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. ..)
Thursday, December 04, 2008
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.)
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - 9th Kings.
This article comes from The Story of the "9th King's" in France by Enos Herbert Glynne Roberts
The 9th Battalion of The King's (Liverpool Regiment) Territorial Force was raised in Liverpool at the beginning of the war in August 1914.
This account confirms how in most instances with the fighting ‘Tommy’ the news of the Armistice was greeted “without any manifestation of the joy or excitement that marked the occasion at home.” Most were just glad it was all over and wanted to return home. To some it was too good to be true.
“On the 24th October the Battalion took over the outpost zone at Froyennes by Tournai. This was a new kind of warfare. There were no trenches, no enemy line and no clearly defined British line. Sentry groups were located in houses, behind hedges and perhaps in a ditch on the side of the road. Sentries kept a look-out from a skylight window or gap in the hedge. Civilians were living in the same houses as the troops and some of these appeared rather friendly towards the enemy. One woman actually wished to take some washing to the Germans in Tournai. For the most part these civilians were women, and the soldiers admired their wonderful courage. Even though they were in the centre of the fighting they did not lose heart and there was no panic.
In the right company area was situated a chateau which had formerly been the headquarters of General von Quast, the commander of the Sixth German Army. Company headquarters were in the next chateau, the Chateau de Froyennes, belonging to the Germiny family, and the then occupier, Mademoiselle Thérèse de Germiny, who had remained, lent her boat to the Company, and several men were able to row on the ornamental lake which was situated at the side of the chateau in a beautiful park. One platoon was quartered in a restaurant which had a beautiful and rustic garden, though it was too near the enemy for the men to really enjoy the comfort it afforded. Another platoon found in a laundry a number of clean white shirts which the men readily donned.
Though the Germans had been defeated, they still continued to indulge in a lavish expenditure of ammunition. Probably they were firing so as to use up their remaining shells before evacuating. Day after day the park belonging to the Froyennes Chateau was searched by all manner of shell. So intense was the fire that it reminded one of the terrible moments of the Somme Battle. The Hospital or Convent in which one of the companies was located was subjected to incessant minenwerfer fire.
It is interesting to record that "A" Company elected to do the full tour of four days in the front position with the intention of spending all the next tour in support, an eventuality which did not take place as the Armistice intervened.
Coming out from Froyennes the Battalion was shelled on the road. Little did anyone think that night that the Battalion had finished with shell fire. For the men the war was over. Their last time in action was passed. Among those that trudged wearily out of action that night were a few who had landed at Le Havre with the Regiment more than three and a half years before. Though they did not realise it until much later these men were the lucky ones who were to survive the war.
The Battalion marched to Cornet and the next day to Hellemmes, outside Lille, for a period of rest. Here the men were quartered in a cotton spinning factory, the machinery of which was all utterly destroyed, and every man had his own bunk. The officers were billeted in private houses in the vicinity.
While on parade on the morning of the 11th November it was announced to the men that the Armistice had been signed. The news of the cessation of hostilities was received by the soldiers without any manifestation of the joy or excitement that marked the occasion at home. The parade continued and the rest of the day was spent quite as usual. The news for which the men had waited so long seemed when it came to be almost too good to be true.
Some there were—savages by nature—who were not altogether glad. They had been taught to kill, and they wanted to kill. They thought the Germans had not been punished enough for their crimes and atrocities, and that the enemy country ought to suffer the same devastation as France. In the main, however, the men were glad that the war was virtually over. They would soon be able to return to their homes and live with their loved ones again.
On the night of the 13th the reality of the terms of the Armistice was evidenced by the returning British prisoners of war from the German lines. A picquet was posted on the main road outside Battalion headquarters, and on arrival returning prisoners were escorted to a billet which was prepared for them. Fires were burning in the billet, and all of the late prisoners were supplied with a bed. A hot meal, tea and a rum ration were served to them as they arrived. By midnight about eighty had come through. The majority of them arrived in an exhausted condition, having marched between forty and fifty kilometres. Many were the stirring and pitiful stories recounted by these unfortunate fellows of the harsh treatment which they had received during their period of captivity. The ensuing days of the month were spent at Hellemmes under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Dawson for a few days, and afterwards Lieutenant-Colonel M.E. Makgill-Crichton-Maitland, D.S.O., of the Grenadier Guards, took command.
Training as usual was continued as it was not realized at the time that the fighting was finished. The parades took place in the vicinity of Fort Macmahon, which had been used by the Germans as quarters for prisoners of war. The conditions inside the fort were terrible and constituted strong evidence of the sufferings the prisoners of war must have endured. In view of the imminence of demobilization, education classes were started, and much good work was done in this direction. In the evenings concerts and parties took place, and friendships soon sprang up between the soldiers and the Lilloises.”
The 9th Battalion of The King's (Liverpool Regiment) Territorial Force was raised in Liverpool at the beginning of the war in August 1914.
This account confirms how in most instances with the fighting ‘Tommy’ the news of the Armistice was greeted “without any manifestation of the joy or excitement that marked the occasion at home.” Most were just glad it was all over and wanted to return home. To some it was too good to be true.
“On the 24th October the Battalion took over the outpost zone at Froyennes by Tournai. This was a new kind of warfare. There were no trenches, no enemy line and no clearly defined British line. Sentry groups were located in houses, behind hedges and perhaps in a ditch on the side of the road. Sentries kept a look-out from a skylight window or gap in the hedge. Civilians were living in the same houses as the troops and some of these appeared rather friendly towards the enemy. One woman actually wished to take some washing to the Germans in Tournai. For the most part these civilians were women, and the soldiers admired their wonderful courage. Even though they were in the centre of the fighting they did not lose heart and there was no panic.
In the right company area was situated a chateau which had formerly been the headquarters of General von Quast, the commander of the Sixth German Army. Company headquarters were in the next chateau, the Chateau de Froyennes, belonging to the Germiny family, and the then occupier, Mademoiselle Thérèse de Germiny, who had remained, lent her boat to the Company, and several men were able to row on the ornamental lake which was situated at the side of the chateau in a beautiful park. One platoon was quartered in a restaurant which had a beautiful and rustic garden, though it was too near the enemy for the men to really enjoy the comfort it afforded. Another platoon found in a laundry a number of clean white shirts which the men readily donned.
Though the Germans had been defeated, they still continued to indulge in a lavish expenditure of ammunition. Probably they were firing so as to use up their remaining shells before evacuating. Day after day the park belonging to the Froyennes Chateau was searched by all manner of shell. So intense was the fire that it reminded one of the terrible moments of the Somme Battle. The Hospital or Convent in which one of the companies was located was subjected to incessant minenwerfer fire.
It is interesting to record that "A" Company elected to do the full tour of four days in the front position with the intention of spending all the next tour in support, an eventuality which did not take place as the Armistice intervened.
Coming out from Froyennes the Battalion was shelled on the road. Little did anyone think that night that the Battalion had finished with shell fire. For the men the war was over. Their last time in action was passed. Among those that trudged wearily out of action that night were a few who had landed at Le Havre with the Regiment more than three and a half years before. Though they did not realise it until much later these men were the lucky ones who were to survive the war.
The Battalion marched to Cornet and the next day to Hellemmes, outside Lille, for a period of rest. Here the men were quartered in a cotton spinning factory, the machinery of which was all utterly destroyed, and every man had his own bunk. The officers were billeted in private houses in the vicinity.
While on parade on the morning of the 11th November it was announced to the men that the Armistice had been signed. The news of the cessation of hostilities was received by the soldiers without any manifestation of the joy or excitement that marked the occasion at home. The parade continued and the rest of the day was spent quite as usual. The news for which the men had waited so long seemed when it came to be almost too good to be true.
Some there were—savages by nature—who were not altogether glad. They had been taught to kill, and they wanted to kill. They thought the Germans had not been punished enough for their crimes and atrocities, and that the enemy country ought to suffer the same devastation as France. In the main, however, the men were glad that the war was virtually over. They would soon be able to return to their homes and live with their loved ones again.
On the night of the 13th the reality of the terms of the Armistice was evidenced by the returning British prisoners of war from the German lines. A picquet was posted on the main road outside Battalion headquarters, and on arrival returning prisoners were escorted to a billet which was prepared for them. Fires were burning in the billet, and all of the late prisoners were supplied with a bed. A hot meal, tea and a rum ration were served to them as they arrived. By midnight about eighty had come through. The majority of them arrived in an exhausted condition, having marched between forty and fifty kilometres. Many were the stirring and pitiful stories recounted by these unfortunate fellows of the harsh treatment which they had received during their period of captivity. The ensuing days of the month were spent at Hellemmes under the command of Lieutenant-Colonel Dawson for a few days, and afterwards Lieutenant-Colonel M.E. Makgill-Crichton-Maitland, D.S.O., of the Grenadier Guards, took command.
Training as usual was continued as it was not realized at the time that the fighting was finished. The parades took place in the vicinity of Fort Macmahon, which had been used by the Germans as quarters for prisoners of war. The conditions inside the fort were terrible and constituted strong evidence of the sufferings the prisoners of war must have endured. In view of the imminence of demobilization, education classes were started, and much good work was done in this direction. In the evenings concerts and parties took place, and friendships soon sprang up between the soldiers and the Lilloises.”
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - Sir William Orpen
This next article on Armistice Day 1918 comes from the book "AN ONLOOKER IN FRANCE 1917-1919" by Sir William Orpen, K.B.E., R.A.
William Orpen was made an official war painter of the First World War and in 1917 he travelled to the Western Front. He produced drawings and paintings of privates, dead soldiers and German prisoners of war along with official portraits of generals and politicians. Most of these works, 138 in all, are in the collection of the Imperial War Museum in London.
This aricle comes from a different angle, he was a friend of “Generals” and men alike. But from his privileged postion he had a unique perspective.
He captures the felling of lost that the ‘Tommy’ felt once it was all over, which perhaps is sometimes missed. The questions “What shall we do? Will they do as they promised for us?” are very poignant.
“I went out to see the damage done to Bailleul. In a few days British artillery had flattened it out as badly as Ypres. One could hardly find out where the main Place had been. Now one could wander all over the Ypres salient. Was there ever a more ghastly place? Even the Somme was outdone. Mud, water, battered tanks, hundreds of them, battered pillboxes, everything battered and torn, with Ypres like a skeleton. The Menin Road, the Zonnebeke Road, what sights were there—mangled remains of superhuman effort!
I remember one day in the summer being down at Lord Beaverbrook's when news came in that Locre had fallen. I had no knowledge of Locre, but Lord Beaverbrook, I could see, felt that the loss of it was a very serious thing. So I went to see Locre—a ghastly place!—the fighting must have been terrific. Shell-holes full of dead Germans. Everything smashed to pulp. I should imagine, before Hell visited it, Locre must have been a very pretty little place. It is on a hill which looks down into a valley, with Mont Kemmel rising up the other side.
Suddenly my blood poisoning came on again badly, so I returned to Amiens on November 10th. When we had just passed Doullens we got the news that the Kaiser had abdicated. Great excitement prevailed everywhere.
The next day, at 11 a.m., I was working in my room and heard guns, so I went to the window and saw the shells bursting over the town, but I could not see the Boche 'plane. It must be very high, I thought. About ten minutes afterwards there was a sound of cheering, so I knew the fighting was over. I went again to the window and looked down into the courtyard. It was empty, except for one serving-girl, Marthe, who had her apron to her face and was sobbing bitterly. Presently, Marie-Louise came up to my room and told me the news, and we had a drink together in honour of the great event. Said I: "What has happened to poor Marthe? It is sad that she should be so upset on this great day. What is the matter?" "Ah!" said Marie-Louise, "it is the day that has upset her." "The day?" said I. "Yes," replied Marie-Louise, "you see, her husband will come out of the trenches now and will come back to her. C'est la Guerre!"
Later, Maude came in, and I asked him what on earth a Boche was doing over Amiens just at the moment the fighting ceased. "Oh," said Maude, "there wasn't any Boche, but the anti-aircraft chap got orders to fire off his guns for ten minutes when the Armistice was signed, but, as he had nothing but live shells, he thought he had better stop after two." But why he burst his shells right over the centre of the town was never explained.
Yet, on this day, looked forward to for years, I must admit that, studying people, I found something wrong—perhaps, like all great moments expected, something is sure to fall short of expectations. Peace was too great a thing to think about, the longing for it was too real, too intense. For four years the fighting men had thought of nothing except that great moment of achievement: now it had come, the great thing had ceased, the war was won and over. The fighting man—that marvelous thing that I had worshipped all the time I had been in France—had ceased actively to exist. I realized then, almost as much as I do now, that he was lost, forgotten. "Greater love hath no man"—they had given up their all for the sake of the people at home, gone through Hell, misery and terror of sudden death. Could one doubt that those at home would not reward them? Alas, yes! and the doubt has come true. It made me very depressed. The one thing these wonderful super-men gave me to think that evening was: "What shall we do? Will they do as they promised for us? I gave up all my life and work at home and came out here to kill and be killed. Here I am stranded—I cannot kill anyone any more, and nobody wants to kill me. What am I to do? Surely they will give me some job: I have done my bit, they can't just let me starve." "When you come back home again"—yes, that crossed their minds and mine for them. Wending my way home through the blackened streets that night, I met a Tommy who threatened to kill me because of his misery. I talked him down and brought him to my room, and told him I really believed he would have a great time in the future. I doubted what I said, but he believed me, and went off to his billet happy for that one night.
Could anyone forecast the tragedy that has happened to so many of these men since? That great human Field-Marshal, Lord Haig, the man who knows, works for them still, and asks—but who answers? Great God! it makes one think, remember, think and wonder, what impossibly thankless people human beings are. It is sad, but very, very true!”
William Orpen was made an official war painter of the First World War and in 1917 he travelled to the Western Front. He produced drawings and paintings of privates, dead soldiers and German prisoners of war along with official portraits of generals and politicians. Most of these works, 138 in all, are in the collection of the Imperial War Museum in London.
This aricle comes from a different angle, he was a friend of “Generals” and men alike. But from his privileged postion he had a unique perspective.
He captures the felling of lost that the ‘Tommy’ felt once it was all over, which perhaps is sometimes missed. The questions “What shall we do? Will they do as they promised for us?” are very poignant.
“I went out to see the damage done to Bailleul. In a few days British artillery had flattened it out as badly as Ypres. One could hardly find out where the main Place had been. Now one could wander all over the Ypres salient. Was there ever a more ghastly place? Even the Somme was outdone. Mud, water, battered tanks, hundreds of them, battered pillboxes, everything battered and torn, with Ypres like a skeleton. The Menin Road, the Zonnebeke Road, what sights were there—mangled remains of superhuman effort!
I remember one day in the summer being down at Lord Beaverbrook's when news came in that Locre had fallen. I had no knowledge of Locre, but Lord Beaverbrook, I could see, felt that the loss of it was a very serious thing. So I went to see Locre—a ghastly place!—the fighting must have been terrific. Shell-holes full of dead Germans. Everything smashed to pulp. I should imagine, before Hell visited it, Locre must have been a very pretty little place. It is on a hill which looks down into a valley, with Mont Kemmel rising up the other side.
Suddenly my blood poisoning came on again badly, so I returned to Amiens on November 10th. When we had just passed Doullens we got the news that the Kaiser had abdicated. Great excitement prevailed everywhere.
The next day, at 11 a.m., I was working in my room and heard guns, so I went to the window and saw the shells bursting over the town, but I could not see the Boche 'plane. It must be very high, I thought. About ten minutes afterwards there was a sound of cheering, so I knew the fighting was over. I went again to the window and looked down into the courtyard. It was empty, except for one serving-girl, Marthe, who had her apron to her face and was sobbing bitterly. Presently, Marie-Louise came up to my room and told me the news, and we had a drink together in honour of the great event. Said I: "What has happened to poor Marthe? It is sad that she should be so upset on this great day. What is the matter?" "Ah!" said Marie-Louise, "it is the day that has upset her." "The day?" said I. "Yes," replied Marie-Louise, "you see, her husband will come out of the trenches now and will come back to her. C'est la Guerre!"
Later, Maude came in, and I asked him what on earth a Boche was doing over Amiens just at the moment the fighting ceased. "Oh," said Maude, "there wasn't any Boche, but the anti-aircraft chap got orders to fire off his guns for ten minutes when the Armistice was signed, but, as he had nothing but live shells, he thought he had better stop after two." But why he burst his shells right over the centre of the town was never explained.
Yet, on this day, looked forward to for years, I must admit that, studying people, I found something wrong—perhaps, like all great moments expected, something is sure to fall short of expectations. Peace was too great a thing to think about, the longing for it was too real, too intense. For four years the fighting men had thought of nothing except that great moment of achievement: now it had come, the great thing had ceased, the war was won and over. The fighting man—that marvelous thing that I had worshipped all the time I had been in France—had ceased actively to exist. I realized then, almost as much as I do now, that he was lost, forgotten. "Greater love hath no man"—they had given up their all for the sake of the people at home, gone through Hell, misery and terror of sudden death. Could one doubt that those at home would not reward them? Alas, yes! and the doubt has come true. It made me very depressed. The one thing these wonderful super-men gave me to think that evening was: "What shall we do? Will they do as they promised for us? I gave up all my life and work at home and came out here to kill and be killed. Here I am stranded—I cannot kill anyone any more, and nobody wants to kill me. What am I to do? Surely they will give me some job: I have done my bit, they can't just let me starve." "When you come back home again"—yes, that crossed their minds and mine for them. Wending my way home through the blackened streets that night, I met a Tommy who threatened to kill me because of his misery. I talked him down and brought him to my room, and told him I really believed he would have a great time in the future. I doubted what I said, but he believed me, and went off to his billet happy for that one night.
Could anyone forecast the tragedy that has happened to so many of these men since? That great human Field-Marshal, Lord Haig, the man who knows, works for them still, and asks—but who answers? Great God! it makes one think, remember, think and wonder, what impossibly thankless people human beings are. It is sad, but very, very true!”
Monday, November 03, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - 42nd Battalion, A.I.F.
This account of 11th November 1918 comes from Private Verdi George Schwinghammer No. 2639, 42nd Battalion, Australian Imperial Force.
Private Schwinghammer was an Australian the son of German parents. He succeeded in enlisting in the 42nd Battalion on 6th May, 1916.
The 42nd Battalion A.I.F. ( known as the "Australian Black Watch" because it had it own pipe band ) recruited its men from the Northern Rivers of NSW and Southern Queensland during February 1916.
By June 5th that year, its men embarked for Egypt and then to England, arriving on the 23rd July 1916.
After further training in England, the Battalion shipped out to France, arriving on the 25th November. One month later, Christmas Eve, 1916, it entered the front line, remaining in or near the line from that day until October 2nd, 1918.
During their 647 days of near continuous combat, the 42nd Battalion engaged in twelve battles, with 450 killed.
This is his account of Armistice Day 1918.
"ARMISTICE SIGNED
We could tell by the news in the papers that the war was practically over although we, the Third Division, were told to hold ourselves in readiness to proceed to the line again - the 1st, 4th and 5th Divisions already being on their way to the line.
On Monday, 11th November, 1918, the day the Armistice was signed, we marched to Alleray for a hot steam bath and on passing through Airanes found all the houses decorated with tricolours and the church bells pealing and the Frenchies running about like madmen. We wondered what was wrong and halted in the main street for a rest. The Captain then told us that he had interviewed the Mayor who had received a telegram saying that the armistice was to be signed at 11 a.m. that morning - it was then 10 a.m. We gave three cheers and could scarcely realize that the war was over.
When we returned to Warlus, the news that the war was over had reached there and the town was decorated, etc. Next day we had a holiday from drills to celebrate peace. The bells of the old French church chimed night and day for several days. Most of us attended the Victory Thanksgiving Mass at the Roman Catholic Church.
Some of the men broke camp and went to the neighboring cities - some got as far as Paris. Many were pinched and put in the clink (gaol) as they had no leave passes - others were caught and sent back to the Battalion.
On 25th November we had a parade and a lecture from the Colonel - it was the second anniversary of the Battalion's landing in France.
A few of the French who had been prisoners of war in Germany - some of them from the beginning of the war - had now returned to their village and it was touching and pathetic to see the reunion with their loved ones and made us homesick and wish we were back in Australia.
The French children had written all over the walls of the village houses with chalk - "La Guerre Mapoo" or "La Guerre Fini" which means "the war is over" or "the war is finished". "
Private Schwinghammer was an Australian the son of German parents. He succeeded in enlisting in the 42nd Battalion on 6th May, 1916.
The 42nd Battalion A.I.F. ( known as the "Australian Black Watch" because it had it own pipe band ) recruited its men from the Northern Rivers of NSW and Southern Queensland during February 1916.
By June 5th that year, its men embarked for Egypt and then to England, arriving on the 23rd July 1916.
After further training in England, the Battalion shipped out to France, arriving on the 25th November. One month later, Christmas Eve, 1916, it entered the front line, remaining in or near the line from that day until October 2nd, 1918.
During their 647 days of near continuous combat, the 42nd Battalion engaged in twelve battles, with 450 killed.
This is his account of Armistice Day 1918.
"ARMISTICE SIGNED
We could tell by the news in the papers that the war was practically over although we, the Third Division, were told to hold ourselves in readiness to proceed to the line again - the 1st, 4th and 5th Divisions already being on their way to the line.
On Monday, 11th November, 1918, the day the Armistice was signed, we marched to Alleray for a hot steam bath and on passing through Airanes found all the houses decorated with tricolours and the church bells pealing and the Frenchies running about like madmen. We wondered what was wrong and halted in the main street for a rest. The Captain then told us that he had interviewed the Mayor who had received a telegram saying that the armistice was to be signed at 11 a.m. that morning - it was then 10 a.m. We gave three cheers and could scarcely realize that the war was over.
When we returned to Warlus, the news that the war was over had reached there and the town was decorated, etc. Next day we had a holiday from drills to celebrate peace. The bells of the old French church chimed night and day for several days. Most of us attended the Victory Thanksgiving Mass at the Roman Catholic Church.
Some of the men broke camp and went to the neighboring cities - some got as far as Paris. Many were pinched and put in the clink (gaol) as they had no leave passes - others were caught and sent back to the Battalion.
On 25th November we had a parade and a lecture from the Colonel - it was the second anniversary of the Battalion's landing in France.
A few of the French who had been prisoners of war in Germany - some of them from the beginning of the war - had now returned to their village and it was touching and pathetic to see the reunion with their loved ones and made us homesick and wish we were back in Australia.
The French children had written all over the walls of the village houses with chalk - "La Guerre Mapoo" or "La Guerre Fini" which means "the war is over" or "the war is finished". "
Saturday, November 01, 2008
Armistice Day 1918 - On a train in Yorkshire.
90 years go this month on 11th November 1918 at 11 O’clock the Armistice came into action and hostilities on the Western Front finally ceased.
There was a wide ranging mixture of emotions and experiences on the fateful day. From wild euphoria to solemn relief and even grief.
Over the next month I will be posting a mixture of these accounts and feelings some will be famous and well known, others more obscure. But I hope they will capture a small glimpse of what it may have been like 90 years ago.
To start with a great story of an encounter on a train to Yorkshire between a lady from the Women’s Land Army and an Australian soldier, from the excellent book “A Stillness Heard round the world by Stanley Weintraub.”
"Elinor Pike had changed trains at Sheffield, travelling from one farm to another as part of the Women’s Land Army. In her compartment was an Australian soldier, as she assumed from his bush hat. As the train sat in its siding, the soldier asked her about her uniform and confided that his sweetheart in Mildura was going to marry him as soon as the war was over.
Then it was over.
The railway carriage throbbed with the sounds of hooters and bells. “We both jumped up,” she recalled, “and shook hands very solemnly, vowing that we would remember that day, even though it was a very chance encounter.”
The train went on through Yorkshire and eventually they alighted in gentle rain. As they began to move shyly apart, the soldier turned to ask if she would mind giving him her name and address. “When I am married, if my wife has a daughter, I hope she will allow her to have your name.” Although embarrassed by the suggestion, Elinor agreed “and watched him a s he laboriously wrote with a pencil stump on a small piece of paper as we stood on the cold damp platform.”
A few years later she was astonished to receive a letter from Australia announcing the birth of her namesake, christened in advance on Armistice Day 1918."
There was a wide ranging mixture of emotions and experiences on the fateful day. From wild euphoria to solemn relief and even grief.
Over the next month I will be posting a mixture of these accounts and feelings some will be famous and well known, others more obscure. But I hope they will capture a small glimpse of what it may have been like 90 years ago.
To start with a great story of an encounter on a train to Yorkshire between a lady from the Women’s Land Army and an Australian soldier, from the excellent book “A Stillness Heard round the world by Stanley Weintraub.”
"Elinor Pike had changed trains at Sheffield, travelling from one farm to another as part of the Women’s Land Army. In her compartment was an Australian soldier, as she assumed from his bush hat. As the train sat in its siding, the soldier asked her about her uniform and confided that his sweetheart in Mildura was going to marry him as soon as the war was over.
Then it was over.
The railway carriage throbbed with the sounds of hooters and bells. “We both jumped up,” she recalled, “and shook hands very solemnly, vowing that we would remember that day, even though it was a very chance encounter.”
The train went on through Yorkshire and eventually they alighted in gentle rain. As they began to move shyly apart, the soldier turned to ask if she would mind giving him her name and address. “When I am married, if my wife has a daughter, I hope she will allow her to have your name.” Although embarrassed by the suggestion, Elinor agreed “and watched him a s he laboriously wrote with a pencil stump on a small piece of paper as we stood on the cold damp platform.”
A few years later she was astonished to receive a letter from Australia announcing the birth of her namesake, christened in advance on Armistice Day 1918."
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
The Sign by Fredric Manning
The Sign written by Fredric Manning in 1917.
It’s not as famous as ‘The Trenches’ but it is still very good.
The Sign
We are here in a wood of little beeches:
And the leaves are like black lace
Against a sky of nacre.
One bough of clear promise
Across the moon.
It is in this wise that God speaketh unto me.
He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh,
Stilling it in an eternal peace,
Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands
Toward him,
And is eased of its hunger.
And I know that this passes:
This implacable fury and torment of men,
As a thing insensate and vain:
And the stillness hath said unto me,
Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame,
Out of the terrible beauty of wrath,
I alone am eternal.
One bough of clear promise
Across the moon.
It’s not as famous as ‘The Trenches’ but it is still very good.
The Sign
We are here in a wood of little beeches:
And the leaves are like black lace
Against a sky of nacre.
One bough of clear promise
Across the moon.
It is in this wise that God speaketh unto me.
He layeth hands of healing upon my flesh,
Stilling it in an eternal peace,
Until my soul reaches out myriad and infinite hands
Toward him,
And is eased of its hunger.
And I know that this passes:
This implacable fury and torment of men,
As a thing insensate and vain:
And the stillness hath said unto me,
Over the tumult of sounds and shaken flame,
Out of the terrible beauty of wrath,
I alone am eternal.
One bough of clear promise
Across the moon.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Jam, Cheese and Tea.
Here’s an article from the Times dated 15th October 1917 about supplying the Army with the essentials of Jam, Cheese and Tea.
The amounts that are quoted are gigantic but these reports did keep the public informed what was required whilst they felt the ‘tight belt’ of rationing.
The jam supplied was not always welcomed, as the Australian poet Edward Dyson so well portrayed in his humorous poem “Jam (A Hymn of Hate).”
“FEEDING THE ARMY
THE SOLDIER’S JAM, CHEESE AND TEA.
Although at present housekeepers at home are finding some difficulty in getting supplies of such articles of food as bacon. Butter, margarine, sugar and tea, they will have no other feeling but one of pleasure that our soldiers at the front have never fared better that they are doing to-day.
From an authoritative source we learn that the soldier’s rations made up of about two dozen articles of food. Meat and bread are the chief items but the are supplemented by cheese, bacon, jam and many other things not leaving out rum, the value of which as an antidote to damp and cold, first learned by our experience in the Crimea, has been confirmed by three winters in France and Flanders.
In supplying the Armies with food whole industries have had to reorganised, business methods drastically revised, and the resources of the Empire mobilized in a remarkable manner. In the case of jam the manufactures, who are working in cooperation, are supplied by sugar by the Government and the Government also pays the actual cost of packing and delivery to and from the works and of the fruit. The fruit id bought by the manufactures jointly after mutual agreement as to the prices offered. The manufacturer realizes his profit on a fixed rate paid per 100lb.
TWO MILLION POUNDS OF JAM A WEEK.
Packing has been a difficulty. At first tins were used, but tin is scare and the jam is now packed in ‘papier mache’ containers. Nearly two million ponds of jam are sent to France every week and in April this year the contacts department of the War Office had ordered 260,000,000 lb. Twelve kinds are issued, among which strawberry now preponderates.
A daily cheese ration of 3 oz. had meant, up to the beginning of this year, the purchase of 167,000,000 and between one and two million pounds of chesses are being sent every week to the Army in France alone. With the exception of Dutch cheese, this is chiefly obtained from the Board of Trade’s purchases in Canada and New Zealand.
The supply of the soldier’s tea, of which the daily ration is just over half an ounce, is remarkable for the extent to which the army has been called on to take the business of the tea merchant into its own hands. Originally the Contracts branch bought tea blended and packed ready for issue to the troops. At a later stage the tea was brought where it lay, collected by Army transport and blended under a centralized system. This arrangement prevailed until recently, when a further rise in freights induced the War Office to import their own tea, placing orders directly with the growers in India and Ceylon and arranging for transport with the Admiralty. In this way the War Office has assumed the whole of the function of the tea-merchant. More than half a million pounds of tea are sent weekly to the Army in France. Before the War Office became its own tea merchant, single orders for a million pounds were no uncommon thing. The demand has grown with the growth of the Armies and the War Office has modified or change4d its methods as developments required.”
The amounts that are quoted are gigantic but these reports did keep the public informed what was required whilst they felt the ‘tight belt’ of rationing.
The jam supplied was not always welcomed, as the Australian poet Edward Dyson so well portrayed in his humorous poem “Jam (A Hymn of Hate).”
“FEEDING THE ARMY
THE SOLDIER’S JAM, CHEESE AND TEA.
Although at present housekeepers at home are finding some difficulty in getting supplies of such articles of food as bacon. Butter, margarine, sugar and tea, they will have no other feeling but one of pleasure that our soldiers at the front have never fared better that they are doing to-day.
From an authoritative source we learn that the soldier’s rations made up of about two dozen articles of food. Meat and bread are the chief items but the are supplemented by cheese, bacon, jam and many other things not leaving out rum, the value of which as an antidote to damp and cold, first learned by our experience in the Crimea, has been confirmed by three winters in France and Flanders.
In supplying the Armies with food whole industries have had to reorganised, business methods drastically revised, and the resources of the Empire mobilized in a remarkable manner. In the case of jam the manufactures, who are working in cooperation, are supplied by sugar by the Government and the Government also pays the actual cost of packing and delivery to and from the works and of the fruit. The fruit id bought by the manufactures jointly after mutual agreement as to the prices offered. The manufacturer realizes his profit on a fixed rate paid per 100lb.
TWO MILLION POUNDS OF JAM A WEEK.
Packing has been a difficulty. At first tins were used, but tin is scare and the jam is now packed in ‘papier mache’ containers. Nearly two million ponds of jam are sent to France every week and in April this year the contacts department of the War Office had ordered 260,000,000 lb. Twelve kinds are issued, among which strawberry now preponderates.
A daily cheese ration of 3 oz. had meant, up to the beginning of this year, the purchase of 167,000,000 and between one and two million pounds of chesses are being sent every week to the Army in France alone. With the exception of Dutch cheese, this is chiefly obtained from the Board of Trade’s purchases in Canada and New Zealand.
The supply of the soldier’s tea, of which the daily ration is just over half an ounce, is remarkable for the extent to which the army has been called on to take the business of the tea merchant into its own hands. Originally the Contracts branch bought tea blended and packed ready for issue to the troops. At a later stage the tea was brought where it lay, collected by Army transport and blended under a centralized system. This arrangement prevailed until recently, when a further rise in freights induced the War Office to import their own tea, placing orders directly with the growers in India and Ceylon and arranging for transport with the Admiralty. In this way the War Office has assumed the whole of the function of the tea-merchant. More than half a million pounds of tea are sent weekly to the Army in France. Before the War Office became its own tea merchant, single orders for a million pounds were no uncommon thing. The demand has grown with the growth of the Armies and the War Office has modified or change4d its methods as developments required.”
Friday, October 24, 2008
Boy Scouts Collect Cigarettes and Tobacco.
I cannot imagine this happening today but back in 1914, the Boy Scouts took great pride in collecting cigarettes and tobacco for the troops.
This ‘politically incorrect’ article comes from the Eastbourne Gazette dated 28th October 1914.
SMOKES FOR THE ROYAL SUSSEX REGIMENT AT THE FRONT
The 4th Eastbourne Scout Troop of Boy Scouts under Scoutmaster Read, have continued their collection of cigarettes and tobacco for our men at the Front with great success. In response to their appeal in the main streets of the town, upwards of 9,000 cigarettes and nearly 200 ounces of tobacco have been contributed by the public. This parcel (which will, no doubt be very welcome to our brave soldiers fighting in Northern France) is being sent direct to the Royal Sussex Regiment which has already done such magnificent service.
The Eastbourne Scouts are very anxious to keep up the supply of the ever welcomed weed to the county regiment. Contributions of tobacco and cigarettes will be most thankfully received and forwarded through the Assistant County Commissioner from the headquarters, Town Hall, Eastbourne.
This ‘politically incorrect’ article comes from the Eastbourne Gazette dated 28th October 1914.
SMOKES FOR THE ROYAL SUSSEX REGIMENT AT THE FRONT
The 4th Eastbourne Scout Troop of Boy Scouts under Scoutmaster Read, have continued their collection of cigarettes and tobacco for our men at the Front with great success. In response to their appeal in the main streets of the town, upwards of 9,000 cigarettes and nearly 200 ounces of tobacco have been contributed by the public. This parcel (which will, no doubt be very welcome to our brave soldiers fighting in Northern France) is being sent direct to the Royal Sussex Regiment which has already done such magnificent service.
The Eastbourne Scouts are very anxious to keep up the supply of the ever welcomed weed to the county regiment. Contributions of tobacco and cigarettes will be most thankfully received and forwarded through the Assistant County Commissioner from the headquarters, Town Hall, Eastbourne.
Thursday, October 23, 2008
A Story of the Kaiser
This is a gem of a story from The Eastbourne Gazette on 19th August 1914.
Apparently the Great War can be put down to an Eastbourne toy maker giving in to the spoilt demands of a young Kaiser. If only he had made the Kaiser wait perhaps he would have leant his lesson and not have been so intent on global domination!
I love all the stories that came out at the beginning of the war.
A Story of the Kaiser
Speaking at a meeting of Sunday school scholars and workers on Sunday afternoon at South Street Church. Mr. George Brown related an incident which ought to interest all Eastbournians at the present time.
Some years ago a young Prince (a cousin of the Kaiser) was spending some time at the Cavendish Hotel. Some friends in Eastbourne had presented the Prince with a beautiful toy yacht which he highly treasured. While the young Prince was staying there his cousin the Kaiser came over to stay a few weeks in Eastbourne. When he saw his cousin’s yacht he became jealous and wanted to fight him for it. This came to the ears of those who had presented it to the Prince, they decided for the sake of peace, to give the Kaiser a similar yacht made by the same man and they had arranged to make the presentation on a certain Monday afternoon. The young Kaiser heard all about it and insisted on his tutor taking him on the previous Sunday afternoon to see the new yacht. On arriving at the maker’s house, the tutor explained that the Kaiser gave them no peace; he was too impatient to wait until Monday afternoon and he must have the yacht at once. They gave it to him so there was no public presentation.
Mr. Brown pointed out the moral; that what was in the boy was also in him when he became a man. As a boy the Kaiser was jealous and impatient and would fight for toys that did not belong to him. He was manifesting the same spirit today.
Apparently the Great War can be put down to an Eastbourne toy maker giving in to the spoilt demands of a young Kaiser. If only he had made the Kaiser wait perhaps he would have leant his lesson and not have been so intent on global domination!
I love all the stories that came out at the beginning of the war.
A Story of the Kaiser
Speaking at a meeting of Sunday school scholars and workers on Sunday afternoon at South Street Church. Mr. George Brown related an incident which ought to interest all Eastbournians at the present time.
Some years ago a young Prince (a cousin of the Kaiser) was spending some time at the Cavendish Hotel. Some friends in Eastbourne had presented the Prince with a beautiful toy yacht which he highly treasured. While the young Prince was staying there his cousin the Kaiser came over to stay a few weeks in Eastbourne. When he saw his cousin’s yacht he became jealous and wanted to fight him for it. This came to the ears of those who had presented it to the Prince, they decided for the sake of peace, to give the Kaiser a similar yacht made by the same man and they had arranged to make the presentation on a certain Monday afternoon. The young Kaiser heard all about it and insisted on his tutor taking him on the previous Sunday afternoon to see the new yacht. On arriving at the maker’s house, the tutor explained that the Kaiser gave them no peace; he was too impatient to wait until Monday afternoon and he must have the yacht at once. They gave it to him so there was no public presentation.
Mr. Brown pointed out the moral; that what was in the boy was also in him when he became a man. As a boy the Kaiser was jealous and impatient and would fight for toys that did not belong to him. He was manifesting the same spirit today.
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Syrup in place of sugar.
With sugar in short supply and rationing taking effect novel ways of creating your own sweeteners were published. The Times published this letter which gives full instruction of how to cook your own sweet syrup from white beetroot.
It all seems rather long winded and time consuming today but in the middle of the war any method of beating rationing was welcomed.
SYRUP IN PLACE OF SUGAR
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES
Sir, - Those who have had any difficulty in keeping down to the prescribed amount of sugar or in getting that amount and have some garden space beyond what they need for potatoes, may be glad to dispense with sugar altogether till the end of the war. This they can do by making in their kitchen a strong aqueous solution of sucrose or syrup from white beetroot. Such a syrup, rightly made, has scarcely any taste but the sweet taste and can be used not only for cooking but even where the sense of taste is daintier, with tea and coffee.
Here is a recipe for the right making on a convenient scale which any cook can follow and needing only the use of ordinary kitchen appliances. First, grow or, for immediate use, get your beetroot. Any of the well-known seedsmen will supply seeds of the best sugar variety. Cut off most of the green top and wash without breaking the outer skin. Boil for an hour, more or less, according to the size of the beet. Remove the rest of the top and the outer skin, which now comes off easily, with the fingers. Weigh out 1 lb. Scrape each beet in turn with vegetable grater. The heap thus formed must be handled lightly so that little strips may remain separate. Heat 2 ½ pints of water to boiling in a saucepan about 6ins across and drop the beet into it. Heat again and boil gently for half an hour. Keep the cove on guarding against frothing over. Filter the contents through a jelly-bag and squeezes them, collecting the syrup in a bowl. Repeat the operation; or take 2 lb of beet and 4 pints of water. The 5 pints of week syrup got thus will be acid and must be made alkaline. A thimble full of bicarbonate of potash dropped into the syrup effects this. Return the liquid to the saucepan and heat to boiling. At first there is frothing. When this is past boil strongly with the saucepan uncovered till half the water is boiled away. Take the temperature with a cook’s thermometer and let it rise to 217 deg Fahr. It is then to be poured while still hot into a wine bottle which has been heated with water or in the oven to a similar temperature. Cork well. The syrup is then sterilized and will keep. A dessert spoonful is equal to a lump of sugar.
Yours faithfully,
A. Vernon Harcourt.
St. Clare,
Ryde,
Isle of Wight.
It all seems rather long winded and time consuming today but in the middle of the war any method of beating rationing was welcomed.
SYRUP IN PLACE OF SUGAR
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES
Sir, - Those who have had any difficulty in keeping down to the prescribed amount of sugar or in getting that amount and have some garden space beyond what they need for potatoes, may be glad to dispense with sugar altogether till the end of the war. This they can do by making in their kitchen a strong aqueous solution of sucrose or syrup from white beetroot. Such a syrup, rightly made, has scarcely any taste but the sweet taste and can be used not only for cooking but even where the sense of taste is daintier, with tea and coffee.
Here is a recipe for the right making on a convenient scale which any cook can follow and needing only the use of ordinary kitchen appliances. First, grow or, for immediate use, get your beetroot. Any of the well-known seedsmen will supply seeds of the best sugar variety. Cut off most of the green top and wash without breaking the outer skin. Boil for an hour, more or less, according to the size of the beet. Remove the rest of the top and the outer skin, which now comes off easily, with the fingers. Weigh out 1 lb. Scrape each beet in turn with vegetable grater. The heap thus formed must be handled lightly so that little strips may remain separate. Heat 2 ½ pints of water to boiling in a saucepan about 6ins across and drop the beet into it. Heat again and boil gently for half an hour. Keep the cove on guarding against frothing over. Filter the contents through a jelly-bag and squeezes them, collecting the syrup in a bowl. Repeat the operation; or take 2 lb of beet and 4 pints of water. The 5 pints of week syrup got thus will be acid and must be made alkaline. A thimble full of bicarbonate of potash dropped into the syrup effects this. Return the liquid to the saucepan and heat to boiling. At first there is frothing. When this is past boil strongly with the saucepan uncovered till half the water is boiled away. Take the temperature with a cook’s thermometer and let it rise to 217 deg Fahr. It is then to be poured while still hot into a wine bottle which has been heated with water or in the oven to a similar temperature. Cork well. The syrup is then sterilized and will keep. A dessert spoonful is equal to a lump of sugar.
Yours faithfully,
A. Vernon Harcourt.
St. Clare,
Ryde,
Isle of Wight.
Monday, October 20, 2008
Food Shortages?
This little article appeared in the Eastbourne Gazette on 19th August 1914. It is interesting how the newspaper prepared the public for the food shortages ahead.
To say that supplies from Germany and Denmark were cut off is perhaps an understatement as England was now at war with them!
FOOD SUPPLIES – FACTS FOR EASTBOURNE HOUSEHOLDERS
Supplies of butter and eggs from Germany, Russia and Denmark are cut off. In ordinary times 100,000 cwts. Of butter is imported every week from Denmark and Russia. Supplies of New Zealand and Australian butter begin in October and end in May.
Russia, a large sugar producing country can send nothing at present. The German and Austrian beet used by English refiners is no longer available. The chief sources of sugar supply now available are Cuba and the British West Indies; but the United States have the first call on Cuba. Probably the English refiners have already sold more sugar than they can manufacture with the stock of beet available.
To say that supplies from Germany and Denmark were cut off is perhaps an understatement as England was now at war with them!
FOOD SUPPLIES – FACTS FOR EASTBOURNE HOUSEHOLDERS
Supplies of butter and eggs from Germany, Russia and Denmark are cut off. In ordinary times 100,000 cwts. Of butter is imported every week from Denmark and Russia. Supplies of New Zealand and Australian butter begin in October and end in May.
Russia, a large sugar producing country can send nothing at present. The German and Austrian beet used by English refiners is no longer available. The chief sources of sugar supply now available are Cuba and the British West Indies; but the United States have the first call on Cuba. Probably the English refiners have already sold more sugar than they can manufacture with the stock of beet available.
Friday, October 17, 2008
To The British Army by R. Gorell Barnes
This stirring poem was published in The Times on 22nd August 1914.
Recalling England’s military glories of the past and encouraging the Nation to stand 'Neath the banner of the Right’.
TO THE BRITISH ARMY
British soldiers, once again
Ye are marshalled on the plain
By our fathers' blood renowned;
Ye are treading sacred ground!
Hearken, hearken as ye pass
To the voices in the grass!
On the Belgian soil it waves
O'er the lone, unnumbered graves
Where immortal warriors lie,
Devotees of Liberty,
Nobly fallen in the fray.
Ramillies and Malplaquet,
Quatre Bras and Waterloo
Yield their legions up to you!
British soldiers, ye will fight
'Neath the banner of the Right:
Ye are holding in your hands
Liberty of little lands,
Seeking nothing, giving all,
Answering to Honour's call,
Stay Aggression's grim attack!
Hurl the impious menace back!
Devotees of Liberty,
Ride ye now to victory!
We in England watch and pray: --
Ramillies and Malplaquet,
Quatre Bras and Waterloo
Yield their soul to strengthen you!
R. GORELL BARNES
(Ronald Gorell Barnes, 3rd Baron Gorell (16 April 1884–2 May 1963), was a British peer, Liberal politician and newspaper editor.
Gorell was the second son of John Gorell Barnes, 1st Baron Gorell, a Judge of the High Court of Justice. He succeeded as third Baron Gorell in 1917 after his elder brother was killed in the First World War and took his seat on the Liberal benches in the House of Lords. In July 1921 he was appointed Under-Secretary of State for Air in the coalition government of David Lloyd George, an office he held until the government fell in October 1922. He was later Editor of the Cornhill Magazine from 1933 to 1939. He was co-President of the Detection Club with Agatha Christie from 1956 to 1963.)
Recalling England’s military glories of the past and encouraging the Nation to stand 'Neath the banner of the Right’.
TO THE BRITISH ARMY
British soldiers, once again
Ye are marshalled on the plain
By our fathers' blood renowned;
Ye are treading sacred ground!
Hearken, hearken as ye pass
To the voices in the grass!
On the Belgian soil it waves
O'er the lone, unnumbered graves
Where immortal warriors lie,
Devotees of Liberty,
Nobly fallen in the fray.
Ramillies and Malplaquet,
Quatre Bras and Waterloo
Yield their legions up to you!
British soldiers, ye will fight
'Neath the banner of the Right:
Ye are holding in your hands
Liberty of little lands,
Seeking nothing, giving all,
Answering to Honour's call,
Stay Aggression's grim attack!
Hurl the impious menace back!
Devotees of Liberty,
Ride ye now to victory!
We in England watch and pray: --
Ramillies and Malplaquet,
Quatre Bras and Waterloo
Yield their soul to strengthen you!
R. GORELL BARNES
(Ronald Gorell Barnes, 3rd Baron Gorell (16 April 1884–2 May 1963), was a British peer, Liberal politician and newspaper editor.
Gorell was the second son of John Gorell Barnes, 1st Baron Gorell, a Judge of the High Court of Justice. He succeeded as third Baron Gorell in 1917 after his elder brother was killed in the First World War and took his seat on the Liberal benches in the House of Lords. In July 1921 he was appointed Under-Secretary of State for Air in the coalition government of David Lloyd George, an office he held until the government fell in October 1922. He was later Editor of the Cornhill Magazine from 1933 to 1939. He was co-President of the Detection Club with Agatha Christie from 1956 to 1963.)
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Body Armour
The subject of Body Armour raised many a discussion during the Great War. This letter in The Times dated 17th July 1916, is an excellent example of the debate going on at the time.
"BODY ARMOUR
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES
Sir, - I am glad you have taken up the subject of body armour. Thousands of lives have already been wasted, as the steel helmets have proven, could have been saved. The French led the way with steel helmets; let us hope we shall lead the way with steel body shields. I believe experiments have been made with specially prepared metal for this purpose and that there is one at present on sale at all leading stores which the colonial troops are using. I have some letters from soldiers testifying that this shield saved their lives. Surely the Government might supply these shields free to our troops. At present it appears relatives purchase these and send them to the boys at the front. If this matter is ventilated in your columns it is not too much to be hoped that the authorities may be adjured to furnish adequate supplies of reliable body armour.
Yours truly,
Edward J. Formby.
Kensington-Place Mansions,
De Vere Gardens
Hyde Park
London
July 14th."
"BODY ARMOUR
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES
Sir, - I am glad you have taken up the subject of body armour. Thousands of lives have already been wasted, as the steel helmets have proven, could have been saved. The French led the way with steel helmets; let us hope we shall lead the way with steel body shields. I believe experiments have been made with specially prepared metal for this purpose and that there is one at present on sale at all leading stores which the colonial troops are using. I have some letters from soldiers testifying that this shield saved their lives. Surely the Government might supply these shields free to our troops. At present it appears relatives purchase these and send them to the boys at the front. If this matter is ventilated in your columns it is not too much to be hoped that the authorities may be adjured to furnish adequate supplies of reliable body armour.
Yours truly,
Edward J. Formby.
Kensington-Place Mansions,
De Vere Gardens
Hyde Park
London
July 14th."
Friday, October 10, 2008
'Human Armadillos' - Body Armour in the War.
This great article from The Great War in a Different Light come originally from the “War Budget” in June 1917.
Under the title “'Human Armadillos' Back to the Middle Ages in More Ways than One” it looked at the speculation surrounding body armour.
'Human Armadillos' - Back to the Middle Ages in More Ways than One.
“This reminds one of a visit to the Tower of London," said a member of a shopping expedition, struck by the displays of breastplates, helmets, knee-caps and masks in the West End windows. History, it seems, will never get tired of repeating itself, though scarce a minute passes that is not the dawn of a new idea. It has often been noted that one has but to keep a garment long enough to find it again at the apex of fashion. So with the shield and buckler of Assyria, Greece, and Rome.
Luckily for the newspapers history's repetitions are rarely wearisome but often crowded with variety. The body armour of the middle ages was a rich man's luxury, to be as carefully preserved as the family plate.
The sartorial blacksmith's bill for a reliable suit of chain mail ran into four figures — at the present value of £1 sterling — and had to be ordered "for delivery before the next war." Prior to the invention of chain armour it was no uncommon experience for a knight, besieged in his iron skin, to die of suffocation, after resisting all the prods of his enemy's tin openers. This season's wear is far less expensive than a Paris gown and almost as light.
Bullets Miss Their Billets
Statistics of the present war prove the great importance of providing armour for soldiers — especially helmets. Fourteen per cent, of the wounds received by trench fighters are head wounds. When heads are protected by helmets very few such wounds are said to be fatal. The helmet often turns aside bullets that strike it, and even when they do penetrate the steel head covering the force of the missile is often retarded to such an extent that only a superficial scalp wound is inflicted.
A European firm has developed a fabric which, although of light weight, is said to astonish everybody who has had the opportunity of testing its impenetrability. It is being made into shields of two types: First, the single shield, which is worn in front and serves to protect the wearer from bullets; second, double shield for protecting the chest and back. With regard to the latter type it has been found in the present war that some protection for the soldier's back is necessary because of the high percentage of casualties arising from flying shrapnel.
A pad of fabric is incased in an outer covering of khaki fabric, the former being a booklike section with several plaits to the inch, chemically treated after it is made up and the whole inserted within the outer jacket and sewed up. A test was made on a shield placed against an empty carbide tin with a view to demonstrating the ability of the fabric to protect airplane tanks and other equipment. Although two bullets struck the shield on the tin, neither of these succeeded in penetrating the shield. The only damage to the tin was in the form of slight indentations.
Defeating the Rifle
A military observer who had the opportunity of examining two bullets that were fired from a service revolver at eight paces, with a bullet velocity of 750 feet per second, at one of the fabric shields, said that the lead bullets plainly showed the fabric markings on their mashed noses, demonstrating that the fabric was the last thing struck by them before they -came to a halt in the folds of the shield.
Another firm has patented and is manufacturing a steel-lined officer's jacket which suggests the old coats of mail though in outward appearance it resembles an ordinary close-fitting coat.
Human Armadillos
It is claimed that the jacket will resist a .45-calibre revolver bullet at sixty feet.
The garments are fitted by experts and the highly-tempered steel with which they are lined is said to be so evenly distributed that the slight additional weight is not apparent to the wearer. This jacket is designed to afford protection against shrapnel fragments.
Armoured Ambulances
A bullet-proof stretcher has also been invented. This consists of a long metal shield, arched at the top, and high enough to enable the attendants to stand upright within. At the front end the shield is rounded and sloped backward to deflect bullets, and two "eyes" are provided, through which the attendants can see to direct their course and locate the wounded.
The whole contrivance is mounted on four wheels, and is provided with arrangements for supporting a stretcher. With this contrivance two hospital attendants can make their way in safety over a field exposed to rifle fire, and, after rolling the shield over a wounded soldier, he is placed on the stretcher, when a retreat is made to a place of safety.
Only after careful consideration and experiments, resulting in conclusive proof that armour could and would save the lives of soldiers was such protection re-introduced into the French army.
Thin armour such as is worn cannot deflect or stop a bullet coming at high velocity from a modern rifle, but it has been proved by statistics carefully gathered that many wounds are more or less superficial, or that the bullets were almost spent when they reached the soldiers. Besides, wounds from shrapnel are not always direct or of great force, but frequently reach the soldiers at an angle and with diminished power.
Utility of the Helmet
It has been found also that since some of the French soldiers have been wearing metal helmets and other metal protection the number of wounded has increased while the number killed has diminished. This would tend to show that these attempts at protecting soldiers have saved many lives, and that if the vital spots are covered a soldier's chance of surviving is increased manifold, perhaps 50 to 75 per cent.
There are on record many cases in which a bullet has been turned aside by a metal helmet to such a degree as to inflict only a slight scalp wound, and without the arresting power of the metal the soldier would certainly have been killed.
A rifle bullet coming at full speed often passes through a leg, arm or body, and it is not expected that the armour worn will stop such bullets, but it has been proved that the armour does often aid in decreasing the speed of a slow bullet or bit of shrapnel, either preventing a mortal wound or stopping the projectile altogether.
Results of experiments have been reported to the French Academies of Medicine and Surgery, with the result that every effort is now being made to equip all of the artillery and infantry with as much of this armour as can be manufactured in the rush of munitions making.
The armour to be adopted by the United States War Department is said to be a modification of the medieval suits of mail, and is described as being composed of small rectangular steel plates fastened together at their corners by steel rings. This forms a flexible sheet which, in turn, is riveted to strong khaki cloth. In the centre of this steel sheet or mail is a hole through which the soldier passes his head. The sheet of armour is long enough entirely to cover the front and back of the trunk of the body. To protect the neck and head a "collarette" of the same construction is worn. With the addition of a helmet the modern warrior, excepting the arms, legs and face, is made bullet-proof to a very high degree.
Under the title “'Human Armadillos' Back to the Middle Ages in More Ways than One” it looked at the speculation surrounding body armour.
'Human Armadillos' - Back to the Middle Ages in More Ways than One.
“This reminds one of a visit to the Tower of London," said a member of a shopping expedition, struck by the displays of breastplates, helmets, knee-caps and masks in the West End windows. History, it seems, will never get tired of repeating itself, though scarce a minute passes that is not the dawn of a new idea. It has often been noted that one has but to keep a garment long enough to find it again at the apex of fashion. So with the shield and buckler of Assyria, Greece, and Rome.
Luckily for the newspapers history's repetitions are rarely wearisome but often crowded with variety. The body armour of the middle ages was a rich man's luxury, to be as carefully preserved as the family plate.
The sartorial blacksmith's bill for a reliable suit of chain mail ran into four figures — at the present value of £1 sterling — and had to be ordered "for delivery before the next war." Prior to the invention of chain armour it was no uncommon experience for a knight, besieged in his iron skin, to die of suffocation, after resisting all the prods of his enemy's tin openers. This season's wear is far less expensive than a Paris gown and almost as light.
Bullets Miss Their Billets
Statistics of the present war prove the great importance of providing armour for soldiers — especially helmets. Fourteen per cent, of the wounds received by trench fighters are head wounds. When heads are protected by helmets very few such wounds are said to be fatal. The helmet often turns aside bullets that strike it, and even when they do penetrate the steel head covering the force of the missile is often retarded to such an extent that only a superficial scalp wound is inflicted.
A European firm has developed a fabric which, although of light weight, is said to astonish everybody who has had the opportunity of testing its impenetrability. It is being made into shields of two types: First, the single shield, which is worn in front and serves to protect the wearer from bullets; second, double shield for protecting the chest and back. With regard to the latter type it has been found in the present war that some protection for the soldier's back is necessary because of the high percentage of casualties arising from flying shrapnel.
A pad of fabric is incased in an outer covering of khaki fabric, the former being a booklike section with several plaits to the inch, chemically treated after it is made up and the whole inserted within the outer jacket and sewed up. A test was made on a shield placed against an empty carbide tin with a view to demonstrating the ability of the fabric to protect airplane tanks and other equipment. Although two bullets struck the shield on the tin, neither of these succeeded in penetrating the shield. The only damage to the tin was in the form of slight indentations.
Defeating the Rifle
A military observer who had the opportunity of examining two bullets that were fired from a service revolver at eight paces, with a bullet velocity of 750 feet per second, at one of the fabric shields, said that the lead bullets plainly showed the fabric markings on their mashed noses, demonstrating that the fabric was the last thing struck by them before they -came to a halt in the folds of the shield.
Another firm has patented and is manufacturing a steel-lined officer's jacket which suggests the old coats of mail though in outward appearance it resembles an ordinary close-fitting coat.
Human Armadillos
It is claimed that the jacket will resist a .45-calibre revolver bullet at sixty feet.
The garments are fitted by experts and the highly-tempered steel with which they are lined is said to be so evenly distributed that the slight additional weight is not apparent to the wearer. This jacket is designed to afford protection against shrapnel fragments.
Armoured Ambulances
A bullet-proof stretcher has also been invented. This consists of a long metal shield, arched at the top, and high enough to enable the attendants to stand upright within. At the front end the shield is rounded and sloped backward to deflect bullets, and two "eyes" are provided, through which the attendants can see to direct their course and locate the wounded.
The whole contrivance is mounted on four wheels, and is provided with arrangements for supporting a stretcher. With this contrivance two hospital attendants can make their way in safety over a field exposed to rifle fire, and, after rolling the shield over a wounded soldier, he is placed on the stretcher, when a retreat is made to a place of safety.
Only after careful consideration and experiments, resulting in conclusive proof that armour could and would save the lives of soldiers was such protection re-introduced into the French army.
Thin armour such as is worn cannot deflect or stop a bullet coming at high velocity from a modern rifle, but it has been proved by statistics carefully gathered that many wounds are more or less superficial, or that the bullets were almost spent when they reached the soldiers. Besides, wounds from shrapnel are not always direct or of great force, but frequently reach the soldiers at an angle and with diminished power.
Utility of the Helmet
It has been found also that since some of the French soldiers have been wearing metal helmets and other metal protection the number of wounded has increased while the number killed has diminished. This would tend to show that these attempts at protecting soldiers have saved many lives, and that if the vital spots are covered a soldier's chance of surviving is increased manifold, perhaps 50 to 75 per cent.
There are on record many cases in which a bullet has been turned aside by a metal helmet to such a degree as to inflict only a slight scalp wound, and without the arresting power of the metal the soldier would certainly have been killed.
A rifle bullet coming at full speed often passes through a leg, arm or body, and it is not expected that the armour worn will stop such bullets, but it has been proved that the armour does often aid in decreasing the speed of a slow bullet or bit of shrapnel, either preventing a mortal wound or stopping the projectile altogether.
Results of experiments have been reported to the French Academies of Medicine and Surgery, with the result that every effort is now being made to equip all of the artillery and infantry with as much of this armour as can be manufactured in the rush of munitions making.
The armour to be adopted by the United States War Department is said to be a modification of the medieval suits of mail, and is described as being composed of small rectangular steel plates fastened together at their corners by steel rings. This forms a flexible sheet which, in turn, is riveted to strong khaki cloth. In the centre of this steel sheet or mail is a hole through which the soldier passes his head. The sheet of armour is long enough entirely to cover the front and back of the trunk of the body. To protect the neck and head a "collarette" of the same construction is worn. With the addition of a helmet the modern warrior, excepting the arms, legs and face, is made bullet-proof to a very high degree.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Sergeant Horace Railton Hayward, 9th Light Horse Regiment.
Private Horace Hayward enlisted on the 25th September 1914, aged 21.
He came from Surrey Hills, Victoria and was a carpenter by trade.
He embarked from Melbourne on 11th February 1915 on HMAT Karroo.
He was wounded on 27th August 1915 at Gallipoli, Hill 60.
Whilst convalescing in England, Private Hayward was involved in a dramatic rescue attempt of a drowning boy in London. This report was published in the times 28th August 1916.
He was wounded on 27th August 1915 at Gallipoli, Hill 60.
Whilst convalescing in England, Private Hayward was involved in a dramatic rescue attempt of a drowning boy in London. This report was published in the times 28th August 1916.
ANZAC’S ATTEMPT TO RESCUE A DROWNING BOY
An inquest was held a Lambeth yesterday on the body of a boy, aged seven, son of Fritz Bennesch, a German waiter interned in the Isle of Man.
Private Horace Railton Hayward of the Australian Imperial Forces, who stated that he was wounded at Gallipoli, said he was returning from Edmonton Hospital on top of a motor-omnibus when he saw the boy struggling in the Thames just by St.Thomas Hospital steps. He jumped off, ran to the Embankment, threw off his coat and dived in. The boy meanwhile had sunk and he went down after him but there was a strong tide and undercurrent and he had great difficulty in coming up to the surface himself. Eventually he swam to the middle of the river, where he was picked up by a boat.
The jury returned a verdict of “Accidental death” and added a rider praising Hayward’s gallantry and requesting the Coroner to bring it to the notice of the Royal Humane Society.
Sergeant Hayward survived the war and returned to Australia on 16th January 1919.
He died on 3rd August 1954 aged 59 and is buried in Elmore Cemetery, Victoria.
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
The Reapers by Lauchlan Maclean Watt.
This poem was published in July 1916 just after the first day of the Somme offensive.
It gives a romantic view of death but I especially like the last four lines of the poem. It is easy to forget the deeds and the sacrifices made whilst “Walking life’s noisy ways.”
The Reapers
Red are the hands of the Reapers,
And the harvest is so white!
Red are the feet that are treading
The threshing floors by night:
And, on the young brows, dripping
AS with the dew of morn,
Deep rose-red are the woundings,
Like scars of a crown of thorns.
Tired, so many, with reaping, -
Tired with treading the grain,
Still they lie, in their sleeping,
Low in the Valley of Pain, -
Never again to be quaffing,
The joy of life, like wine;
Never again to laughing
In Youth’s glad hour divine.
Birds shall sing in the branches,
Children dance by the shore;
But they who share the red reaping
Shall come back never more.
Let whoso can forget them,
Walking life’s noisy ways;
We who have looked on the Reapers
Go quietly, all our days.
Lauchlan Maclean Watt C.F.
France 1916.
(He was born on 24th October 1867, and was educated at Edinburgh University, where he graduated M.A. in 1894 and B.D. in 1897. Licensed by the Presbytery of Dalkeith on 12th May 1896, he was ordained, on 7th April 1897, to Turriff, translated, on 12th February 1901, to Alloa and Tullibody, translated, on 16th February 1911, to St. Stephen's, Edinburgh, and translated, on 26th June 1923, to Glasgow Cathedral.
He retired, on 15th May 1934, to Kinloch, Lochcarron, Ross-shire.
He received the D.D. of Edinburgh University in 1920, and the LL.D. of Glasgow University in 1933. Dr. MacLean Watt was Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland in 1933.
During the First World War, he served as chaplain with the 7th Division. H.M. Government sent him as Commissioner to the United States and Canada in 1918. In his own Church, Dr. MacLean Watt held many important posts, all of which he filled with distinction. He wrote many books in prose and verse,)
It gives a romantic view of death but I especially like the last four lines of the poem. It is easy to forget the deeds and the sacrifices made whilst “Walking life’s noisy ways.”
The Reapers
Red are the hands of the Reapers,
And the harvest is so white!
Red are the feet that are treading
The threshing floors by night:
And, on the young brows, dripping
AS with the dew of morn,
Deep rose-red are the woundings,
Like scars of a crown of thorns.
Tired, so many, with reaping, -
Tired with treading the grain,
Still they lie, in their sleeping,
Low in the Valley of Pain, -
Never again to be quaffing,
The joy of life, like wine;
Never again to laughing
In Youth’s glad hour divine.
Birds shall sing in the branches,
Children dance by the shore;
But they who share the red reaping
Shall come back never more.
Let whoso can forget them,
Walking life’s noisy ways;
We who have looked on the Reapers
Go quietly, all our days.
Lauchlan Maclean Watt C.F.
France 1916.
(He was born on 24th October 1867, and was educated at Edinburgh University, where he graduated M.A. in 1894 and B.D. in 1897. Licensed by the Presbytery of Dalkeith on 12th May 1896, he was ordained, on 7th April 1897, to Turriff, translated, on 12th February 1901, to Alloa and Tullibody, translated, on 16th February 1911, to St. Stephen's, Edinburgh, and translated, on 26th June 1923, to Glasgow Cathedral.
He retired, on 15th May 1934, to Kinloch, Lochcarron, Ross-shire.
He received the D.D. of Edinburgh University in 1920, and the LL.D. of Glasgow University in 1933. Dr. MacLean Watt was Moderator of the General Assembly of the Church of Scotland in 1933.
During the First World War, he served as chaplain with the 7th Division. H.M. Government sent him as Commissioner to the United States and Canada in 1918. In his own Church, Dr. MacLean Watt held many important posts, all of which he filled with distinction. He wrote many books in prose and verse,)
Monday, October 06, 2008
Patriotic Music and Miss Buckman
This article appeared in the Eastbourne Gazette on 19th August 1914.
I wonder what the famous Belgian airs were that the audience stood and sang ‘heartily’ with?
Miss Buckman was indeed a very famous opera singer and would have been a treat for any audience.
“Patriotic Music and Pictures
At Devonshire Park
Shown in the afternoon in conjunction with the vaudeville entertainment in the Pavilion and in the evening in the second part of the programme in the Floral Hall, the pictures of the French Fleet are arousing considerable interest this week. This film is a remarkably fine one and the evening is exhibited with full orchestral accompaniment.
Last Saturday evening there was a crowded audience in the Floral Hall when the great British Army and Navy film “For The King” was shown. During the evening the orchestra played the national airs of Belgium, Russia, France and England. The audience standing and singing heartily. The “Franco-British” march and the fantasias “Life on board the Dreadnought” were included in the programme. Miss Rosina Buckman (the New Zealand soprano) concluded a very successful week’s engagement, receiving double encores after each of her songs.”
Rosina Buckman (March 16, 1881-December 30, 1948) was a New Zealand soprano, and a professor of singing at the Royal Academy of Music. She was born in Blenheim, and studied in England at the Birmingham School of Music. She then returned to New Zealand, toured Australia and debut in London with La boheme at Covent Garden. She continued performing into the 1920s, and recorded prolifically.
For more info on miss Buckman:
http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Whi021Kota-t1-g1-t3.html
http://www.ourregion.co.nz/theregion.php?category=history&subcategory=Our+People&articleID=189
I wonder what the famous Belgian airs were that the audience stood and sang ‘heartily’ with?
Miss Buckman was indeed a very famous opera singer and would have been a treat for any audience.
“Patriotic Music and Pictures
At Devonshire Park
Shown in the afternoon in conjunction with the vaudeville entertainment in the Pavilion and in the evening in the second part of the programme in the Floral Hall, the pictures of the French Fleet are arousing considerable interest this week. This film is a remarkably fine one and the evening is exhibited with full orchestral accompaniment.
Last Saturday evening there was a crowded audience in the Floral Hall when the great British Army and Navy film “For The King” was shown. During the evening the orchestra played the national airs of Belgium, Russia, France and England. The audience standing and singing heartily. The “Franco-British” march and the fantasias “Life on board the Dreadnought” were included in the programme. Miss Rosina Buckman (the New Zealand soprano) concluded a very successful week’s engagement, receiving double encores after each of her songs.”
Rosina Buckman (March 16, 1881-December 30, 1948) was a New Zealand soprano, and a professor of singing at the Royal Academy of Music. She was born in Blenheim, and studied in England at the Birmingham School of Music. She then returned to New Zealand, toured Australia and debut in London with La boheme at Covent Garden. She continued performing into the 1920s, and recorded prolifically.
For more info on miss Buckman:
http://www.nzetc.org/tm/scholarly/tei-Whi021Kota-t1-g1-t3.html
http://www.ourregion.co.nz/theregion.php?category=history&subcategory=Our+People&articleID=189
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