Faculteit Letteren & Wijsbegeerte

Flore Costenoble

The Great War Poets Entrenched

A thematic and stylistic approach of the poetry of Edmund

Blunden, Leslie Coulson, Julian Grenfell, Robert Graves, Ivor

Gurney, Wilfred Owen, Isaac Rosenberg, Charles Sorley and

Siegfried Sassoon.

Masterproef voorgedragen tot het behalen van de graad van

Master in de taal-en letterkunde

Nederlands-Engels

2013

Promotor: Professor dr. Marysa Demoor

Vakgroep Engelse Letterkunde

Word of thanks

In the first place I want to thank Professor Dr. M.

Demoor, for being my supervisor for both my Bachelor

and Master Paper. She helped me choose my subject

and guided me until January 2013. Due to personal

difficulties and some sad events I felt unable to

continue my research. So all communication with

Professor Demoor stopped. I want to apologise for

this. When I contacted her for some practical

information, she immediately offered help. I also want

to thank my family for supporting me during the

whole period, especially during the first months of this

year when I almost lost courage. A last word of

gratitude goes to my fellow students. We kept each

other focused and put fresh heart into each other

while doing research in the Faculty Library and

sometimes while writing our master papers in each

other's company.

Dedicated to my grandfather,

Jean Costenoble (27 May 1928 - 5 January 2013)

Table of contents

Introduction 1

Chapter 1 The nine poets of my choice 4

1 Social Class 4

2 Enlistment 5

3 War experiences 6

4 What about the dead 7

5 What about the living 7

Chapter 2 In the trenches - a thematic approach 9

1 Let's teach the Germans a lesson 9

1.1 Declaration of war 9

1.2 Propaganda 10

1.3 Let's join the army 11

2 In the trenches 12

3 Twenty-four trench themes in four groups 12

3.1 The trench timetable 12

Theme 1 Stand to 12

Theme 2 Sentry duty 13

Theme 3 Fatigues 13

Theme 4 Dead-beat 14

Theme 5 Boredom 15

3.2 Deprivation as a result of having to live in the trenches 16

Theme 6 Lice 16

Theme 7 Rats 17

Theme 8 Rain, mud and trench foot 18

Theme 9 Cold 20

Theme 10 Food and water 21

Theme 11 Disease 23

Theme 12 Odour nuisance 23

3.3 Physical injury as a result of warfare 24

Theme 13 Wounded 24

Theme 14 Gas 26

Theme 15 Taken by surprise 27

3.4 Emotional and psychological pressure 28

Theme 16 Tension 28

Theme 17 Shell shock 30

Theme 18 S.I.W. 31

Theme 19 Suicide 32

Theme 20 Going over the top 32

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Theme 21 Hell 33

Theme 22 Death 34

4 Important battles 36

4.1 The Battle of the Somme 36

4.2 The Third Battle of Ypres 37

5 What happened with the bodies of the dead soldiers 37

Chapter 3 The language of Sassoon, Owen & Rosenberg 39

1 The Georgian Tradition 39

2 Sassoon 40

3 Owen 46

4 Rosenberg 48

Chapter 4 Art and the Great War 51

1 Artists go to war 53

2 Artists get a privileged position as their skills might serve the war 53

3 Themes of art and poetry rarely overlap 54

4 In search of the fourth dimension 56

4.1 David Bomberg - how to paint a poem 56

4.2 Wyndham Lewis - 'You must not miss a war if one is going' 57

4.3 John Nash's trenches 57

4.4 Paul Nash - squeezing life out of landscapes and trees 57

4.5 Christopher Nevinson - from modernism to realism and film

narration

59

4.6 William Orpen - from dazzling light to painting the smell 60

4.7 William Roberts - disruption and chaos 61

Conclusion 63

Bibliography 69

Attachment 1 Poems

Attachment 2 The trench system

Attachment 3 In the trenches (a thematic approach) photos and paintings

Attachment 4 Art and the Great War (illustrations)

1

Introduction

My fascination for the Great War may have started subconsciously on the hand of my

father standing in front of a white Portland gravestone of a soldier who was killed in the

Third Battle of Ypres, the Battle of Passchendaele, perhaps aged 21, my age today. My

parents often took me and my brothers with them on their bicycle trips in 'Flanders

Fields' and occasionally we stopped for a short visit to one of the hundreds of British

War Cemeteries1. I remember the respectfulness of those visits and later my father told

me of his dismay at the carnage. But we also visited the German War Cemetery of

Vladslo. There are pictures of us with The Grieving Parents, the statue of Käthe Kollwitz,

in the background. The atmosphere was the same: quiet, a subdued mood.

The Great War mesmerized my grandfather, Jean Costenoble. He told me to

distinguish between patriotic poets like Rupert Brooke and John McCrae and the

'interesting' ones, like Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, whose poems could be seen

as an indictment of war. My grandfather died while I was working on this Master Paper.

However, I will never forget how he - during one of my last visits to him - recited some

lines from The One-Legged Man: "And he'd come home again to find it more/Desirable

than ever it was before."

In my Bachelor Paper, A Close Analysis of Siegfried Sassoon's Poetic Phases , my

aim was to discover a link between Sassoon's life and his poetry. I wanted to make clear

that while he developed as a person, his poetry - evidently - followed that evolution.

Sassoon was interesting in the sense that he had already been a poet before the First

World War and he had joined the army as a patriot. During the war though, his opinion

changed. He became opposed to the needless shedding of blood. In his open letter, A

Soldier's Declaration, read to the House of Commons on 30 July 1917 and published in

the London Times the following day, he made clear how he was "against the political

errors and insincerities for which the fighting men are being sacrificed." After the war

Sassoon found it difficult to put the past behind him. Rediscovering his Christian belief

and becoming a Catholic were vital and were reflected in the poetry he wrote.

Choosing the war-poets as the subject for my Master Paper seemed a logical step

as the poems which Sassoon had written between 1916 and 1919, in which he became

more critical and bitter, had captivated me most. But the subject appeared so extensive

that I needed to define it first.

1 The website The Great War in Flanders Fields lists 173 British Military Cemeteries in West Flanders alone.

2

The poets for my research have to be male and British, they need to be

combatant soldiers on the Western Front with experience in the trenches, and they

should represent different social classes. The poems have to reflect the war poets’

trench and battle experiences. The outcome of this selection was nine poets: Edmund

Blunden, Leslie Coulson, Robert Graves, Julian Grenfell, Ivor Gurney, Wilfred Owen,

Isaac Rosenberg, Charles Sorley and Siegfried Sassoon. While my work progressed I

realised that within the scope of this paper I would have to be very selective when

reciting from the poems of these nine poets and that I could only find few examples

from Coulson, Grenfell, Gurney and Sorley so that these will only be used occasionally.

The trench poetry will be approached from two major perspectives. First I want

to analyse the poems thematically, alongside memoirs from soldiers who fought on the

Western Front and work from visual artists. The trenches in Flanders and France are

still notorious for their utmost primitive conditions, where soldiers had to try to

survive, exhausted from protracted hardships, under constant threat of enemy fire.

Conditions which were made worse by cold, rain, mud, rats, lice and a lack of fresh

water and food. Do we get a false impression of reality? I certainly want to avoid this. In

the first part I hope to give a more complete representation of these experiences and at

the same time I want to refer to the poems placing them in the context of this thematic

approach. The exact methodology is explained in the introduction to the second

chapter, In the Trenches - A thematic Approach.

As a second objective I want to research what the impact of these war

experiences has been on the poetry of Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon and Isaac

Rosenberg. I have chosen these three poets for two reasons: they serve my objective

best and they are my favourites. Grenfell, for example, in a letter to his mother on 24

October 1914, proclaimed ‘I adore war. It is like a big picnic without the objectlessness

of a picnic. I’ve never been so well or so happy’ (Holt 28). That point of view is reflected

in his poem Into Battle. It proves that only some poets changed mentally and

stylistically because of their experiences. Siegfried Sassoon will be at the core of this

chapter, logically continuing the research I did for my Bachelor Paper. Sassoon survived

the war. He wrote his memoirs in a series of seven books, starting with Memoirs of a Fox

Hunting Man (1928) and closing with Siegfried's Journey (1946). From these memoirs it

is only too obvious that the turbulent war years had changed him, his convictions,

beliefs and ideas. The impact of the Great War must have changed other poets' language

and style too. In order to work out how I want to consider two ideas. First, when a

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person discovers language he can express his thoughts, but what happens to that

person when he is immersed in a world where words fail him? Second, we take most

conventions for granted and we respect them because they are part of our recognisable

world. We work during the day and sleep at night, we treat our things with loving care,

we mourn for our dead and bury them respectfully. But what happens if these

conventions get mixed up? The same goes for style. People are more than they might

realise bound by invisible rules concerning style. How did the war-poets approach this

problem? How did their style change and which stylistic devices did they have to

discover to be able to express what they sensed?

The visual artists were faced with the same stylistic problems. In the last chapter

I look at the solutions David Bomberg, Wyndham Lewis, John Nash and his brother Paul,

Christopher Nevinson, William Orpen and William Roberts came up with in their trench

and battlefield paintings.

Concerning photos taken at the front I decided to include these in an attachment

as the photographers were much less than the poets and visual artists driven by artistic

motives. Nevertheless I have added some interesting remarks in the attachment that

complements chapter two.

There are four attachments. You can find all the poems which I have used for this

paper in attachment one. In the second attachment the trench system is briefly

explained with drawings of the strategic set up of the trench system and a cross section

of the first line trench. These drawings are further concretised with pictures and

comment. Attachment three provides the reader with photos and reproductions of

paintings, illustrating the themes from two interesting perspectives. The attachment

also includes the conclusions I reached after my research on the topic of photography at

the front. Knowing that censorship was an important obstacle for all those operating in

front line positions, I wanted to discover its influence on the photos taken in the

trenches and on the battlefield. The fourth attachment contains the images of all the

paintings discussed in the chapter Art and the Great War.

Next year, on 4 August 2014, it will be exactly one hundred years ago that

German troops invaded Belgium whereupon England declared war on Germany. The

world would never be the same again.

4

Chapter one

The nine poets of my choice

In The Penguin Book of First World War Poetry two hundred and fifty poems of sixty-

eight poets move the reader "through the war's different stages from conscription

through to its aftermath" (Walter - back flap). An anthology which aims to cover all

aspects of the Great War, with all the major poets writing in English, irrespective of

their age and sex, might - on a rough estimate - represent the work of two hundred

poets. Of these I selected nine: Blunden, Coulsen, Graves, Grenfell, Gurney, Owen,

Rosenberg, Sassoon and Sorley. They are all male and have ‘first-hand experience of

battle’, assigning them 'the only 'truthful' perception of war' (Puissant 16). The poems

should have been written between 1914 and 19182. All selected poets are British and all

of them had their war experiences on the Western Front. In this first chapter I will focus

on the poets' social backgrounds, how old they were when they enlisted and why they

did, the war experiences they had, whether they survived the war and if they did, how

they got over the trauma.

1 Social Class

During the First World War the British Army still 'structured itself around class (and) in

many ways (...) recreated the British class system in miniature: aristocratic generals,

middle-class officers and a working class rank and file' (Robb 84).

It is often forgotten that 'the majority of poets were officers, while the war was

mainly fought by privates' (Puissant 17). The trench experiences of officers and plain

soldiers were different, so it is important to define which social class the poets belong

to.

If George Robb is correct, the military ranks the poets had should reflect the

social class they belonged to. Highest in rank were the Captains Grenfell, Sorley and

Graves; these were followed by the Lieutenants Blunden, Owen and Sassoon; next there

was Sergeant Coulson and finally Private Gurney and Private Rosenberg.

The ranks the poets had more or less fit the social classes they belonged to. The

'Honourable' Julian Grenfell was of noble birth. He was brought up with a nanny, a

2 There are just a few exceptions to prove an important point.

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governess, goes to prep school and later to Eton and Oxford. Graves' mother had the

name 'von Ranke', which means 'from German nobility'. He attended prep school, was

later sent to the public school Charterhouse and studied at Oxford. Sassoon's father

came from a wealthy Jewish banking family and his mother was an artistic woman. The

family lived in Kent, the rich South. Robert Graves went to Sevenoaks prep school and

later to Clare College Cambridge. Blunden's father was a headmaster and his mother is

descended from a distinguished family with aristocratic connections. He first attended a

grammar school and then Christ's Hospital Horsham. Sorley's father was a professor of

Moral Philosophy at Cambridge. He was sent to a public school and later got a

scholarship for Marlborough. Owen's father belonged to the lower-middle class, but his

mother had 'pretentions of gentility and aristocratic snobbery (and she) burned with an

almost stifling love and ambition for her oldest son' (Holt 196). Wilfred Owen studied at

Reading University. Coulson's father was an outfitter's warehouseman and the family

lived in the poorer parts of London, where they had to share a house with another

family. But his father was a freelance columnist and Leslie Coulson himself became

assistant editor of The Morning Post. Gurney's father was a simple tailor. Ivor Gurney's

major trump was his talent for music and he got a scholarship for the Royal College of

Music. Finally there was Isaac Rosenberg, the son of Jewish immigrants. His father was a

pedlar in Leeds before the family moved to a slum district in Bristol and later to the

East End in London. In conclusion: Grenfell belonged to the upper class, Graves,

Sassoon, Blunden and Sorley to the upper-middle class, Owen to the middle-class,

Coulson to the lower-middle class, and Gurney and Rosenberg to the lower class.

Puissant notes that 'it is necessary to take into account the possibility of ordinary

soldiers having totally different reactions to some of the issues of war' (Puissant 17). I

will prove later that for soldier poets from the lower class there were no taboos. They

could write about anything, also about vermin, about rats and lice.

2 Enlistment

Until early 1916, Britain was the only European country not to have conscription. With

slogans like ‘Your country needs you’, Lord Kitchener - assigned as Minister of

Propaganda - convinced two million soldiers to enlist in the first months of the war.

(Roberts 24) Apart from Grenfell and Sassoon who were older, the poets in this essay

joined the army aged between 18 and 25 years. Coulson, Graves, Grenfell, Gurney and

6

Sorley enlisted in the first months after the war broke out. Siegfried Sassoon - at that

time still a real patriot - even enlisted the day before the war was declared, on 3 August

1914. Blunden, Owen and Rosenberg enlisted between late 1915 and the beginning of

1916. What drove these young men to enlist?

Looking at why those poets wanted to enlist, gives us a better understanding of

morals and values at the beginning of the 20th century. Undertones of War, Edmund

Blunden's autobiography covering the war years 1914-18, opens with 'I was not

anxious to go,' referring to the fact that he 'was under orders for France' (Blunden 3).

Blunden had waited long, until August 1915, before he joined the Royal Sussex

Regiment in Chichester. Already in 1914 some of his friends had been killed, still he

must have 'felt (…) a superior force coming from deep within' (Audoin-Rouzeau 95),

much like Leslie Coulson who 'felt honour-bound to follow the line he was helping to

promote' (Holt 129). Robert Graves belonged to the group of Georgian poets, for him it

was a matter of honour towards his superiors to enlist. Ivor Gurney 'enlisted out of

patriotism and a feeling that the disciplined life of a soldier might stabilize him' (Holt

103). Gurney had a very poor health and suffered from depressions and he thought war

would bring some discipline to his unstructured life. For Sassoon, who – like Graves -

was a member of the group of Georgian poets, but was living beyond his means and had

debts, war came as a salvation. For Grenfell, things were different: Grenfell already was

a soldier in the regular army. At the outbreak of the war, he wanted to step into politics.

Unfortunately he had no choice since he was a professional soldier. Owen and

Rosenberg were not really eager to take service. Owen found his own life too important

to sacrifice for his country, but in October 1915 he writes to his mother that he 'most

intensely wants to fight' (Owen, 78). Rosenberg decided impulsively to join the army, at

the outbreak of the war he had been against war on principle.

3 War experiences

The eleven poets I selected all fought on the Western Front and their experiences are

vital for my research. Grenfell fought in the Second Battle of Ypres (22 April 1915- 25

September 1915); Graves and Sassoon in the Battle of Festubert (15 May 1915 – 25 May

1915); Graves and Sorley in the Battle of Loos (25 September 1915- 13 October 1915);

Blunden, Coulson, Graves, Rosenberg and Sassoon in the Battle of the Somme (1 July

1916 – 18 November 1916); Coulson in the Battle of Guillemont (3 September 1916 – 6

7

September 1916); and Blunden in the Third Battle of Ypres (31 January 1917 – 10

November 1917).

Dividing the war into battles might give the impression that the periods in between

those battles were safe and quiet. Not so! Soldiers experienced constant threat and

danger. Occasionally the trenches were shelled, whizz bangs - German 77mm field guns

- threatened the support lines, mortar teams attacked, machine-guns sometimes 'swept

the parapet' and fixed rifles operated regularly. But 'the real killer was the sniper'

(Winter 90). Not every soldier had to go through the same hardships as 'in some parts

(of the trenches) it was rather quiet throughout most of the year, (while) other parts of

the trenches saw continuous shelling' (Puissant 136). 'Anywhere near Ypres was always

bad. If a man served near Festubert after 1915, however, the war passed him by'

(Winter 82). Edmund Blunden saw some of the worst fighting at the front.

4 What about the dead?

Coulson was shot in the chest and died of his wounds the next day; Grenfell got a

splinter from a shell in his skull on 12 May 1915 and died a fortnight later; Owen died

one week before the armistice: he was hit by a shell while he was leading his men

across the river Sambre; Rosenberg was killed when he was on patrol on 1 April 1918;

and Sorley was hit in the head in the aftermath of the Battle of Loos and died instantly

on 13 October 1915.

Five of the nine poets I selected did not survive the war. This is an extremely

heavy toll, as on average 'only' one out of ten British soldiers who were mobilised, were

killed in action. As mentioned before, World War One was not one lasting battle and

some parts of the front were quiet. Moreover, 'of the 20,000 in a division, only 2,000

were in the front line at any moment (...) Few men fought for long periods. Noakes3

reckoned a typical month as four days in the front line, four in support, eight in reserve

and the remainder in rest' (Winter 81).

5 What about the living?

Losing your life in battle one week before the official end of the war, like Wilfred Owen,

is of course utterly sad. But Susanne Christine Puissant notices appropriately that 'one

3 F.E. Noakes in The Distant Drum: A Memoir of a Guardsman in the Great War .

8

must separate oneself from a world which is dead, illusory, unmanageable,

contradictory, or absurd. But unless one commits suicide, one must also accept it'

(Puissant 32).

Those who did survive the Great War needed a way to cope with their trauma. In

this respect it is remarkable how different the perception of peace was . For Ivor

Gurney the war did not come to an end, neither in his mind nor in the war poetry he

kept writing in the mental institutions he was consigned to. He had already been

depressed and mentally ill before the war. Gurney even contemplated suicide but he

failed in his attempt, he never recovered mentally and died in December 1937, aged 47.

Robert Graves also struggled mentally to get over his war trauma. But he did not want

to forget what he had witnessed. According to Puissant this becomes clear when

reading ‘The Gnat’. 'The poem compares Graves’s mental state to the sensation of an

insect boring into the poet’s brain. Thus, rather than wishing to be cured, Graves

desired a safe refuge in which he could live with his haunting images …' (Puissant 141).

For Sassoon and Blunden coming to terms with their past was a slow process too,

but they were not haunted by their traumatic experiences. Siegfried Sassoon had an

uneasy conscience and writing his long series of memoirs - the last gaps were filled

with Siegfried's Journey published in 1946 - had a purging effect. Rediscovering

Christianity, converting to Catholicism in 1957, also helped him. Edmund Blunden, who

carried on as a war poet and author 'continued to dwell on the theme which stayed with

him vividly and painfully throughout his prolific literary life' (Holt 142).

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Chapter two

In the trenches - a thematic approach

In this second chapter I want to form an image - and therefore a better understanding -

of the circumstances in which the soldiers spent time at the front and the impact the

battles in which they fought, had.

To achieve this I approached the poems thematically. In fact I started from the

two major poets - Owen and Sassoon - read all the poems they had written during their

military service, and selected the themes which related to trench life and warfare,

especially those which affected them as soldiers and human beings. The result was

twenty-two themes classified under four groups: the trench time table (stand to, sentry

duty, fatigue, dead-beat and boredom); deprivation (lice, rats, mud, cold, food, disease

and stench); injury (wounded, gas and snipers); tension (being shelled, shell shock,

S.I.W., suicide, going over the top, hell and death).

These themes form the backbone of this chapter. Each theme can be approached

in three different ways. First epical, through the testimonies of soldiers and facts from

historians, then poetical, when the war poets speak and finally plastic, portrayed by

painters and photographers. Ideally, each theme should be divided in three parts, but in

practice paintings and photos cannot always be found. Ideally again, the nine poets

should be represented equally, but in practice I found four references for Grenfell, five

for Blunden, Coulson and Sorley, nine for Rosenberg, ten for Gurney, seventeen for

Graves, twenty-seven for Owen and sixty-seven for Sassoon. Given the aim of my Master

Paper it is not possible to use all the thematic references from the poems.

Before moving to the thematic approach I want to give a short outline of the

events, from the declaration of war until the soldiers entrenched themselves.

1 Let's teach the Germans a lesson

1.1 Declaration of war

It is remarkable how only a few days before Britain declared war on Germany, most

people were firmly against starting a war (Roberts 10). Why and how did the British

citizens’ attitude change from unresponsive to patriotic? After all, the British Isles were

least directly threatened by the Central Powers (Audoin-Rouzeau 97).

10

First of all the Great War took place in a static world in which the values

appeared more stable than the world we find ourselves in now (Fussell 21).

A second reason can be found in the British education system: people loved to

read the so-called ‘fighting verse’ and professors were keen to teach the subject. A

highly respected poet like Henry Newbolt promoted 'ideas of warrior heroism through

his poetry' (Roberts 11). Thomas Hardy, another popular writer at that time, linked God

with the English conquests. His republications of fighting verse were a great success

(Roberts 10). The fighting verse promoted the message that 'it is glorious and

honourable to die for one’s country.' Since most of the officers were chosen from

schools that promoted these ideas, patriotic sentiment was never far away in the

regiments.

A direct cause however, to declare war was Germany’s invasion of poor little

Belgium. Edward Grey, the British Foreign Secretary, had presented Germany an

ultimatum to make an end to their invasion of Belgium, but Germany ignored the

warning. Furthermore there were stories about German soldiers torturing and killing

innocent Belgian citizens, these stories filled the British citizens with anger and dismay.

Britain declared war on Germany on 4 August 1914. (Roberts 19)

1.2 Propaganda

Sir Edward Grey and Lloyd George set up The Secret War Propaganda Bureau at the end

of August 1914. Charles Masterman was appointed head of this department. It was his

idea 'to encourage sympathetic, famous and influential writers to use their pens in

support of the war effort and to spread the 'British viewpoint' (…)' (Roberts 27).

Poets like Siegfried Sassoon, Thomas Hardy, Rudyard Kipling and Julian Grenfell

wrote poetry in favour of the war. In fact poets and versifiers who were against the war

in the first months and even years were rare exceptions. Wilfred Owen, Isaac

Rosenberg, Edward Thomas, Rupert Brooke and Charles Sorley belonged to the group of

poets who lacked enthusiasm for the war (Roberts 27).

Besides the messages of popular poets, Lord Kitchener – Minister of War - made

an appeal to all unmarried men between the ages of 18 and 35. For this purpose he used

posters with guilt-inducing and brutal messages - 'Daddy, what did you do in the Great

War?' Another way to catch their attention was to declare the message of enlistment in

football stadiums. He convinced comrades to enlist together in a so-called 'pall

battalions'. These battalions were very popular amongst young men. Newspapers,

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speeches and music hall songs also proclaimed the need to fight (Roberts 24). Although

it seems like propaganda was 'deliberately imposed by governmental and military

authorities (like censorship),' recruiters quickly realised that such mass advertising had

a negative effect and devaluated the act of enlisting (Audoin-Rouzeau 99). Campaigns

thus quickly became a lot more discrete. A great deal of the young men were eager to

defend the nation. The image of propaganda as an upsurge from below in which all

civilians and combatants play their crucial part, is something we need to take into

account.

1.3 Let's join the army

The nine soldier poets in this essay - as already mentioned before - mainly enlisted out

of patriotic reasons or because they felt it was 'the right thing to do.' A sense of national

sentiment arose 'in the hearts of millions of Europeans' when war was declared

(Audoin-Rouzeau 96). Patriotism was consequently often the main reason for other

soldiers to enlist. Another reason was that many boys saw going to war as a challenge. A

lot of men therefore 'enlisted out of a spirit of adventure' (Puissant 121). The

government did not have a hard job convincing them to 'channel their natural desires

into fighting for England.' A third reason for enlisting was that thousands of men were

actually bored and 'had no idea what they wanted to do with their lives' (Roberts 24).

Rural poverty was very common before the war started. We should not forget

that army conditions were good for many of those who joined the army. 'Many men

welcomed the war as an escape from unfavourable circumstances' (Holt 28). Rosenberg

for instance partly joined the army because half of his soldier pay could directly be

given to his poor mother at home. Depending on which social class the soldier belonged

to before the war, conditions in the trenches were better or worse for each soldier

individually. 'For many working-class privates, war was the first time they received

three meals a day, a rum ration and the money to buy cigarettes' (Puissant 125).

Before early 1916, Britain was the only European country that waged war with

an army of either professionals or volunteers (Audoin-Rouzeau 98). On the side of the

Central Powers The Von Schieffen plan, i.e. 'Paris for lunch, dinner at St. Petersburg'

turned out to be a huge misconception. The Allied forces also had completely misjudged

the war by thinking it would be over by Christmas and 'at the beginning of 1916,

England needed to train its first Conscript Army' (Fussell 12).

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2 In the trenches4

A misconception the British army made during the Battle of the Somme was that they

thought the German trenches looked exactly like theirs, i.e. 'amateur, wet, cold, smelly,

and thoroughly squalid' (Fussell 49). For the British, trenches were only a temporary

place of residence, while the Germans put a lot more effort in building theirs. The

German trenches 'were deep, clean, elaborate, and sometimes even comfortable'

(Fussell 50). The Battle of the Somme started with bombing the German lines for a

whole week not expecting the German dugouts to be thirty feet deep. Because the

German dugouts were so well constructed, the Germans could hide there more or less in

safety during the bombardment.

The French trenches were even worse than the English. If the English had to take over a

French trench the first thing they did was a cleanup.

3 Twenty-four trench themes in four groups

The corresponding photos and paintings can be found in attachment three.

3.1 The trench timetable

Theme one: Stand to

Day started with stand to half an hour before dawn. The soldiers waited with rifles on

the firestep. If the enemy attacked they would do so at daybreak, but the soldiers felt

rather safe because they were convinced that the Germans knew about their routine.

After stand to they got their breakfast. The soldiers felt relieved as the tension of the

night was over.

Soldiers hated stand to, as they were woken very early by the sentry with the last

night shift. In Stand-To: Good Friday Morning (Siegfried Sassoon) the soldier on night

duty feels sympathy for the snoring soldiers in the dugout as he hesitates in front of the

door before shouting 'Stand to!'. The tranquillity of this moment just before dawn is

completely different from the atmosphere in Counter-Attack, another poem by Sassoon,

when the officer shouts 'Stand-to and man the fire-step!' On he went... / Gasping and

bawling, 'Fire-step ... counter-attack!', as here panic and energy dominate in the officer's

'gasping' and 'bawling'. This is the spirit all soldiers should have when the 'stand to'

order is given. They should stand to like the hero in Robert Graves's The Assault Heroic, 4 In attachment 1 the British trench system is explained

13

who -completely exhausted, the only survivor after violent combat- feels how the

adrenaline is pumped into his blood just before he shouts 'Attack! Stand to! Stand to!'

Graves is ironic though. The order shouted by superiors to their men was too often

irresponsible, even criminal.

Photo: soldiers in the front line during stand to (ill . 1). Painting: John Nash, Oppy

Wood (ill. 2).

Theme two: Sentry duty

After breakfast the officers inspected their troops and then the platoon sergeant divided

the jobs between the soldiers. 'A third of the men would be on sentry duty with relief

every two hours and spaced out every twenty-five yards A third would go back for

rations. The remaining third would rest' (Winter 1979, 85).

Owen with The Sentry and Sassoon with Trench Duty both wrote about the

subject. Sentry duty, of course, had to be continued at night and Owen and Sassoon

chose the night as the setting for their poems. Sassoon's poem comes up to the reader's

expectations: the sentry is still sleepy, the trenches are muddy, 'rumbling and bumping'

comes from a heavy bombardment in the distance, there is activity in no-man's-land, a

sniper strikes and a soldier gets killed. Tension and tragedy come together in the last

line: 'I'm wide-awake; and some chap's dead.' Sassoon has taken the position of the

sentry, whereas Owen has not. In The Sentry Lieutenant Wilfred Owen is in his dugout

while outside hell breaks loose with heavy rain and enemy fire and shelling. The sentry

appears in the dugout, blinded by an explosion. He is taken away on a stretcher and

another takes his place. Sentries on duty cannot run for safety, they have to be alert,

whatever happens.

Photo: a soldier on sentry duty while his comrades are sleeping (ill. 3). Painting:

John Nash, Spring in the Trenches (ill. 4).

Theme three: Fatigues

According to W. Griffith, in his memoirs Up to Mametz, there were always odd jobs to do

like 'digging, filling sandbags, carrying ammunition, scheming against water,

strengthening the wire and resetting duckboards' (Winter 1979, 85). The day ended

with stand to at dusk and the ration parties, now less visible for the enemy, bringing

fresh provisions. 'Night was the most active time of the twenty-four hours, for war

reversed the normal time sequence (...) Night was silence and isolation and fear'

14

(Winter 1979, 86). At night sentries had to be alert, repairs on exposed parts of the

trenches had to be executed, transports of food, ammunition, wire, wooden beams, etc.

had to be organised and night patrols in no-man's-land were set up to spy on possible

activities of the enemy.

Siegfried Sassoon puts the subject into words, the soldiers are tired, time passes

slowly and the bad weather and the mud hinder them: 'There, with much work to do

before the light, / We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might / Along the trench

...' (The Redeemer). Sassoon wrote more poems about fatigues. The weather is always

bad and danger is always lurking. In A Working Party the soldier

was busy at his job

Of piling bags along the parapet,

He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet

And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold,

when a shell hits him and he dies; in Prelude: The Troops Sassoon expresses a mixture of

respect and pity for the soldiers 'who have beaten down / The stale despair of night'

realising that they are working themselves to death at night and still have to be ready to

face the enemy during the day; and Wirers ends with the tragedy of one of the wirers

getting severely wounded and being carried away - Sassoon ends this poem ironically:

'the front-line wire's been safely mended.' For the safety of those in the trenches the

soldiers in fatigue parties have to risk their lives.

Photo: Australian soldiers repairing trenches (ill. 5). Painting: William Roberts, A

Shell Dump (ill. 6).

Theme four: Dead-beat

In a letter to his mother Wilfred Owen wrote in late July 1916: 'I am most frightfully

hard-worked. It is one of the worst weeks I ever had in the army. Work begins at 6.30.

and never finishes all day. I am deaf with the 7 hours continual shooting, and stomach-

achy with the fasting from food (…) I have granted one of my men 4½ days leave, but

myself I cannot award' (Owen 401-402). The letter proves how exhausted Owen must

have been. Owen, like Sassoon, was known to be a courageous officer, straining every

nerve. A lot of soldiers were shattered because of the work they had to do: they had to

fight, do sentry duty and carry out repairs during the night. Whenever they got time to

rest they were kept awake by rats, lice, shooting and shelling.

15

In the poems of Graves (The Assault Heroic), Owen (Exposure & Dulce et Decorum

Est), Rosenberg (Returning We Hear the Larks) and Sassoon (Prelude: The Troops) the

soldiers are 'tired out', 'wearied', 'drunk with fatigue', 'dragging (their) anguished

limbs' or 'turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky / Haggard and hopeless'. Still none of

these soldiers give in to being worn out, shattered, dead-beat. The soldier who is 'tired

out' by 'five sleepless days and nights' will 'climb a steep buttress' and blow his horn

crying out 'Stand to!' (The Assault Heroic); 'Wearied we keep awake' (Exposure); in spite

of being completely exhausted all the soldiers - except one - succeed in fitting their gas

masks in time (Dulce et Decorum Est); the soldiers who are 'dragging (their) anguished

limbs' are wide awake when they hear the larks, 'But hark! joy - joy - strange joy. / Lo!

heights of night ringing with unseen larks'; and the 'haggard and hopeless' soldiers still

'cling to life with stubborn hands' (Prelude: The Troops). The poets were soldiers

themselves, brave ones, with respect for their comrades. Brave 'soldiers never die'.

Photo: sleeping British soldiers in their dugout (ill. 7). Painting: Christopher

Nevinson, Dog Tired (ill. 8).

Theme five: Boredom

Since most of the activity took place at night, the soldiers could get bored during the

day. The soldiers limited their time to 'reading, writing letters at home, playing cards or

snatching an extra hour of sleep' (Roberts 12). Owen also bears witness of the boredom

that could be felt amongst his men: 'The men do practically nothing all day but write

letters' (Owen 312). Some soldiers kept pets. Lots of cats had been left behind by

refugees and they could easily be domesticated. The abundance of cornflowers and

poppies attracted insects, which in their turn attracted birds. The activities of these

birds provided the soldiers' lives some variety (Wiinter 105)

As for the boredom I only found one reference. Julian Grenfell (Into Battle)

glorifies the soldier's courage and sees him as someone who cannot wait to go 'into

battle'. The 'dreary doubtful waiting hours' might refer to the hours before the battle,

knowing that zero hour is approaching. Then 'dreary' means bleak and sad and

'doubtful' refers to the soldier's fear of death. This interpretation does not fit the rest of

the poem, which is one long song of praise. So the 'dreary doubtful waiting hours'

should be seen as hours of boredom, always uncertain whether the battle, which the

soldier longs for, will finally start.

16

Photo: soldiers playing cards while other are watching (ill. 9). I could not find an

appropriate painting.

3.2 Deprivation as a result of having to live in the trenches

Even if the soldiers wanted to look after their personal hygiene, in the trenches it was

almost impossible. Only some frontlines had standpipes, which could be used as a

shower, and when a tin tub was sent to the front, forty soldiers had to get washed in the

two gallons of water it contained (Winter 104). If they did not have to - and certainly

during the winter - soldiers would not take off their clothes for a week. 'MacBride in

late 1915 once spent forty-two days without taking his tunic or boots off' (Winter 1979,

83). So the soldiers learned to live with the filth and vermin that surrounded them.

'There were beetles, ants, caterpillars, greenfly and mosquitoes which could blow up a

man's face to the size of a football, but lice were the greatest tribulation' (Winter 1979,

96).

Wilfred Owen bears witness of the vermin that pesters him, in his case it is

mosquitoes and flies. He writes in a letter to his brother Colin on 12 August 1916: 'I

slept out in the open last night, but was so pestered with gnats and all the flies of

Beelzebub that shall in future prefer the snores of my brother officers. (Brother is too

good a word for ‘em, though, dear boy.) These snores indeed saw through my dreams,

but the insects make me as it were a mangy dog, with a hot nose – itching to the roots of

my teeth' (Owen 267). The flies laid their eggs in the manure of the horses. In an

infantry division there were 6,000 horses, which produced forty tons of manure every

day. The noise these flies produced could even drown out an approaching shell (Winter

1979, 98).

Theme six: Lice

The lice were called 'mickies', 'cooties’ or 'chats'. Harry Patch, one of the Las t Tommies

pretends that between June and the end of December 1917 he had not had one single

bath. When he was 'into rest' in Rouen all his clothes were burnt, as this was the only

way to get rid of the lice. 'Those little devils,' he said, 'who’d laid their eggs in the seam,

you’d turn your vest inside out and tomorrow you’d be just as lousy as you were today. '

Delousing therefore became part of the daily routine (Hamilton 15). Soldiers were

sitting together, 'chatting', that is removing the lice from their clothes, either by hand,

or by running a candle up the seam, of course taking care not to burn the stitches. The

17

lice could survive for ten days on one blood meal and they laid five eggs every day. The

eggs resisted even the coldest winters. The itching the biting lice caused was terrible.

Harry Patch: 'For each lousy louse, he had his own particular bite, and his own itch and

he’d drive you mad. We used to turn our vests inside out to get a little relief. ' The lice

could also bring about trench fever, an illness that caused high temperatures and severe

pain. The only cure was to get the soldiers out of the trenches for twelve weeks.

Sassoon dissociates himself from the lice in Suicide in the Trenches, the one who

has lice is only a simple soldier. Sassoon was not a simple soldier, he was a Lieutenant.

Rosenberg on the other hand, who was a Private, is the soldier with lice in The

Immortals and is part of the group of soldiers in 'Louse Hunting'. Being lice-ridden was

no taboo for Rosenberg. With both poems he sketches an accurate, lively and

humoristic picture of one of the most miserable curses the soldiers had to deal with.

I used to think the Devil hid

In women’s smiles and wine’s carouse.

I called him Satan, Beelzebub.

But now I call him, dirty louse.

(The Immortals).

Rosenberg also criticises his superiors, as the shirt one of the soldiers tears from his

body, would be rejected by God, but not by the lice: 'For a shirt verminously busy / (...)

/ Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice' (Louse Hunting).

Photo: Australian soldier who is carefully inspecting his shirt for lice, killing

them between his finger nails (ill. 10). I could not find an appropriate painting.

Theme seven: Rats

The second much hated vermin was the ‘dugout rat’. Harry Patch describes them as

'rats as big as cats.' They caused constant trouble. They ate the soldiers' food and

gnawed through anything, bringing about a lot of damage to the trenches and dugouts.

'They were big and black, with wet, muddy hair. They fed largely on the flesh of

cadavers and on dead horses' (Fussell 54). Barraclough, another of the Last Tommies,

remembers hanging up his haversack in the dugout where he spent the night and 'next

morning, when we got up, well there were no sign. The bags had been pulled down and

chewed up to nothing. You just go down to sleep for a minute and you feel these rats

running up and down you. It were awful.' It was a matter of taste whether you preferred

18

the lice or the rats. Corporal Frank Sears, for instance, testifies how he 'would select a

hundred rats in preference to two cooties' (Fox).

Again Sassoon distances himself from vermin - like he did with the lice - by

taking a sentry, a subaltern, soldiers in a working party or soldiers in the trenches as

the protagonists for the poems in which rats appear. Sassoon's rats are 'nimble'

(Golgotha & A Working Party), they 'squeak' and 'scamper' (A Subaltern) and 'gnaw'

(Dreamers), all neutral words to describe the behaviour of rats. Still we know that rats

were hated thoroughly by the soldiers.

Robert Graves is in the trenches with the rats in Limbo, a beautiful poem which

draws a glaring contrast between the 'horror', 'mud' and 'sleeplessness', the 'bursting

shells', the 'blood' and 'hideous cries' of a week in the trenches and the 'sunny cornland

(...) where tall white horses / Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses' when the

soldiers go into rest. The rats make the horror worse, as 'They dart, and scuffle with

their horrid fare', the 'horrid fare' being chunks of flesh of the soldiers who were killed.

Isaac Rosenberg almost befriends the rat in Break of Day in the Trenches, after it

has 'touched this English hand'. The rat might be 'queer', 'sardonic' and 'droll',

Rosenberg is not at all inclined to do the rat any harm. English and German soldiers

alike are visited by the same rats. The rats see no difference, because there is no

difference.

Photo: German soldiers showing the rats they caught and killed (ill. 11). I could

not find an appropriate painting.

Theme eight: Rain, mud and trench foot

Whereas soldiers fighting at the fronts of Gallipoli and Mesopotamia suffered from

suffocating heat and midges, the Western Front had to deal with rain. Although the

English were used to rain, in Flanders the rain turned everything into a pool of mud and

it was difficult to keep clothes and food dry (Puissant 146). Corporal Frank Sears

attested how they 'became so used to mud, up in the lines, that if their 'chow' did not

have some mud, or muddy water in it they could not digest it. It was just a case of mud

all over: eat, drink, sleep and wash in mud' (Fox). Wilfred Owen writes in a letter to his

mother on 4 January 1917: 'After two days, we were let down, gently, into the real

thing, Mud. It has penetrated now into that Sanctuary my sleeping bag, and that holy of

holies my pyjamas. For I sleep on a stone floor and the servant squashed mud on all my

19

belongings; I suppose by way of baptism' (Owen 422). W. Nicholson5 , while serving on

the Somme, saw how two men using ropes freed a man from the mud after sixty-five

hours, but the soldier was naked, his clothing had been sucked down by the mud.

Thousands of soldiers must have drowned in the mud of Flanders and the Somme. The

mud was so dangerous because the soil was being turned over time and again by

continuous shelling. Compared to the Somme the rain in Flanders was even loathed

more, because the groundwater level was so high that the trenches easily overflowed

and expeditions in no-man's-land demanded a superhuman effort from the soldiers. The

rain also caused ‘trench foot’, an infection we nowadays call ‘immersion foot’ (Puissant

146). Because of the constant wet conditions, blisters and open sours 'could lead to

fungal infections that could make feet swell to two or three times their normal size.'

Once the feet had turned blue and inert they could even become gangrenous and the

affected parts needed to be amputated (Hamilton 15).

In Sassoon the rain is 'hopeless' (Aftermath) and 'streaming' (Remorse), it falls

'the whole damned night' (Stand-to) and it 'sluices down' (The Redeemer), it affects the

trenches 'lashed with rain' (Dreamers) and the corpses which 'jumped and capered in

the rain' (The Effect) and it is also 'the jolly old rain' (Counter-Attack) because 'it

prevents the enemy attack from being continued with high intensity' (Puissant 146).

The mud becomes 'stodgy clay' and 'freezing sludge' (In the Pink), 'sludge' again 'ankle

deep' (A Working Party), 'bottomless' (Memorial Tablet), 'sucking' (Counter Attack),

'mire' and 'muck' (The Redeemer). For Owen the rain is 'guttering down in waterfalls of

slime' (The Sentry) and the mud is 'mire' (The Show), 'sludge' (Dulce et Decorum Est),

'slime', 'slush' and 'muck' (The Sentry). Sorley calls the rain 'bitter' because it is 'turning

grey all the land' (Barbury Camp) and it is part of the 'pain', which will be laughed at

'when it is peace' (To Germany). Gurney's soldier walks 'through mud and water' (To

England: A Note), or 'in mud and water cold to the knee' where 'one day he'll freeze in

mud to the marrow' (Ballad of the Three Spectres). Graves spent a week 'under raining

skies (...) in horror, mud and sleeplessness' (Limbo), or 'knee-deep in mud' (1915) and

the hero in The Assault Heroic lies 'down in the mud'. Grenfell is 'fighting' with his

comrades 'in mud (...) in these dread times of battle' (Prayer for Those on the Staff). The

notorious rain of Ypres and the Somme had a profound effect on all the war poets. It

made them shiver and feel feverish, it impeded transport and interfered with fatigues

and fighting, it turned the trenches and no-man's-land into the most miserable, dismal

5 Memoirs Behind the Lines

20

place on earth and the soldier poets felt depressed and heavy-hearted. The dreariness

of the rain and the mud enhanced the dreariness of the war. The poets used it to set the

mood. 'Mire', 'mud', 'muck', 'slime', 'sludge' and 'slush' which 'drag', 'sink', 'suck' and

'slosh' - for the soldier poets on the Western Front the mud needed to be described in

all its facets.

Photo: British infantry knee-deep in mud (ill. 12). Photo: the devastating effects

of trench foot (ill. 13). Painting: Christopher Nevinson, Rain and mud after the Battle (ill.

14).

Theme nine: Cold

The winter of 1917, was the coldest the soldiers could remember in France, with

temperatures of minus fifteen degrees. Soldiers could not stay longer in the front line

trenches than forty-eight hours before going back to the warmth and comfort of billets.

Still a lot of soldiers suffered from frostbite, pneumonia and rheumatism (Robert 154).

'A man might wear long-johns, thick socks, wool vest and greyback, knitted

cardigan and sheepskin jerking, but still the cold seeped through (...) During the winter

of 1917, when there was one degree of frost in London, there were fifteen in Arras'

(Winter 1979, 95).

Wilfred Owen writes in a letter to his mother on 7 January 1917: 'It was

beginning to freeze through the rain when we arrived at our tents. We were at the

mercy of the cold, and being in health, I never suffered so terribly as yesterday

afternoon. I have sensations of kindred to being seriously ill' (Owen 254). The greatest

problem was that they could not light open fires because this would attract the enemy

(Puissant 123-124).

As already mentioned under 'rain' and 'mud', these weather conditions were

used by the poets to intensify the aversion to trench life, expeditions into no-man's-land

and the fighting itself. The moment the rain soaked through the soldiers' uniforms, or

the watery mud seeped through their puttees or boots, the soldiers felt chi lly, even cold.

This kind of cold is used by Sassoon: 'We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one'

(The Redeemer), Gurney: 'In mud and water cold to the knee' (Ballad of the Three

Spectres) and Blunden 'drenching haze / Of rainstorms chills the bone' (Preparations for

Victory). Another kind of cold, for which man is really unprepared, is associated with

freezing winters. Wilfred Owen puts that benumbing feeling into words in Exposure:

21

'Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us.' Owen 'clearly sees

nature as a hostile force in opposition to mankind' (Puissant 124).

Photo: soldier in sheepskin posing in front of icicles (ill. 15). I could not find an

appropriate painting.

Theme ten: Food and water

'Nowhere the pre-war background of the men is more important for the perception of

wartime conditions than with regard to the food question' (Puissant 125). For some

soldiers of the working classes it was the first time they received meals on such a

regular basis. 'Officially, each man got daily: 1¼ pounds fresh meat (or 1 pound

preserved meat), 1¼ pounds bread, 4 ounces bacon, 3 ounces cheese, ½ pound fresh

vegetables (or 2 ounces dried) together with small amounts of tea, sugar and jam'

(Fussell 56). Most of the soldiers in reality lived on a diet of canned corned beef ('bully

beef'), hard biscuits and bread. Barraclough testifies: '(…) we got a tin of bully to share

for four men. The little key at the bottom (was) always missing. And so we had to drive

it home with the point of a bayonet and try and lift the lids up to get at the bully. We lost

as much meat as what we got.' Towards the end of the war, the main food was pea soup

with a few pieces of horse meat (Hamilton 17). Depending on which social class you

belonged to, the perception of the food and water deficiencies could be better or worse.

A bigger problem was that the food was often cold and could not be delivered in time

when a heavy bombardment was going on (Hamilton 17). Food was delivered during

the night and soldiers bringing the rations to the first line were favourite targets to

affect the enemy indirectly. 'Transport vagaries, mud and enemy artillery action were

all variables which might interfere with supply' (Denis Winter 102). So it happened that

the soldiers in the front line trench almost starved. 'No warm food of any kind passed

through our lips during those six days; and this had a very bad effect on our fellows'

(Dug In). A lack of food also caused illnesses like rheumatism and dyspepsia. Another

big problem was 'to guarantee a constant supply of fresh water. The water was mostly

filled with germs and bacteria' (Puissant 125). The soldiers sometimes had to use

water from a shell hole, which they filtered through a handkerchief. 'Harrison wrote

how he used the water of a particular hole for days until a dead German was pulled out

from its depths' (Winter 1979, 102).

Apart from Gurney and Rosenberg all the selected war poets were officers. Of

these only Coulson was a sergeant, a Non Commissioned Officer. The others were all

22

Commissioned Officers. 'Historically, officers were prominent aristocrats or landowners

who received a commission from the country’s ruler, giving them permission to raise

and train military units'6. This was not so anymore during the First World War, still

Blunden, Graves, Grenfell, Owen, Sassoon and Sorley belonged to a privileged class, also

in the army. Their dugouts were comfortable 'about five paces square and six feet high

(...); Greenwell thought that most were as well furnished as his rooms in Oxford - green

camp chairs, gramophones (...) hampers from Harrods (...) magazines would fill the

space as effectively as (...) tobacco smoke and the fumes of a coke brazier' (Winter 1979,

81). Officers also enjoyed the luxury of eating and drinking whatever they wanted. Only

Private Ivor Gurney touched upon the subject in The Silent One: 'But I weak, hungry, and

willing only for the chance / Of line - to fight in the line, lay down under unbroken /

Wires.' The soldier in this poem - in spite of his weakness and hunger - will survive his

expedition into no-man's-land, whereas 'A noble fool, faithful to his stripes' stepped

over the wires and got killed. That 'noble fool' was neither weak nor hungry, but he died

due to his own imprudence.

Thirst was a different matter. It was difficult to supply the front lines with fresh

water, but it was more difficult still to carry enough water when fighting a battle. In

Counter Attack, Sassoon and his soldiers, who have conquered a German trench, are

'Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke.' What seemed almost impossible was

bringing water to the wounded, scattered around no-man's-land, after a battle.

Rosenberg's 'dying soldier' cries out is despair: 'Water! ... Water! ... Oh, water! / For one

of England's dying sons.' The heart-rending cries combined with the impotence of those

who were able to retreat in the trenches is put into words powerfully: 'We cannot give

you water, / Were all England in your breath.' (The Dying Soldier)

The reference to thirst in Graves's poem Corporal Stare is almost obscene given

the circumstances in which ordinary soldiers had to survive in the trenches. 'Back from

the line one night in June' the protagonist of this poem has a 'gorgeous meal' prepared

for him and his mates.

With drinking songs, a jolly sound

To help the good red Pommard round.

Stories and laughter interspersed,

6 http://militarycareers.about.com

23

We drowned a long La Bassée thirst -

Trenches in June make throats damned dry.

This refers to the summer months when the dust from the limestone trenches of the

Somme makes 'throats' of the soldiers 'damned dry', but it passes over the misery with

the copious meal, the expensive wine and the laughter. Of course Graves cared about

the soldiers in the trenches, but many of his superiors did not.

Photo: soldiers can fill their water bottles from a mobile water tank (ill. 16).

Painting: William Roberts, Tommies Filling their Water Bottles with Rain from a Shell

Hole (ill. 17).

Theme eleven: Disease

Disease killed one-sixth of the fighting men (Audoin-Rouzeau 23). Common illnesses

with hospital admission were trench foot and trench fever but as the war progresses

ever more soldiers had to spend time in hospital, infected with typhus, dysentery and

cholera (Hamilton 27). Some soldiers also suffered from rheumatism and dyspepsia as

the result of not having enough fresh food and water (Dug In). Soldiers who were

constantly exposed to the cold weather contracted frostbite, pneumonia and

rheumatism. In 1917 alone there were more than 48,000 hospital admissions for

soldiers with venereal diseases (Winter 1979, 99).

There is only one reference to diseases with the poem 'They' from Sassoon: 'And

Bert's gone syphilitic.' Even so Sassoon does not want to cast light on the illness, but on

the bishop's hypocrisy who tells his community that the soldiers are fighting 'a just

cause (in) the last attack on Anti-Christ.'

I could not find appropriate photos or paintings.

Theme twelve: 'Odour nuisance'

Another discomfort the soldiers had to deal with was the 'overpowering stench from

the trenches' (Hamilton 27). When new recruits marched to the front line, they could

smell the front line miles before they could see it (Fussell 55). The stench was created

by a combination of 'rotting corpses, cordite, the aftermath of poison gas, overflowing

cesspits, unwashed bodies, stagnant mud, cigarette smoke and food' (Hamilton 27). The

new recruits who walked through the communication trenches to the first line realised

that this was only a herald of what they were going to live in for the next several

24

months. A soldier remembered what the air smelled like during a British attack:

'Pervading the air was the smell of rum and blood' (Fussell 53). Rum was a soldier's

pleasure, in spite of the fact that it was 'burning the throat (and) half choked the soldier

and made his eyes tear violently' (Winter 1979, 103).

Sassoon uses the foul smell as an element of disgust which is present at all times

in and around the trenches. In the poems Counter-Attack and Aftermath it is the nasty

smell of decaying corpses, plainly referred to as 'rotten with dead' and 'corpses rotting'.

Sassoon needs no imagery to make us smell the dead. Owen does, he compares the

smell with foul breath and rotting wounds: '(And smell came up from those foul

openings / As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.)' (The Show). In The First

Funeral Robert Graves remembers how he and his wife once found a dead dog with

'horrid swollen belly' and how they buried him the same way as 'you bury all dead

people / When they're quite really dead.' In contrast 'The first corpse (Graves) saw was

on the / German wires, and couldn't be buried.'

I could not find an appropriate photo. Painting: William Orpen, Dead Germans in

a Trench (ill. 18).

3.3 Physical injury as a result of warfare

Theme thirteen: Wounded

Soldiers often had an idealised image of war in mind, the image of a Greek warrior that

goes to battle in which ‘death’ hardly occurred. In 1914-18 however, because of great

military advances like using shells, shrapnel, gas and in a later phase even the tank 'the

gravity and type of wounds inflicted (…) had no precedent ' (Audoin-Rouzeau 24).

Although the injuries soldiers suffered from were a lot worse than in previous wars,

medical science had also made progress and could 'counterbalance the gravity of the

wounds inflicted' (Audoin-Rouzeau 25). The seriously wounded and mutilated soldiers

who survived had to live for the rest of their lives with horrible injuries and they relied

on care. Charles Berg, an Australian soldier who had fought in France, was wounded in

the spine by shrapnel. As his mother died shortly after he came home, he was cared for

by Mr and Mrs Semple, a neighbouring couple, 'who did what they could with

unremitting kindness to help a man who hardly knew what it was to be free from pain'

(Winter 1995, 45). The poetry on the subject describes 'both the actual wounds as well

as the fear of becoming disabled (and it) focuses on two major settings: the hospital and

the trenches' (Puissant 129). Harry Patch for instance testifies how a shrapnel drilled

25

into his body: 'Four fellahs held me down, one on each arm, one on each leg, and I can

feel the cut of that scalpel now as he went through and pulled it out. '

With The Backwash of War Ellen Newbold La Motte has written her memoirs as a

nurse at the front in Flanders and France. In the story Alone, soldier Rochard, who had a

thigh torn out by a piece of German shell, 'had been placed under treatment

immediately, reaching the hospital from the trenches about six hours after he had been

wounded' (Newbold La Motte 18). We cannot imagine how someone should wait this

long until he could be attended to, and Rochard was even lucky. After a battle, when

soldiers had retreated to their trenches, the screams of wounded and dying soldiers

could be heard for many hours. They had to wait until night set in to be evacuated from

no-man's-land. Sometimes the wounded could not be reached at all and they died after

days of suffering.

Still, military medicine in 1914-18 already had reached a high level. There were 'better

evacuation systems and medical infrastructures; the possibility of having antiseptic

surgery using anaesthetics on the battlefield; the removal of damaged tissues when

treating fractures, limiting the risk of gangrene and reducing the number of

amputations; the X-ray detection of projectiles embedded in the flesh; facial plastic

surgery; vaccination against typhus and tetanus; and blood transfusions' (Audoin-

Rouzeau 24).

When a soldier's limbs were gravely affected, amputation was the most common

‘cure’ doctors suggested. They had to amputate toes and feet after trench foot had set in,

but also with gas gangrene and shell wounds amputation was often the only possible

solution. In A Surgical Triumph, another story from The Backwash of War, the soldier

who, after months of revalidation, comes back home, both legs and arms amputated,

begs his father to kill him. But the father 'couldn't do this, for he was civilised'

(Newbold La Motte 55).

'This is a bloody mess indeed', that is how Ivor Gurney ends The Target. All this

wounding and bloodshed happens under God's watching eye, but He takes no notice,

'He takes no sort of Heed.' Leslie Coulson wonders 'Who made the law?'. Writing the

words 'He', 'Who' and 'Law' in capital letters, leaving enough space to believe that God

made the Law. 'Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes? / Who gave it

forth that gardens should be bone-yards? / Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood,

and brains?' - 'This is a bloody mess indeed.' Both Gurney and Coulson are aghast at the

26

devastating effect of modern warfare on the healthy, young bodies of thousands of

soldiers.

In most poems getting wounded will lead to death. A striking example is Edmund

Blunden's poem Pillbox, in which soldier Hyde gets 'hit by a splinter' and dies: 'The poor

man lay at length and brief and mad / Flung out his cry of doom; soon ebbed and dumb

/ He yielded.' The poem is not only striking because Hyde dies, but especially because

his friends encourage him and are left defeated.

At a certain point in the war probably every soldier hoped for a Blighty, a wound

that could send him home. Even then the war was not over yet, like in Owen's Disabled,

where the veteran is confined to his wheelchair and the war has long been forgotten by

those at the home front. The old soldier is 'Legless, sewn short at elbow', not really the

kind of wounds he had hoped for as a Blighty. 'Over 41,000 men had their limbs

amputated during the war7 - of these 69% lost one leg, 28% lost one arm and nearly 3%

lost both legs or arms (...) In the middle of the 1970s, there were nearly 3,000 limbless

survivors of the Great War living in the United Kingdom' (Bourke 33). No wonder that

the subject had struck the war poets too. In 'They' Sassoon includes them in the list of

those soldiers who are 'none of us the same (...) / For George lost both his legs; and

Bill's stone blind; / Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die.' Apart from the

41,000 amputees, 272,000 soldiers had injuries in arms and legs, 60,500 in the head or

eyes and 89,000 had other serious wounds (Bourke 33). In spite of the serious nature

of the situation Sassoon writes ironically: 'Safe with his wound, a citizen of life. / He

hobbled blithely through the garden gate, / And thought: Thank God they had to

amputate' (The One-Legged Man).

Photo: soldiers in a hospital ward (ill. 19). Painting: Christopher Nevinson,

La Patrie (ill. 20).

Theme fourteen: Gas

In the First World War gas was used for the first time. On 27 October 1914, the Germans

experimented with 'a prototype of modern tear gas' near Ypres (Fussell 10). The

British, however, did not hesitate to retaliate with the same means.

After having used tear gas in January 1915, the Germans started using killing

gases as the war progressed: chlorine gas in April 1915, phosgene in December 1915

and mustard gas in July 1917. Although chlorine gas was considered to be inefficient,

7 These figures refer to casualties from the British forces alone.

27

because it could be easily smelled and was visible to the eye, the first gas attack at

Ypres made lots of casualties. 'The faces of those who died where they fought were

characteristically blue, their arms wide in terror as they ran out of air ' (Winter 1979,

122). Phosgene gas was eighteen times more powerful than chlorine and it could not be

seen. The aim of using mustard gas - in spite of it being deadly - was 'to harass rather

than kill' (Winter 1979, 122). The Germans added small quantities of mustard gas in

their shells cutting out soldiers in the vicinity for days. Mustard gas proved to be the

most fatal because 'it was difficult to detect and remained on the surface of the ground

for a long time, lengthening the effects. It also could result in nasty burns that rendered

men unfit to fight' (Hamilton 27). The risk that came with the use of gas was that the

wind could blow it back on the own troops. A lot of soldiers also had great difficulties

putting on their gas mask. Barraclough attests: 'Well, there was such a big fuss and stuff,

finding this thing to put over your head and then fastening it under your chin, and then

finding the tube to breathe out of. And you couldn’t breathe in through it and so you

just got to be strangled.'

Gas casualties were a shocking sight for comrades, nurses and doctors alike, because

the victims suffocated and died a slow death. In spite of that 'the visual display of gas

clouds became the object of a certain fascination' (Puissant 143), especially with the

visual arts like photography and the art of painting.

According to Susanne Christine Puissant, Blunden's Concert Party is about a gas

attack (Puissant 143). If it is, the poem unsettles almost as much as the most famous

gas-poem, Dulce Et Decorum Est. According to me it is not, as 'the red lights flaming' is

caused by the blast of a heavy shell. This leaves Owen's poem as the only memorable

gas-poem. The tragedy of the soldier who fails to put on his gas-mask and the accurate

description of his death struggle, can only be read if you have a cast-iron stomach.

'Dulce et decorum est / Pro patria mori' is not even presented in an ironic way. It is

called what it is 'The old lie.'

Photo: British soldiers blinded by gas (ill. 21). Painting: John Singer Sargent,

Gassed (ill. 22). Painting: Austin Spare, Dressing the Wounded During a Gas Attack (ill.

23).

Theme fifteen: Taken by surprise

I already mentioned how soldiers in the first line always had to watch out, especially for

there was a constant threat of snipers. William Young for instance states how 'very

28

often people were killed if they lifted their head above the parapet. A sniper would be

watching for them, and he knew at least one of their men in the brigade who was killed

when he was walking along the trench and lifted his head above the trench.'

Gerald Morgan also attests how sentinels needed to keep 'watch through peep-

holes, their coats thrown over their heads, for the peep-hole needed to be kept

constantly dark, as otherwise the enemy’s sharpshooters would locate it and kill the

sentinels.'

'Lieutenant Fenton of the Cameronians looked twice over a parapet at the same spot

and was hit the second time by two snipers at the same time (...) Turner, a Rhodesian

farmer, was hit in the aiming eye when moving the steel shutter of his sniper's plate

(and he died) without sound or movement' (Winter 1979, 90).

Grenfell's Prayer for those on the staff is intended 'To keep us safe, if so may be, /

From shrapnel snipers, shell and sword.' Although Grenfell names these dangers -

'shrapnel', 'snipers', 'shells' and 'bayonets' - in one line, 'the ever watchful sniper'

(Limbo), even at night, as in Trench Duty, was most feared and loathed. The sentry in

Trench Duty (Owen) even asks himself 'Why did he do it?' when a sniper kills one of his

mates. The snipers knew they were hated: 'For obvious reasons of personal safety, no

German sniper has written his memoirs' (Winter 1979, 90).

Photo: A German sniper on watch assisted by another one with binoculars (ill.

24). I could not find an appropriate painting.

3.4 Emotional and psychological pressure

The physical damage described above often had emotional implications. To give just

one example: there were not only the physical effects of a gas attack, but there was also

the constant fear that gas could be used.

Theme sixteen: Tension

During the night, soldiers in turn had sentry duty, meaning that they were watching the

enemy lines closely for two hours, alert for an attack. Winter nights were cold, long and

stressful. F. Noakes: 'These sixteen hours of blackness were broken by gun flashes, the

gleam of star shells and punctuated by the scream of a shell or the sudden heart-

stopping rattle of a machine-gun. The long hours crept by with leaden feet (...) In the

darkness we were prey to all sorts of unreasoning fancies' (Winter 1979, 86). These

'unreasoning fancies' are also described by a soldier who testifies in The New York

29

Times Mid Week Pictorial: 'Distant trees seem to change their position; bunches of grass

really quite close, seem to be men coming over the sky-line.' The battlefield at night was

eerie and brought about a constant strain and pressure.

Heavy shelling, which lasted for many days preceding a battle, made sleeping

almost impossible. 'As all your parts are contracting, you seemed to be constipated'

(Fussell 51). Experiments on deprivation of sleep show that the subject becomes

irrational in his or her thinking. 'The mental depression and physical sluggishness

which came from lack of sleep, combined with a total lack of information, added to the

lack of a sense of purpose' (Winter 1979, 100). This 'sluggishness' may be responsible

for the fact that too many soldiers got killed while being on duty in the trenches in

between battles.

There are countless examples of being shelled in trench poetry. Sassoon:

'crouching for the crumps to burst' (A Subaltern); 'and then a shell / Burst slick upon

the duckboards' (A Working Party); 'And droning shells burst with a hollow bang' (The

Redeemer). Owen: 'Rabbles of shell hooted and groaned' (The Last Laugh); 'for shell on

frantic shell / Hammered on top' (The Sentry); 'torture of lying machinally shelled'

(S.I.W.). Coulson: 'the hot shells scream (...) the tortured air, / Rent by shrapnel's flare'

(The Rainbow). Rosenberg: 'shells go crying' (Dead Man's Dump). Graves: 'Two men

were struck by the same shell' (The Leveller); 'a week / Of bursting shells' (Limbo);

'When steel and fire go roaring through your head' (It's a Queer Time). Gurney: 'hearing

bullets whizzing' (The Silent One); 'Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily /

Singing' (Photographs). The noise of shelling is nerve-racking, shelling causes

destruction and death.

The tension while being shelled, sometimes for a whole week, must have been

insupportable and frightening. Fear was something the soldiers had to live with,

constantly, a fear that 'may choke in your veins' (Rosenberg, Dead Man's Dump), fear in

the middle of heavy fighting when the soldier 'crouched and flinched, dizzy with

galloping fear / Sick for escape (Sassoon, Counter-Attack), fear of going over the top as

'Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire./ Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked

with fear' (Sassoon, Attack), fear that may never disappear, the latent fear in the

soldiers' 'haunted nights' (Sassoon, Survivors). Harry Patch said: 'If any man tells you he

went into the front line and he wasn’t scared, he’s a liar.' Still in Sorley's poem, the

young soldier writes 'We have no fear to fight' (A Letter From the Trenches to a School

Friend). It is the optimism of a school boy who has not seen any real fighting yet, whose

30

only image of war is that depicted in Homer's Odyssey. In chapter four we shall see how

painters like Paul Nash and William Orpen created fearsome landscapes of places like

the Menin Road and Zonnebeke. That kind of fear appears in Blunden's The Zonnebeke

Road:

some foolish fear

Caught me the first time that I came here (...)

There were such corners seeming-saturnine (...)what a pain

Must gnaw where its clay cheek

Crushes the shell-chopped trees that fang the plain (...)

And there the daylight oozes into dun.

The eerie landscape which has been created by continuous shelling breathes the fear of

horror. Blunden calls it 'foolish' because it is the fear of the silence of places that has

fallen into ruins.

Photo: soldiers in no-man's-land dive for the big explosion in front of them (ill

25). Painting: Paul Nash, A Night Bombardment (ill. 26).

Theme seventeen: Shell shock

The violence combatants had to deal with 'caused irreparable psychological damage (...)

At first soldiers were suspected to simulate insanity in order to escape duty. ' (Audoin-

Rouzeau 25). Stéphane Audoin-Rouzeau refers to shell shock and to the soldiers who

were executed, found guilty of cowardice and betrayal. The number of executions

should not be exaggerated. According to John Simkin of all the soldiers found guilty of

cowardice only seventeen were executed8. The attitude towards shellshock changed as

doctors, like Rivers, the doctor who treated Sassoon, got a better insight in the mental

illness. 'In 1914, 1,906 cases of behaviour disorder without physical cause were

admitted to hospital. In 1915 the number grew to 20,327. Often the men had good war

records - heroes like Owen or Sassoon - so the blanket tag of 'cowardice' could not be

applied' (Winter 1979, 129). Harry Patch relates what he knows about the disorder: 'I

never saw anyone with it, never experienced it - but it seemed you stood at the bottom

of the ladder and you just could not move. Shellshock took all the nervous power out of

you.'

8 Desertion was considered to be a more serious crime; during WW1 245 soldiers were executed because they had deserted the army.

31

Owen and Sassoon met at Craiglockhart, a hospital for the treatment of shell

shocked soldiers, in August 1917. Wilfred Owen was diagnosed with shell shock,

whereas Siegfried Sassoon was sent there because of his Declaration against the war.

The army leadership believed that Sassoon was bereft of his senses when he wrote that

Declaration. Both poets stayed until they were declared mentally healthy and during

their stay they could observe the soldiers whose minds were seriously disturbed by

neurasthenia. The poems they wrote about it: Mental Cases (Owen) and the pitiful

Survivors (Sassoon) are often used to give a better image of the mental illness. But these

poems are more because they condemn the war, the political and military leaders and

the fathers and mothers who sent their sons to war. The uncontrollable hands of the

shell shocked patients are 'Snatching after us who smote them, brother / Pawing us

who dealt them war and madness' (Owen, Mental Cases). 'Men who went out to battle,

grim and glad; ¨Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad' (Sassoon, Survivors).

Photo: the front flap of a book on shell shock showing the picture of a spastic

soldier (ill. 27). I could not find an appropriate painting.

Theme eighteen: S.I.W.

A soldier's thoughts were constantly at home. Combine this with the protracted

hardships and you can understand how some soldiers deliberately provided themselves

with a blighty, i.e. a wound severe enough to be sent home, to Blighty, the homeland.

For a self-inflicted wound (later S.I.W. even became the official abbreviation, approved

by the government) - if discovered - a soldier was court-martialled and could get a

death sentence. S.I.W., Wilfred Owen's poem on the subject, lays bare the internal

struggle of a soldier who cannot cope with the war, but still does not want to betray his

father who 'would sooner him dead than in disgrace.' He hopes for a Blighty or for a

disease serious enough to be sent home. He knows that some soldiers 'shoot their hand,

on night patrol', but he considers that to be vile. Eventually he commits suicide by

shooting a bullet through the roof of his mouth. Owen's irony is agonizing, ending the

poem with the death notice for the soldier's mother: 'Tim died smiling.' The poem

begins with some lines from W.B. Yeats to reflect public opinion: malingers, deserters

and suicides are cowards and they aren't worth mourning for. Joanna Bourke

researched the topic of malingering, which also includes S.I.W. and desertion. Her

conclusion is that the soldiers themselves felt 'sympathy towards frightened

servicemen who shirked or malingered' (Bourke 96). Soldiers, who knew what the war

32

really stood for, understood much better than their superiors and those at home why

some of their mates collapsed.

I could not find appropriate photos or paintings.

Theme nineteen: Suicide

Jonas Hart remembers vividly what happened after one of his mates had received a

letter from his beloved wife: 'Before anyone could stop him, he was over the top and

walked out into no-man’s-land. He had gone about twenty paces before he was shot

dead.' His wife had sent him a letter to tell him she was living with another man and

wanted a divorce.

Suicides were exceptional, but there are no official figures. What was the difference

between being shot accidentally either by a stray bullet, or because of carelessness and

intentionally meaning to commit suicide?

'Suicide was rare, (but) it was an important option for a minority (...) Suicidal

impulses could seize anyone unawares' (Bourke 77). The subject is uncommon in the

poetry as well. Suicide should be treated tactfully, we feel today, but the spirit of the

Great War was different: suicidal soldiers were cowards. That is not what the poets

believed. S.I.W. is a good example. It has already been explained above. Another good

example is Suicide in the Trenches. Sassoon reproaches the 'smug-faced crowds (...) /

Who cheer when soldier lads march by.' The faces express narrow-minded virtuousness

and self-satisfaction is the sense that those who cheer believe that their patriotic

fervour is the right spirit. The 'simple soldier boy' in Suicide in the Trenches shoots a

bullet through his brain when he cannot take it anymore, the cold, the bullying, his

miserable existence, the explosions of shells and the lice - 'In winter trenches, cowed

and glum, / With crumps and lice and lack of rum.'

I could not find appropriate photos or paintings.

Theme twenty: Going over the top

At zero hour thousands of men almost simultaneously climbed out of the trenches to

walk across no-man’s-land towards the enemy, leaving them vulnerable to the enemy’s

hail of bullets (Hamilton 38). ‘Going over the top’ implies a great deal of courage and

many of the soldiers feared it every time the order was given. Halestrap: 'I remember

the infantry sergeant coming round with rum and giving it to each man before the over

the top order was given.' Barraclough always said a prayer before going over the top:

33

'Dear God, I am going into grave danger. Please help me to act like a man and come back

safe.' And he went over without fear.

Very early in the morning the soldiers can see the ridge they have to take. No-

man's-land is 'scarred', the effect of heavy shelling. Tanks are already moving towards

the wire to clear a passage for the attack.

Then, clumsily bowed

With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,

Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.

Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,

They leave their trenches, going over the top,

While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,

And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,

Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!

(Sassoon, Attack).

Nothing can be more tragic than this moment, at zero hour, when the soldiers - and

officers alike - have to climb out of the trenches to face death. Writing Attack, Sassoon

was already convinced that thousands of lives were sacrificed aimlessly. Sassoon also

makes short work of the idea that the soldiers - like in the battles of Odyssey - were

high-spirited, with an indomitable will power to cut the enemy to pieces. The 'battle joy

/ By the old windy walls of Troy' (Sorley, A Letter from the Trenches to a School Friend)

is fiction.

Photo: British soldiers leave their trenches carrying full gear and with fixed

bayonets (ill. 28). Painting: James P. Beadle, Zero Hour (ill. 29).

Theme twenty-one: Hell

'I have suffered seventh hell. I have not been at the front. I have been in front of it, '

Owen writes in a letter to his mother (Owen 98). Owen uses the metaphor ‘life in the

trenches seen as hell on earth.’ Other poets used the image of hell as well.

'It is a hell which men have designed and in which they are now condemned to

suffer' (Puissant 139). Sassoon's 'Memorial Tablet' reads: 'I died in hell - (They called it

Passchendaele).' In Break of Day, by Sassoon, the hell is described: it is a place 'Where

men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find some crater for their wretchedness.' It is

pitiful that the soldiers have to search safety in those craters where they 'lie / In outcast

34

immolation.' As outcasts of the liveable world, they have to give their lives as an o ffer,

'doomed to die' in hell. In The Redeemer, again by Sassoon, the soldier is in hell: 'in the

black ditch' where 'A rocket (...) burned' - darkness and fire, two images of hell. There

the soldier sees Christ whose 'eyes (...) stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask

of mortal pain in Hell's unholy shine.' Christ is sad and in pain because the world has

become a hell, the world has been desecrated. Sassoon is the war poet who uses the

image of hell most often. There are three more poems with references to hell: 'gusts

from hell' (Counter- Attack), 'scarred from hell' (Prelude: The Troops) and 'the hell

where youth and laughter go (Suicide in the trenches). Robert Graves also uses the

image of hell for his experiences in the trenches. In The Leveller, referring to the fact

that in death everybody is equal, two soldiers are killed by a shell 'Near Martinpuich

that night of hell.' The oldest one 'Died cursing God with brutal oaths.' He reproaches

God because He did not prevent the hell of war. In A Dead Boche the protagonist has

been cured of his 'lust of blood' after having seen a dead German soldier with 'face a

sodden green (...) / Dribbling black blood from nose and beard.' Therefore the

protagonist says: 'To you who'd read my songs of War / And only hear of blood and

fame, / I'll say (you've heard it said before)/ 'War's Hell!'' The hell Owen refers to is the

inferno from which the 'mental cases', the shell shocked soldiers cannot escape. They

are haunted by the ' Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. / Wading sloughs of

flesh these helpless wander, / Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.'

(Mental Cases)

Photo: Many pictures of bombardments, ruins and corpses could serve as photos

depicting hell. Painting: Paul Nash, The Mule Track (ill. 30).

Theme twenty-two: Death

If there is one theme that really stands out in trench poetry, it is of course death and the

many cruel ways of dying the war had invented (Sambrook 53).

There are hundreds of testimonies all making clear what the soldiers felt when

they were faced with death and the dead, especially the death of their friends.

I can only give a few. Charles Sorley pulled a wounded man out of a shell hole;

the man felt 'like carrying a piece of living pulp.' Sorley never forgot the hideous image,

or the sound of the man when he picked him up (Holt, 20). John McCrae was moved by

the last words in the diary of his Lieutenant Alex Helmer: 'It has quieted a little and I

shall try to get a good sleep.' He had seen how the Lieutenant was ‘virtually blown to

35

pieces by a direct hit of an eight-inch shell (Holt, 59). Robert Graves wrote a very

moving tribute Goliath and David when he heard his friend David Thomas had died.

Graves was devastated. 'I felt David’s death worse than any other since I had been in

France' (Holt, 80). Comradeship was a highly appreciated virtue. Sassoon felt really

guilty to have left behind his soldiers at the front. While he was hospitalised, he wrote

the poem Banishment to express sympathy for the soldiers who were still fighting at the

front.

According to William Clarke 'Seeing so many corpses became just another sight.

Often when you moved in the trenches you trod and slipped on rotting flesh. Your

feelings only came to the fore when it was a special mate who had been killed' (Bourke

77). The poets do not approach the dead, death - sometimes Death - so over-simplified.

The subject of death is so frequent and varied in their poetry that it could be the topic of

a Master Paper. Lacking the space to elaborate on the subject, I shall give some

important examples.

In The Dug-out Sassoon's sleeping friend, 'Deep-shadowed from the candle's

guttering gold', reminds him of the dead. The image of death as a contented sleep is

rare. Most frequently death is violent, ugly, repulsive, like in Isaac Rosenberg's Dead

Man's Dump. The poem gives the reader a feeling of uneasiness when the wheels of the

army vehicle run over the corpses, crushing the bones, when brains are blown to bits,

when the corpses have turned 'black by strange decay'. Rosenberg is travelling along

the battlefield, passing hundreds of corpses, 'They lie there huddled, friend and

foeman.' He sees how the bodies are decaying and how they will be swallowed by the

earth, losing their human identity. He wonders where their souls are now, 'Earth! have

they gone into you!' and laments the waste as 'Those dead strode time with vigorous

life, / Till the shrapnel called 'An end!'' The strangest encounter with death comes from

Owen in The Show. In that poem the deceased soldier's soul looks down on the earth

and he sees the activity of caterpillars, worms and maggots. Eventually, when coming

closer, he sees his own head. Coulson's poem Who Made the Law has already been used

for the theme 'Wounded'. Of course he does not only consider God to be responsible for

the wounded but also for the dead:

Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village?

Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves,

Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows,

Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves?

36

In another one of his poems, The Rainbow, he composes a tender verse for the soldiers

who died in no-man's-land and will be buried when night falls:

When night falls dark we creep

In silence to our dead.

We dig a few feet deep

And leave them there to sleep.

Whereas Sassoon does not want to be reminded of the dead when he sees someone

sleeping peacefully, the soldiers in The Rainbow need that image of 'sweet sleep' to say

farewell to their mates. The dead are not peaceful, certainly not for Sassoon. In his

poem The Effect, he writes: "How peaceful are the dead." / Who put that silly gag in

some one's head?' In Counter-Attack he describes the dead:

And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud,

Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled;

And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair,

Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime. -

Sassoon as hard as nails. The Effect ends with ''How many dead? As many as ever you

wish. / Don't count 'em; they're too many. / Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a

penny?'' says Sassoon sarcastically. Perhaps it is nicer to end with Sorley, with 'Such,

such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: / (...) A merciful putting away of what has been. /

(...)Victor and vanquished are a-one in death.'

Photo: the completely decomposed body of a soldier killed in action; only his

skeleton and the clothes he was wearing remain (ill. 31). Painting: William Orpen,

Zonnebeke (ill. 32).

4 Important Battles

4.1 The Battle of the Somme as a turning point

The battle of the Somme is often seen as 'the most egregious ironic action of the whole

war' (Fussell 7). The Battle of the Somme was planned by Field Marshall Douglas Haig,

‘the butcher' of the Somme. The plan was to bombard the enemy trenches for a whole

week. He fired a million and a half shells from 1,537 guns. When the bombardment

stopped 'at 7:30 on the morning of 1 July 1916 eleven British divisions climbed out of

37

their trenches on a thirteen-mile front and began walking forward. The six German

divisions immediately carried their machine guns from the deep dugouts and hosed the

attackers walking toward them in orderly rows. Out of the 110,000 attackers, 60,000

were killed or wounded on the first day' (Fussell 13). The Battle of the Somme is

considered a turning point in the soldiers’ attitude towards the war. Until then most of

the men had been patriots; the uselessness of war now began to become clear. People

on the home front also seemed to be shaken to the core with the premiere of the film

The Battle of the Somme. The film 'mercilessly (showed) some true battlefield realities,

particularly the wounded English soldiers. After more than two full years of war, the

British were evidently ready to witness the reality of the war’s brutality. For the first

time, civilians felt they had seen the suffering of the combatants. The validity of war

was not really questioned, but a significant change took place in what was expected and

hoped for' (Audoin-Rouzeau 105). Regardless of the perception that both sides could

not win the battle, the British attempt on the Somme continued mechanically until

stopped in November by freezing mud (Fussell 15).

4.2 The Third Battle of Ypres would, like the Battle of the Somme, defy all

description. The influence on trench poetry is firmly established. The assault started on

31 July 1917 and over ten days four million shells were fired. Next it started raining, the

craters became pools and the clay was turned into mud. The Third Battle of Ypres took

a heavy toll: 370,000 British soldiers were killed, wounded, sick and many men

drowned or froze to death. It seemed like the officers had not learned a thing, and

Passchendaele could be called 'a reprise of the Somme, but worse' (Fussell 16-17).

5 What happened with the bodies of the dead soldiers?

In the frontline trenches and in no-man’s-land, soldiers constantly feared for their lives.

During battles there could be constant shell fire and the wounded soldiers who

perished in no-man's-land sometimes could not be saved for hours or days. Many of

them consequently died of their wounds. Many others were saved by brave soldiers like

Sassoon, nicknamed ‘Mad Jack’ for remaining 'under rifle and bomb fire, bringing in the

bodies of the wounded and killed for ninety minutes' (Holt 233). The rain prevented the

dead from being buried as well (Puissant 123), so the corpses sank away in the mud and

were lost. Dead bodies could become elements of parapet and trench walls (Fussell 55).

38

This meant that the bodies could be ravaged twice: the first time the soldier lost his life,

the second time a shell burst in and blew the body into even smaller pieces. Having to

be in the midst of a landscape 'littered' with corpses must have been a nightmare for

the soldiers who realised that these dead bodies eventually were 'visible reminders of

what would probably await all of them sooner or later' (Puissant 142).

39

Chapter three

The Language of War

Sassoon, Owen & Rosenberg

‘Nobody alive during the war, whether a combatant or not, ever got over its special

diction and system of metaphor, its whole jargon of techniques and tactics and strategy’

(Fussell, 234). That is exactly what the poets must have felt too. Their poetic language

changed because it had to. I want to take a closer look at the stylistic devices Sassoon,

Owen and Rosenberg used in their trench poetry.

'Rosenberg was distinguished from the other war poets,' because of his Jewish

origin and because of his working-class background (Bergonzi 110). Rosenberg never

rose above the rank of private, therefore his view on front-line experiences is

completely different from that of the ‘young officers’ Owen and Sassoon.

1 The Georgian Tradition

In order to understand how the poetic language of those soldier poets – confronted with

life and death in the trenches - changed, it is necessary to have an idea about what ‘good

poetry’ before the war was supposed to look like. Most of the poets 'had been formed in

the Georgian mould' (Bergonzi 110). Blunden, Hardy, Newbolt, Sorley and Sassoon a ll

belonged to the movement of the Georgian poets. Five volumes of Georgian Poetry were

published between 1912 and 1922 under the watchful eye of Edward Marsh, an art

collector and (from 1905 onwards) personal secretary to Winston Churchill. The term

‘Georgian’ was introduced by Marsh meaning “new”, “modern” and “energetic”.

However, under the influence of the new literary movement of Modernism, by 1922 the

term had become ‘old-fashioned’ and ‘outworn’. Today Georgian Poetry is often

regarded with a negative connotation. Critics blamed the Georgian Poets of

‘traditionalism’, ‘escapism’ and ‘cultivating false simplicity’. The Georgian poets were

dedicated to the following principles: they denied individualism; they imitated the

Romantics, like Byron, Keats and Shelley; they appreciated national identity and moral

responsibilities as important virtues; they used a pompous language; they used the

English countryside as the setting for their poetry.

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The Georgian War Poets form a separate category within the Georgian

Movement. In their early poetry, i.e. poetry written before the horrible battle of the

Somme, they considered poetry to be ‘chivalric or heroic’, they highly praised the virtue

of sacrifice and they had the idea that fighting and dying for one’s country served a

righteous cause.

As the war progressed though, terrible battles like the Battle of the Somme and

Passchendaele definitely changed the soldiers’ attitude towards the war. Some civilians

also started to realise how useless the bloodshed was. In this respect, the film The

Battle of the Somme – although it was censored - meant a turning point. Gradually

coming to realise that the war was ‘deliberately prolonged’ , the soldier poets needed to

'adapt their basically conventional verse forms to sustain a weight of new experience'

(Bergonzi 110). The traditional poetic language and rhyme schemes needed adjustment.

The exception here is Rosenberg, who had already been an experimenter before the war

broke out. The inner urge to write and to be able to say what you experience in the

proper language was common at the front. Apart from the poets themselves many

soldiers were keeping diaries and wrote letters home. They felt the need to write about

their experiences and the circumstances in which they had to live.

To make clear how the poetic styles of Sassoon, Owen and Rosenberg changed

under the influence of the war, I will contrast poems from their early period with the

poetry they wrote after July 1916.

2 Sassoon

Before the war broke out, Siegfried Sassoon was a member of the Georgian Movement.

Apart from being a real patriot, he enlisted because he had run up debts.

In the first four lines of Absolution Sassoon suggests that we can find beauty,

freedom, wisdom and even absolution in war (Matalon 30).

The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes

Till beauty shines in all that we can see.

War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise,

And, fighting for our freedom, we are free.

Sassoon’s first front-line poem ‘The Redeemer’ was written in December 1915.

Although he already uses phrases like ‘horror and pain’ and ‘soaked, chilled and

41

wretched men', the poem is still an example of how he celebrates the passion and the

glory of war (Holt 231). He makes a clear distinction between the civilians, i.e. ‘the

peaceful folk’ in England and the soldiers who are fighting in the trenches.

When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep;

There, with much work to do before the light,

We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might

Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang.

No thorny crown, only a woolen cap

He wore—an English soldier, white and strong,

Who loved his time like any simple chap,

Good days of work and sport and homely song;

Now he has learned that nights are very long,

And dawn a watching of the windowed sky.

But to the end, unjudging, he’ll endure

Horror and pain, not uncontent to die

That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure.

Somehow, Sassoon sees the soldiers who are fighting for their country as

'redeemers', they perform a similar function as Christ who redeemed mankind by

sacrificing himself. ‘The thorny crown’ can be seen as a substitute for the advent wreath

and ‘he’ll endure/ Horror and pain’ is a reference to Christ who suffered for mankind.

There is a willingness from the side of the soldiers to sacrifice themselves in order to

show their unconditional fidelity to the English nation.

'The poetry of the period before July 1916 reflects Sassoon ’s patriotic

feelings'(Holt 230). Later when he looked back on these early poems he found them ‘too

nobly worded lines,’ expressing the typical self-glorifying feelings of a young man about

to go to the Front for the first time (Holt 230-231). On 18 December 1915, Sassoon lost

his younger brother Hamo who fought in Gallipoli. He dedicated the very moving poem

‘To my brother’ to him. The war would really become a ‘personal crusade’ after he lost

his good friend, his love, Second Lieutenant David Thomas on 18 March 1916 (Holt

232). These personal setbacks made Sassoon doubt his catholic beliefs and especially

42

his patriotic feelings that were the reason for his enlistment. 'The change from

acceptance to bitterness had begun' (Holt 234).

Amongst the three poets of my choice, the change of poetic diction is the most

noticeable in the poetry of Sassoon. Before the war, Sassoon’s life passed off smoothly;

he came from a wealthy Jewish family and he was mainly concerned with foxhunting

and playing cricket. ‘Spring was the most loved season in England but on the Western

Front the most fatal offensives took place in that time of the year’ (Puissant 30). The

English countryside previously brought peace and quiet and now it had turned into a

bare, devastated landscape that only radiated chaos and destruction. In his poetry

Sassoon tries to describe what the war had done to his beloved countryside.

Another characteristic of Sassoon’s later poetry is that his own trench experiences

form the basis for it. The previously mentioned poem The Redeemer counts as the first

work which is 'full of concrete details of Front-Line conditions' (Puissant 30). The first

stanza opens and closes with the word ‘darkness’. In this way the dusky atmosphere

that will hold on for the rest of the poem is created. Sassoon furthermore draws

attention to the realities of trench warfare by using words like ‘mire’, ‘clay-soaked

boots’ and ‘droning shells’ (Wilson 218).

In Counter-Attack, a poem that reflects the horror of the Mametz slaughter,

Sassoon also uses 'imagery to describe the horrors around him.' He for instance talks

about ‘Trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud/ Wallowed like trodden sand-bags

loosely filled.’9 Whilst reading the poem, we can almost smell the terrible stench of the

trenches, a place Sassoon describes as ‘rotten with dead’.

Sassoon uses his trench experience directly in Stand To: Good Friday Morning. Like

the soldier in the poem, Sassoon had also been 'on duty from 2 till 4 on Good Friday, 21

April, and had gone to rouse his platoon for stand-to' (Wilson 249).

In A Working Party, Sassoon describes in vivid detail what trench life really was

about:

He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet

And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold.

He thought of getting home by half-past-twelve,

And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep

In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes

Of coke, and full of snoring weary men. 9 www.glenthorne.sutton.sch.uk/user/59/22561.pdf

43

Sassoon uses alliterations like 'slow… stamping', 'draughty dug-out', 'frowsty …

fumes'. These alliterations emphasize how slow time passes in the trenches. There is no

hope for escape and the war seems to go on forever. Sassoon really succeeds in

capturing the fear and the exhaustion of the soldiers. In the poems Absolution and The

Redeemer Sassoon persistently chose for full rhyme, whereas in A Working Party he

makes an exception by choosing 'less demanding blank verse' (Wilson 247). The blank

verse contributes to the unsatisfactory feeling we should get and our presumptions are

confirmed when we read the last stanza:

He pushed another bag along the top,

Craning his body outward; then a flare

Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire;

And as he dropped his head the instant split

His startled life with lead, and all went out.

Why exactly does this soldier have to die? We could say that death is arbitrary and

unexpected, there is no rhyme-scheme to provide continuity and balance. In the end,

the poem only leaves us with an empty feeling and unanswered questions.

After Sassoon’s meeting with Bertrand Russell, a pacifist in heart and soul, he

stopped idolising the war in a patriotic or chivalric way. He started writing in a strong

satiric mode. The structure of the poem 'They' serves as a good example of the general

structure of satires. The poem is divided into two parts of which the first part

represents 'the situation the satirist wants to criticise' (Puissant 89). In the second part

- which is normally shorter than the first - the poet gives a real depiction of the

situation. ‘In satire, two versions of society are therefore contrasted, a real and an ideal

one’ (Puissant 89). Puissant calls the poem 'a satire targeting the limitations of

institutionalised religion, especially its impersonality' (Puissant 89).

they lead the last attack

'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought

'New right to breed an honourable race,

'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

The pretentious language of the Bishop gives us a very impersonal impression. The

Bishop does not feel connected to the suffering soldiers at all: not in space as he is safe

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at home far away from the fighting soldiers and not emotionally as he does not feel any

true compassion for them.

'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.

'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;

'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;

'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find

'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.

The colloquial language and direct speech (‘Poor Jim’ and ‘chap’) which represent

the soldiers’ voices, immediately fulfils the reader with a great sympathy. Because of

the simple language the reader also gets the impression that the soldiers reveal a more

accurate reality of war. An important feature of satire used during the First World War

was its vocabulary, often including 'cruel and dirty words, trivial and comic words and

colloquial expressions' (Puissant 30). ‘To buy a new right to breed an honourable race’

in trench jargon means to be blown to pieces. As a reader we are not sure if the Bishop

is aware of the underlying meaning of the expression (Puissant 91). This again confirms

the irony of the poem and the lack of empathy on the side of the Bishop.

In Siegfried’s Journey Sassoon described his satiric method as 'composing two or

three harsh, peremptory, and colloquial stanzas with a knock-out blow in the last line,'

as in the last line of 'They', ‘And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!' where

Sassoon uses the technique of ‘the unexpected,’ (Puissant 30) and is offering us a

satirical interpretation.

The colloquial language used in ‘They’ became an important characteristic of

Sassoon’s later war poetry. We can find the same technique in The General. The cheerful

‘Good-morning; Good-morning’ spoken by the general first creates the jolly effect of a

friendly general, who is concerned with the fate of his soldiers. The third line ‘Now the

soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead,’ however immediately takes away all our

illusions about the jolly war. The sense of disillusion becomes complete in the last line

‘But he did for them both by his plan of attack.’ The General does not care a bit about his

men. He only cares about the success of his crazy plan.

Sassoon's method developed until he reached this level of perfection. In the poem

In the Pink, he laid the foundation for these bitter war satires. The verse form of this

poem is simple with a classic ABABCC rhyme and there are no embellishments or

adjectives that could distract the reader from the real content, which deserves all the

45

attention of its reader. The colloquial tone emphasises the soldier’s working-class

background. When reading the poem, you get the impression that you are reading a

ballad, it has a sing-song quality. But the last stanza takes away that illusion:

And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge

Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten.

Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge,

And everything but wretchedness forgotten.

To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die.

And still the war goes on; he don't know why.

Even when he dies - and probably he will - the war still goes on and it will not

make any difference whether the soldier participated in it or not. This poem makes us

face the uselessness of these soldiers’ sacrifices.

The ballad-like effect of the poem In the Pink also appears in Does it Matter? In

that poem Sassoon uses a simple structure consisting out of three stanzas, each stanza

starting with the title question and followed by an unsatisfactory answer. 'This simple

form does not tally with the serious subject and therefore emphasizes the irony'

(Puissant 132).

A last important feature of Sassoon’s later poetry is the central dichotomy around

which most of his poems are built. In They Sassoon contrasts the reactions of the

hypocritical home front against the honest testimony of the soldiers at the front. 'They'

is deliberately placed between brackets because it can be looked upon from the

perspective of the soldiers and the Bishop. From the soldiers' perspective ‘they’ refers

to those on the home front who did not have any idea about the terrible losses on the

battlefield and actually also did not care either. From the Bishop's perspective 'they'

refers to the soldiers, which is an indication of his lack of attachment and empathy. ‘The

soldiers remain anonymous and impersonal for him, as does their fate’ (Puissant 89).

Another example of central dichotomy can be found in the poem The Effect. Sassoon

treats the words of the war correspondent as a slogan. In utterances like "He'd never

seen so many dead before," or "How peaceful are the dead," Sassoon reveals his anger

towards the home front and the way in which the press deceives the people in England

(Puissant 116).

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3 Owen

Owen met Sassoon while he was being treated for shell shock at Craiglockhart hospital.

The poems Sassoon was writing at that time made a great impression on him. In a letter

to his mother he wrote: 'I have just been reading Siegfried Sassoon, and am feeling a

very high pitch of emotion. Nothing like his trench life sketches has ever been written'

(Owen 485). The word 'sketches' is interesting because it reflects one of the stylistic

changes that poetry needed to undergo to put the war into verse.

As I already mentioned before, the Old Guard had expected the poets to serve the

war with propaganda. The reading public expected poetry to be written with 'uplifting

rhythms, (...) manly violence, (...) complacent pastoral dreams and resonant

commonplaces' (Graham 33). Sassoon and Owen understood that they would have to

break with that tradition if they wanted to write what they sensed.

Until August 1917 Owen's poems 'displayed the Romantic flourishes and lush

imagery one would expect from someone who idealised Keats and Shelley' (Bloom 14).

But then, at Craiglockhart, this all changed. It is difficult to determine Sassoon's

contribution but it must have been substantial. After reading Counter-Attack Owen told

Sassoon that the 'counter-attack' in the poem had 'frightened (him) much more than the

real one' (Graham 33). There were other elements which caused the transition: his war

experiences, his mental condition, the confrontation with the shell shocked soldiers and

the process of his own recovery. As a poet Owen was influenced by Sassoon but he

already possessed enough poetic talent and ideas to write the superb poems which

would follow: Dulce et Decorum Est, The Dead Beat, The Last Laugh, Mental Cases,

Disabled, S.I.W., The Show, Spring Offensive, Insensibility ... Sassoon was perhaps the

'spark that kindled his great fire.'

What exactly happened in Owen's mind to compose a new language for poetry?

'The awareness of lies to answer, misunderstandings to correct, ignorance to supply

with knowledge, gave fuel to Owen's creative energies' (Graham 33). Soldiers at the

front were convinced that it was impossible for those at home to understand the horror

they experienced for the following reasons: the news they got at home was a lie and the

horror itself could not be described. Even if that horror could be described, those who

were not in it would not be able to grasp it. Owen wanted to do what was considered to

be impossible: write poetry which emotionally involved his readers, which drew them

in trench warfare. In the following paragraphs I shall explain with examples how he

succeeded in his mission.

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Owen opened his readers' eyes to see clichés, ambiguities and worn metaphors

from the existing poetry by placing these words and images in the context of war. In The

Last Laugh he uses pathetic fallacy for the noises of the artillery: the bullets 'chirp' (the

noise is connected with joy when it is uttered by little girls), the machine-guns 'chuckle'

(the noise sounds like a soft laugh and is connected with satisfaction) and the big gun

'guffaws' (the noise makes you think of roaring laughter). Through onomatopoeia he

imitates the sounds for those who had never heard them. The bullets 'vain, vain, vain'

and the machine-gun 'Tut-tut! Tut-tut!' Again words put in a new context, 'tut-tut

normally being used for mild disapproval, and 'vain' for pride. The effect of 'Love -

languid seemed his mood, / Till slowly lowered, his whole face kissed the mud' is

appalling. The alliteration combining 'love' and 'languid' gives the impression that he

loses interest for his lovely girl. The alliterations and assonance are working together to

give the effect of losing consciousness and dying. Finally, there is an unusual context for

the metaphor of the kiss in 'kissing the mud'.

Owen often chooses titles for his poems, which - in the context of war - become

ambiguous. I shall give two examples. Exposure is ambiguous in the sense that it might

refer to physical 'exposure' to the cold and the hardships, or to the 'exposure' of the

truth - for those at home - about what is really happening at the front. The Show gets a

double meaning. The soldiers would immediately make the connection with 'battle',

because it was part of their army slang, but others would have to read the poem first to

understand its meaning, and even then the word is still 'loaded'.

The chaos and devastation of the war could not be rendered into poetry if rhythms

and rhyme were harmonious. In Dulce et Decorum Est, for example, Owen still uses

cross rhyme but he does not use a fixed rhythm or metre. The rhythm follows the

experiences: first of the exhausted men, then of the panic during the gas attack,

followed by the convulsions of the dying soldier. In Mental Cases, Owen does not even

use rhyme since it would not fit the disturbed thoughts inside the shell shocked

soldiers' heads. To achieve the same effect he also uses inversion ('skull's teeth

wicked'), parenthesis and metaphor: 'Stroke on stroke of pain, - but what slow panic, /

Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets?' The effect is devastating, as you see

the deep-lying eyes, the pain, the panic and their haunted spirits. The stylistic devices

lead to a new diction, which helps us to understand the disturbed minds of the soldiers:

Multitudinous murders they once witnessed.

Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander,

48

Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter.

Dulce et Decorum Est is an example of Owen's 'method of dramatic description

(which) seeks to make the physical and psychological suffering of the war more vivid'

(Bloom 16). Other critics, like Daniel Hipp and Desmond Graham, also refer to this

photographic, filmic, documentary style.

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, -

In this passage not only the dramatic description strikes us, but also the way in which

Owen invites us to come near the scene 'and watch'. He invites us to come to the

battlefield and participate in the soldiers' suffering.

This direct address is used in a different way in The Chances. Here the soldiers and

officers speak in their own vernacular. The five voices invite us to come into the trench

with them. Owen certainly reached his goal: he had bridged the gap between the home

front and the real front, he had touched his readers emotionally and he had opened

their eyes for the lies.

4 Rosenberg

Isaac Rosenberg in many aspects is the odd man out when looking at the nine poets I

used for my thematic approach. First of all he was of Jewish origin, secondly he came

from a poor, working-class family. By enlisting he could send half of his soldier’s pay to

his mother. Another reason why he cannot really be considered as a prototypic warrior

is his frail physique. Rosenberg wanted to enlist in the Royal Army Medical Corps, but

he was only accepted for the Bantam Battalion, being shorter that 5ft3in (1m60). He

actually never felt at ease in the army: he was often ridiculed because of his Jewish

origin and his strange looks. What makes Rosenberg especially interesting is his double

artistic status: he was not only a poet but also an excellent painter. In his poetry he

applied his painter’s eye to 'the scene he was viewing, and crystallized that vision with

49

a blend of words and images' (Holt 192). In this respect, Rosenberg is the complete

opposite of Owen. Owen was completely consumed by guilt and anger, whereas

Rosenberg was still able to keep a distance from the horrible scenes he saw around him

and was able to record them with his painter’s eye (Sambrook 42).

Rosenberg’s poetry did not undergo a lot of changes during the war. His pre-war

poems show him as an experimenter or as Bergonzi states 'an explorer in his use of

poetic language' (Bergonzi 110).

Although the war did not change Rosenberg’s original style fundamentally, we

can notice 'an immediately sharpening effect on his poetry' (Bergonzi 111). On

receiving news of the War, a poem he wrote while still in South-Africa is an excellent

example about how Rosenberg uses symbolic images to convey meaning.

When Sassoon saw how the beautiful countryside in Flanders and France was ravished

by continuous shelling, he thought of his beloved English countryside. Rosenberg, who

had been living in the slums, did not have this kind of 'pastoral nostalgia to set against

his front-line experience' (Bergonzi 110). In one of his most famous poems Dead Man’s

Dump, Rosenberg describes the hellish landscape of war. The poem certainly deserves

the ugly title Rosenberg provided it with. With deadly accuracy he sketches how 'carts

loaded with the wounded drive over the unburied dead' (Bergonzi 111).

The wheels lurched over sprawled dead

But pained them not, though their bones crunched,

Their shut mouths made no moan.

They lie there huddled, friend and foeman,

The grim atmosphere is enhanced by his choice of words with adjectives like

‘sprawled’, ‘crunched’ and ‘huddled’. The poem arouses a sense of disgust, even more

than with Sassoon’s terrifying poems.

Rosenberg’s gift as a painter made him see the realities of trench life more

accurately, it also seemed like he wrestled with the language to express what he saw

happening on the battlefield (Sambrook 43). When he was writing a poem, he used the

same technique as a sculptor who works on a statue, making it grow, like clay under the

hands of the artist (Bergonzi 111).

Rosenberg was not limited by taboos which muzzled the higher classes. In Louse

Hunting he is himself infected with lice. The 'louse hunting' itself becomes a means to

bring aestheticism into the poem. He does not emphasise the misery of the lice-infected

50

soldiers but he rather sketches 'the grotesque visual patterns they make in trying to kill

the lice' (Bergonzi 113), like for example in the lines:

Then we all sprang up and stript

To hunt the verminous brood.

Soon like a demons' pantomime

This is followed by the soldiers' pointless attempts to kill the vermin that pesters them:

See gargantuan hooked fingers

Pluck in supreme flesh

To smutch supreme littleness.

As a poet Rosenberg remained rather constant as far as his technique is

concerned, but his view upon the world would change radically creating an immense

gap between the idyllic painter he was before the Great War and the man who could

capture the devastation and the chaos of no-man’s-land like no one else could. A lot of

critics saw Rosenberg as the war poet with the greatest potential. Unfortunately we

cannot say how his poetry and his painting skills would have evolved since he died on 1

April 1918. A great loss for the artistic world.

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Chapter four

Art and the Great War

Early 1914, about a year after the publication of the first anthology, Stanley Spencer,

English painter born in 1891, suggested that Marsh should publish a book to accompany

Georgian Poetry with drawings from young artists, including Roberts, Nevinson,

Bomberg, Rosenberg, Spencer and the Nash brothers. The book was never published,

although it could have included paintings like Apple Gatherers (Stanley Spencer, ill. 110),

Landscape with Flowering Trees (Isaac Rosenberg, ill. 2) and Apple Pickers (Paul Nash, ill

3), paintings which could, like the poems they had to accompany, be labelled as

romantic, sentimental or hedonistic.

I lay upon the sparkling grass,

And God's own mouth was kissing me,

And there was nothing that did pass

But blazed with divinity.

These lines from In a Workshop, written in 1912 by Isaac Rosenberg fit well in the

Georgian Poetry anthology. Hasn't God created a perfect world of beauty for the poet-

painter to enjoy, to sing about its enchantment in pleasant idleness? But where was God

two years later during the Battle of Loos, where was the 'sparkling grass' after days of

heavy artillery shelling before the Battle of the Somme, what had been fabricated in

God's 'workshop' when the French were eliminated by the first German gas attack in

Ypres and where was 'divinity' on Menin Road in 1917? Where was God indeed,

Rosenberg must have thought in May 1917 when he went out wiring and had to crawl

over dead bodies spread around No-Man's-Land:

Dark Earth! Dark Heavens! Swinging in chemic smoke,

What dead are born when you kiss each soundless soul

With lightning and thunder from your mined heart,

Which man’s self-dug, and his blind fingers loosed?

(from Dead Man's Dump)

10 all illustrations can be found in attachment 4

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When Britain was drawn into the war in August 1914, because Germany ignored

a call to withdraw its forces, the peaceful romantic surroundings of the poets and

painters, which gave them the idea that life was all pleasure and enjoyment, changed

forever. Siegfried Sassoon later wrote: "I had lived my way to almost twenty-eight in an

unquestioning confidence that the world had arrived at a meridian of unchangeableness

… No one could have been more unaware that the next twenty-five years would be a

cemetery for the civilised delusions of the nineteenth century" (Sassoon 1986, 274).

These 'delusions' were the so-called values, being prepared to die for one's country,

blind hatred for 'the Boche', unconditional obedience to insane orders. When Robert

Graves wrote his World War One memoirs he called them 'Goodbye to all that', exactly

because he did not want to identify himself with those values any longer.

The poets and painters who went to war, filled with patriotism, bursting with

images of the beauty of the English countryside, laid-back and optimistic were

completely unprepared for the battlefields of modern warfare. Neither the poets nor the

painters mastered the language and stylistic devices they needed to approach that New

World.

In 1917Paul Nash, who was then engaged as an official war artist in the Ypres Salient,

described his powerlessness to his wife. In Modern Art and the Great War the letter is

paraphrased: "Nash’s last godless, hopeless war letter attempts to explain to his wife

how the war cannot be represented in art or language. It is unspeakable, indescribable.

It is nearly invisible to sight, a reiterative blackness: black rain, bitter black of night,

black dying trees" (Malvern 34).

Through the British and Canadian official art schemes some 4,000 paintings were

produced and more than 250 painters were involved. Even the greatest artists –

Christopher Nevinson, Paul and John Nash, William Orpen, Wyndham Lewis, Stanley

Spencer, John Singer Sargent and David Bomberg - to name just a few – struggled, not

only against censorship, or to retain their positions as official war artists, but more

importantly to draw or paint what they sensed – with all their senses – during those

moments of indescribable agony and horror.

In this chapter I explain how each of the most talented painters I selected,

painters who served at the front, who experienced life in the trenches, who operated a

howitzer gun, who worked as signaller or sapper, who went over the top, that each of

these painters tried to work out ‘a new language’ for his art . First I want to make clear

how so many painters –amongst them some of the best ones in the country – were

53

commissioned as war painters and why the thematic approach, which I chose for the

poets, does not work here.

1 Artists go to war

When the First World War broke out for Britain the majority of the population was

euphoric and wanted to teach 'the Huns' a lesson. Artists were no exceptions and many

of them volunteered. A great number of them joined the Artists’ Rifles, an officer

training unit. The painters I am going to discuss first served in the army and were only

later employed as official war artists. Eric Kennington, for example, served with the

1/13th Battalion, the 'Kensingtons' for 300 days until he got wounded in June 1915. In

August 1917 he was employed as an official war artist.

Not all artists joined out of sheer patriotism. Some joined because of financial

difficulties as "the art market shrivelled, prices tumbled, artist’s materials became

scarce" (Gough 15). Moreover the right was opposed to anything which might change

"the golden period of Victorian and Edwardian eminence" (Gough 16). In this sense the

war was welcomed as it could make an end to styles like Futurism & Vorticism in art

and Imagism in poetry. The establishment felt ridiculed by these avant-garde styles and

considered them to be inappropriate to serve the patriotic cause.

2 Artists get a privileged position as their skills might serve the war

In August 1914 the Foreign Office decided to establish a secret agency to produce

propaganda for the war. It was headed by Charles Masterman and people referred to it

as Wellington House.

Early 1916 someone suggested to Masterman that Muirhead Bone, a famous

etcher, who has been called up by the army, could be of better use in the services of the

government. Bone was employed to produce pictorial propaganda. Many other painters,

etchers and sculptors would follow, making Wellington House the largest arts

patronage scheme in the country ever. Later the Canadian art scheme was created.

Roughly speaking the art scheme went through three phases: propaganda on a

worldwide scale, a systematic survey like a photo collection and commemoration. Paul

Maze, for example was employed to draw panoramas of the battlefield, which could

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then be used as intelligence about enemy positions to indicate targets and to determine

range and arc of fire.

Maxwell Aitken (later to become Lord Beaverbrook), an influential politician and

powerful press baron11, wanted to commemorate the war in a Hall of Remembrance in

England and a Memorial building in Canada. Superb artists were attracted for this

purpose, among them Wyndham Lewis, Paul Nash and his brother John, John Singer

Sargent and Stanley Spencer. The best talent available would be used to commemorate

the war from different perspectives. These painters produced paintings of outstanding

quality but neither of the buildings ever would be constructed.

On 5 March 1917 The Cabinet approved the establishment of a National War

Museum (in December it was renamed Imperial War Museum). The cabinet also began a

programme of commissioning war artists aiming to document the war through art in all

its aspects. Due to tensions between the British War Memorials Committee and the

Imperial War Museum Lord Beaverbrook resigned and the art scheme was assigned to

the Imperial War Museum.

It is almost evident that artists grabbed the opportunity to become official war

painters with both hands. They had various reasons for it: they wanted to be a witness

and leave their personal testimony, they wanted to be rewarded for their talent and

they wanted to avoid danger from 1916 onwards when conscription was introduced. As

war artists they also underwent the hardships of life in the trenches. On one of his front

line drawings, for example, Paul Maze has written: "Could not go through heavy

shelling" (Gough 77). Richard Nevinson writes in a letter to Masterman: "I nearly got

done in a few days ago at the observation post. We were spotted and got shelled, had to

stick glued against a bank for an hour wondering when Fritz would leave off" (Gough

104).

3 Themes of art and poetry rarely overlap

Leafing through Oil Paintings in Public Ownership of the Imperial War Museum, a

collection of 1,870 reproductions which covers all major conflicts since World War One

and is arranged in alphabetical order, you realise that the painter’s approach most often

is topic orientated whereas the poet’s approach is inspired by experience and the

course of events. Most paintings reflect a situation at a certain time and place limited

11 he owned three newspapers (the Daily Express, the London Evening Standard and the Sunday Express)

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within the frame of their choice, whereas most poems tell a story. Paintings are like

photos, poems like films. Still, after Christopher Nevinson had seen the documentary

The Battle of the Somme (McDowell & Malins, GB 1916) he used film narration in The

Harvest of Battle (ill. 4), a picture telling the bleak story of the returning soldiers from

the battlefield, carrying their wounded.

A second reason why the themes, or rather topics, are different is that the

paintings were commissioned. The Imperial War Museum divided the war into eight

subjects (Army, Navy, Air Force, Merchant Marine, Land, Munitions, Clerical and Work

by Women & Public Manifestations) and "artists were then found to fit these subjects"

(Gough 30). The pictures in Oil Paintings in Public Ownership reflect the following

subjects: tanks, guns in action, artillery in operation, flamethrowers, anti -aircraft guns,

being shelled or attacked, gassed, portraits, factories (for shells, aircraft …), warships,

others vessels, battles at sea, aircraft, airships, aircraft battles, clothing & uniforms,

gasmasks, refugees, billets, canteens, in the café, prisoners, prison camps, dugouts,

hospitals, operating theatres, wounded, transport of the wounded, stretcher-bearers,

graves, graveyards, funeral services, cavalry charges, battles (Pervyse, Gallipoli,

Fampoux …), battlefields, no-man’s-land & enemy lines (Ypres, Somme, Oppy Wood,

Thiepval …), mine craters, wire, ruins (Louvain after the shelling …), leaving and

arriving, movement of troops, troops resting, sleeping, relief, regimental bands, drill,

winter, sunset, tent camps, in the trenches, mud, roll call, over the top, erecting a

camouflage tree, advance post, mules, horses. All these subjects and most of the

paintings could more or less have been replaced by photos. Only the best painters, in

their best moments, could get beyond the possibilities of photography. Still we should

not underestimate the painter. He can choose his composition at liberty. To give just

one example: The Kensingtons at Laventie (ill. 5) reflects what Eric Kennington

experienced as a soldier when his platoon formed up in a ruined street in the village of

Laventie. There is no triumph in the picture. The soldiers are so exhausted and

weather-beaten that they have become emotionally isolated from each other.

Kennington’s realistic picture has become more meaningful than a photo, because he

could show the exhaustion on the faces without having to ask the soldiers to look into

the camera.

Oil Paintings in Public Ownership also shows a handful of pictures which cannot

be classified under the subjects listed above. Fraternity (Augustus Edwin John, ill. 6), for

example, shows the tender brotherhood of three soldiers outlined against the ruins of

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some buildings; in The Last Message (Fortunino Matania, ill. 7) a soldier supports his

dying comrade offering him a listening ear for his last words; the dead child in A Taube

(Christopher Nevinson, ill. 8) stands for the civilian victims of the war; Paths of Glory

(Christopher Nevinson, ill. 9), with the corpses of two English soldiers, was censored for

its shocking irony; The Mad Woman of Douai (William Orpen, ill. 10) shows a scene

loaded with symbolism; finally Sacrifice (Charles Sims, ill. 11) shows a crucified Christ

outlined against the horrors of the war.

4 In search of the fourth dimension

If you have ever pondered about the universe, you will have been perplexed at the idea

of its infinity and you will find it impossible to come to terms with the idea that nothing

existed before the Big Bang. Unless perhaps there is a fourth dimension. If that fourth

dimension can be described by physicists, we might be able to grasp the ideas

mentioned above. This must have been more or less the difficult task the poets and

painters set out to achieve once they had been submerged into the inferno of their New

World. I want to discover the fourth dimension in the work of seven of the greatest

trench painters: Bomberg, Lewis, the brothers Nash, Nevinson, Orpen and Roberts.

4.1 David Bomberg – how to paint a poem

Sappers at Work (ill. 12), Bomberg’s magnum opus about the hardships of a tunnelling

company under Hill 60 at St. Eloi, is a tribute to the miners who performed this hard

labour. The two versions, completely different in style, prove how he struggled, not only

to adapt his style to the effect he wanted to achieve, but also to the likes of his

commissioners. Sadly, when the painting was finished it was rejected and the second

version -in which Bomberg tried to satisfy his commissioners- only got a lukewarm

reception. The poem Winter Night perhaps reflects how Bomberg saw his sappers at

work: "Thick blankets smother the earth. Night, in / An air-tight keg, sits brooding

dismally… Hemmed in. The bolted ceiling of the / night rests on our heads, like vaulted

roofs of / iron huts … / Earth and / sky; each in each enfolded – hypnotized: - / sucked

in the murky snare, stricken dumb" (Gough 311).

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4.2 Wyndham Lewis – ‘You must not miss a war if one is going’

Lewis arrived in Wytschaete in May 1917 to join a battery of howitzers. Later he served

as a Forward Observation Officer, occupying positions in sight of the enemy line. As a

FOO he had to direct the fire of the guns if the shells fell beyond or short of their

objective, a very dangerous job. In a letter to Ezra Pound he wrote: "Whizzing, banging

and swishing and thudding completely surround me."

In Battery Position in a Wood (ill. 13) Lewis captured the tension of the gunners

in periods of calm, alert for incoming fire. In A Battery Shelled (ill. 14) he has found the

ideal compromise between his abstract visions as a Vorticist, the traumatic impact of

heavy shelling and the idea of "the innate tragedy of the war" (Gough 238).

4.3 John Nash’s trenches

More than any other painter John Nash captured the discomforts of the trenches, for

example in An Advance Post, Day (ill. 15), where "the figures are folded into the earth

and into one another as though rooted in the Flanders soil" (Gough 295).

Oppy Wood, 1917. Evening (ill. 16) seems peaceful, in spite of the explosions at

the horizon, lifeless but magical, because of its representation of the sky with the clouds

radiating a light that transcends the deadly landscape.

4.4 Paul Nash – squeezing life out of landscapes and trees

Personality is always a key factor for any artist. In the case of Paul Nash it is his

affection for trees. "I never lost this tree sense: to me half the war is a memory of trees;

fallen and tortured trees; trees untouched in summer moonlight, torn and shattered

winter trees, trees green and brown, grey and white, living and dead" (Gough 128).

Small woods like Mansel Copse, Inverness Wood and Thiepval Forest became killing

grounds. Trees were destroyed by artillery shells or felled for military use. Paul Nash

experienced this in the Ypres Salient and drew a parallel between the dismembered

trees and the human carnage.

In Summer Garden (ill. 17), painted in 1913, the trees are part of the much loved

English countryside and express his thoughts about trees: "I sincerely love and worship

trees and know they are people and wonderful people - much more lovely than the

majority of people one meets12". Of course his style had to change in order to express

how much grief he felt because of the loss of so many beautiful trees. His style kept

12 www.michalagyetvai.co.uk/paintings.html

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changing during the war while painting the landscapes of destruction. If we compare

Chaos Decoratif, 1917 (ill. 18) with We Are Making a New World, 1918 (ill. 19) and The

Menin Road, 1919 (ill. 20), we can see that the splintered wood in the painting of 1917

has only been partly damaged: some trees are still intact, untouched and in the

foreground and background nature is bursting with lively shades of green and yellow.

In the other paintings the splintered woods and panoramic views of the shelled Salient

have become raw and brutal. A landscape which reflects what Nash had sensed: "(…)

only the black rain out of the bruised and swollen clouds, all through the bitter black of

night is fit atmosphere in such a land. The rain drives on, the stinking mud becomes

more evilly yellow, the shell holes fill up with green-white water, the roads and tracks

are covered in inches of slime, the black dying trees ooze and sweat and the shells never

cease" (Gough 152). Nothing remains of the feelings he had when he was drawing in

Flanders in March 1917 and wrote in his diary that he was happier in the trenches

because life had a ‘new zest’ and beauty was 'more poignant' (Gough 136-7). In The

Menin Road (ill. 20) the trees are as lifeless as the muddy earth and the sky is not any

less dramatic and menacing than the shelled landscape. Four soldiers are trapped in a

landscape which makes it impossible to survive. Stylistically Paul Nash had created a

labyrinth of destruction in which straight and twisted lines, planes of shade and light

create an inescapable atmosphere of menace.

In Void, 1918 (ill. 21) Nash succeeded in giving shape to Reginald Farrer’s idea

that the battlefield is ‘full of emptiness’ (Gough 154), by using the geometrical shapes

and planes of cubism in such a way that the onlooker becomes overpowered by the

omnipresent dangers of the battlefield. Painters like Nash understood that they had to

break away from the existing conventions of painting. Until then painters had directed

the eye to the main subject, sustained a hierarchy for all the elements and the

background was what it said: a décor behind the main subject. Other painters used the

same principle. In Colin Gill’s Heavy Artillery (ill. 22), for example, all elements have

become equally important and the soldiers are stripped of their humanity, making them

like machines. In William Roberts’ The First German Gas Attack at Ypres (ill. 23) the

panic itself becomes the subject, submerging the individual soldiers in its hectic

movement.

Paul Nash perfects the technique of confusion and dislocation in The Mule Track

(ill. 24). In every corner of the painting something dramatic is happening. The onlooker

is sucked inside the battlefield to experience its horror through shape and colour, only

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later to discover the foreground where the mule track begins and guides us to the main

subject – if there is one at all – the panicking mules in the middle of the inferno.

Nash also understood that war provided a new context. The sun he painted in We

Are Making a New World (ill. 19) is almost white, radiating a grey light into a pale blue

sky and underneath it are heavy clouds coloured ochre. This sunset or sunrise is not

romantic but fearsome. In the trenches dawn and dusk, sunrise and sunset were

moments of tension when the soldiers feared an attack.

Nash had perfected his new styles to render the atmosphere of the battlefield by

the time he painted The Menin Road (ill. 20) which was considered one of the most

dangerous parts of the Western Front. He really succeeded in painting what those

soldiers must have felt, i.e. the fear of being locked in an inferno, as far as the eye can

reach.

4.5 Christopher Nevinson – from modernism to realism and film narration

Nevinson believed that the soldier was dominated by the machine. In Returning to the

Trenches (ill. 25) "he combined impressionistic painterliness with a simple geometric

design, and used overlapping wedges of red, blue, copper and silver to suggest both the

unstoppable momentum of a column on the march as well as the hurried and harassed

melancholy of military service" (Gough 99). In La Mitrailleuse (ill. 26) soldier and

machine(-gun) have become one body, both in design and colour. By doing this

Nevinson makes clear how the war dehumanises man.

Through his experiences in the trenches Nevinson’s style changed from

modernism to realism to be able to evoke the hardship and suffering of static warfare.

Nevinson focused on the individual behind the soldier and the pain he had to endure

(e.g. the soldier with the head-wound in The Doctor, ill. 27). He understood that the

visual language had to be adapted to the subject. Flooded Trench on the Yser, 1915 (ill.

28) and After a Push, 1917 (ill. 29) depict a similar Flemish landscape, but the style is

completely different. Flooded Trench on the Yser (ill. 28), with its stylised geometry,

cannot reflect what the soldiers had to go through when after heavy shelling and rain

no-man’s-land and the battlefield had become uninhabitable. In After a Push (ill. 29) the

rain has stopped and the sky at the horizon is even clearing up. Still the picture radiates

wet, cold, danger and death.

Nevinson painted The Harvest of Battle (ill. 4) after he had seen the film The

Battle of the Somme. The influence is clear.: he used film narration with the different

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phases, episodes of battle and the almost filmic movement. While ‘reading’ the picture

from right to left a story develops like in a film. Again Nevinson understood that the

language of painting could be adapted – or even had to – to create the horror of war like

he had experienced it himself. About this painting he wrote: "A typical scene after an

offensive at dawn. Walking wounded, prisoners and stretcher cases are making their

way to the rear through the water-logged country of Flanders. By now, the infantry

have advanced behind the creeping barrage on the right, only leaving the dead, mud and

wire; but their former positions are now occupied by Artillery. The enemy is sending

SOS signals and once more these shattered men will subject to counter-battery fire"

(Gough,123). In The Harvest of Battle (ill. 4) narration not only develops like in film, but

at the same time – and probably better than in film – Nevinson creates the image of a

hell from which no escape is possible.

4.6 William Orpen – from dazzling light to painting the smell

Four days after Orpen had arrived at the front, in April 1917, the Battle of Arras began

in snow and rain. Only weeks later nineteen mines were detonated at Messines. The

sights of the battlefields were shocking. Orpen wrote in a letter to Henry Tonks: "Miles

and miles of Shell Holes bodies rifles steel Helmets gas Helmets and all kind of battered

clothes German and English, and shells and wire … not a living soul anywhere near, a

truly terrible peace in the new and terribly modern desert" (Gough 172).

After the cold, wet and muddy weeks in Flanders Orpen travelled to the Somme

where he saw a completely different sight. In his own words: "I had left (Flanders) mud,

nothing but water, shell-holes and mud – the most gloomy dreary abomination of

desolation the mind could imagine; and now in the summer of 1917, no words could

express the beauty of it. The dreary, dismal mud was baked white and pure – dazzling

white" (Gough 173). These hard contrasts, almost like overexposed pictures would later

become his emblem, in the pictures Poilu and Tommy (ill. 30), The Big Crater (ill. 31), A

Highlander Passing a Grave (ill. 32) and many others.

What he also saw were small groups of soldiers who came back from the

trenches "some sick; some with trench feet; some on stretchers; some wounded; worn,

sad and dirty – all stumbling along in the glare, their eyes wide open, the pupils very

small (…)" (Gough 174). These experiences gave him the inspiration for the poem A

Memory of the Somme about the corpse of a British soldier in no-man’s-land near

Beaumont Hamel.

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A fair spring morning—not a living soul is near,

Far, far away there is the faint grumble of the guns;

The battle has passed long since—

All is Peace.

(...)

Occasionally there is the movement of a rat in the

Old battered trench on which I sit, still in the

Confusion in which it was hurriedly left.

The sun is baking hot.

Strange odours come from the door of a dug-out

With its endless steps running down into blackness.

The land is white—dazzling.

The distance is all shimmering in heat.

A few little spring flowers have forced their way

Through the chalk.

He lies a few yards in front of the trench.

We are quite alone.

He makes me feel very awed, very small, very ashamed.

Perhaps Orpen was not yet ready to paint what he saw and still felt unable to paint

what he experienced with all his senses. To an officer who told him that he could easily

paint the Somme from memory, Orpen replied "but one could not paint the smell"

(Orpen 20). In Dead Germans in a Trench (ill. 33) the stench is present, "without half-

tones the grisly scene is one of extremes; life and death, light and dark, black and white"

(Gough 176). "Orpen understood the corrosive power of the battlefield (and he) drew

the land in a state of advanced atrophy … The sweet odour of death and decay is almost

palpable. In these works Orpen has painted 'the smell'" (Gough 176).

4.7 William Roberts – disruption and chaos

Like Wyndham Lewis Roberts served as a gunner and signaller. Many of his paintings

reflect how he experienced the war. The stories are simple: signallers laying wire

(Signallers, ill. 34), soldiers trying on gas-masks (The Gas Chamber, ill. 35), starting a

battery action (Turning out for an SOS. Battery Action at Night, ill. 36). In each of these

pictures there is chaos: the soldiers do not seem able to cooperate, they move wildly,

uncontrollably, panicky.

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When Roberts was commissioned to paint The First Gas Attack at Ypres (ill. 23),

he could not fall back on any concrete material and he did not have any experience with

gas during his service. He prepared the assignment meticulously. So he knew the effects

of the chlorine gas which had been used in April 1915. Roberts chose to strengthen the

effect of the uncontrollably convulsing bodies of the French soldiers fleeing from the

German gas cloud. He set them against the Canadian Field Artillery, who were unaware

of the approaching gas cloud and were ready for an attack on the Germans. The contrast

has a devastating effect and the almost life-size figures threaten the onlooker like a

tsunami wave.

Although John Singer Sargent’s painting Gassed (ill. 37) has become more famous

than Roberts’ picture treating the same subject, Sargent does not even come near to the

effect The First Gas Attack at Ypres (ill. 23) has. Sargent shows pity for the soldiers, but

primarily wanted his picture to be a tribute to the fighting soldiers in the Hall of

Remembrance.

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Conclusion

This research was set up to reach two major objectives. The first was to approach the

trench poetry of the nine soldier poets thematically and to place their poetry in the

broader context of other points of view, more specifically testimonies, photos and

paintings. The second was to discover how language, style and ideas had changed as a

result of the carnage. Both objectives were difficult to achieve. First of all because so

much has already been written about the First World War and the war poets. In the

second place because there are so many primary resources. The war poetry is limited,

perhaps to a thousand poems, the number of paintings is sizeable, about four thousand,

the number of testimonies from memoirs, diaries and letters is difficult to grasp, there

must be millions and the number of photos is even larger than that; the Imperial War

Museum alone has built up a collection of five million photos.

I selected nine British war poets with fighting experiences on the Western Front.

Now I realise that selecting always causes problems. Even if the criteria of your

selection are well-considered, those selected will not necessarily be found suitable to

prove your point. This does not mean that I want to corroborate my hypothesis. It

means that logical conclusions are contradicted. In the introduction I mentioned: if

words failed the poet to express what he sensed in his new traumatic environment, his

language, style or attitude would change and this should be traceable in his poems. I

was wrong. In the following paragraphs I report on my findings for the thematic and the

stylistic approach.

The thematic approach

As for the diaries and letters I did some research in Ypres, at the Kenniscentrum of In

Flanders Fields Museum. Given the amount of information and the scope of my research

I realised this was not efficient. I was lucky to discover Death's Men - Soldiers of the

Great War, a book by Denis Winter that recounts the stories of soldiers and officers

through the memoirs they have written, about one hundred twenty in all, a gold mine

for my research. Supplemented with the testimonies of the Last Tommies, Hamilton's

World War One - Life in the Trenches and Martin Pegler's British Tommy 1914-18, I

succeeded in getting an objective and detailed image of life in the trenches and the

experiences of going into battle. Even with a limited number of sources the biggest

problem was selection, a returning problem, as I have indicated above. Channelling my

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subject to one theme, for example 'death', would have allowed me to approach the

objectives much more thoroughly.

While I was browsing the internet and leafing through a number of photo

collections of the First World War I perhaps saw three thousand of the millions of

photos that exist. When war photos are brought together in books, the author's or

editor's point of view will determine the image of the war you will get. Collections

produced by the Daily Mail are still patriotic and give the idea of triumph of the Allied

Forces, especially the British troops, over the enemy. Other collections give a more

diversified image, but they will avoid shocking photos, especially images of dead British

soldiers. Two books concentrate on devastation, mutilation and death: Krieg dem Kriege

and Covenants with Death. Your first reaction is that this is the true image of the Great

War, but prudence is called for, as there are many more aspects which determine what

the war really involved. These aspects are shown in the other collections, but then the

trenches are well-built, the soldiers are high-spirited, during trench duty the soldiers

are attentive, the soldiers are disciplined under all circumstances, they have no fear,

they are supplied with enough food and water and equipped with the right gear for all

weather conditions. As anything goes on internet, that medium is probably the best

starting point for an extensive study on the subject. Sites like The Heritage of the Great

War, are daring and help you to see the Great War as the soldiers might have seen it.

To discover the themes in art about the Great War I used Oil Paintings in Public

Ownership and A Concise Catalogue of Paintings, Drawings and Sculpture of the First

World War 1914-1918. The first has the advantage of providing small reproductions, the

second of including drawings and etchings. The disadvantage of the Concise Catalogue

was that you cannot find any pictures of less important paintings on internet and

certainly not of the drawings and etchings. Consequently, for the thematic approach I

could only give examples from a selection of about six hundred paintings of the roughly

four thousand which exist. Still I believe it is safe to conclude that the themes in the

paintings differ strongly from those in the poems. Some themes could only be painted

with great difficulty, like 'disease' and 'tension', some themes were a taboo, like 'S.I.W.'

and 'suicide', for some themes the painters or commissioners did not show any interest,

like 'lice' and 'rats'. What is more, the painters' perspective differs from the poets'.

'Sentry duty', for example will span over a period of time in a poem, recounting what

the sentry experiences, whereas a painting on the subject will render the atmosphere

during sentry duty. If you compare the works of art produced by the British and

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Canadian art schemes with the work of Otto Dix and George Grosz the contrast cannot

be more shocking. We have to bear in mind though that Dix brought out his War-series

in 1925 and Grosz made most of his drawings of mutilated soldiers and amputees even

later. For Dix there are no taboos and every possible theme related to the Great War, as

long as it is shocking enough, can be found in the series of fifty etchings called Der Krieg.

The problem with the selected poetry has nothing to do with quantity. The first

difficulty occurred when I saw the discrepancy between Sassoon and the others

concerning thematic references in their poems. Sassoon represents 45% of all

references, Owen 18%, Graves 11% and the others between 7% and 3%. This is a pity

because it makes the thematic approach rather one-sided. On the other hand it

enhances the continuation between my Bachelor and Master Paper. The second

difficulty concerned the poets' attitudes to warfare, nationalism and prevailing values.

Grenfell and Sorley were outsiders. Grenfell had an uncontrollable desire to go 'into

battle' and Sorley still dreamt of the great Greek battles he had read about at school.

Compare that to Owen and Sassoon, who gradually became ever more critical of the way

in which the war evolved into a endless conflict of useless slaughter and you realise that

your search for a truthful image of the war will be difficult. In some poems a scene is set

very clear, almost like in a photo, but then better, because you feel what happens. One

of the examples came from Owen when he described the freezing cold: 'Our brains ache,

in the merciless iced east winds that knife us.' Another interesting aspect was the

attitude of Private Rosenberg towards vermin compared with Sassoon's. Military rank

and social class clearly determined which subjects were acceptable. Why wouldn't

Rosenberg admit he had lice? Lice were part of the social environment he came from.

Sassoon did not deny that there were lice, but he could not identify with a soldier

having lice. Other poets simply avoided the subject. You could say that there are no

taboos for Sassoon. Reading through his poems you will come across rats, lice, decaying

corpses, self inflicted wounds, amputees, suicides and syphilis. Still Sassoon has broken

loose from the trenches he inhabits and the war he fights, he has become an onlooker

scolding his military superiors, political leaders and the Church. Owen did the same and

when Coulson wrote 'Who makes the Law?' blasphemy was not far away. That is an

interesting point as well, how in the best poems the experiences oblige you to accept

the idea. In 1917 it must have been almost impossible for most people at the home front

to accept that 'Dulce et Decorum Est, Pro Patria Mori' is an old lie. After reading how the

soldier suffocates during a gas attack it must have been a lot easier. The poets create

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dramatic effects. The different themes intermingle: a sentry on night duty plods

through icy mud while far off a bombardment can be heard ... A theme can also be

approached from an original perspective, for example when Owen sees his own skull in

The Show.

Comparing the testimonies, photos, paintings and poetry is an interesting

exercise. Notwithstanding I have chosen to present them as parallel images of the Great

War without analysing the differences and similarities for the following reasons: (1)

comparison is not possible because paintings or photos are missing; (2) comparison is

irrelevant because the perspective, the attitude is different; (3) comparison is

subjective because the material has been selected; (4) comparison is unjustified

because the material is too limited. Presenting material like that, like Jean Libon a nd

Marco Lamensch did with Striptease, which was broadcast on Canvas in 2011,

stimulates the reader. That is exactly what I wanted to do. The purpose of approaching

the themes from different perspectives was to stimulate the imagination and at the

same time to come to a more diversified attitude towards different aspects of trench

warfare. It makes us see how different people look upon the same experiences. The eyes

of the soldier, photographer, painter and poet are different.

The stylistic approach

When I set up an outline for this paper I strongly believed that the transition from a

world of peace and quiet to one of almost total destruction would affect the language

and style of the poets, painters and photographers who had participated in World War

One. This is true for the great artists. Minor artists perhaps sensed the insufficiencies of

their language and style, but they could not come up with a solution. Mainly therefore I

have left these artists out of my paper.

Of the three selected poets - Sassoon, Owen and Rosenberg - the latter is much

less interesting for research on the shifts in language, style and ideas as the war

progressed. Belonging to the lower class, fighting as a Private and being a painter,

Rosenberg developed his own style. He was not like Sassoon and Owen the well -

educated man who mastered the classics and English literature, its genres and styles.

Sassoon and Owen both changed mentally because of the war. Both of them

realised that their new point of view on that war could not be rendered in the language

they had been using before.

67

Sassoon's assets were his biting irony, the direct descriptions of soldiers in the

trenches and during battle, and his new perspectives for alliteration, rhyme and

colloquial language. Through central dichotomy he accuses the military, political and

religious leaders of hypocrisy and irresponsibility and he confronts the home front with

the reality of the trenches and the battlefield.

Owen also believed that the war was prolonged and that soldiers were

slaughtered in useless battles. Sassoon's influence on him was important. Like Sassoon,

Owen also accused those who were responsible for the slaughter and those at the home

front who did nothing to prevent it. He also described the experiences of the soldiers

directly and he found a new context for alliteration, rhyme and colloquial language. Still,

Owen found his own voice the moment he believed that accusing those who were guilty

would not make them see, feel and understand the horror. That is Owen's asset. In his

best poems the reader is forced to participate in the events and this does not only shock

him, it also makes him feel the burden of his own responsibility.

For the interpretation of the paintings I mainly used Paul Gough's book A Terrible

Beauty and I added my own imagination to it by looking at the paintings. This is not

evident, because looking at reproductions of paintings might be deceptive. You do not

see the texture of the paint, the true colours and the exact size.

The selected painters all succeeded in intensifying at least one aspect of the war:

Bomberg the hard labour in claustrophobic circumstances of the sappers when digging

tunnels; Lewis the tension of the gunners in a battery; John Nash the discomforts of the

trenches; Paul Nash the destruction of the landscape, especially of trees; Nevinson the

hell of the battlefield from which the fighting and wounded soldiers cannot escape;

Orpen the stench and Roberts the chaos.

In search of a new style the painters were influenced by changes in their world.

Nevinson is the best example. He had the idea that machines were replacing man, so the

soldiers in La Mitrailleuse become one with their 'machine'. After seeing the film The

Battle of the Somme he used the technique of film narration in his paintings. All the

painters had to adapt their style to achieve what seemed impossible. The best example

is how Orpen painted the foul smell of decaying corpses by using intense light and hard

contrasts.

I decided to discuss photos of the Great War in an attachment, because they were

less than the poets and painters concerned with the medium of their art. Poets used

words, punctuation, rhyme, metre and stylistic devices. The great photographers who

68

got involved in the conflict also tried to depict its true horror. The trauma which they

experienced personally demanded a new approach. One way to do this was by

manipulating their photos in the darkroom.

All the painters referred to in this paper worked under the watchful eye of their

commissioners. The main purposes of these commissioners were making propaganda

and documenting the war. This had a big influence. We can only guess what Bomberg,

Lewis, the brothers Nash, Nevinson, Orpen and Roberts would have come up with if

they hadn't been muzzled by Wellington House and the Imperial War Museum.

In conclusion

From this research I have learned to be humble. So much research has already been

done and there is still so much left to be done.

I put the poetry which was composed in the trenches and on the battlefield in a

broader perspective to get a sharper image of the experiences behind the words. I

mainly succeeded in approaching different aspects of the Great War from different

perspectives.

Especially Owen and Sassoon, with their direct dramatic technique, succeed in

focusing on the conflict with a razor sharp lens.

69

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1

Attachment 1: Poems

Edmund Blunden 3 1 Concert Party 3 2 Pillbox 3 3 Preparations for Victory 4 4 The Zonnebeke Road 4 Leslie Coulson 6 5 The Rainbow 6 6 Who made the Law? 6 Robert Graves 8 7 1915 8 8 A Dead Boche 8 9 Corporal stare 8 10 It's A Queer Time 9 11 Limbo 10 12 The Assault Heroic 10 13 The First Funeral 11 14 The Gnat 12 15 The Leveller 13 Julian Grenfell 15 16 Into Battle 15 17 Prayer for those on the staff 16 Ivor Gurney 17 18 Ballad Of The Three Spectres 17 19 Photographs (To Two Scots Lads) 17 20 The Target 18 21 The Silent One 18 22 To England: A note 19 Wilfred Owen 20 23 Disabled 20 24 Dulce et Decorum Est 21 25 Exposure 21 26 Mental Cases 22 27 S.I.W. 23 28 The Chances 24 29 The Dead-Beat 25 30 The Last Laugh 25

2

31 The Sentry 25 32 The Show 26 Isaac Rosenberg 28 33 Dead Man’s Dump 28 34 Louse Hunting 30 35 On Receiving News of the War 30 36 Returning, We Hear the Larks 31 37 The Dying Soldier 31 38 The Immortals 31 Siegfried Sassoon 33 39 Absolution 33 40 Aftermath 33 41 A Subaltern 34 42 Attack 34 43 A Working Party 34 44 Break of Day 35 45 Counter-Attack 37 46 Dreamers 38 47 Does it matter? 38 48 Golgotha 38 49 In the Pink 39 50 Memorial Tablet 39 51 Prelude: The Troops 40 52 Remorse 40 53 Stand To: Good Friday-Morning 41 54 Suicide in the Trenches 41 55 Survivors 41 56 The Effect 42 57 The General 42 58 The One-Legged Man 42 59 The Redeemer 43 60 ‘They’ 43 61 Trench Duty 44 62 Wirers 44

Charles Sorley 45 63 A Letter From the Trenches to a School Friend 45 64 All the Hills and Vales Along 47 65 Barbury Camp 48 66 Such, such is Death 49 67 To Germany 49

3

Edmund Blunden Concert Party The stage was set, the house was packed, The famous troop began; Our laughter thundered, act by act; Time light as sunbeams ran. Dance sprang and spun and neared and fled, Jest chirped at gayest pitch, Rhythm dazzled, action sped Most comically rich. With generals and lame privates both Such charms worked wonders, till The show was over – lagging loth We faced the sunset chill; And standing on the sandy way, With the cracked church peering past, We heard another matinée, We heard the maniac blast Of barrage south by Saint Eloi, And the red lights flaming there Called madness: Come, my bonny boy, And dance to the latest air. To this new concert, white we stood; Cold certainty held our breath; While men in tunnels below Larch Wood Were kicking men to death. Pillbox Just see what’s happening Worley! Worley rose And round the angled doorway thrust his nose And sergeant Hyde went too to snuff the air. . . . Then war brought down his fist, and missed the pair! Yet Hyde was hit by a splinter, the blood came, And out sprang terrors that he’d striven to tame, A good man, Hyde, for weeks. I'm blown to bits, He screams, he screams. Come Bluffer, where’s your wits, Says Worley, Bluffer, you’ve a blighty, man! All in the pillbox urged him, here began His freedom: Think of Eastbourne and your dad, The poor man lay at length and brief and mad Flung out his cry of doom; soon ebbed and dumb He yielded. Worley with a tot of rum

4

And shouting in his face could not restore him, The ship of Charon over channel bore him, All marvelled even on that most deadly day To see this soul so spirited away. Preparations for Victory My soul, dread not the pestilence that hags The valley; flinch not you, my body young. At these great shouting smokes and snarling jags Of fiery iron; as yet may not be flung The dice that claims you. Manly move among These ruins, and what you must do, do well; Look, here are gardens, there mossed boughs are hung With apples who bright cheeks none might excel, And there's a house as yet unshattered by a shell. "I'll do my best," the soul makes sad reply, "And I will mark the yet unmurdered tree, The tokens of dear homes that court the eye, And yet I see them not as I would see. Hovering between, a ghostly enemy. Sickens the light, and poisoned, withered, wan, The least defiled turns desperate to me." The body, poor unpitied Caliban, Parches and sweats and grunts to win the name of Man. Days or eternities like swelling waves Surge on, and still we drudge in this dark maze; The bombs and coils and cans by strings of slaves Are borne to serve the coming day of days; Pale sleep in slimy cellars scarce allays With its brief blank the burden. Look, we lose; The sky is gone, the lightless, drenching haze Of rainstorms chills the bone; earth, air are foes, The black fiend leaps brick-red as life's last picture goes. The Zonnebeke Road Morning, if this late withered light can claim Some kindred with that merry flame Which the young day was wont to fling through space! Agony stares from each grey face. And yet the day is come; stand down! stand down! Your hands unclasp from rifles while you can; The frost has pierced them to the bended bone? Why see old Stevens there, that iron man, Melting the ice to shave his grotesque chin! Go ask him,, shall we win?

5

I never likes this bay, some foolish fear Caught me the first time that I came here; That dugout fallen in awakes, perhaps Some formless haunting of some corpse's chaps. True, and wherever we have held the line, There were such corners, seeming-saturnine For no good cause. Now where the Haymarket starts, There is no place for soldiers with weak hearts; The minenwerfers have it to the inch. Look, how the snow-dust whisks along the road Piteous and silly; the stones themselves must flinch In this east wind; the low sky like a load Hangs over, a dead-weight. But what a pain Must gnaw where its clay cheek Crushes the shell-chopped trees that fang the plain – The ice-bound throat gulps out a gargoyle shriek. That wretched wire before the village line Rattles like rusty brambles on dead bine, And there the daylight oozes into dun; Black pillars, those are trees where roadways run Even Ypres now would warm our souls; fond fool, Our tour's but one night old, seven more to cool! O screaming dumbness, o dull clashing death, Shreds of dead grass and willows, homes and men, Watch as you will, men clench their chattering teeth And freeze you back with that one hope, disdain.

6

Leslie Coulson The Rainbow Watch the white dawn gleam, To the thunder of hidden guns. I hear the hot shells scream Through skies as sweet as a dream Where the silver dawn-break runs. And stabbing of light Scorches the virginal white. But I feel in my being the old, high, sanctified thrill, And I thank the gods that the dawn is beautiful still. From death that hurtles by I crouch in the trench day-long, But up to a cloudless sky From the ground where our dead men lie A brown lark soars in song. Through the tortured air, Rent by the shrapnel's flare, Over the troubleless dead he carols his fill, And I thank the gods that the birds are beautiful still. Where the parapet is low And level with the eye Poppies and cornflowers glow And the corn sways to and fro In a pattern against the sky. The gold stalks hide Bodies of men who died Charging at dawn through the dew to be killed or to kill. I thank the gods that the flowers are beautiful still. When night falls dark we creep In silence to our dead. We dig a few feet deep And leave them there to sleep - But blood at night is red, Yea, even at night, And a dead man's face is white. And I dry my hands, that are also trained to kill, And I look at the stars - for the stars are beautiful still. Who made the Law? Who made the Law that men should die in shadows ? Who spake the word that blood should splash in lanes ? Who gave it forth that gardens should be bone-yards ? Who spread the hills with flesh, and blood, and brains ? Who made the Law ? Who made the Law that Death should stalk the village ?

7

Who spake the word to kill among the sheaves, Who gave it forth that death should lurk in hedgerows, Who flung the dead among the fallen leaves ? Who made the Law ? But who made the Law ? the Trees shall whisper to him: "See, see the blood - the splashes on our bark !" Walking the meadows, he shall hear bones crackle, And fleshless mouths shall gibber in silent lanes at dark. Who made the Law ? At noon upon the hillside His ears shall hear a moan, his cheeks shall feel a breath, And all along the valleys, past gardens, croft, and homesteads, HE who made the Law, He who made the Law, He who made the Law shall walk along with Death. WHO made the Law ?

8

Robert Graves 1915 I've watched the Seasons passing slow, so slow In the fields between La Bassee and Bethune; Primroses and the first warm day of Spring, Red poppy floods of June, August, and yellowing Autumn, so To Winter nights knee-deep in mud or snow. And you've been everything. Dear, you've been everything that I most lack In these soul-deadening trenches — pictures, books, Music, the quiet of an English wood, Beautiful comrade-looks, The narrow, bouldered mountain-track. The broad, full-bosomed ocean, green and black. And Peace, and all that's good. A Dead Boche To you who'd read my songs of War And only hear of blood and fame, I'll say (you've heard it said before) "War's Hell!" and if you doubt the same, Today I found in Mametz Wood A certain cure for lust of blood: Where, propped against a shattered trunk, In a great mess of things unclean, Sat a dead Boche; he scowled and stunk With clothes and face a sodden green, Big-bellied, spectacled, crop-haired, Dribbling black blood from nose and beard. Corporal Stare Back from the line one night in June, I gave a dinner at Bethune-- Seven courses, the most gorgeous meal Money could buy or batman steal. Five hungry lads welcomed the fish With shouts that nearly cracked the dish; Asparagus came with tender tops, Strawberries in cream, and mutton chops. Said Jenkins, as my hand he shook, "They'll put this in the history book." We bawled Church anthems _in choro_ Of Bethlehem and Hermon snow,

9

With drinking songs, a jolly sound To help the good red Pommard round. Stories and laughter interspersed, We drowned a long La Bassee thirst-- Trenches in June make throats damned dry. Then through the window suddenly, Badge, stripes and medals all complete, We saw him swagger up the street, Just like a live man--Corporal Stare! Stare! Killed last May at Festubert. Caught on patrol near the Boche wire, Torn horribly by machine-gun fire! He paused, saluted smartly, grinned, Then passed away like a puff of wind, Leaving us blank astonishment. The song broke, up we started, leant Out of the window--nothing there, Not the least shadow of Corporal Stare, Only a quiver of smoke that showed A fag-end dropped on the silent road. It's A Queer Time It's hard to know if you're alive or dead When steel and fire go roaring through your head. One moment you'll be crouching at your gun Traversing, mowing heaps down half in fun: The next, you choke and clutch at your right breast - No time to think - leave all - and off you go… To Treasure Island where the Spice winds blow, To lovely groves of mango, quince and lime - Breathe no good-bye, but ho, for the Red West! It's a queer time. You're charging madly at them yelling 'Fag!' When somehow something gives and your feet drag. You fall and strike your head; yet feel no pain And find… you're digging tunnels through the hay In the Big Barn, 'cause it's a rainy day. Oh, springy hay, and lovely beams to climb! You're back in the old sailor suit again. It's a queer time. Or you'll be dozing safe in your dug-out - A great roar-the trench shakes and falls about You're struggling, gasping, struggling, then… hullo! Elsie comes tripping gaily down the trench, Hanky to nose-that lyddite makes a stench - Getting her pinafore all over grime.

10

Funny! because she died ten years ago! It's a queer time. The trouble is, things happen much too quick; Up jump the Boches, rifles thump and click, You stagger, and the whole scene fades away: Even good Christians don't like passing straight From Tipperary or their Hymn of Hate To Alleluiah-chanting, and the chime Of golden harps… and… I'm not well to-day… It's a queer time. Limbo After a week spent under raining skies, In horror, mud and sleeplessness, a week Of bursting shells, of blood and hideous cries And the ever-watchful sniper : where the reek Of death offends the living . . . But poor dead Can't sleep, must lie awake with the horrid sound That roars and whirs and rattles overhead All day, all night, and jars and tears the ground ; When rats run, big as kittens : to and fro They dart, and scuffle with their horrid fare, And then one night relief comes, and we go Miles back into the sunny cornland where Babies like tickling, and where tall white horses Draw the plough leisurely in quiet courses. The Assault Heroic Down in the mud I lay, Tired out by my long day Of five damned days and nights, Five sleepless days and nights, ... Dream-snatched, and set me where The dungeon of Despair Looms over Desolate Sea, Frowning and threatening me With aspect high and steep-- A most malignant keep. My foes that lay within Shouted and made a din, Hooted and grinned and cried:

11

"Today we've killed your pride; Today your ardour ends. We've murdered all your friends; We've undermined by stealth Your happiness and your health. We've taken away your hope; Now you may droop and mope To misery and to Death." But with my spear of Faith, Stout as an oaken rafter, With my round shield of laughter, With my sharp, tongue-like sword That speaks a bitter word, I stood beneath the wall And there defied them all. The stones they cast I caught And alchemized with thought Into such lumps of gold As dreaming misers hold. The boiling oil they threw Fell in a shower of dew, Refreshing me; the spears Flew harmless by my ears, Struck quivering in the sod; There, like the prophet's rod, Put leaves out, took firm root, And bore me instant fruit. My foes were all astounded, Dumbstricken and confounded, Gaping in a long row; They dared not thrust nor throw. Thus, then, I climbed a steep Buttress and won the keep, And laughed and proudly blew My horn, _"Stand to! Stand to! Wake up, sir! Here's a new Attack! Stand to! Stand to!" The First Funeral (The first corpse I saw was on the German wires, and couldn't be buried) The whole field was so smelly ; We smelt the poor dog first : His horrid swollen belly Looked just like going burst. His fur was most untidy ; He hadn't any eyes.

12

It happened on Good Friday And there was lots of flies. And then I felt the coldest I'd ever felt, and sick, But Rose, 'cause she's the oldest, Dared poke him with her stick. He felt quite soft and horrid : The flies buzzed round his head And settled on his forehead : Rose whispered : " That dog's dead. " You bury all dead people. When they're quite really dead, Round churches with a steeple : Let's bury this," Rose said. " And let's put mint all round it To hide the nasty smell." I went to look and found it — Lots, growing near the well. We poked him through the clover Into a hole, and then We threw brown earth right over And said : " Poor dog, Amen !" The Gnat The shepherd Watkin heard an inner voice Calling " My creature, ho ! be warned, be ready ! " Calling, " The moment comes, therefore be ready ! " And a third time calling, " Creature, be ready ! " This old poor man mistook the call, which sounded Not for himself, but for his pensioner. Now (truth or phantasy) the shepherd nourished Fast in his brain, due earnings of transgression, A creature like to that avenging fly Once crept unseen in at King Herod's ear, Tunnelling gradually inwards, upwards, Heading for flowery pastures of the brain, And battened on such grand, presumptuous fare As grew him brazen claws and brazen hair And wings of iron mail. Old Watkin felt A like intruder channelling to and fro. He cursed his day and sin done in past years, Repentance choked, pride that outlawed his heart, So that at night often in thunderous weather

13

Racked with the pain he'd start From sleep, incontinently howling, leaping, Striking his hoar head on the cottage walls, Stamping his feet, dragging his hair by the roots. He'd rouse the Gnat to anger, send it buzzing Like a huge mill, scraping with metal claws At his midpoint of being ; forthwith tumble With a great cry for Death to stoop and end him. Now Watkin hears the voice and weeps for bliss, The voice that warned " Creature, the time is Merciful Death, was it Death, all his desire ? Promised of Heaven, and speedy ? O Death, come ! Only for one thought must he make provision, For honest Prinny, for old bob -tail Prinny. Another master ? Where ? These hillside crofters Were spiteful to their beasts and mercenary. Prinny to such ? No, Prinny too must die. By his own hand, then ? Murder ! By what other ? No human hand should touch the sacrifice, No human hand ; God's hand then, through his temporal minister. Three times has Watkin in the morning early When not a soul was rising, left his flock, Come to the Minister's house through the cold mist, Clicked at the latch and slowly moved the gate, Faltered, held back and dared not enter in. " Not this time, Prinny, we'll not rouse them yet, To-morrow, surely, for our death is tokened, My death and. your death with small interval. We meet in fields beyond ; be sure of it, Prinny ! " On the next night The busy Gnat, swollen to giant size, Pent-up within the skull, knew certainly, As a bird knows in the egg, his hour was come. The thrice repeated call had given him summons . . . He must out, crack the shell, out, out ! He strains, claps his wings, arches his back, Drives in his talons, out ! out ! The Leveller Near Martinpuich that night of hell Two men were struck by the same shell, Together tumbling in one heap Senseless and limp like slaughtered sheep. One was a pale eighteen-year-old, Blue-eyed and thin and not too bold, Pressed for the war not ten years too soon, The shame and pity of his platoon.

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The other came from far-off lands With bristling chin and whiskered hands, He had known death and hell before In Mexico and Ecuador. Yet in his death this cut-throat wild Groaned 'Mother! Mother!' like a child, While the poor innocent in man's clothes Died cursing God with brutal oaths. Old Sergeant Smith, kindest of men, Wrote out two copies and then Of his accustomed funeral speech To cheer the womanfolk of each:- 'He died a hero's death: and we His comrades of 'A' Company Deeply regret his death: we shall All deeply miss so true a pal.'

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Julian Grenfell Into Battle The naked earth is warm with Spring, And with green grass and bursting trees Leans to the sun's gaze glorying, And quivers in the sunny breeze; And life is Colour and Warmth and Light, And a striving evermore for these; And he is dead who will not fight, And who dies fighting has increase. The fighting man shall from the sun Take warmth, and life from glowing earth; Speed with the light-foot winds to run And with the trees to newer birth; And find, when fighting shall be done, Great rest, and fullness after dearth. All the bright company of Heaven Hold him in their bright comradeship, The Dog star, and the Sisters Seven, Orion's belt and sworded hip: The woodland trees that stand together, They stand to him each one a friend; They gently speak in the windy weather; They guide to valley and ridges end. The kestrel hovering by day, And the little owls that call by night, Bid him be swift and keen as they, As keen of ear, as swift of sight. The blackbird sings to him: 'Brother, brother, If this be the last song you shall sing, Sing well, for you may not sing another; Brother, sing.' In dreary doubtful waiting hours, Before the brazen frenzy starts, The horses show him nobler powers; - O patient eyes, courageous hearts! And when the burning moment breaks, And all things else are out of mind, And only joy of battle takes Him by the throat and makes him blind, Through joy and blindness he shall know, Not caring much to know, that still Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so That it be not the Destined Will. The thundering line of battle stands, And in the air Death moans and sings; But Day shall clasp him with strong hands, And Night shall fold him in soft wings.

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Prayer for those on the staff Fighting in mud, we turn to Thee In these dread times of battle, Lord, To keep us safe, if so may be, From shrapnel snipers, shell and sword. Yet not on us - (for we are men Of meaner clay, who fight in clay) - But on the Staff, the Upper Ten, Depends the issue of the day. The Staff is working with its brains While we are sitting in the trench; The Staff the universe ordains (Subject to Thee and General French). God, help the Staff – especially The young ones, many of them sprung From our high aristocracy; Their task is hard, and they are young. O lord, who mad'st all things to be And madest some things very good Please keep the extra ADC From horrid scenes, and sights of blood...

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Ivor Gurney Ballad Of The Three Spectres As I went up by Ovillers In mud and water cold to the knee, There went three jeering, fleeing spectres, That walked abreast and talked of me. The first said, 'Here's a right brave soldier That walks the dark unfearingly; Soon he'll come back on a fine stretcher, And laughing for a nice Blighty.' The second, "Read his face, old comrade, No kind of lucky chance I see; One day he'll freeze in mud to the marrow, Then look his last on Picardie.' Though bitter the word of these first twain Curses the third spat venomously; 'He'll stay untouched till the war's last dawning Then live one hour of agony.' Liars the first two were. Behold me At sloping arms by one — two — three; Waiting the time I shall discover Whether the third spake verity. Photographs (To Two Scots Lads) Lying in dug-outs, joking idly, wearily; Watching the candle guttering in the draught; Hearing the great shells go high over us, eerily Singing; how often have I turned over, and laughed With pity and pride, photographs of all colours, All sizes, subjects: khaki brothers in France; Or mother's faces worn with countless dolours; Or girls whose eyes were challenging and must dance, Though in a picture only, a common cheap Ill-taken card; and children - frozen, some (Babies) waiting on Dicky-bird to peep Out of the handkerchief that is his home (But he's so shy!). And some with bright looks, calling Delight across the miles of land and sea, That not the dread of barrage suddenly falling Could quite blot out - not mud nor lethargy.

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Smiles and triumphant careless laughter. O The pain of them, wide Earth's most sacred things! Lying in dugouts, hearing the great shells slow Sailing mile-high, the heart mounts higher and sings. But once - O why did he keep that bitter token Of a dead Love? - that boy, who, suddenly moved, Showed me, his eyes wet, his low talk broken, A girl who better had not been beloved. The Target I shot him, and it had to be One of us 'T was him or me. 'Couldn't be helped' and none can blame Me, for you would do the same My mother, she cant sleep for fear Of what might be a-happening here To me. Perhaps it might be best To die, and set her fears at rest For worst is worst, and worry's done. Perhaps he was the only son. . . Yet God keeps still, and does not say A word of guidance anyway. Well, if they get me, first I'll find That boy, and tell him all my mind, And see who felt the bullet worst, And ask his pardon, if I durst. All's a tangle. Here's my job. A man might rave, or shout, or sob; And God He takes takes no sort of heed. This is a bloody mess indeed. The Silent One Who died on the wires, and hung there, one of two - Who for his hours of life had chattered through Infinite lovely chatter of Bucks accent: Yet faced unbroken wires; stepped over, and went A noble fool, faithful to his stripes - and ended. But I weak, hungry, and willing only for the chance Of line- to fight in the line, lay down under unbroken Wires, and saw the flashes and kept unshaken, Till the politest voice - a finicking accent, said:

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‘Do you think you might crawl through there: there's a hole.' Darkness shot at: I smiled, as politely replied – ‘I'm afraid not, Sir.' There was no hole, no way to be seen Nothing but chance of death, after tearing of clothes. Kept flat, and watched the darkness, hearing bullets whizzing – And thought of music - and swore deep heart's oaths (Polite to God) and retreated and came on again, Again retreated a second time, faced the screen. To England: A note I watched the boys of England where they went Through mud and water to do appointed things. See one a stake, and one wire-netting brings, And one comes slowly under a burden bent Of ammunition. Though the strength be spent They "carry on" under the shadowing wings Of Death the ever-present. And hark, one sings Although no joy from the grey skies be lent. Are these the heroes—these? have kept from you The power of primal savagery so long? Shall break the devil's legions? These they are Who do in silence what they might boast to do; In the height of battle tell the world in song How they do hate and fear the face of War.

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Wilfred Owen Disabled He sat in a wheeled chair, waiting for dark, And shivered in his ghastly suit of grey, Legless, sewn short at elbow. Through the park Voices of boys rang saddening like a hymn, Voices of play and pleasure after day, Till gathering sleep had mothered them from him. About this time Town used to swing so gay When glow-lamps budded in the light blue trees, And girls glanced lovelier as the air grew dim,- In the old times, before he threw away his knees. Now he will never feel again how slim Girls' waists are, or how warm their subtle hands. All of them touch him like some queer disease. There was an artist silly for his face, For it was younger than his youth, last year. Now, he is old; his back will never brace; He's lost his colour very far from here, Poured it down shell-holes till the veins ran dry, And half his lifetime lapsed in the hot race And leap of purple spurted from his thigh. One time he liked a blood-smear down his leg, After the matches, carried shoulder-high. It was after football, when he'd drunk a peg, He thought he'd better join. - He wonders why. Someone had said he'd look a god in kilts, That's why; and maybe, too, to please his Meg, Aye, that was it, to please the giddy jilts He asked to join. He didn't have to beg; Smiling they wrote his lie: aged nineteen years. Germans he scarcely thought of; all their guilt, And Austria's, did not move him. And no fears Of Fear came yet. He drought of jewelled hills For daggers in plaid socks; of smart salutes; And care of arms; and leave; and pay arrears; Esprit de corps; and hints for young recruits. And soon, he was drafted out with drums and cheers. Some cheered him home, but not as crowds cheer Goal. Only a solemn man who brought him fruits Thanked him; and then enquired about his soul. Now, he will spend a few sick years in institutes, And do what things the rules consider wise, And take whatever pity they may dole.

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Tonight he noticed how the women's eyes Passed from him to the strong men that were whole. How cold and late it is! Why don't they come And put him into bed? Why don't they come? Dulce et Decorum Est Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.-- Dim through the misty panes and thick green light, As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. In all my dreams before my helpless sight He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace Behind the wagon that we flung him in, And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin, If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs Bitter as the cud Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,-- My friend, you would not tell with such high zest To children ardent for some desperate glory, The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori. Exposure I Our brains ache, in the merciless iced east winds that knife us… Wearied we keep awake because the night is silent ... Low drooping flares confuse our memory of the salient ... Worried by silence, sentries whisper, curious, nervous, But nothing happens. Watching, we hear the mad gusts tugging on the wire.

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Like twitching agonies of men among its brambles. Northward incessantly, the flickering gunnery rumbles, Far off, like a dull rumour of some other war. What are we doing here? The poignant misery of dawn begins to grow ... We only know war lasts, rain soaks, and clouds sag stormy. Dawn massing in the east her melancholy army Attacks once more in ranks on shivering ranks of gray, But nothing happens. Sudden successive flights of bullets streak the silence. Less deadly than the air that shudders black with snow, With sidelong flowing flakes that flock, pause and renew, We watch them wandering up and down the wind's nonchalance, But nothing happens. II Pale flakes with lingering stealth come feeling for our faces-- We cringe in holes, back on forgotten dreams, and stare, snow-dazed, Deep into grassier ditches. So we drowse, sun-dozed, Littered with blossoms trickling where the blackbird fusses. Is it that we are dying? Slowly our ghosts drag home: glimpsing the sunk fires glozed With crusted dark-red jewels; crickets jingle there; For hours the innocent mice rejoice: the house is theirs; Shutters and doors all closed: on us the doors are closed-- We turn back to our dying. Since we believe not otherwise can kind fires burn; Now ever suns smile true on child, or field, or fruit. For God's invincible spring our love is made afraid; Therefore, not loath, we lie out here; therefore were born, For love of God seems dying. To-night, His frost will fasten on this mud and us, Shrivelling many hands and puckering foreheads crisp. The burying-party, picks and shovels in their shaking grasp, Pause over half-known faces. All their eyes are ice, But nothing happens. Mental Cases Who are these? Why sit they here in twilight? Wherefore rock they, purgatorial shadows, Drooping tongues from jays that slob their relish, Baring teeth that leer like skulls' teeth wicked?

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Stroke on stroke of pain,- but what slow panic, Gouged these chasms round their fretted sockets? Ever from their hair and through their hands' palms Misery swelters. Surely we have perished Sleeping, and walk hell; but who these hellish? -These are men whose minds the Dead have ravished. Memory fingers in their hair of murders, Multitudinous murders they once witnessed. Wading sloughs of flesh these helpless wander, Treading blood from lungs that had loved laughter. Always they must see these things and hear them, Batter of guns and shatter of flying muscles, Carnage incomparable, and human squander Rucked too thick for these men's extrication. Therefore still their eyeballs shrink tormented Back into their brains, because on their sense Sunlight seems a blood-smear; night comes blood-black; Dawn breaks open like a wound that bleeds afresh. -Thus their heads wear this hilarious, hideous, Awful falseness of set-smiling corpses. -Thus their hands are plucking at each other; Picking at the rope-knouts of their scourging; Snatching after us who smote them, brother, Pawing us who dealt them war and madness. S.I.W. "I will to the King, And offer him consolation in his trouble, For that man there has set his teeth to die, And being one that hates obedience, Discipline, and orderliness of life, I cannot mourn him." -- W. B. Yeats. Patting goodbye, doubtless they told the lad He'd always show the Hun a brave man's face; Father would sooner him dead than in disgrace, -- Was proud to see him going, aye, and glad. Perhaps his Mother whimpered how she'd fret Until he got a nice, safe wound to nurse. Sisters would wish girls too could shoot, charge, curse, . . . Brothers -- would send his favourite cigarette, Each week, month after month, they wrote the same, Thinking him sheltered in some Y.M. Hut, Where once an hour a bullet missed its aim And misses teased the hunger of his brain. His eyes grew old with wincing, and his hand

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Reckless with ague. Courage leaked, as sand From the best sandbags after years of rain. But never leave, wound, fever, trench-foot, shock, Untrapped the wretch. And death seemed still withheld For torture of lying machinally shelled, At the pleasure of this world's Powers who'd run amok. He'd seen men shoot their hands, on night patrol, Their people never knew. Yet they were vile. "Death sooner than dishonour, that's the style!" So Father said. One dawn, our wire patrol Carried him. This time, Death had not missed. We could do nothing, but wipe his bleeding cough. Could it be accident? -- Rifles go off . . . Not sniped? No. (Later they found the English ball.) It was the reasoned crisis of his soul. Against the fires that would not burn him whole But kept him for death's perjury and scoff And life's half-promising, and both their riling. With him they buried the muzzle his teeth had kissed, And truthfully wrote the Mother "Tim died smiling." The Chances I mind as 'ow the night afore that show Us five got talking, — we was in the know, "Over the top to-morrer; boys, we're for it, First wave we are, first ruddy wave; that's tore it." "Ah well," says Jimmy, — an' 'e's seen some scrappin' — "There ain't more nor five things as can 'appen; Ye get knocked out; else wounded — bad or cushy; Scuppered; or nowt except yer feeling mushy."

One of us got the knock-out, blown to chops. T'other was hurt, like, losin' both 'is props. An' one, to use the word of 'ypocrites, 'Ad the misfortoon to be took by Fritz. Now me, I wasn't scratched, praise God Almighty (Though next time please I'll thank 'im for a blighty), But poor young Jim, 'e's livin' an' 'e's not; 'E reckoned 'e'd five chances, an' 'e's 'ad; 'E's wounded, killed, and pris'ner, all the lot — The ruddy lot all rolled in one. Jim's mad.

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The Dead-Beat He dropped, - more sullenly than wearily, Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat, And none of us could kick him to his feet; Just blinked at my revolver, blearily; - Didn't appear to know a war was on, Or see the blasted trench at which he stared. "I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared, I'll murder them, I will." A low voice said, "It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone, Dreaming of all the valiant, that AREN'T dead: Bold uncles, smiling ministerially; Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun In some new home, improved materially. It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun." We sent him down at last, out of the way. Unwounded; - stout lad, too, before that strafe. Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!" Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh: "That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!" The Last Laugh 'Oh! Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died. Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed, The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain! Machine-guns chuckled,-Tut-tut! Tut-tut! And the Big Gun guffawed. Another sighed,-'O Mother, -Mother, - Dad!' Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead. And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud Leisurely gestured,-Fool! And the splinters spat, and tittered. 'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood, Till slowly lowered, his whole faced kissed the mud. And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned; Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned; And the Gas hissed. The Sentry We'd found an old Boche dug-out, and he knew, And gave us hell, for shell on frantic shell Hammered on top, but never quite burst through. Rain, guttering down in waterfalls of slime

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Kept slush waist high, that rising hour by hour, Choked up the steps too thick with clay to climb. What murk of air remained stank old, and sour With fumes of whizz-bangs, and the smell of men Who'd lived there years, and left their curse in the den, If not their corpses. . . . There we herded from the blast Of whizz-bangs, but one found our door at last. Buffeting eyes and breath, snuffing the candles. And thud! flump! thud! down the steep steps came thumping And splashing in the flood, deluging muck -- The sentry's body; then his rifle, handles Of old Boche bombs, and mud in ruck on ruck. We dredged him up, for killed, until he whined "O sir, my eyes -- I'm blind -- I'm blind, I'm blind!" Coaxing, I held a flame against his lids And said if he could see the least blurred light He was not blind; in time he'd get all right. "I can't," he sobbed. Eyeballs, huge-bulged like squids Watch my dreams still; but I forgot him there In posting next for duty, and sending a scout To beg a stretcher somewhere, and floundering about To other posts under the shrieking air. Those other wretches, how they bled and spewed, And one who would have drowned himself for good, -- I try not to remember these things now. Let dread hark back for one word only: how Half-listening to that sentry's moans and jumps, And the wild chattering of his broken teeth, Renewed most horribly whenever crumps Pummelled the roof and slogged the air beneath -- Through the dense din, I say, we heard him shout "I see your lights!" But ours had long died out. The Show My soul looked down from a vague height with Death, As unremembering how I rose or why, And saw a sad land, weak with sweats of dearth, Gray, cratered like the moon with hollow woe, And fitted with great pocks and scabs of plaques. Across its beard, that horror of harsh wire, There moved thin caterpillars, slowly uncoiled. It seemed they pushed themselves to be as plugs Of ditches, where they writhed and shrivelled, killed. By them had slimy paths been trailed and scraped Round myriad warts that might be little hills.

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From gloom's last dregs these long-strung creatures crept, And vanished out of dawn down hidden holes. (And smell came up from those foul openings As out of mouths, or deep wounds deepening.) On dithering feet upgathered, more and more, Brown strings towards strings of gray, with bristling spines, All migrants from green fields, intent on mire. Those that were gray, of more abundant spawns, Ramped on the rest and ate them and were eaten. I saw their bitten backs curve, loop, and straighten, I watched those agonies curl, lift, and flatten. Whereat, in terror what that sight might mean, I reeled and shivered earthward like a feather. And Death fell with me, like a deepening moan. And He, picking a manner of worm, which half had hid Its bruises in the earth, but crawled no further, Showed me its feet, the feet of many men, And the fresh-severed head of it, my head.

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Isaac Rosenberg Dead Man’s Dump The plunging limbers over the shattered track Racketed with their rusty freight, Stuck out like many crowns of thorns, And the rusty stakes like sceptres old To stay the flood of brutish men Upon our brothers dear. The wheels lurched over sprawled dead But pained them not, though their bones crunched, Their shut mouths made no moan. They lie there huddled, friend and foeman, Man born of man, and born of woman, And shells go crying over them From night till night and now. Earth has waited for them, All the time of their growth Fretting for their decay: Now she has them at last! In the strength of their strength Suspended--stopped and held. What fierce imaginings their dark souls lit? Earth! have they gone into you! Somewhere they must have gone, And flung on your hard back Is their soul's sack Emptied of God-ancestralled essences. Who hurled them out? Who hurled? None saw their spirits' shadow shake the grass, Or stood aside for the half used life to pass Out of those doomed nostrils and the doomed mouth, When the swift iron burning bee Drained the wild honey of their youth. What of us who, flung on the shrieking pyre, Walk, our usual thoughts untouched, Our lucky limbs as on ichor fed, Immortal seeming ever? Perhaps when the flames beat loud on us, A fear may choke in our veins And the startled blood may stop. The air is loud with death, The dark air spurts with fire, The explosions ceaseless are.

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Timelessly now, some minutes past, Those dead strode time with vigorous life, Till the shrapnel called `An end!' But not to all. In bleeding pangs Some borne on stretchers dreamed of home, Dear things, war-blotted from their hearts.

Maniac Earth! howling and flying, your bowel Seared by the jagged fire, the iron love, The impetuous storm of savage love. Dark Earth! dark Heavens! swinging in chemic smoke, What dead are born when you kiss each soundless soul With lightning and thunder from your mined heart, Which man's self dug, and his blind fingers loosed?

A man's brains splattered on A stretcher-bearer's face; His shook shoulders slipped their load, But when they bent to look again The drowning soul was sunk too deep For human tenderness.

They left this dead with the older dead, Stretched at the cross roads.

Burnt black by strange decay Their sinister faces lie, The lid over each eye, The grass and coloured clay More motion have than they, Joined to the great sunk silences. Here is one not long dead; His dark hearing caught our far wheels, And the choked soul stretched weak hands To reach the living word the far wheels said, The blood-dazed intelligence beating for light, Crying through the suspense of the far torturing wheels Swift for the end to break Or the wheels to break, Cried as the tide of the world broke over his sight. Will they come? Will they ever come? Even as the mixed hoofs of the mules, The quivering-bellied mules, And the rushing wheels all mixed With his tortured upturned sight. So we crashed round the bend, We heard his weak scream, We heard his very last sound, And our wheels grazed his dead face.

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Louse Hunting Nudes -- stark and glistening, Yelling in lurid glee. Grinning faces And raging limbs Whirl over the floor one fire. For a shirt verminously busy Yon soldier tore from his throat, with oaths Godhead might shrink at, but not the lice. And soon the shirt was aflare Over the candle he'd lit while we lay. Then we all sprang up and stript To hunt the verminous brood. Soon like a demons' pantomine The place was raging. See the silhouettes agape, See the glibbering shadows Mixed with the battled arms on the wall. See gargantuan hooked fingers Pluck in supreme flesh To smutch supreme littleness. See the merry limbs in hot Highland fling Because some wizard vermin Charmed from the quiet this revel When our ears were half lulled By the dark music Blown from Sleep's trumpet. On Receiving News of the War Snow is a strange white word. No ice or frost Has asked of bud or bird For Winter's cost. Yet ice and frost and snow From earth to sky This Summer land doth know. No man knows why. In all men's hearts it is. Some spirit old Hath turned with malign kiss Our lives to mould. Red fangs have torn His face. God's blood is shed. He mourns from His lone place His children dead.

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O! ancient crimson curse! Corrode, consume. Give back this universe Its pristine bloom. Returning, We Hear the Larks Sombre the night is. And though we have our lives, we know What sinister threat lies there. Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know This poison-blasted track opens on our camp - On a little safe sleep. But hark! joy - joy - strange joy. Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks. Music showering our upturned list’ning faces. Death could drop from the dark As easily as song - But song only dropped, Like a blind man’s dreams on the sand By dangerous tides, Like a girl’s dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there, Or her kisses where a serpent hides. The Dying Soldier 'Here are houses,' he moaned, 'I could reach, but my brain swims.' Then they thundered and flashed, And shook the earth to its rims. 'They are gunpits,' he gasped, 'Our men are at the guns. Water! . . . Water! . . , Oh, water ! For one of England's dying sons.' 'We cannot give you water, Were all England in your breath.' 'Water! . .. Water! . . . Oh, water !' fie moaned and swooned to death, The Immortals I killed them, but they would not die. Yea! all the day and all the night For them I could not rest or sleep,

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Nor guard from them nor hide in flight. Then in my agony I turned And made my hands red in their gore. In vain - for faster than I slew They rose more cruel than before. I killed and killed with slaughter mad; I killed till all my strength was gone. And still they rose to torture me, For Devils only die in fun. I used to think the Devil hid In women’s smiles and wine’s carouse. I called him Satan, Balzebub. But now I call him, dirty louse.

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Siegfried Sassoon Absolution The anguish of the earth absolves our eyes Till beauty shines in all that we can see. War is our scourge; yet war has made us wise, And, fighting for our freedom, we are free.

Horror of wounds and anger at the foe, And loss of things desired; all these must pass. We are the happy legion, for we know Time's but a golden wind that shakes the grass There was an hour when we were loth to part From life we longed to share no less than others. Now, having claimed this heritage of heart, What need we more, my comrades and my brothers? Aftermath Have you forgotten yet?... For the world's events have rumbled on since those gagged days, Like traffic checked while at the crossing of city-ways: And the haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow Like clouds in the lit heaven of life; and you're a man reprieved to go, Taking your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare. But the past is just the same--and War's a bloody game... Have you forgotten yet?... Look down, and swear by the slain of the War that you'll never forget. Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz-- The nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets? Do you remember the rats; and the stench Of corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench-- And dawn coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain? Do you ever stop and ask, 'Is it all going to happen again?' Do you remember that hour of din before the attack-- And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men? Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back With dying eyes and lolling heads--those ashen-grey Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay? Have you forgotten yet?... Look up, and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget.

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A Subaltern He turned to me with his kind, sleepy gaze And fresh face slowly brightening to the grin That sets my memory back to summer days, With twenty runs to make, and last man in. He told me he’d been having a bloody time In trenches, crouching for the crumps to burst, While squeaking rats scampered across the slime And the grey palsied weather did its worst. But as he stamped and shivered in the rain, My stale philosophies had served him well; Dreaming about his girl had sent his brain Blanker than ever—she’d no place in Hell.... ‘Good God!’ he laughed, and slowly filled his pipe, Wondering ‘why he always talked such tripe’. Attack At dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun In the wild purple of the glow'ring sun, Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one, Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire. The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear, Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire. Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear, They leave their trenches, going over the top, While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists, And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists, Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop! A Working Party Three hours ago he blundered up the trench, Sliding and poising, groping with his boots; Sometimes he tripped and lurched against the walls With hands that pawed the sodden bags of chalk. He couldn't see the man who walked in front; Only he heard the drum and rattle of feet Stepping along barred trench boards, often splashing Wretchedly where the sludge was ankle-deep. Voices would grunt `Keep to your right - make way!' When squeezing past some men from the front-line:

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White faces peered, puffing a point of red; Candles and braziers glinted through the chinks And curtain-flaps of dug-outs; then the gloom Swallowed his sense of sight; he stooped and swore Because a sagging wire had caught his neck. A flare went up; the shining whiteness spread And flickered upward, showing nimble rats And mounds of glimmering sand-bags, bleached with rain; Then the slow silver moment died in dark. The wind came posting by with chilly gusts And buffeting at the corners, piping thin. And dreary through the crannies; rifle-shots Would split and crack and sing along the night, And shells came calmly through the drizzling air To burst with hollow bang below the hill. Three hours ago, he stumbled up the trench; Now he will never walk that road again: He must be carried back, a jolting lump Beyond all needs of tenderness and care. He was a young man with a meagre wife And two small children in a Midland town, He showed their photographs to all his mates, And they considered him a decent chap Who did his work and hadn't much to say, And always laughed at other people's jokes Because he hadn't any of his own. That night when he was busy at his job Of piling bags along the parapet, He thought how slow time went, stamping his feet And blowing on his fingers, pinched with cold. He thought of getting back by half-past twelve, And tot of rum to send him warm to sleep In draughty dug-out frowsty with the fumes Of coke, and full of snoring weary men. He pushed another bag along the top, Craning his body outward; then a flare Gave one white glimpse of No Man's Land and wire; And as he dropped his head the instant split His startled life with lead, and all went out. Break of Day There seemed a smell of autumn in the air At the bleak end of night; he shivered there In a dank, musty dug-out where he lay,

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Legs wrapped in sand-bags,—lumps of chalk and clay Spattering his face. Dry-mouthed, he thought, ‘To-day We start the damned attack; and, Lord knows why, Zero’s at nine; how bloody if I’m done in Under the freedom of that morning sky!’ And then he coughed and dozed, cursing the din. Was it the ghost of autumn in that smell Of underground, or God’s blank heart grown kind, That sent a happy dream to him in hell?— Where men are crushed like clods, and crawl to find Some crater for their wretchedness; who lie In outcast immolation, doomed to die Far from clean things or any hope of cheer, Cowed anger in their eyes, till darkness brims And roars into their heads, and they can hear Old childish talk, and tags of foolish hymns. He sniffs the chilly air; (his dreaming starts), He’s riding in a dusty Sussex lane In quiet September; slowly night departs; And he’s a living soul, absolved from pain. Beyond the brambled fences where he goes Are glimmering fields with harvest piled in sheaves, And tree-tops dark against the stars grown pale; Then, clear and shrill, a distant farm-cock crows; And there’s a wall of mist along the vale Where willows shake their watery-sounding leaves, He gazes on it all, and scarce believes That earth is telling its old peaceful tale; He thanks the blessed world that he was born... Then, far away, a lonely note of the horn. They’re drawing the Big Wood! Unlatch the gate, And set Golumpus going on the grass; He knows the corner where it’s best to wait And hear the crashing woodland chorus pass; The corner where old foxes make their track To the Long Spinney; that’s the place to be. The bracken shakes below an ivied tree, And then a cub looks out; and ‘Tally-o-back!’ He bawls, and swings his thong with volleying crack,— All the clean thrill of autumn in his blood, And hunting surging through him like a flood In joyous welcome from the untroubled past; While the war drifts away, forgotten at last. Now a red, sleepy sun above the rim Of twilight stares along the quiet weald, And the kind, simple country shines revealed In solitudes of peace, no longer dim.

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The old horse lifts his face and thanks the light, Then stretches down his head to crop the green. All things that he has loved are in his sight; The places where his happiness has been Are in his eyes, his heart, and they are good. . . . . Hark! there’s the horn: they’re drawing the Big Wood. Counter-Attack We’d gained our first objective hours before While dawn broke like a face with blinking eyes, Pallid, unshaved and thirsty, blind with smoke. Things seemed all right at first. We held their line, With bombers posted, Lewis guns well placed, And clink of shovels deepening the shallow trench. The place was rotten with dead; green clumsy legs High-booted, sprawled and grovelled along the saps And trunks, face downward, in the sucking mud, Wallowed like trodden sand-bags loosely filled; And naked sodden buttocks, mats of hair, Bulged, clotted heads slept in the plastering slime. And then the rain began,—the jolly old rain!

A yawning soldier knelt against the bank, Staring across the morning blear with fog; He wondered when the Allemands would get busy; And then, of course, they started with five-nines Traversing, sure as fate, and never a dud. Mute in the clamour of shells he watched them burst Spouting dark earth and wire with gusts from hell, While posturing giants dissolved in drifts of smoke. He crouched and flinched, dizzy with galloping fear, Sick for escape,—loathing the strangled horror And butchered, frantic gestures of the dead.

An officer came blundering down the trench: ‘Stand-to and man the fire-step!’ On he went... Gasping and bawling, ‘Fire-step ... counter-attack!’ Then the haze lifted. Bombing on the right Down the old sap: machine-guns on the left; And stumbling figures looming out in front. ‘O Christ, they’re coming at us!’ Bullets spat, And he remembered his rifle ... rapid fire... And started blazing wildly ... then a bang Crumpled and spun him sideways, knocked him out To grunt and wriggle: none heeded him; he choked And fought the flapping veils of smothering gloom, Lost in a blurred confusion of yells and groans... Down, and down, and down, he sank and drowned,

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Bleeding to death. The counter-attack had failed. Dreamers Soldiers are citizens of death's gray land, Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows. In the great hour of destiny they stand, Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows. Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives. Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin They think of firelit homes, clean beds, and wives. I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats, And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain, Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats, And mocked by hopeless longing to regain Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats, And going to the office in the train. Does it matter? DOES it matter?—losing your legs?... For people will always be kind, And you need not show that you mind When the others come in after hunting To gobble their muffins and eggs. Does it matter?—losing your sight?... There’s such splendid work for the blind; And people will always be kind, As you sit on the terrace remembering And turning your face to the light. Do they matter?—those dreams from the pit?... You can drink and forget and be glad, And people won’t say that you’re mad; For they’ll know you’ve fought for your country And no one will worry a bit. Golgotha Through darkness curves a spume of falling flares That flood the field with shallow, blanching light. The huddled sentry stares On gloom at war with white, And white receding slow, submerged in gloom.

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Guns into mimic thunder burst and boom, And mirthless laughter rakes the whistling night. The sentry keeps his watch where no one stirs But the brown rats, the nimble scavengers. In the Pink So Davies wrote: ' This leaves me in the pink. ' Then scrawled his name: 'Your loving sweetheart Willie' With crosses for a hug. He'd had a drink Of rum and tea; and, though the barn was chilly, For once his blood ran warm; he had pay to spend, Winter was passing; soon the year would mend. He couldn't sleep that night. Stiff in the dark He groaned and thought of Sundays at the farm, When he'd go out as cheerful as a lark In his best suit to wander arm-in-arm With brown-eyed Gwen, and whisper in her ear The simple, silly things she liked to hear. And then he thought: to-morrow night we trudge Up to the trenches, and my boots are rotten. Five miles of stodgy clay and freezing sludge, And everything but wretchedness forgotten. To-night he's in the pink; but soon he'll die. And still the war goes on; he don't know why. Memorial Tablet Squire nagged and bullied till I went to fight, (Under Lord Derby’s Scheme). I died in hell— (They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight, And I was hobbling back; and then a shell Burst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell Into the bottomless mud, and lost the light. At sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew, He gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare: For, though low down upon the list, I’m there; ‘In proud and glorious memory’ ... that’s my due. Two bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire: I suffered anguish that he’s never guessed. Once I came home on leave: and then went west... What greater glory could a man desire?

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Prelude: The Troops Dim, gradual thinning of the shapeless gloom Shudders to drizzling daybreak that reveals Disconsolate men who stamp their sodden boots And turn dulled, sunken faces to the sky Haggard and hopeless. They, who have beaten down The stale despair of night, must now renew Their desolation in the truce of dawn, Murdering the livid hours that grope for peace. Yet these, who cling to life with stubborn hands, Can grin through storms of death and find a gap In the clawed, cruel tangles of his defence. They march from safety, and the bird-sung joy Of grass-green thickets, to the land where all Is ruin, and nothing blossoms but the sky That hastens over them where they endure Sad, smoking, flat horizons, reeking woods, And foundered trench-lines volleying doom for doom. O my brave brown companions, when your souls Flock silently away, and the eyeless dead Shame the wild beast of battle on the ridge, Death will stand grieving in that field of war Since your unvanquished hardihood is spent. And through some mooned Valhalla there will pass Battalions and battalions, scarred from hell; The unreturning army that was youth; The legions who have suffered and are dust. Remorse Lost in the swamp and welter of the pit, He flounders off the duck-boards; only he knows Each flash and spouting crash,--each instant lit When gloom reveals the streaming rain. He goes Heavily, blindly on. And, while he blunders, "Could anything be worse than this?"--he wonders, Remembering how he saw those Germans run, Screaming for mercy among the stumps of trees: Green-faced, they dodged and darted: there was one Livid with terror, clutching at his knees. . . Our chaps were sticking 'em like pigs . . . "O hell!" He thought--"there's things in war one dare not tell Poor father sitting safe at home, who reads Of dying heroes and their deathless deeds."

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Stand To: Good Friday-Morning I’d been on duty from two till four. I went and stared at the dug-out door. Down in the frowst I heard them snore. ‘Stand to!’ Somebody grunted and swore. Dawn was misty; the skies were still; Larks were singing, discordant, shrill; They seemed happy; but I felt ill. Deep in water I splashed my way Up the trench to our bogged front line. Rain had fallen the whole damned night. O Jesus, send me a wound to-day, And I’ll believe in Your bread and wine, And get my bloody old sins washed white! Suicide in the Trenches I knew a simple soldier boy Who grinned at life in empty joy, Slept soundly through the lonesome dark, And whistled early with the lark. In winter trenches, cowed and glum, With crumps and lice and lack of rum, He put a bullet through his brain. No one spoke of him again. You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye Who cheer when soldier lads march by, Sneak home and pray you'll never know The hell where youth and laughter go. Survivors No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. Of course they're "longing to go out again,"-- These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk, They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,-- Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ... Men who went out to battle, grim and glad; Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

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The Effect The effect of our bombardment was terrific. One man told me he had never seen so many dead before."--War Correspondent. "He'd never seen so many dead before." They sprawled in yellow daylight while he swore And gasped and lugged his everlasting load Of bombs along what once had been a road. "How peaceful are the dead." Who put that silly gag in some one's head? "He'd never seen so many dead before." The lilting words danced up and down his brain, While corpses jumped and capered in the rain. No, no; he wouldn't count them any more ... The dead have done with pain: They've choked; they can't come back to life again. When Dick was killed last week he looked like that, Flapping along the fire-step like a fish, After the blazing crump had knocked him flat ... "How many dead? As many as ever you wish. Don't count 'em; they're too many. Who'll buy my nice fresh corpses, two a penny?" The General ‘Good-morning; good-morning!’ the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of ’em dead, And we’re cursing his staff for incompetent swine. ‘He’s a cheery old card,’ grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack. The One-Legged Man Propped on a stick he viewed the August weald; Squat orchard trees and oasts with painted cowls; A homely, tangled hedge, a corn-stalked field, And sound of barking dogs and farmyard fowls. And he’d come home again to find it more Desirable than ever it was before. How right it seemed that he should reach the span Of comfortable years allowed to man! Splendid to eat and sleep and choose a wife, Safe with his wound, a citizen of life. He hobbled blithely through the garden gate, And thought: ‘Thank God they had to amputate!’

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The Redeemer Darkness: the rain sluiced down; the mire was deep; It was past twelve on a mid-winter night, When peaceful folk in beds lay snug asleep; There, with much work to do before the light, We lugged our clay-sucked boots as best we might Along the trench; sometimes a bullet sang, And droning shells burst with a hollow bang; We were soaked, chilled and wretched, every one; Darkness; the distant wink of a huge gun. I turned in the black ditch, loathing the storm; A rocket fizzed and burned with blanching flare, And lit the face of what had been a form Floundering in murk. He stood before me there; I say that He was Christ; stiff in the glare, And leaning forward from His burdening task, Both arms supporting it; His eyes on mine Stared from the woeful head that seemed a mask Of mortal pain in Hell's unholy shine. No thorny crown, only a woollen cap He wore - an English soldier, white and strong, Who loved his time like any simple chap, Good days of work and sport and homely song; Now he has learned that nights are very long, And dawn a watching of the windowed sky. But to the end, unjudging, he'll endure Horror and pain, not uncontent to die That Lancaster on Lune may stand secure. He faced me, reeling in his weariness, Shouldering his load of planks, so hard to bear. I say that He was Christ, who wrought to bless All groping things with freedom bright as air, And with His mercy washed and made them fair. Then the flame sank, and all grew black as pitch, While we began to struggle along the ditch; And someone flung his burden in the muck, Mumbling: 'O Christ Almighty, now I'm stuck!' ‘They’ The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back 'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought 'In a just cause: they lead the last attack 'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought 'New right to breed an honourable race, 'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'

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'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply. 'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind; 'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die; 'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find 'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change. ' And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!' Trench Duty Shaken from sleep, and numbed and scarce awake, Out in the trench with three hours’ watch to take, I blunder through the splashing mirk; and then Hear the gruff muttering voices of the men Crouching in cabins candle-chinked with light. Hark! There’s the big bombardment on our right Rumbling and bumping; and the dark’s a glare Of flickering horror in the sectors where We raid the Boche; men waiting, stiff and chilled, Or crawling on their bellies through the wire. ‘What? Stretcher-bearers wanted? Some one killed?’ Five minutes ago I heard a sniper fire: Why did he do it? ... Starlight overhead— Blank stars. I’m wide-awake; and some chap’s dead. Wirers ‘Pass it along, the wiring party’s going out’— And yawning sentries mumble, ‘Wirers going out.’ Unravelling; twisting; hammering stakes with muffled thud, They toil with stealthy haste and anger in their blood. The Boche sends up a flare. Black forms stand rigid there, Stock-still like posts; then darkness, and the clumsy ghosts Stride hither and thither, whispering, tripped by clutching snare Of snags and tangles. Ghastly dawn with vaporous coasts Gleams desolate along the sky, night’s misery ended. Young Hughes was badly hit; I heard him carried away, Moaning at every lurch; no doubt he’ll die to-day. But we can say the front-line wire’s been safely mended.

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Charles Sorley A Letter From the Trenches to a School Friend I have not brought my Odyssey With me here across the sea; But you'll remember, when I say How, when they went down Sparta way, To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn Horses were harnessed, rations drawn, Equipment polished sparkling bright, And breakfasts swallowed (as the white Of eastern heavens turned to gold) - The dogs barked, swift farewells were told. The sun springs up, the horses neigh, Crackles the whip thrice-then away! From sun-go-up to sun-go-down All day across the sandy down The gallant horses galloped, till The wind across the downs more chill Blew, the sun sank and all the road Was darkened, that it only showed Right at the end the town's red light And twilight glimmering into night. The horses never slackened till They reached the doorway and stood still. Then came the knock, the unlading; then The honey-sweet converse of men, The splendid bath, the change of dress, Then - oh the grandeur of their Mess, The henchmen, the prim stewardess! And oh the breaking of old ground, The tales, after the port went round! (The wondrous wiles of old Odysseus, Old Agamemnon and his misuse Of his command, and that young chit Paris - who didn't care a bit For Helen - only to annoy her He did it really, K.T.A.) But soon they led amidst the din The honey-sweet - in, Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight, Who knew the fame of men in fight - Bard of white hair and trembling foot, Who sang whatever God might put Into his heart. And there he sung, Those war-worn veterans among, Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung, Of clash of arms, of council's brawl,

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Of beauty that must early fall, Of battle hate and battle joy By the old windy walls of Troy. They felt that they were unreal then, Visions and shadow-forms, not men. But those the Bard did sing and say (Some were their comrades, some were they) Took shape and loomed and strengthened more Greatly than they had guessed of yore. And now the fight begins again, The old war-joy, the old war-pain. Sons of one school across the sea We have no fear to fight - And soon, oh soon, I do not doubt it, With the body or without it, We shall all come tumbling down To our old wrinkled red-capped town. Perhaps the road up llsley way, The old ridge-track, will be my way. High up among the sheep and sky, Look down on Wantage, passing by, And see the smoke from Swindon town; And then full left at Liddington, Where the four winds of heaven meet The earth-blest traveller to greet. And then my face is toward the south, There is a singing on my mouth Away to rightward I descry My Barbury ensconced in sky, Far underneath the Ogbourne twins, And at my feet the thyme and whins, The grasses with their little crowns Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs, And that old signpost (well I knew That crazy signpost, arms askew, Old mother of the four grass ways). And then my mouth is dumb with praise, For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny, A glimpse of Marlborough -! So I descend beneath the rail To warmth and welcome and wassail. This from the battered trenches - rough, Jingling and tedious enough. And so I sign myself to you: One, who some crooked pathways knew Round Bedwyn: who could scarcely leave The Downs on a December eve: Was at his happiest in shorts, And got - not many good reports!

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Small skill of rhyming in his hand - But you'll forgive - you'll understand. All the Hills and Vales Along All the hills and vales along Earth is bursting into song, And the singers are the chaps Who are going to die perhaps. O sing, marching men, Till the valleys ring again. Give your gladness to earth's keeping, So be glad, when you are sleeping. Cast away regret and rue, Think what you are marching to. Little live, great pass. Jesus Christ and Barabbas Were found the same day. This died, that went his way. So sing with joyful breath, For why, you are going to death. Teeming earth will surely store All the gladness that you pour. Earth that never doubts nor fears, Earth that knows of death, not tears, Earth that bore with joyful ease Hemlock for Socrates, Earth that blossomed and was glad 'Neath the cross that Christ had, Shall rejoice and blossom too When the bullet reaches you. Wherefore, men marching On the road to death, sing! Pour your gladness on earth's head, So be merry, so be dead. From the hills and valleys earth Shouts back the sound of mirth, Tramp of feet and lilt of sing Ringing all the road along. All the music of their going, Ringing swinging glad song-throwing, Earth will echo still, when foot Lies numb and voice mute. On, marching men, on To the gates of death with song. Sow your gladness for earth's reaping,

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So you may be glad, though sleeping. Strew your gladness on earth's bed, So be merry, so be dead. Barbury Camp We burrowed night and day with tools of lead, Heaped the bank up and cast it in a ring And hurled the earth above. And Caesar said, "Why, it is excellent. I like the thing." We, who are dead, Made it, and wrought, and Caesar liked the thing. And here we strove, and here we felt each vein Ice-bound, each limb fast-frozen, all night long. And here we held communion with the rain That lashed us into manhood with its thong, Cleansing through pain. And the wind visited us and made us strong. Up from around us, numbers without name, Strong men and naked, vast, on either hand Pressing us in, they came. And the wind came And bitter rain, turning grey all the land. That was our game, To fight with men and storms, and it was grand. For many days we fought them, and our sweat Watered the grass, making it spring up green, Blooming for us. And, if the wind was wet, Our blood wetted the wind, making it keen With the hatred And wrath and courage that our blood had been. So, fighting men and winds and tempests, hot With joy and hate and battle-lust, we fell Where we fought. And God said, "Killed at last then? What! Ye that are too strong for heaven, too clean for hell, (God said) stir not. This be your heaven, or, if ye will, your hell." So again we fight and wrestle, and again Hurl the earth up and cast it in a ring. But when the wind comes up, driving the rain (Each rain-drop a fiery steed), and the mists rolling Up from the plain, This wild procession, this impetuous thing. Hold us amazed. We mount the wind-cars, then

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Whip up the steeds and drive through all the world, Searching to find somewhere some brethren, Sons of the winds and waters of the world. We, who were men, Have sought, and found no men in all this world. Wind, that has blown here always ceaselessly, Bringing, if any man can understand, Might to the mighty, freedom to the free; Wind, that has caught us, cleansed us, made us grand, Wind that is we (We that were men) -- make men in all this land, That so may live and wrestle and hate that when They fall at last exultant, as we fell, And come to God, God may say, "Do you come then Mildly enquiring, is it heaven or hell? Why! Ye were men! Back to your winds and rains. Be these your heaven and hell!" Such, such is Death Such, such is Death: no triumph: no defeat: Only an empty pail, a slate rubbed clean, A merciful putting away of what has been. And this we know: Death is not Life, effete, Life crushed, the broken pail. We who have seen So marvellous things know well the end not yet. Victor and vanquished are a-one in death: Coward and brave: friend, foe. Ghosts do not say, "Come, what was your record when you drew breath?" But a big blot has hid each yesterday So poor, so manifestly incomplete. And your bright Promise, withered long and sped, Is touched, stirs, rises, opens and grows sweet And blossoms and is you, when you are dead. To Germany You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed, And no man claimed the conquest of your land. But gropers both through fields of thought confined We stumble and we do not understand. You only saw your future bigly planned, And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,

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And in each other's dearest ways we stand, And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind. When it is peace, then we may view again With new-won eyes each other's truer form And wonder. Grown more loving-kind and warm We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain, When it is peace. But until peace, the storm The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

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Attachment 2: the Trench System What is a trench? http://www.historyonthenet.com/WW1/trenches.htm#Trench_System

First World War Official Photographs http://digital.nls.uk/first-world-war-official-photographs/pageturner.cfm?id=74462370

Trench System

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1. Communication trench

2. Artillery line

3. Support trenches

4. Bunker

5. Trench block

6. Machine gun nest

7. Traverse

8. Front line trench

9. Barbed wire

10. Listening post

11. No Man's Land

12. Parados

13. Sandbags

14. Bolt hole / dug-out

15. Parapet

16. Trench board / fire step

17. Sump / duck board

Front Line Trench Cross Section

The communication trenches (1) were used to move between the front and rear trenches. They were also used to

transport injured men to the field hospitals.

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The artillery line (2) was where the big field guns were

located. They were used to fire shells at the enemy. The

noise from a barrage of guns was deafening.

9.2 inch howitzers of a Siege Battery in action on the

Western Front.

An unidentified British soldier standing with a 9.2 inch

howitzer Mk I, named Berdameda, which was supporting the

Australians on the Somme. The camouflaged box in front of

the gun is known as a dirt box, which was filled with soil and

attached to the gun to act as a counterweight to the force of

the blast and keep the gun in position. Hanging on the side of

the box is a horseshoe.

The support trenches (3) provided a second line of defence in case the front line trench was taken by the enemy. They also

contained first aid stations and kitchens to ensure men in the front line had medical treatment and hot food.

The "red triangle" of the YMCA (Young Men's Christian

Association) in the support trenches

Support trench kitchen.

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The underground bunkers (4) were used to store food,

weapons and artillery. They were also used as command

centres and had a telephone link to report information and

receive instructions. The underground bunkers also offered

the men protection from fire and the elements.

A trench block (5) was a wood and wire structure that was

made to block the trenches and prevent the enemy from

advancing through a trench system.

The machine gun nest (6) was where the machine gun

located. They were manned by two or

three soldiers who fired on any

advancing enemy.

Trenches were not built in straight lines. This was so that if

the enemy managed to get into the front line trench they

would not have a straight firing line along the trench.

Trenches were therefore built with alternating straight and

angled lines. The traverse (7) was the name given to the

angled parts of the trench.

The front line trenches (8) were generally about 8 feet

deep and between 4 and 6 feet wide. Soldiers would spend

around a week in the front line trench then would spend a

week in the rear trenches or a rest camp. Life at the front

line was not pleasant; soldiers were liable to be hit by

enemy fire or sometimes by their own artillery. The soldier

in the picture is standing on a fire-step - built to enable men

to see out of the trench and also to climb out to venture into

no-man's land.

54

Barbed wire (9) was used extensively in the trench warfare of world war one. It was laid, several rows deep, by both sides

to protect the front line trench. Wire breaks were placed at intervals to allow men access to no man's land. However

attackers had to locate the wire breaks and many men lost their lives through becoming entangled in the wire and shot.

Listening posts (10)

were used to monitor

enemy activity. They

were usually

approximately thirty

metres in front of the

front line trench. The

man in this picture is

using a stethoscope to

listen to the enemy.

No Man's Land (11) was the name given to the area between the two lines of trenches. It was the land that both sides were

fighting to gain control of.

55

Sandbags (13) were used to protect the soldiers from

enemy rifle fire. They were, however, less effective in the

event of shell fire. Sandbags were also sometimes placed in

the bottom of the trench to soak up water.

The bolt hole (14) or dug-out was built into the sides of the

trench. The earth was shored up with wood and the roof

often lined with corrugated iron. The men used the bolt hole

for protection, eating and sleeping.

56

The parados (12) was the name given to the back wall of the

trench - that is, the wall farthest away from the enemy. It

would often be strengthened with wood and then covered

with sandbags. The parapet (15) was the name given to the

front wall of the trench - that is, the wall nearest to the

enemy. It would often be strengthened with wood and then

covered with sandbags. The sandbags protected the heads of

the men standing on the fire step from rifle fire.

The trench board (16) known as the fire step was built

about two to three feet above the floor of the trench. It

enabled men to see over the wall of the trench and to fire on

any enemy advance.

To prevent the trenches from becoming waterlogged, a narrow drainage channel known as a sump (17) would be built at

the bottom of the trench. This would then be covered with wooden trench boards known as duck boards (17).

57

Attachment 3:

In the trenches (a thematic approach) - photos and paintings

It is difficult to get the right picture of the atrocities of the Great War. In all wars a whole

mechanism of censorship is set up. This censorship has two basic aims: to protect the secrecy

of military operations and to prevent demoralisation.

During the Great War the soldiers' letters, press photos, films and paintings were

censored. In 1916 the documentary film The Battle of the Somme was shown in British

cinemas. The film contained images of dead British soldiers. By late 1917 this had become

impossible. "The depiction of corpses in official films, photographs and artwork" was

prohibited (Gough 38). Already from the beginning of the war soldiers were not allowed to

take cameras to the front. This also applied to officers. Some soldiers disobeyed this order and

had a small camera with them in the trenches. The Imperial War Museum has a collection of

five million photos. None of these photos gives you the true image of the slaughter. Neither the

size nor the terror is depicted.

To get a factual picture of the horror of the First World War by looking at photos

researchers depend on the following collections: (1) the collections of stereographic photos

from French photographers in the museums at Hill 60 and Hill 62 near Ypres; (2) the pictures

from soldiers and officers at the front; (3) Krieg dem Kriege (War against War), a collection of

pictures published in 1924 by Ernst Friedrich; (4) Covenants with Death, a collection of

pictures by two journalists, T.A. Innes and Ivor Castle, published by the Daily Express in 1934.

1 Inside the collections of photos

To check for myself whether it is correct that official collections of photos from the Great War

avoid its horror I bought three photo collections. The collections are: World at War, Classic,

Rare and Unseen Photographs from the Daily Mail, A Corner of a Foreign Field, The Illustrated

Poetry of the First World War & World War I, An Illustrated History.

In the first collection, World at War, I checked how many dead Allied soldiers are

shown compared to photos of dead Germans. There are two photos with corpses where the

caption reads 'A snapshot of death and destruction' & 'The war exacted a heavy toll on both

sides'. Eight photos specifically refer to Germans, for example, 'No-man's-land littered with

German dead' or 'A German infantryman from the 142nd regiment lies dead in the foreground'.

58

For the second collection, A Corner of a Foreign Field, I combined the caption with the

atmosphere in the picture. In the following selection the word which reflects the

photographer's intention is underlined. Soldiers help the wounded getting over a trench;

soldiers are fearless for the explosions; soldiers smile from their small dugouts; Scottish soldiers

walk through the mud, one of them playing the bagpipe; wounded soldiers look into the camera,

smiling; a platoon marches to the Western Front, smiling, laughing and cheering, throwing their

caps in the air; sheepskins have been distributed for the winter; two soldiers in impeccable

uniforms pose for a picture in a flooded trench; soldiers heroically go over the top; in spite of the

winter the soldiers can keep warm round a fire; troops at the end of four-and-a-half-month

Somme offensive are still unscathed, full of energy and one of them is playing a small accordion;

a smiling soldiers with parcels delivered through the post; soldiers maintain the trenches, almost

effortless; a horse sucked into the mud, but there is no panic or despair; German prisoners are

escorted almost nicely; preparing bayonets for attack, nobody falters; infantry men walking over

no-man's-land, nobody gets shot.

In the third collection I searched shocking pictures and ... I could not find any. Of course

this depends on how much you can take, but still, the wounded are nicely dressed, the dead

are either Russian or German, the stretcher-bearers can do their job untroubled, the cold is

made visible with icicles hanging from the roof but the soldier in the picture is smiling. The

only thing that might shock is the magnitude of destruction, both through pictures of ruins

and devastated landscapes.

My conclusions: especially German corpses are shown; photos of soldiers reflect

courage, perseverance, comradeship even enjoyment; the photos are seldom shocking.

If you compare these collections with Krieg dem Kriege, for example, you get a

completely different picture. The collection does not only show shocking pictures of corpses

(of their own army!), executions and mutilated faces and bodies, it also comments on these

pictures with irony and even sarcasm. Allow me to give a few examples. Picture 1 'Papa as a

"hero" in the enemy's country' - Picture 2 'How Papa was found two days later' - killed and

mutilated (Friedrich 54-5); Picture 1 'They laugh and make merry ...' - Picture 2 'over the

mutilated bodies of their "enemies"' (Friedrich 64-5); Picture of German corpses - Army

report: 'At the front all is quiet' (Friedrich 70); Picture 1 'The position will be held ...' - in the

picture you can see generals laughing while they are having tea. - Picture 2 '... to the last man' -

dead bodies piled on top of each other (Friedrich 78-9); Picture of a dead soldier, almost

naked - 'Mothers! That was the fate of your sons in the war: first murdered, then robbed to the

skin and then left as grub for animals' (Friedrich 93). The last shocking section shows

59

mutilated faces, the 'gueules cassées'. One famous picture shows the face of a soldier who has

lost half of his face. Only the forehead, eyes and chin remain (Friedrich 217). Covenants with

Death is as shocking as Krieg dem Kriege. I could not procure the book though. Some pictures

can be found on internet13.

My conclusion: pictures of the dead, the wounded, the executed and the deformed are

terrifying. They certainly represent an important aspect of the war. In most collection s these

pictures are missing.

3 Going beyond the limitations of the camera

Frank Hurley14, an Australian photographer, realised how difficult it was to take pictures

which represented the battlefield as he saw it. He wrote: "Everything is on such a large scale.

Figures scattered, atmosphere dense with haze and smoke - shells that would simply not burst

when required. All the elements of a picture were there, could they but be brought together

and condensed" (Gough 154). Therefore he and other photographers like Ivor Castle

combined negatives, making their own battle compositions in the darkroom. Some might say

that they manipulated the truth, but I believe that they searched a way, a style, to render the

battlefield as they saw, sensed and experienced it.

For this picture Frank Hurley combined negatives to create the truthful tension, danger and terror o f battle.

13 http://www.germaniainternational.com/ww111.html 14 some of his pictures can be found on the site The Heritage of War

60

4 Painting the Great War

For the British and Canadian painters the same rules of censorship applied as for the

photographers. Therefore pictures of dead or mutilated bodies are extremely rare.

Christopher Nevinson's painting Paths of Glory, with two dead British soldiers lying on their

bellies, was censored. In protest Nevinson covered the painting with brown paper and wrote

the word 'censored' on it. John Nash's painting Over the Top also shows the bodies of two dead

British soldiers. His painting was not censored, because the dead soldiers did not give the idea

of defeat but of individual sacrifice for a greater cause (Gough 125). Dead Germans on the

other hand were no problem. You can find these in The Harvest of Battle (Nevinson), Dead

Germans in a Trench (Opren) and Stretcher Bearers after the Battle of Messines (Gilbert

Rogers), just to give a few examples.

Two German painters, Otto Dix and George Grosz, did what Ernst Friedrich did in Krieg

dem Kriege. Grosz made drawings of mutilated soldiers, like The Hero. Dix produced a cycle of

drawings, Der Krieg (The War), based on his experiences on the Western Front. The cycle was

based on Los Desastres de la Guerra (The disasters of war), a cycle of eighty-two etchings by the

Spanish painter Goya. Otto Dix made fifty etchings, all of them bewildering.

George Grosz, The Hero (1936)

Otto Dix, Dead Sentry in the Trenches (1924)

61

5 Photos and paintings corresponding to the themes in chapter 2

Theme one: Stand to

Ill. 1

Ill. 2: John Nash, Oppy Wood (1918).

Theme two: Sentry duty

Ill. 3

Ill. 4: Paul Nash, Spring in the Trenches, Ridgewood 1917

(1918).

Other possibilities: Nash (Verey Lights) - an interesting

painting because these verey lights are often referred to in

testimonies and memoirs from soldiers who had been on

night duty in the trenches.

62

Theme three: Fatigues

Ill. 5

Ill. 6: William Roberts, A Shell Dump (1918).

Other possibilities: Nevinson (Nerves of an Army), Bomberg

(Sappers at Work), Roberts (Signallers), Lewis (Drag

Ropes).

Theme four: Dead-beat

Ill. 7

Ill. 8: Nevinson, Dog Tired (1916).

Other possibilities: Kennington (The Kensingtons at

Laventie), Scott (Soldiers Sleeping), Paul Nash (Existence).

63

Theme five: Boredom

Ill. 9

No paintings.

Theme six: Lice

Ill. 10

No paintings.

Theme seven: Rats

Ill. 11

No paintings.

64

Theme eight: Rain, mud and trench foot

Ill. 12: British infantry knee deep in mud.

Ill. 13

Ill. 14: Christopher Nevinson, Rain and Mud after the Battle

(1917).

Other possibilities: Nevinson (Flooded Trench on the Yser),

Nevinson (After a Push).

Theme nine: Cold

Ill. 15

No paintings.

A winter landscape is insufficient to represent the cold.

65

Theme ten: Food and water

Ill. 16

Ill. 17: William Roberts, Tommies Filling their Water Bottles

with Rain from a Shell Hole (1918).

Theme eleven: Disease

No photos No paintings.

Theme twelve: 'Odour nuisance'

No photos

Ill. 18: William Orpen, Dead Germans in a Trench (1918).

66

Theme thirteen: Wounded

Ill. 19

Ill. 20: Nevinson, La Patrie (1916).

Other possibilities: Nevinson (The Doctor, Twilight, The

Harvest of Battle), Roberts (Died of Wounds), Rogers

(Stretcher-bearers, Ypres 1915, Stretcher Bearing in

Difficulties, Royal Army Medical Corps at Messines),

Williamson (Stretcher-bearers).

Theme fourteen: Gas

Ill. 21

Ill. 22: John Singer Sargent, Gassed.

Ill. 23: Austin Spare, Dressing the wounded during a Gas

Attack (1918).

Other possibilities: Sargent (Gassed), Roberts (The First

German Gas Attack at Ypres, The Gas Chamber), Kennington

(Gassed and Wounded), Roberts (Gassed - In Arduis Fidelis).

67

Theme fifteen: Taken by surprise

Ill. 24

No paintings.

Theme sixteen: Tension

Ill. 25

Ill. 26: Paul Nash, A Night Bombardment (1919).

Other possibilities: Lewis (A Battery Shelled, Great War

Drawing n°2), Nash ( The Menin Road), Gill (Heavy

Artillery), Nevinson (The Strafing).

68

Theme seventeen: Shellshock

Ill. 27

No paintings.

Theme eighteen: S.I.W.

No photos. No paintings.

Theme nineteen: Suicide

No photos. No paintings.

Theme twenty: Going over the top

Ill. 28

Ill. 29: James P. Beadle, Zero Hour (1918).

Other possibilities: Jack (The Second Battle of Ypres), Nash

(Over the Top), Kennington (Over the Top), Wollen (The 1 st

Buckinghamshire Battalion at Pozières).

69

Theme twenty-one: Hell

No photos

Ill. 30: Paul Nash, The Mule Track (1918).

Theme twenty-two: Death

Ill. 31

Ill. 32: William Orpen, Zonnebeke (1918).

Other possibilities: Nevinson (Paths of Glory), Roberts (On

the Wire).

6 Internet sources

Art Fund < http://www.artfund.org >

BBC Your Paintings < http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/paintings/search >

Canada and the First World War < http://www.warmuseum.ca/cwm/exhibitions/guerre/objects-

photographs-e.aspx >

Imperial War Museum Concise Art Collection < http://www.vads.ac.uk/collections/IWM.html >

Imperial War Museums Photo Collections < http://www.iwm.org.uk/collections >

Photos of the Great War < http://www.gwpda.org/photos/coppermine/index.php >

The First World War Poetry Digital Archive < http://www.oucs.ox.ac.uk/ww1lit/collections/photo >

The Heritage of the Great War < http://www.greatwar.nl/index.html >

70

Attachment 4: Art and the Great War (illustrations)

List of illustrations:

1 Spencer, Stanley Apple Gatherers

2 Rosenberg, Isaac Landscape with Flowering Trees

3 Nash, Paul Apple Pickers

4 Nevinson, Christopher The Harvest of Battle

5 Kennington, Eric The Kensingtons at Laventie

6 John, Augustus Edwin Fraternity

7 Matania, Fortunino The Last Message

8 Nevinson, Christopher A Taube

9 Nevinson, Christopher Paths of Glory

10 Orpen, William The Mad Woman of Douai

11 Sims, Charles Sacrifice

12 Bomberg, David Sappers at Work

13 Lewis, Wyndham Battery Position in a Wood

14 Lewis, Wyndham A Battery Shelled

15 Nash, John An Advance Post, Day

16 Nash, John Oppy Wood, 1917. Evening

17 Nash, Paul Summer Garden

18 Nash, Paul Chaos Decoratif

19 Nash, Paul We Are Making a New World

20 Nash, Paul The Menin Road

21 Nash, Paul Void

22 Gill, Colin Heavy Artillery

23 Roberts, William The First German Gas Attack at Ypres

24 Nash, Paul The Mule Track

25 Nevinson, Christopher Returning to the Trenches

26 Nevinson, Christopher La Mitrailleuse

27 Nevinson, Christopher The Doctor

28 Nevinson, Christopher Flooded Trench on the Yser

29 Nevinson, Christopher After a Push

30 Orpen, William Poilu and Tommy

31 Orpen, William The Big Crater

32 Orpen, William A Highlander Passing a Grave

33 Orpen, William Dead Germans in a Trench

34 Roberts, William Signallers

35 Roberts, William The Gas Chamber

36 Roberts, William Turning out for an SOS. Battery Action at Night

37 Sargent, John Singer Gassed

71

Illustration 1: Stanley Spencer, Apple Gatherers (1912).

Illustration 2: Isaac Rosenberg, Landscape with Flowering

Trees (1912).

Illustration 3: Paul Nash, Apple Pickers (1913).

Illustration 4: Christopher Nevinson, The Harvest of Battle (1919).

72

Illustration 5: Eric Kennington, The Kensingtons at Laventie (1915)

Illustration 6: Augustus Edwin

John, Fraternity (1920)

Illustration 7: Fortunino Matania, The Last Message (1917).

Illustration 8: Christopher Nevinson, A Taube (1916).

73

Illustration 9: Christopher Nevinson, Paths of Glory (1917).

Illustration 10: William Orpen, The Mad Woman

of Douai (1918).

Illustration 11: Charles Sims, Sacrifice (1918)

74

Illustration 12: David Bomberg, Sappers at Work, 1st version.

David Bomberg, Sappers at Work, final version (1918-19).

Illustration 13: Wyndham Lewis, Battery Position in a

Wood (1918).

Illustration 14: Wyndham Lewis, A Battery Shelled (1919).

75

Illustration 15: John Nash, An Advance Post, Day (1917).

Illustration 16: John Nash, Oppy Wood, 1917. Evening (1917).

Illustration 17: Paul Nash, Summer Garden (1913).

Illustration 19: Paul Nash, We Are Making a New World (1918).

Illustration 18: Paul Nash, Chaos Decoratif (1917).

76

Illustration 20: Paul Nash, The Menin Road (1919)

Illustration 21: Paul Nash, Void ((1918).

Illustration 22: Colin Gill, Heavy Artillery (1919).

Illustration 23: William Roberts, The First German Gas

Attack at Ypres (1918).

77

Illustration 24: Paul Nash, The Mule Track (1918)

Illustration 25: Christopher Nevinson, Returning to the

Trenches (1914).

Illustration 26: Christopher Nevinson, La Mitrailleuse

(1915).

78

Illustration 27: Christopher Nevinson, The Doctor (1916).

Illustration 28: Christopher Nevinson, Flooded Trench on

the Yser (1916).

Illustration 29: Christopher Nevinson, After a Push (1917).

Illustration 30: William Orpen, Poilu and Tommy (1917).

79

Illustration 31: William Orpen, The Big Crater (1917).

Illustration 32: William Orpen, A Highlander Passing a

Grave (1917).

Illustration 33: William Orpen, Dead Germans in a Trench

(1918).

Illustration 34: William Roberts, Signallers (1918).

Illustration 35: William Roberts, The Gas Chamber (1918).

80

Illustration 36: William Roberts,

Turning out for an SOS. Battery

Action at Night (1918).

Illustration 37: John Singer Sargent, Gassed (1919)

Internet sources:

Art Fund (http://www.artfund.org)

BBC Your Paintings (http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/yourpaintings/paintings/search)

Imperial War Museum Concise Art Collection (http://www.vads.ac.uk/collections/IWM.html)