackness beneath it. I knew what I was going to see, but, nevertheless, I looked, in spite of myself ' and saw innumerable rotting dead that lay unburied in all postures on the bare, shell-tossed earth. A horror of death such as I had never known before came upon me - a crushing, annihilating horror that seemed to impart a fiendish character to the shouting and singing in the camp, as though millions of demonic spirits were howling and dancing with devilish glee over the accomplishment of the greatest iniquity every known. At the same time I felt ashamed of not joining in the general jubilation, and bitterly disappointed that my own thoughts should obsess me at this supreme hour. But I knew that the war had lasted too long and that the world's misery had been too great ever to be shaken off, I also knew that all the dead had died in vain. In order to escape from my intolerable meditations I sat up and began to talk to my neighbour: "I suppose it'll be read out officially tomorrow morning?"
"Sure - and we'll get a day off at least."
We continued to talk of commonplace things. It was several hours after midnight and the uproar was dying down a little. I felt sleepy and something like contentment was beginning to steal over me once again.
Reveille did not sound until nine o'clock on the Monday morning. The whistle blew for parade. There would, of course, be an official announcement that the Armistice had been signed, and perhaps a letter of thanks to the "splendid troops who had won the war" (which would bore us extremely) and a holiday (which would be welcomed with loud cheers).
We paraded. The Sergeant-Major addressed us:
"I'm sorry, boys, but nothing official's come through. You must go to work as usual. It's a damned shame, I know, but I can't help it. I expect the message'll come during the day and you're sure to get to-morrow off."
There was a murmur in the ranks, but bewilderment deprived us of the power of taking concerted action. A sudden fear seized me-could last night's celebration have been the result of a false alarm? We marched off. But no one did a stroke of work the whole day. All discipline had gone. The N.C.O.'s had no vestige of authority left. Men from other units whom we met knew no more than we did. They said the Armistice had been signed, but there had been no official announcement.
We got back to the camp in the afternoon. No official news.
In the evening the celebrations were renewed. I was troubled by an intense anxiety which began to spread to the others. Still, there would certainly be an announcement the following morning.
We paraded on Tuesday. No announcement of any kind. We marched off to work as usual, but again no work was done. Suddenly I caught sight of a soldier walking along the road a long way off with a newspaper in his hand. I ran after him and caught him up.
"Any news?" I asked.
He gave me the paper. It was dated Monday, the 11th November - only a day old. The headline ran: "No Armistice yet."
So Sunday's demonstration had been a sham and a fraud!
I rejoined the others. They, too, had heard that no Armistice had been signed by Sunday midnight from a despatch-rider, who had, however, added that signature was expected every minute.
We were back in camp. Many new rumours were circulating - the Germans had rejected the terms, the Italians had renewed the offensive. In the evening some of us thought they could hear distinct gunfire. We listened carefully, but our mental tension destroyed our power of hearing very faint sounds.
Wednesday morning, and still no definite news. The suspense was becoming unbearable. No work was done. I questioned men from five other units, but none of them were any better informed than we were.
The expectation of peace had made us forget our bitterness towards the army, but it began to show itself again : "They don't want us to know!"
"They're damned sorry it's all over!"
"There's too many of 'em wi' soft jobs what wants the war to go on for ever!"
"What are you grumbling about? What has the Armistice got to do with us? The Armistice concerns the Staff, not us. It's not our business - we're only common soldiers."
When we got back to camp a boy was selling papers at the entrance.
I bought a Times. It was Tuesday's. The Armistice had been signed on the Monday morning! I went to my tent and sat down and thought it over. The terms were ominous. There was no doubt about it this time - the war had come to an end. I thought of home and of freedom. It almost seemed as though army life had been a dream. I was still in the army, but a few months more or less would make no difference, for my thoughts would be all in the future. In the evening the celebrations were resumed. They lacked the spontaneity of those that were held on the Sunday night. Nevertheless, the rejoicing was genuine, for our suspense had been followed by an immense relief.
As I lay in my tent amid the shouting and singing I again felt that bitter thoughts were gathering, but I was distracted by a man sitting two places from me, who said: "It's a bloody shame we can't get any wine or spirits and get bloody well drunk tonight."
A man lying near him, who had kept very quiet all the evening suddenly sat up erect, glaring with fury, and shouted:
"That's all you think about, getting drunk-you dirty little blackguard! You don't deserve to have peace, you don't! Bloody lot of fools-all shouting and singing and wanting to get drunk! They ought to have more respect for the dead! The war's over, and we're bloody lucky to get out of it unharmed, but it's nothing to shout about when there's hundreds of thousands of our mates dead or maimed for life."
"Don't talk bloody sentimental rot - call yourself a soldier? You ought to be a bloody parson!"
"I don't call myself a soldier - it's a bloody insult to be called a soldier. I'm not a bloody patriot either - I reckon patriotism's a bloody curse. I kept out of the army as long as I could, but they combed me out (that's their polite way of putting it), and shoved me into khaki, but they never made a soldier of me! I've never been any use to them! I only worked when they forced me to. I've been more expense and trouble to them than I'm worth. I haven’t helped to win this wicked war, and I'm proud of it too! Sentimental rot be damned - if everyone had been my way of thinking there wouldn't have been a war, no, not in any country. The war's won, I know, and I'm sorry for it. But Fritz has come off best, not us. He's lost the war, but he's found his bloody soul! I'll tell the civvies something about war when I get home - I'll tell 'em we rob the dead, I'll tell 'em
"For God's sake chuck it. . . ."
"All right, I'll chuck it - I know it's no bloody good talking to fellows like you. Go and get drunk, then, do as you bloody well please. That's all you're fit for. . . ."
He flung himself back into bed, wrapped himself up in his blanket and did not say another word.”
It really captures the last few days of the war in a combat unit. Even within his own platoon the news was greeted with mixed feeling, some wanting to party and get drunk others just grateful that they had got through unharmed.
It is well worth a read.
“I was fully awake long before reveille, sleepy and unrefreshed, and when reveille came we received orders to move within two hours.
Four of us and one N.C.O. were left behind to load a lorry. And then we too packed up and set out to follow the unit.
Thinking to take a short cut across country, we ascended the hill-slope, jumping and clambering across shell-holes and striding through long grass An Australian soldier lay on a lom and weeds. Now and again we would chance upon some narrow winding track that soon lost itself again amid the tangled growth. Low clouds burdened the sky and a fine rain began to fall. The top of the hill was hidden in grey mist.
We passed a heap of broken concrete blocks from which the twisted ends of iron rods projected. A little farther on a concrete shelter stood intact except for deep vertical fissures. I peered into the narrow entrance that sloped steeply down. I slipped in the soft mud, but by stretching out my arms and clasping the outer wall I just saved myself from falling flat on to a rotting corpse that lay half-immersed in greenish-black water. I drew slowly back, sick with horror.
The devastation increased with every mile and the shell-holes came closer and closer together. Dead horses, shattered guns, wagons, and limbers lay overturned in the ditches. At one spot on the roadside the legs and buttocks of a man, all brown and shrivelled, slanted upwards from a deep, wide rut, many heavy wheels having passed across the small of his back.
Gradually the houses, trees and bushes disappeared entirely. We reached the site of a village that before the war had sheltered several thousands of people. Nothing remained except small bits of brick mingling with the bare soil, piled up and scooped and churned and tossed by shell fire.
Here, too, there were many dead. A little way off the road lay an Englishman who could not have fallen more than a few days before. His hands were clenched, his mouth wide open, his eyes fixed and staring. Near him was a tall German. He lay at full length with arms outstretched and legs crossed. His left hand, immersed in a pool, was white and puffy. His right hand was half closed and only slightly wrinkled. His side had been ripped open and fragments of entrail projected from the rent. The water beneath and around him was stained with blood. His pockets were turned inside out and papers and postcards lay scattered around in the usual manner. His cloak had been thrown across his face.
Other bodies had lain unburied for several months; others for several years, and of these only the mud-stained bones were left.
We marched in silence through this dismal land of ruin and desolation. At length, in the distance, we saw a solitary fragment of a brick wall standing in a wide hollow, a sign that we were nearing a habitable region once again.
We passed by riddled German sign-boards, and came to a litter of wreckage that had once been a village, and then we left the main road and entered a little wood, or rather an assembly of scarred tree-trunks leaning at all angles. It was crossed by a zigzag trench and all the refuse of battle lay scattered about.
An Australian soldier lay on a low mound. His head had dropped off and rolled backwards down the slope. The lower jaw had parted from the skull. His hands had been devoured by rats and two little heaps of clean bones were all that remained of them. The body was fully clothed and the legs encased in boots and puttees. One thigh-bone projected through a rent in the trousers and the rats had gnawed white grooves along it. A mouldy pocket-book lay by his side and several postcards and a soiled photograph of a woman and a child.
An attempt had been made to bury some of the dead, and several lay beneath heaps of loose earth with their boots projecting. But the rats had reached them all, and black, circular tunnels led down into the fetid depths of the rotting bodies. The stench that filled the air was so intolerable that we hastened to get out of this dreadful place.
As we walked on, the scattered houses drew closer and closer together until they formed continuous rows. A civilian passed by, pushing a wheelbarrow that clattered over the cobbles. Then there followed a woman with a bundle on her back.
We turned a corner and entered another street in which the houses had not been rifled. Several were occupied by civilians.
Before us, in an open field, lay our camp. Scribbled in chalk on a piece of board nailed across a broken window were the words:
"Der Friede wird stundlich erwartet"-Peace is expected every hour.
Ever since we had received news of the German peace offers and President Wilson's replies, rumours had multiplied enormously - the Kaiser had been assassinated, the German Fleet had surrendered, German troops were deserting in masses, German submarines were floating on the surface and flying white flags, a German Republic had been proclaimed with Liebknecht as President. One evening after a day of unusually hard labour, we were laying exhausted in our tent. Suddenly the flap was thrown open, a man pushed his head in and shouted excitedly:
"I say, you chaps, the Armistice has been signed-it's official!"
" Who says so? Did you see it in print?"
"No, I just heard it from a despatch-rider. He got it from his C.O. it's official."
"Don't believe it. We've heard that tale too often."
"All right, then, don't!" the man shouted angrily, and walked off.
No sooner had he gone when our Corporal said:
"It wouldn't surprise me if he were right. In any case, even if the Germans haven't signed yet, they'll have to do so soon. Bulgaria, Turkey, and Austria have collapsed. The Germans have decreasing resources and no reserves. The Allies have increasing resources and unlimited reserves. The longer the war goes on, the more desperate is Germany's position. She must accept our terms, she can't help herself."
"I do not think they will sign," I replied. "I think we can expect at least another year of war. I know Germany is in a bad way, but our terms mean unconditional surrender. The Germans will not be silly enough to imagine that, once they are disarmed and helpless, we shall stick to the Fourteen points or be bound by any promises of any kind. No, the Germans will fight on, they will shorten their front, and they will at least keep the Allies off German territory for an indefinite period until they can secure better terms."
"You overrate the strength of the Germans. I think the German army is becoming completely demoralized. I also think that the blockade has done its work amongst the civilian population. We shall have an armistice within the next few days. Perhaps rumour is correct for once and the war is already over. We haven't heard any guns for a long time-the front is extraordinarily quiet."
"Yes, but we would have heard officially - news like that would never be kept from us."
"That's true enough - I expect the thing is being discussed and a decision will be reached before long."
We all agreed that as soon as the fighting ceased, we would be informed. The news of the Armistice would be telegraphed to every unit and it would reach us within a few minutes from the actual signature. And then, what would we do then? How would our feelings find an outlet? It was impossible to say. Shouting, singing, dancing, would they give us relief? Speculation was useless, painfully useless. And yet what else could we think about?
It was Sunday, the 10th of November. We had no work to do and wandered restlessly round the town. An official communiqué was posted up outside the Mairie, but it contained nothing new. There was a crowd of soldiers round a Belgian boy who was selling English papers. We bought the last copies, but they were of the previous Thursday and did not add to our knowledge. The suspense was becoming unbearable. My conviction that the Germans would reject the terms of the Allies was shaken-not by any further evidence, but by the general atmosphere of excitement and hopeful expectation which communicated itself to me. I kept on repeating to myself, "They will not sign, they will not sign," and intellectually I believed my own words. And yet I was continually imagining the war already over and what I merely thought seemed unessential and irrelevant. The stress of wild hopes and mental agitation became almost a physical pain.
Darkness came on and we retired to our tents. I gradually became aware of a faint noise, so faint that I hardly knew whether it was real or not. As soon as I listened intently I could hear nothing. Then one of us said: "What's that funny noise?" There it was again, a low, hollow sound like that of a distant sea. It grew louder and then ceased. Then it became audible once more and grew louder and still louder. Suddenly we realized what it was-it was the sound of cheering. It came nearer and nearer, gathering speed. It flooded the whole town with a great rush, paused a moment, and then burst over our camp.
Everybody went mad. The men rushed out of the tents and shouted: "It's over - it's over - it's over!" I could hear one shrill voice screaming wildly: "No more bombs-no more shells-no more misery." The deafening clamor from innumerable throats was topped by the piercing blasts of whistles and the howling of cat calls. A huge bonfire was fit in the camp and sheets of flame shot skyward. The brilliant stars of signal-rockets rose and fell in tall parabolae and lit up all the neighbourhood. The Sergeant- Major blew his whistle with the intention of restoring order. He was answered by a hullabaloo of derisive hoots and yells. He gave up the attempt and instead he headed a procession that marched into the town, banging empty tins and whirling french-rattles. An anti-aircraft battery opened fire with blank charges. Aeroplanes flew overhead with all lights on.
Many of us went back into our tents and sang with all the power of our lungs.
So the war was over! The fact was too big to grasp all at once, but nevertheless I felt an extraordinarily serene satisfaction. Then someone said: "The people who've lost their sons and husbands - now's the time they'll feel it." The truth of his remark struck me with a sudden violence. My serenity was broken and looked into the blackness beneath it. I knew what I was going to see, but, nevertheless, I looked, in spite of myself ' and saw innumerable rotting dead that lay unburied in all postures on the bare, shell-tossed earth. A horror of death such as I had never known before came upon me - a crushing, annihilating horror that seemed to impart a fiendish character to the shouting and singing in the camp, as though millions of demonic spirits were howling and dancing with devilish glee over the accomplishment of the greatest iniquity every known. At the same time I felt ashamed of not joining in the general jubilation, and bitterly disappointed that my own thoughts should obsess me at this supreme hour. But I knew that the war had lasted too long and that the world's misery had been too great ever to be shaken off, I also knew that all the dead had died in vain. In order to escape from my intolerable meditations I sat up and began to talk to my neighbour: "I suppose it'll be read out officially tomorrow morning?"
"Sure - and we'll get a day off at least."
We continued to talk of commonplace things. It was several hours after midnight and the uproar was dying down a little. I felt sleepy and something like contentment was beginning to steal over me once again.
Reveille did not sound until nine o'clock on the Monday morning. The whistle blew for parade. There would, of course, be an official announcement that the Armistice had been signed, and perhaps a letter of thanks to the "splendid troops who had won the war" (which would bore us extremely) and a holiday (which would be welcomed with loud cheers).
We paraded. The Sergeant-Major addressed us:
"I'm sorry, boys, but nothing official's come through. You must go to work as usual. It's a damned shame, I know, but I can't help it. I expect the message'll come during the day and you're sure to get to-morrow off."
There was a murmur in the ranks, but bewilderment deprived us of the power of taking concerted action. A sudden fear seized me-could last night's celebration have been the result of a false alarm? We marched off. But no one did a stroke of work the whole day. All discipline had gone. The N.C.O.'s had no vestige of authority left. Men from other units whom we met knew no more than we did. They said the Armistice had been signed, but there had been no official announcement.
We got back to the camp in the afternoon. No official news.
In the evening the celebrations were renewed. I was troubled by an intense anxiety which began to spread to the others. Still, there would certainly be an announcement the following morning.
We paraded on Tuesday. No announcement of any kind. We marched off to work as usual, but again no work was done. Suddenly I caught sight of a soldier walking along the road a long way off with a newspaper in his hand. I ran after him and caught him up.
"Any news?" I asked.
He gave me the paper. It was dated Monday, the 11th November - only a day old. The headline ran: "No Armistice yet."
So Sunday's demonstration had been a sham and a fraud!
I rejoined the others. They, too, had heard that no Armistice had been signed by Sunday midnight from a despatch-rider, who had, however, added that signature was expected every minute.
We were back in camp. Many new rumours were circulating - the Germans had rejected the terms, the Italians had renewed the offensive. In the evening some of us thought they could hear distinct gunfire. We listened carefully, but our mental tension destroyed our power of hearing very faint sounds.
Wednesday morning, and still no definite news. The suspense was becoming unbearable. No work was done. I questioned men from five other units, but none of them were any better informed than we were.
The expectation of peace had made us forget our bitterness towards the army, but it began to show itself again : "They don't want us to know!"
"They're damned sorry it's all over!"
"There's too many of 'em wi' soft jobs what wants the war to go on for ever!"
"What are you grumbling about? What has the Armistice got to do with us? The Armistice concerns the Staff, not us. It's not our business - we're only common soldiers."
When we got back to camp a boy was selling papers at the entrance.
I bought a Times. It was Tuesday's. The Armistice had been signed on the Monday morning! I went to my tent and sat down and thought it over. The terms were ominous. There was no doubt about it this time - the war had come to an end. I thought of home and of freedom. It almost seemed as though army life had been a dream. I was still in the army, but a few months more or less would make no difference, for my thoughts would be all in the future. In the evening the celebrations were resumed. They lacked the spontaneity of those that were held on the Sunday night. Nevertheless, the rejoicing was genuine, for our suspense had been followed by an immense relief.
As I lay in my tent amid the shouting and singing I again felt that bitter thoughts were gathering, but I was distracted by a man sitting two places from me, who said: "It's a bloody shame we can't get any wine or spirits and get bloody well drunk tonight."
A man lying near him, who had kept very quiet all the evening suddenly sat up erect, glaring with fury, and shouted:
"That's all you think about, getting drunk-you dirty little blackguard! You don't deserve to have peace, you don't! Bloody lot of fools-all shouting and singing and wanting to get drunk! They ought to have more respect for the dead! The war's over, and we're bloody lucky to get out of it unharmed, but it's nothing to shout about when there's hundreds of thousands of our mates dead or maimed for life."
"Don't talk bloody sentimental rot - call yourself a soldier? You ought to be a bloody parson!"
"I don't call myself a soldier - it's a bloody insult to be called a soldier. I'm not a bloody patriot either - I reckon patriotism's a bloody curse. I kept out of the army as long as I could, but they combed me out (that's their polite way of putting it), and shoved me into khaki, but they never made a soldier of me! I've never been any use to them! I only worked when they forced me to. I've been more expense and trouble to them than I'm worth. I haven’t helped to win this wicked war, and I'm proud of it too! Sentimental rot be damned - if everyone had been my way of thinking there wouldn't have been a war, no, not in any country. The war's won, I know, and I'm sorry for it. But Fritz has come off best, not us. He's lost the war, but he's found his bloody soul! I'll tell the civvies something about war when I get home - I'll tell 'em we rob the dead, I'll tell 'em
"For God's sake chuck it. . . ."
"All right, I'll chuck it - I know it's no bloody good talking to fellows like you. Go and get drunk, then, do as you bloody well please. That's all you're fit for. . . ."
He flung himself back into bed, wrapped himself up in his blanket and did not say another word.”
Friday, November 14, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - Modern School, Bedford.
Whilst some of the serving soldiers just got on with the orders of the day, in schools all over the nation schoolboys celebrated the Armistice.
Christopher Fry was at school in Bedford and 11th November 1918 was a day unlike any other day.
“At Modern School, Bedford, Christopher Fry, restless in the fifth form of the junior school, was being taught by an undersized clergyman known to the boys as “Smuts” when the bells of St. Paul’s Church began to peal massively, a maroon went off, and other church bells joined in the noise. “We cheered and thumped our desks, bouncing up and down in our seats, quite prepared to run out of the building and into the street. We could hardly believe that Shepherd-Smith meant us to go on with our work, as though the world had not been completely transformed. The world was at peace, a state of affairs I could hardly remember and at peace perhaps for ever. There would be bonfires, and flags, and fireworks, and no more death until the time for death….””
From : A Stillness Heard round the world by Stanley Weintraub.
For details of Soldiers from Modern School, Bedford who died in the First World War, click here on the link to the excellent site Roll of Honour.
Christopher Fry was at school in Bedford and 11th November 1918 was a day unlike any other day.
“At Modern School, Bedford, Christopher Fry, restless in the fifth form of the junior school, was being taught by an undersized clergyman known to the boys as “Smuts” when the bells of St. Paul’s Church began to peal massively, a maroon went off, and other church bells joined in the noise. “We cheered and thumped our desks, bouncing up and down in our seats, quite prepared to run out of the building and into the street. We could hardly believe that Shepherd-Smith meant us to go on with our work, as though the world had not been completely transformed. The world was at peace, a state of affairs I could hardly remember and at peace perhaps for ever. There would be bonfires, and flags, and fireworks, and no more death until the time for death….””
From : A Stillness Heard round the world by Stanley Weintraub.
For details of Soldiers from Modern School, Bedford who died in the First World War, click here on the link to the excellent site Roll of Honour.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - 7th Manchester's.
This account comes from the history of “The Seventh Manchester’s July 1916 to March 1919 By Captain S. J. Wilson, M.C.”
The 7th were involved in the last push and as we’ve seen with many serving battalion’s the news of the Armistice was received “The men took the news very quietly. We were too close to actual events to give ourselves over to the mad demonstrations of joy such as took place in spots more remote.”
“As the line of advance for the 42nd division lay through the huge Mormal Forest, our training at Beauvois was largely in wood fighting. We were making preparations for what was to prove the last battle of the War. Col. Manger returned from leave and resumed command of the battalion, while Major Rae remained on battle surplus where, unfortunately, his old illness recurred and he had to go to hospital and eventually to England. His excellent work with the 7th, however, had been recognised for he was awarded the D.S.O. after the Armistice. Capt. Grey Burn, M.C., was promoted to Major and became second in command of the 5th L.F's. "B" company being taken over by Capt. Branthwaite, a recently joined 2nd line officer. Capt. D. Norbury, having returned from a tour of duty at home, was made O.C. "A" company, while Capt. S. J. Wilson, M.C., commanded "C" company.
The battalion marched out on the evening of November 3rd to take part in the work of exploiting success after the N.Z. division had smashed the enemy line. The attack commenced on the morning of November 4th, and after fierce fighting, and only after the garrison had been completely surrounded, Le Quesnoy was captured. The "Diggers" followed up vigorously and chased the Huns through a large part of Mormal Forest. Meanwhile our job was to "keep closed up" as far as possible and be ready to continue the pursuit, with the 126th leading and the 127th in support. The first night was spent at Viesly, and the second at Pont à Pierre, just south of Salesches.
The next day the weather completely broke down, and we moved forward in pouring rain, over the recently captured ground, arriving late at night in a thoroughly soaked condition at the tiny village of Herbignies on the western edge of the Forest. Here we found most of the civilians had remained through the fighting, and they told excited stories of the happenings. Small children toddled about the houses while Boche shells were still bursting not very many hundred yards away. It seemed a most extraordinary situation after the loneliness of war as we had always known it. These things had been the monopoly of the soldiers, but here were women and children trespassing upon our preserves. It helped us to realise the true tragedy of War.
That night the 126th brigade took over the front, a sketchy business in view of the position, and the N.Z's. marched back. One of the officers, during the day, had called out to us in characteristic Colonial fashion, "Well, boys, are you going up to finish it?" whereupon one of the men replied with Lancashire directness, "Ay, we started it, so we may as well finish it." There was a good deal of peace-talk flying about. German prisoners had admitted that they could not go on much longer, while rumours about conferences were very prevalent. Still, until we got orders to stop fighting, this job had to continue, and that was the chief consideration for us, although the order to cease fire would have been keenly appreciated.
Early morning found us on trek in a steady downpour of rain which made our already wet clothes more and more sodden. In this doleful fashion we splashed along over the muddy forest tracks to get close to the East Lancs. who were carrying out an attack. The 8th Manchester’s had a particularly stern time, encountering nests of machine guns which had not been cleared from their exposed flanks, so that they lost very heavily. Nevertheless, the attack was eventually pushed home, and the Huns were dislodged. Subsequent events revealed that from this moment the German retirement became a scurry of a disorganized rabble. The roads were blocked by their hurrying transport, and personnel simply made the best use of their legs, scampering across country where it was impossible to march on the roads. The civilians told us that utter confusion reigned everywhere. Our foremost troops undoubtedly met determined resistance from the machine gunners, but they were probably blissfully ignorant of what was taking place behind them.
As far as the 7th was concerned November 6th was one of the most miserable and trying days ever experienced. In the middle of the morning we arrived at our position, where we stayed during the whole of the day in a bitterly cold rain with no possibility of shelter. When it was ascertained that the enemy had been dislodged we made a few fires and tried to restore life to our numbed bodies. The divisional commander, having seen our condition, and realising that very few in the brigade would be fit for fighting after two such days, ordered up the 125th brigade, who had had an opportunity of getting dry and warm. We marched joyfully back in the middle of the night to Le Carnoy and there spent two days in billets.
The advance of the 42nd was now rapid. Hautmont, a fairly large manufacturing town, was captured after street fighting, and by the evening of November 9th an outpost line had been established south-east of Maubeuge. The 7th meanwhile had marched up through the forest and were billeted in the small village of Vieux Mesnil.
Here we received official orders to stand fast on the morning of November 11th. At 11 a.m. the battalion paraded outside the church and there the bugles sounded "Cease fire" for the first and last time during the War. The men took the news very quietly. We were too close to actual events to give ourselves over to the mad demonstrations of joy such as took place in spots more remote. At the same time everyone experienced a curious feeling of calm satisfaction that an unpleasant task had been accomplished. The 42nd division had taken part in two great drives, the clearing of the Turk from British territory in 1916 and the clearing of the Hun from allied territory in 1918.”
The 7th were involved in the last push and as we’ve seen with many serving battalion’s the news of the Armistice was received “The men took the news very quietly. We were too close to actual events to give ourselves over to the mad demonstrations of joy such as took place in spots more remote.”
“As the line of advance for the 42nd division lay through the huge Mormal Forest, our training at Beauvois was largely in wood fighting. We were making preparations for what was to prove the last battle of the War. Col. Manger returned from leave and resumed command of the battalion, while Major Rae remained on battle surplus where, unfortunately, his old illness recurred and he had to go to hospital and eventually to England. His excellent work with the 7th, however, had been recognised for he was awarded the D.S.O. after the Armistice. Capt. Grey Burn, M.C., was promoted to Major and became second in command of the 5th L.F's. "B" company being taken over by Capt. Branthwaite, a recently joined 2nd line officer. Capt. D. Norbury, having returned from a tour of duty at home, was made O.C. "A" company, while Capt. S. J. Wilson, M.C., commanded "C" company.
The battalion marched out on the evening of November 3rd to take part in the work of exploiting success after the N.Z. division had smashed the enemy line. The attack commenced on the morning of November 4th, and after fierce fighting, and only after the garrison had been completely surrounded, Le Quesnoy was captured. The "Diggers" followed up vigorously and chased the Huns through a large part of Mormal Forest. Meanwhile our job was to "keep closed up" as far as possible and be ready to continue the pursuit, with the 126th leading and the 127th in support. The first night was spent at Viesly, and the second at Pont à Pierre, just south of Salesches.
The next day the weather completely broke down, and we moved forward in pouring rain, over the recently captured ground, arriving late at night in a thoroughly soaked condition at the tiny village of Herbignies on the western edge of the Forest. Here we found most of the civilians had remained through the fighting, and they told excited stories of the happenings. Small children toddled about the houses while Boche shells were still bursting not very many hundred yards away. It seemed a most extraordinary situation after the loneliness of war as we had always known it. These things had been the monopoly of the soldiers, but here were women and children trespassing upon our preserves. It helped us to realise the true tragedy of War.
That night the 126th brigade took over the front, a sketchy business in view of the position, and the N.Z's. marched back. One of the officers, during the day, had called out to us in characteristic Colonial fashion, "Well, boys, are you going up to finish it?" whereupon one of the men replied with Lancashire directness, "Ay, we started it, so we may as well finish it." There was a good deal of peace-talk flying about. German prisoners had admitted that they could not go on much longer, while rumours about conferences were very prevalent. Still, until we got orders to stop fighting, this job had to continue, and that was the chief consideration for us, although the order to cease fire would have been keenly appreciated.
Early morning found us on trek in a steady downpour of rain which made our already wet clothes more and more sodden. In this doleful fashion we splashed along over the muddy forest tracks to get close to the East Lancs. who were carrying out an attack. The 8th Manchester’s had a particularly stern time, encountering nests of machine guns which had not been cleared from their exposed flanks, so that they lost very heavily. Nevertheless, the attack was eventually pushed home, and the Huns were dislodged. Subsequent events revealed that from this moment the German retirement became a scurry of a disorganized rabble. The roads were blocked by their hurrying transport, and personnel simply made the best use of their legs, scampering across country where it was impossible to march on the roads. The civilians told us that utter confusion reigned everywhere. Our foremost troops undoubtedly met determined resistance from the machine gunners, but they were probably blissfully ignorant of what was taking place behind them.
As far as the 7th was concerned November 6th was one of the most miserable and trying days ever experienced. In the middle of the morning we arrived at our position, where we stayed during the whole of the day in a bitterly cold rain with no possibility of shelter. When it was ascertained that the enemy had been dislodged we made a few fires and tried to restore life to our numbed bodies. The divisional commander, having seen our condition, and realising that very few in the brigade would be fit for fighting after two such days, ordered up the 125th brigade, who had had an opportunity of getting dry and warm. We marched joyfully back in the middle of the night to Le Carnoy and there spent two days in billets.
The advance of the 42nd was now rapid. Hautmont, a fairly large manufacturing town, was captured after street fighting, and by the evening of November 9th an outpost line had been established south-east of Maubeuge. The 7th meanwhile had marched up through the forest and were billeted in the small village of Vieux Mesnil.
Here we received official orders to stand fast on the morning of November 11th. At 11 a.m. the battalion paraded outside the church and there the bugles sounded "Cease fire" for the first and last time during the War. The men took the news very quietly. We were too close to actual events to give ourselves over to the mad demonstrations of joy such as took place in spots more remote. At the same time everyone experienced a curious feeling of calm satisfaction that an unpleasant task had been accomplished. The 42nd division had taken part in two great drives, the clearing of the Turk from British territory in 1916 and the clearing of the Hun from allied territory in 1918.”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat.
I chose this poem to remember Armistice Day 1918, by the American Edgar A. Guest “When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat” from the book “Over Here”.
It was published in 1918 well before the Armistice was signed. But it contains a hope for the end of the war that when it finally happened so close to Christmas was almost prophetic.
When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat
When will the laughter ring again in the way that it used to do?
Not till the soldiers come home again, not till the war is through.
When will the holly gleam again and the Christmas candles burn?
Not till the swords are sheathed once more and the brave of our land return.
When will happy hearts meet again in the lights of the Christmas tree?
Not till the cannons cease their roar and the sailors come from sea.
When shall we sing as we used to do and dance in the old-time way?
Not till the soldiers come home again and the bugles cease to play.
Oh, dull is the red of the holly now and faintly the candles burn;
And we long for the smile of the missing face and the absent one's return.
We long for the laughter we used to know and the love that made giving sweet,
But we must wait for the joys of old till the drums shall cease to beat.
We shall laugh once more as we used to do, and dance in the old-time way,
For this is the pledge they have made to us who serve in the war to-day;
And the joys of home that we treasure so are the joys that their lives defend,
And they shall give us our Christmas time as soon as the war shall end.
(Edgar Albert Guest (August 20, 1881, Birmingham, England – August 5, 1959, Detroit, Michigan) (aka Eddie Guest) was a prolific American poet who was popular in the first half of the 20th century and became known as the People’s Poet.
In 1891, Guest came with his family to the United States from England. After he began at the Detroit Free Press as a copy boy and then a reporter, his first poem appeared December 11, 1898. He became a naturalized citizen in 1902. For 40 years, Guest was widely read throughout North America, and his sentimental, optimistic poems were in the same vein as the light verse of Nick Kenny, who wrote syndicated columns during the same decades.
From his first published work in the Detroit Free Press until his death in 1959, Guest penned some 11,000 poems which were syndicated in some 300 newspapers and collected in more than 20 books, including A Heap o' Livin' (1916) and Just Folks (1917). Guest was made Poet Laureate of Michigan, the only poet to have been awarded the title.)
It was published in 1918 well before the Armistice was signed. But it contains a hope for the end of the war that when it finally happened so close to Christmas was almost prophetic.
When the Drums Shall Cease to Beat
When will the laughter ring again in the way that it used to do?
Not till the soldiers come home again, not till the war is through.
When will the holly gleam again and the Christmas candles burn?
Not till the swords are sheathed once more and the brave of our land return.
When will happy hearts meet again in the lights of the Christmas tree?
Not till the cannons cease their roar and the sailors come from sea.
When shall we sing as we used to do and dance in the old-time way?
Not till the soldiers come home again and the bugles cease to play.
Oh, dull is the red of the holly now and faintly the candles burn;
And we long for the smile of the missing face and the absent one's return.
We long for the laughter we used to know and the love that made giving sweet,
But we must wait for the joys of old till the drums shall cease to beat.
We shall laugh once more as we used to do, and dance in the old-time way,
For this is the pledge they have made to us who serve in the war to-day;
And the joys of home that we treasure so are the joys that their lives defend,
And they shall give us our Christmas time as soon as the war shall end.
(Edgar Albert Guest (August 20, 1881, Birmingham, England – August 5, 1959, Detroit, Michigan) (aka Eddie Guest) was a prolific American poet who was popular in the first half of the 20th century and became known as the People’s Poet.
In 1891, Guest came with his family to the United States from England. After he began at the Detroit Free Press as a copy boy and then a reporter, his first poem appeared December 11, 1898. He became a naturalized citizen in 1902. For 40 years, Guest was widely read throughout North America, and his sentimental, optimistic poems were in the same vein as the light verse of Nick Kenny, who wrote syndicated columns during the same decades.
From his first published work in the Detroit Free Press until his death in 1959, Guest penned some 11,000 poems which were syndicated in some 300 newspapers and collected in more than 20 books, including A Heap o' Livin' (1916) and Just Folks (1917). Guest was made Poet Laureate of Michigan, the only poet to have been awarded the title.)
Monday, November 10, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - Pat Beauchamp - First Aid Nursing Yeomanry
This article comes from the book Fanny Goes To War by Pat Beauchamp her account of working with the First Aid Nursing Yeomanry.
1918 saw her at Roehampton hospital where she had a leg amputated. Her reaction to Armistice Day was not wild celebration but ‘a quiet thankfulness that we had ended on the right side and their lives had not been lost in vain.’
It’s interesting that in May 1919 she visited her old hospitals in Belgium and France and notes ‘The hospital where I had been was shut up and empty, and was shortly going to become a Casino again. How good it was to be back with the F.A.N.Y.s! I had just caught them in time, for they were to be demobilized on the following Sunday and I began to realize, now that I was with them again, just how terribly I had missed their gay companionship.’
Amongst all the horror and tragedy of war, the camaraderie of those that took part still left a void.
"Unfortunately, in July, I was obliged to undergo an operation on my right foot, where it had been injured. By great good luck it was arranged to be done in the sister's sick ward at the hospital. It was not successful though, and at the end of August a second was performed, bringing the total up to six, by which time I loathed chloroform more than anything else on earth.
Before I returned to the convent again, the King and Queen with Princess Mary came down to inspect the hospital.
It was an imposing picture. The sisters and nurses in their white caps and aprons lined the steps of the old red-brick, Georgian House, while on the lawn six to seven hundred limbless Tommies were grouped, forming a wonderful picture in their hospital blue against the green.
I was placed with the officers under the beautiful cedar trees and had a splendid view, while on the left the different limb makers had models of their legs and arms. The King and Queen were immensely interested and watched several demonstrations, after which they came and shook each one of us by hand, speaking a few words. I was immensely struck by the King's voice and its deep resonant qualities. It is wonderful, in view of the many thousands he interviews, that to each individual he gives the impression of a real personal interest.
I soon returned to the convent, and there in the beautiful gardens diligently practised walking with the help of two sticks. The joy of being able to get about again was such that I could have wept. The Tommies at the hospital took a tremendous interest in my progress. "Which one is it?" they would call as I went there each morning. "Pick it up, Miss, pick it up!" (one trails it at first). The fitter was a man of most wonderful patience and absolutely untiring in his efforts to do any little thing to ease the fitting. I often wonder he did not brain his more fussy patients with their wooden legs and have done with it!
"Got your knee, Miss?" the men would call sometimes. "You're lucky." When I saw men who had lost an arm and sometimes both legs, from above the knee too, I realised just how lucky I was. They were all so splendidly cheerful. I knew too well from my own experience what they must have gone through; and again I could only pray that something good would come out of all this untold suffering, and that these men would not be forgotten by a grateful country when peace reigned once more.
I often watched them playing bowls on the lawn with a marvellous dexterity—a one-armed man holding the chair steady for a double amputation while the latter took his aim.
I remember seeing a man struggling painfully along with an above-the-knee leg, obviously his first day out. A group of men watched his efforts. "Pick it up, Charlie!" they called, "we'll race you to the cedars!" but Charlie only smiled, not a bit offended, and patiently continued along the terrace.
At last I was officially "passed out" by the surgeon, and after eighteen months was free from hospitals. What a relief! No longer anyone to reproach me because I wasn't a man! It was my great wish to go out to the F.A.N.Y.s again when I had got thoroughly accustomed to my leg. I tried riding a bicycle, and after falling off once or twice "coped" quite well, but it was not till November that I had the chance to try a horse. I was down at Broadstairs and soon discovered a job-master and arranged to go out the next day. I hardly slept at all that night I was so excited at the prospect. The horse I had was a grey, rather a coincidence, and not at all unlike my beloved grey in France. Oh the joy of being in a saddle again! A lugubrious individual with a bottle nose (whom I promptly christened "Dundreary" because of his long whiskers) came out with me. He was by way of being a riding master, but for all the attention he paid I might have been alone.
I suggested finding a place for a canter after we had trotted some distance and things felt all right. I was so excited to find I could ride again with comparatively little inconvenience I could hardly restrain myself from whooping aloud. I presently infected "Dundreary," who, in his melancholy way, became quite jovial. I rode "Bob" every day after that and felt that after all life was worth living again.
On November 11th came the news of the armistice. The flags and rejoicings in the town seemed to jar somehow. I was glad to be out of London. A drizzle set in about noon and the waves beat against the cliffs in a steady boom not unlike the guns now silent across the water. Through the mist I seemed to see the ghosts of all I knew who had been sacrificed in the prime of their youth to the god of war. I saw the faces of the men in the typhoid wards and heard again the groans as the wounded and dying were lifted from the ambulance trains on to the stretchers. It did not seem a time for loud rejoicings, but rather a quiet thankfulness that we had ended on the right side and their lives had not been lost in vain.
The words of Robert Nichols' "Fulfilment," from Ardours and Endurances (Chatto & Windus), rang through my brain. He has kindly given me permission to reproduce them:
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and mine.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethren: one.
And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast
Beloved soldiers, who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,
Open mouth gushing, fallen head,
Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony
O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier
All, all, my joy, my grief, my love are thine!"
1918 saw her at Roehampton hospital where she had a leg amputated. Her reaction to Armistice Day was not wild celebration but ‘a quiet thankfulness that we had ended on the right side and their lives had not been lost in vain.’
It’s interesting that in May 1919 she visited her old hospitals in Belgium and France and notes ‘The hospital where I had been was shut up and empty, and was shortly going to become a Casino again. How good it was to be back with the F.A.N.Y.s! I had just caught them in time, for they were to be demobilized on the following Sunday and I began to realize, now that I was with them again, just how terribly I had missed their gay companionship.’
Amongst all the horror and tragedy of war, the camaraderie of those that took part still left a void.
"Unfortunately, in July, I was obliged to undergo an operation on my right foot, where it had been injured. By great good luck it was arranged to be done in the sister's sick ward at the hospital. It was not successful though, and at the end of August a second was performed, bringing the total up to six, by which time I loathed chloroform more than anything else on earth.
Before I returned to the convent again, the King and Queen with Princess Mary came down to inspect the hospital.
It was an imposing picture. The sisters and nurses in their white caps and aprons lined the steps of the old red-brick, Georgian House, while on the lawn six to seven hundred limbless Tommies were grouped, forming a wonderful picture in their hospital blue against the green.
I was placed with the officers under the beautiful cedar trees and had a splendid view, while on the left the different limb makers had models of their legs and arms. The King and Queen were immensely interested and watched several demonstrations, after which they came and shook each one of us by hand, speaking a few words. I was immensely struck by the King's voice and its deep resonant qualities. It is wonderful, in view of the many thousands he interviews, that to each individual he gives the impression of a real personal interest.
I soon returned to the convent, and there in the beautiful gardens diligently practised walking with the help of two sticks. The joy of being able to get about again was such that I could have wept. The Tommies at the hospital took a tremendous interest in my progress. "Which one is it?" they would call as I went there each morning. "Pick it up, Miss, pick it up!" (one trails it at first). The fitter was a man of most wonderful patience and absolutely untiring in his efforts to do any little thing to ease the fitting. I often wonder he did not brain his more fussy patients with their wooden legs and have done with it!
"Got your knee, Miss?" the men would call sometimes. "You're lucky." When I saw men who had lost an arm and sometimes both legs, from above the knee too, I realised just how lucky I was. They were all so splendidly cheerful. I knew too well from my own experience what they must have gone through; and again I could only pray that something good would come out of all this untold suffering, and that these men would not be forgotten by a grateful country when peace reigned once more.
I often watched them playing bowls on the lawn with a marvellous dexterity—a one-armed man holding the chair steady for a double amputation while the latter took his aim.
I remember seeing a man struggling painfully along with an above-the-knee leg, obviously his first day out. A group of men watched his efforts. "Pick it up, Charlie!" they called, "we'll race you to the cedars!" but Charlie only smiled, not a bit offended, and patiently continued along the terrace.
At last I was officially "passed out" by the surgeon, and after eighteen months was free from hospitals. What a relief! No longer anyone to reproach me because I wasn't a man! It was my great wish to go out to the F.A.N.Y.s again when I had got thoroughly accustomed to my leg. I tried riding a bicycle, and after falling off once or twice "coped" quite well, but it was not till November that I had the chance to try a horse. I was down at Broadstairs and soon discovered a job-master and arranged to go out the next day. I hardly slept at all that night I was so excited at the prospect. The horse I had was a grey, rather a coincidence, and not at all unlike my beloved grey in France. Oh the joy of being in a saddle again! A lugubrious individual with a bottle nose (whom I promptly christened "Dundreary" because of his long whiskers) came out with me. He was by way of being a riding master, but for all the attention he paid I might have been alone.
I suggested finding a place for a canter after we had trotted some distance and things felt all right. I was so excited to find I could ride again with comparatively little inconvenience I could hardly restrain myself from whooping aloud. I presently infected "Dundreary," who, in his melancholy way, became quite jovial. I rode "Bob" every day after that and felt that after all life was worth living again.
On November 11th came the news of the armistice. The flags and rejoicings in the town seemed to jar somehow. I was glad to be out of London. A drizzle set in about noon and the waves beat against the cliffs in a steady boom not unlike the guns now silent across the water. Through the mist I seemed to see the ghosts of all I knew who had been sacrificed in the prime of their youth to the god of war. I saw the faces of the men in the typhoid wards and heard again the groans as the wounded and dying were lifted from the ambulance trains on to the stretchers. It did not seem a time for loud rejoicings, but rather a quiet thankfulness that we had ended on the right side and their lives had not been lost in vain.
The words of Robert Nichols' "Fulfilment," from Ardours and Endurances (Chatto & Windus), rang through my brain. He has kindly given me permission to reproduce them:
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
Other loves I have, men rough, but men who stir
More grief, more joy, than love of thee and mine.
Faces cheerful, full of whimsical mirth,
Lined by the wind, burned by the sun;
Bodies enraptured by the abounding earth,
As whose children we are brethren: one.
And any moment may descend hot death
To shatter limbs! pulp, tear, blast
Beloved soldiers, who love rough life and breath
Not less for dying faithful to the last.
O the fading eyes, the grimed face turned bony,
Open mouth gushing, fallen head,
Lessening pressure of a hand shrunk, clammed, and stony
O sudden spasm, release of the dead!
Was there love once? I have forgotten her.
Was there grief once? Grief yet is mine.
O loved, living, dying, heroic soldier
All, all, my joy, my grief, my love are thine!"
Friday, November 07, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - Dancing Clergy in Lincoln.
I love this short story from 'A Stillness Heard round the World by Stanley Weintraub' about the dancing clergy.
What a sight two church dignitaries celebrating the moment.
"In Lincoln, Stanley Downing remembered, he ran home to the sound of pealing bells, past the cathedral. “Two of the Cathedral dignitaries – one with a long white beard and both in cassocks, gowns and mortarboards – met in the middle of the Cathedral lawn, joined hands and performed a little jig of jubilation. In those days the Cathedral clergy were almost as stately as God Himself and the sight of those two elderly dancers is my strongest memory of the day. Knees up, Knees, don’t let the breeze up.”"
What a sight two church dignitaries celebrating the moment.
"In Lincoln, Stanley Downing remembered, he ran home to the sound of pealing bells, past the cathedral. “Two of the Cathedral dignitaries – one with a long white beard and both in cassocks, gowns and mortarboards – met in the middle of the Cathedral lawn, joined hands and performed a little jig of jubilation. In those days the Cathedral clergy were almost as stately as God Himself and the sight of those two elderly dancers is my strongest memory of the day. Knees up, Knees, don’t let the breeze up.”"
Thursday, November 06, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - In Mons with Philip Gibbs.
This is an excellent article describing the final days of the war with the British Army as it entered Mons.
'The Last Days' from the newspaper dispatches of Philip Gibbs certainly paints a vivid picture of the welcome they received and the relief that the war was finally over.
November 10th
The spirit of victory is in the air. Our troops are following up the retreating enemy with bands playing, and go singing down the roads with flags on their rifles and on their gun-limbers through villages from which German rear-guards have gone only an hour or two before, and where French and Flemish people cheer them as they pass with cries of "Vive les Anglais!" It is glorious autumn weather, with a sparkle of gold in the sunlight and a glint of gold on the russet leaves and shining pools along the roads, so that it seems as though Nature rejoices with men because a horror is being lifted from the world by the ending of this war, and is smiling through tears, like old men we meet and women who take our hands telling of their thankfulness. It is Sunday, and in many churches in France and Belgium, and in cathedrals which have escaped destruction by a narrow chance, only scathed a little by battles round their town, the Te Deum is being sung, and people who a week ago crept to a church close in the shadow of the walls, afraid of the noise of gun-fire around them, and who a day or two ago saw the grey wolves of the German army still prowling in their streets, though with a hang-dog look, are now singing their praises to God because of their deliverance, almost doubting even still that this miracle has happened to them, and that after four years under the hostile yoke they are free. Free to speak their minds, free to display flags of their nation, free of fines and punishments, and requisitions, and spying, and German police, and German arrogance, free in their souls and hearts after four years of servitude under hostile rule.
So it was in Tournai today. For three weeks the people there had lived in their cellars listening to the fury of the gun-fire along the Scheldt Canal and closing in about them. They were afraid of having their old city smashed above their heads and of being buried under its ruins. They were afraid of asphyxiating gas creeping down into their cellars and killing them with its poisoned fumes. The Germans said, "The English will do this to you. You will all be killed before they come." But, in spite of their fear, they would not leave, and prayed for the coming of the English. A month ago more than 10 000 went away from Tournai, but that was behind German bayonets after a roll-call for all able-bodied men, who were forced to go, while their women wept for them.
A week ago the roar of the bombardment increased, and never ceased day or night, and people became haggard in their cellars because of this awful noise above them. But they were comforted by the knowledge that this British gun-fire was not directed on Tournai, and said, "The Germans have lied again. We shall not be killed by our friends." Then two nights ago, above the noise of the guns, there were louder noises, stupendous explosions, shaking the very stones of their cellars and their vaulted roofs as by a convulsion in the bowels of the earth. Again and again through the night these explosions happened, and the people of Tournai guessed that the Germans were blowing up the bridges over the Scheldt Canal, and that it was a signal of their retreat. They crept out of their houses on Friday morning and went down to the canal, dividing one part of the town from the other, where all the houses had had their windows blown out, and were badly shattered by the blowing up of the bridges. A few German machine-gunners remained hidden in those houses. But presently the last of them came out and went away. One of them turned, and said to a woman of Tournai: "Your friends will soon be here. So much the better, because the war is ended for us. Germany is kaput."
The men and women waited, and presently they saw an English soldier make his way across the broken girders of the bridge, He was a tall, gallant-looking fellow, and as he stepped on to the inner side of the canal he drew his revolver, and held it ready, looking about keenly for any enemy. But they were friends who rushed at him, shouting, "English, English," and women flung their arms about his neck, and kissed him, and led him into the town, with seething crowds about him, and one family took him into their house and gave him wine, which they had hidden for this day, and, raising their glasses, said, "Vive les Anglais!" As today, another family brought out their wine for me, and touched my glass with all their glasses, and said, "Vive I'Angleterre!" After the first soldier had come there came in a small patrol, while the enemy fired some shells into the town and killed some civilians, and after that other British soldiers and staff officers arrived, and today there came marching through long columns of troops, with their guns and field-cookers and transport, and they had a welcome of heroes and liked it, with the laughter of British soldiers for hero-worship.
November 11th
Our troops knew early this morning that the Armistice had been signed. I stopped on my way to Mons outside brigade headquarters, and an officer said, "Hostilities will cease at eleven o'clock." Then he added, as all men add in their hearts, "Thank God for that!" All the way to Mons there were columns of troops on the march, and their bands played ahead of them, and almost every man had a flag on his rifle, the red, white and blue of France, the red, yellow and black of Belgium. They wore flowers in their caps and in their tunics, red and white chrysanthemums given them by crowds of people who cheered them on their way, people who in many of these villages had been only one day liberated from the German yoke. Our men marched singing, with a smiling light in their eyes. They had done their job, and it was finished with the greatest victory in the world.
war ended for us at Mons, as it had begun there. When I went into this town this morning it seemed to me a most miraculous coincidence and a joyful one. Last night there was a fight outside the town before our men forced their way in at ten o'clock. The Germans left many of their guns in the gardens before they ran. This morning Mons was full of English cavalry and Canadian troops, about whom there were crowds of townspeople, cheering them and embracing them. One old man told me of all they had suffered in Mons, but he wept only when he told me of the sufferings of our prisoners. "What shame for Germany," he said. "What shame when these things are known about your poor men starving to death. Our women tried to give them food, but were beaten for it, and fifteen days ago down there by the canal one of your English was killed because a woman gave him a bit of bread." Little children came up to me and described the fighting the night before, and many people narrated the first fighting in Mons in August of 1914, when the "Old Contemptibles" were there and fought their battle through the town, and then on their way of retreat outside.
All that is now a memory of the past. The war belongs to the past. There will be no flash of gun-fire in the sky tonight. The fires of hell have been put out, and I have written my last.
November 12th
Last night for the first time since August in the first year of the war there was no light of gun-fire in the sky, no sudden stabs of flame through the darkness, no long spreading flow above the black trees, where for four years of nights human beings were being smashed to death. The fires of hell had been put out. It was silent all along the front with the beautiful silence of the nights of peace. We did not stand listening to the dull rumbling of artillery at work, which has been the undertone of all closer sounds for fifteen hundred nights, nor have sudden heart-beats at explosions shaking the earth and the air, nor say in whisper to oneself, "Curse those guns!" At eleven o'clock in the morning the order had gone to all the batteries to cease fire. No more men were to be killed, no more to be mangled, no more to be blinded. The last of the boyhood of the world was reprieved. On the way back from Mons I listened to this silence which followed the going down of the sun, and heard the rustling of the russet leaves and the little sounds of night in peace, and it seemed as though God gave a benediction to the wounded soul of the world. Other sounds rose from the towns and fields in the yellowing twilight, and in the deepening shadow-world of the day of Armistice. They were sounds of human joy. Men were singing somewhere on the roads, and their voices rang out gladly. Bands were playing, as all day on the way to Mons I had heard their music ahead of the marching columns. Bugles were blowing. In the villages from which the enemy had gone out that morning round about Mons crowds of figures surged in the narrow streets, and English laughter rose above the silvery chatter of women and children.
The British soldiers were still on the march with their guns and their transport and their old field-cookers, and all along their lines I heard these men talking to each other gaily, as though something had loosened their tongues and made them garrulous. Motor cars streaked through the Belgian streets, dodging the traffic, and now and then when night fell rockets were fired from them, and there were gusts of laughter from young officers shooting off Very pistols into the darkness to celebrate the end of hostilities by this symbol of rising stars, which did not soar so high as their spirits. From dark towns like Tournai and Lille these rockets rose and burned a little while with white light. Our aviators flew like bats in the dusk, skimming the treetops and gables, doing Puck-like gambols above the tawny sun-set, looping and spiralling and falling in steep dives which looked like death for them until they flattened out and rose again, and they, too, these boys who have been reprieved from the menace which was close to them on every flight, fired flares and rockets which dropped down to the crowds of French and Flemish people waving to them from below.
(Philip Gibbs was already a well-known British journalist and author upon outbreak of the war in August 1914. He was immediately sent to the continent to cover the hostilities. Arrested upon personal orders of Lord Kitchener at least 4 times, he somehow managed to return time and again, either as a volunteer stretcher-bearer, hospital orderly or as an accredited correspondent with the French armies. He was finally officially accredited as one of 5 British war journalists in uniform by intercession of prime minister Lloyd George. Philip Gibbs spent almost the whole of the war at the front, from where he sent his daily dispatches. While detesting the horrors of modern war, he was a staunch admirer and defender of the common soldier and wrote of their tribulations at the front with heart-felt passion and conviction. After the war he was knighted and continued an acclaimed career as journalist and novelist. He died in 1960.)
'The Last Days' from the newspaper dispatches of Philip Gibbs certainly paints a vivid picture of the welcome they received and the relief that the war was finally over.
November 10th
The spirit of victory is in the air. Our troops are following up the retreating enemy with bands playing, and go singing down the roads with flags on their rifles and on their gun-limbers through villages from which German rear-guards have gone only an hour or two before, and where French and Flemish people cheer them as they pass with cries of "Vive les Anglais!" It is glorious autumn weather, with a sparkle of gold in the sunlight and a glint of gold on the russet leaves and shining pools along the roads, so that it seems as though Nature rejoices with men because a horror is being lifted from the world by the ending of this war, and is smiling through tears, like old men we meet and women who take our hands telling of their thankfulness. It is Sunday, and in many churches in France and Belgium, and in cathedrals which have escaped destruction by a narrow chance, only scathed a little by battles round their town, the Te Deum is being sung, and people who a week ago crept to a church close in the shadow of the walls, afraid of the noise of gun-fire around them, and who a day or two ago saw the grey wolves of the German army still prowling in their streets, though with a hang-dog look, are now singing their praises to God because of their deliverance, almost doubting even still that this miracle has happened to them, and that after four years under the hostile yoke they are free. Free to speak their minds, free to display flags of their nation, free of fines and punishments, and requisitions, and spying, and German police, and German arrogance, free in their souls and hearts after four years of servitude under hostile rule.
So it was in Tournai today. For three weeks the people there had lived in their cellars listening to the fury of the gun-fire along the Scheldt Canal and closing in about them. They were afraid of having their old city smashed above their heads and of being buried under its ruins. They were afraid of asphyxiating gas creeping down into their cellars and killing them with its poisoned fumes. The Germans said, "The English will do this to you. You will all be killed before they come." But, in spite of their fear, they would not leave, and prayed for the coming of the English. A month ago more than 10 000 went away from Tournai, but that was behind German bayonets after a roll-call for all able-bodied men, who were forced to go, while their women wept for them.
A week ago the roar of the bombardment increased, and never ceased day or night, and people became haggard in their cellars because of this awful noise above them. But they were comforted by the knowledge that this British gun-fire was not directed on Tournai, and said, "The Germans have lied again. We shall not be killed by our friends." Then two nights ago, above the noise of the guns, there were louder noises, stupendous explosions, shaking the very stones of their cellars and their vaulted roofs as by a convulsion in the bowels of the earth. Again and again through the night these explosions happened, and the people of Tournai guessed that the Germans were blowing up the bridges over the Scheldt Canal, and that it was a signal of their retreat. They crept out of their houses on Friday morning and went down to the canal, dividing one part of the town from the other, where all the houses had had their windows blown out, and were badly shattered by the blowing up of the bridges. A few German machine-gunners remained hidden in those houses. But presently the last of them came out and went away. One of them turned, and said to a woman of Tournai: "Your friends will soon be here. So much the better, because the war is ended for us. Germany is kaput."
The men and women waited, and presently they saw an English soldier make his way across the broken girders of the bridge, He was a tall, gallant-looking fellow, and as he stepped on to the inner side of the canal he drew his revolver, and held it ready, looking about keenly for any enemy. But they were friends who rushed at him, shouting, "English, English," and women flung their arms about his neck, and kissed him, and led him into the town, with seething crowds about him, and one family took him into their house and gave him wine, which they had hidden for this day, and, raising their glasses, said, "Vive les Anglais!" As today, another family brought out their wine for me, and touched my glass with all their glasses, and said, "Vive I'Angleterre!" After the first soldier had come there came in a small patrol, while the enemy fired some shells into the town and killed some civilians, and after that other British soldiers and staff officers arrived, and today there came marching through long columns of troops, with their guns and field-cookers and transport, and they had a welcome of heroes and liked it, with the laughter of British soldiers for hero-worship.
November 11th
Our troops knew early this morning that the Armistice had been signed. I stopped on my way to Mons outside brigade headquarters, and an officer said, "Hostilities will cease at eleven o'clock." Then he added, as all men add in their hearts, "Thank God for that!" All the way to Mons there were columns of troops on the march, and their bands played ahead of them, and almost every man had a flag on his rifle, the red, white and blue of France, the red, yellow and black of Belgium. They wore flowers in their caps and in their tunics, red and white chrysanthemums given them by crowds of people who cheered them on their way, people who in many of these villages had been only one day liberated from the German yoke. Our men marched singing, with a smiling light in their eyes. They had done their job, and it was finished with the greatest victory in the world.
war ended for us at Mons, as it had begun there. When I went into this town this morning it seemed to me a most miraculous coincidence and a joyful one. Last night there was a fight outside the town before our men forced their way in at ten o'clock. The Germans left many of their guns in the gardens before they ran. This morning Mons was full of English cavalry and Canadian troops, about whom there were crowds of townspeople, cheering them and embracing them. One old man told me of all they had suffered in Mons, but he wept only when he told me of the sufferings of our prisoners. "What shame for Germany," he said. "What shame when these things are known about your poor men starving to death. Our women tried to give them food, but were beaten for it, and fifteen days ago down there by the canal one of your English was killed because a woman gave him a bit of bread." Little children came up to me and described the fighting the night before, and many people narrated the first fighting in Mons in August of 1914, when the "Old Contemptibles" were there and fought their battle through the town, and then on their way of retreat outside.
All that is now a memory of the past. The war belongs to the past. There will be no flash of gun-fire in the sky tonight. The fires of hell have been put out, and I have written my last.
November 12th
Last night for the first time since August in the first year of the war there was no light of gun-fire in the sky, no sudden stabs of flame through the darkness, no long spreading flow above the black trees, where for four years of nights human beings were being smashed to death. The fires of hell had been put out. It was silent all along the front with the beautiful silence of the nights of peace. We did not stand listening to the dull rumbling of artillery at work, which has been the undertone of all closer sounds for fifteen hundred nights, nor have sudden heart-beats at explosions shaking the earth and the air, nor say in whisper to oneself, "Curse those guns!" At eleven o'clock in the morning the order had gone to all the batteries to cease fire. No more men were to be killed, no more to be mangled, no more to be blinded. The last of the boyhood of the world was reprieved. On the way back from Mons I listened to this silence which followed the going down of the sun, and heard the rustling of the russet leaves and the little sounds of night in peace, and it seemed as though God gave a benediction to the wounded soul of the world. Other sounds rose from the towns and fields in the yellowing twilight, and in the deepening shadow-world of the day of Armistice. They were sounds of human joy. Men were singing somewhere on the roads, and their voices rang out gladly. Bands were playing, as all day on the way to Mons I had heard their music ahead of the marching columns. Bugles were blowing. In the villages from which the enemy had gone out that morning round about Mons crowds of figures surged in the narrow streets, and English laughter rose above the silvery chatter of women and children.
The British soldiers were still on the march with their guns and their transport and their old field-cookers, and all along their lines I heard these men talking to each other gaily, as though something had loosened their tongues and made them garrulous. Motor cars streaked through the Belgian streets, dodging the traffic, and now and then when night fell rockets were fired from them, and there were gusts of laughter from young officers shooting off Very pistols into the darkness to celebrate the end of hostilities by this symbol of rising stars, which did not soar so high as their spirits. From dark towns like Tournai and Lille these rockets rose and burned a little while with white light. Our aviators flew like bats in the dusk, skimming the treetops and gables, doing Puck-like gambols above the tawny sun-set, looping and spiralling and falling in steep dives which looked like death for them until they flattened out and rose again, and they, too, these boys who have been reprieved from the menace which was close to them on every flight, fired flares and rockets which dropped down to the crowds of French and Flemish people waving to them from below.
(Philip Gibbs was already a well-known British journalist and author upon outbreak of the war in August 1914. He was immediately sent to the continent to cover the hostilities. Arrested upon personal orders of Lord Kitchener at least 4 times, he somehow managed to return time and again, either as a volunteer stretcher-bearer, hospital orderly or as an accredited correspondent with the French armies. He was finally officially accredited as one of 5 British war journalists in uniform by intercession of prime minister Lloyd George. Philip Gibbs spent almost the whole of the war at the front, from where he sent his daily dispatches. While detesting the horrors of modern war, he was a staunch admirer and defender of the common soldier and wrote of their tribulations at the front with heart-felt passion and conviction. After the war he was knighted and continued an acclaimed career as journalist and novelist. He died in 1960.)
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