Conscripts E-Book

Ilana R Bet-El

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2009

Beschreibung

Drawing on diaries, letters and personal accounts from British conscripts who served on the Western Front in the latter half of the Great War, this is the first book to explore the contribution they made to the war effect. By the end of the war more than 2.5 million men had been conscripted, but their memory has not lived on; they are the lost legions of the First World War. Here, at last, their story is told: the story of ordinary men, from manual workers to clerks and solicitors, who became soldiers, fought and - for those who survived - went home. In this groundbreaking work, Ilana Bet-El explains their absence from the imagery of the war. She reconstructs the daily life of soldiers on the Western Front as we are told, in the conscripts' own words, of the grim reality of dirt and lice and hunger, the mysteries of army pay and military discipline, and the joys of leave and cigarettes. It is a compelling journey back in time, which restores these men to the public image of the Great War by rediscovering the 'forgotten memory' of Britain's conscript army.

Leseprobe

CONSCRIPTS

Forgotten Men of the Great War

To the memory of my mother Lila Bet-El

CONSCRIPTS

Forgotten Men of the Great War

ILANA R. BET-EL

First published in 1999

Thi edition first published in 2009

The History Press

The Mill, Brimscombe Port

Stroud, Gloucestershire, GL5 2QG

www.thehistorypress.co.uk

This ebook edition first published in 2013

All rights reserved

© Ilana R. Bet-El, 1999, 2003, 2009 2013

The right of Ilana Bet-El to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

EPUB ISBN 978 0 7524 9993 2

Original typesetting by The History Press

CONTENTS

Preface: Some Notes, Eighty Years on

Acknowledgements

Introduction: Conscription in the First World War

Part One: Civilian into Soldier

1

Enlistment

2

Basic Training

3

To France

Part Two: Actualities of War

4

Mud and War

5

Living in War

6

Contact in War

Part Three: Soldiers of War

7

The Backbone – Discipline

8

The Framework – Daily Schedule

9

The Identity of Conscripts

Epilogue: The Forgotten Memory

Notes

Bibliography

PREFACE

SOME NOTES, EIGHTY YEARS ON

There are faces one never forgets, and faces one wishes to remember. Others come and go, weaving in and out of the fabric of a life; and some just slip away, lost forever. Then there are faces that seem to appear out of nowhere, demanding recognition, emanating familiarity. But one has never seen them before. The faces are not specific, nor is the location. This is not déjà vu; it is war.

I learnt the distinction in the former Yugoslavia, when I repeatedly encountered men who seemed familiar, but I did not know them. I was sure I had never seen them before. I was not of the Balkans and had never visited Bosnia, but these men struck me as old acquaintances. They were soldiers, Bosnian soldiers: Muslim, Croat and Serb. Garbed in uniforms supplemented by gym shoes and hand-knitted sweaters, often unshaven and with longish hair, a cigarette inevitably stuck between work-and weather-worn fingers. Hard soldiers and hardened men, yet not of a military demeanour. Once civilians, these men had become soldiers when Bosnia descended into systematic destruction – yet they retained their civilian essence. They had fought and would fight again, out of conviction and necessity and compulsion. They had become professional soldiers, with little interest in the profession. They were conscripts.

I saw many such men straggling along roads in a desultory fashion, on the way to or from camp; standing at crossroads with the patience of extended boredom; going through my papers and car at checkpoints, sometimes with a grin that was almost an apologetic smile, other times with distaste verging on disgust. Sometimes even worse. I watched them, and over time the observations led to recognition, not least of myself: I too had once been a conscript; transformed from a civilian into a soldier by a call-up notice and a uniform, disinterested but doing my duty. That was years ago and for a mercifully brief period, with no connection to war. But another, much larger part of me knew of many conscripts who had been in combat; men who did their duty in appalling circumstances, and eventually won a war. I knew of them because in my past I had spent some years discovering them: the conscripts of the First World War. And though long dead, they seemed to come alive – in appearance, attitude and role – through those men in Bosnia. Past and present, military and civilian, compulsion and duty: conscripts. The generic soldiers of the twentieth century.

* * *

There is an endless fascination with the First World War. Indeed, all wars seem to inspire huge interest, much as battle must be one of the most researched and documented of human activities. Merely from the specific perspective, military history appears to be one of the few niche markets that has more than sustained itself in an era of diminishing monographs. Since publishing is now apparently audience driven, the audience must want lots of books on wars and soldiers, if bookstores are any measure. The immense Blackwells in Oxford, for example, boasts a major department of general history, divided into subjects and countries – and a separate large military history department. And within this enclave there are many shelves given over to the First World War, packed full of classic and new studies, covering everything from chronologies of distinct battles to catalogues of weapons. Such is the array that it is worth pondering which is the more interesting phenomenon: the constant reprints of older works, or the stream of new research and analyses on an event that ended eighty years ago, and which can no longer be considered unique in a century of total war and atrocities. Which is not to say it is not interesting, merely to question why a consistently large audience apparently still finds it so.

The question becomes the more pressing after a stroll through the literature department of a bookstore. Once again there is a division, between the classics and modern sections. The former boasts a plethora of books written by those who fought. The First World War was also the great literary war, with the sustained popularity of Siegfried Sassoon, Edmund Blunden and Ford Madox Ford, to name but a few, possibly transforming it into the great bestsellers war. Theirs is largely autobiographical fiction; barely disguised descriptions of real people torn apart by battle and disillusionment. It is compelling stuff, which has formed into a canon; a focused and near monolithic testament to dire human experience.

A few steps further lead to the long colourful shelves of modern literature: those volumes that have convinced the literati of their worth in the last ten years. And there, among the ultra-chic narratives of post-modern life, nestle yet more books on the First World War. Not books inspired by the war, or reflecting on the war, but realistic books about the war, largely written as fictional biography. Books that get down into the grit and grime and disgust of soldiers’ lives, and strive to recreate the awfulness of the Western Front. And, moreover, like their companions and inspirations in the classics department, bestsellers. Sebastian Faulks’ Birdsong and Pat Barker’s Regeneration trilogy stand out among these – especially the final volume, The Ghost Road, which won the Booker prize. The first, Regeneration, has now also been made into ‘a major motion picture’, as book blurbs so regularly put it.

The film is based on a good book. However, it is probable that the producers did not buy the rights only because of literary merit, but also for the story and the setting: Siegfried Sassoon’s breakdown in and due to the war, and his therapy and relationship with the psychiatrist W.H. Rivers. The tale has received several artistic treatments, and clearly tantalises the creative imagination. But more significantly, it most certainly appeals to the collective English imagination in its depiction of Edwardian upper middle-class men dealing with crises of patriotism, duty and sexuality. Separately or in various combinations, these have been perennial themes of English literature in the past two centuries, but the First World War was a real event that combined and gave them all substance. It is a wonderful duality which Regeneration captures so well, skilfully spanning the fictional and the real, the personal and the public, battles and beliefs. Pulled together, these themes explain the appeal of the book, as also the other longstanding bestsellers: they all touch upon deeply embedded streaks of nostalgia, for what is perceived to be an era in which ideas and beliefs mattered to the individual and society alike, to the extent of going to war. In other words, in the public domain the First World War was, is, and probably always will be a war of ideology rather than necessity, fought by men expressing themselves as men, who viewed the ideology as a necessity – only to end up disillusioned or dead for their efforts. In this view it was a war of committed individuals; of men who expressed their commitment by taking themselves off to war; a war of volunteers.

But what of the soldiers who were not volunteers? What of the men who were not disillusioned, if only because they had no illusions to lose? And what, for that matter, of those millions of men who did not have the time to dwell upon ideology or illusions, nor the ability to write about them poetically?

* * *

I initially liked Birdsong. It commenced as a tale of ordinary men who found themselves on the Western Front, trying to survive the situation and at the same time hold on to the last vestiges of their civilian selves, far away in England. Well researched and interwoven with many details of life on the front, it seemed to go beyond the classic images of that war, and reach out to the reality of the experience. But halfway into reading I realised I was wrong: Faulks was telling yet another tale of disillusionment; he had gone to the effort of side-stepping the upper middle-class subaltern heroes, but remained firmly entrenched in class and rank distinctions; he used all his skills to recreate a backdrop for anguish and battle, without realising that for the men who lived through it the backdrop was the anguish. For the trenches were a total life, focused on survival: of battle, and even more of circumstances. Though glorious and heroic to the civilian mind, fighting the enemy occupied perhaps a third of the soldiers’ time; the rest was spent fighting the living conditions. In the simplest of terms, men of other ranks were hungry and dirty and lousy and scared – of dying, and often of living, if life was the trenches. And all this meant that trench life kept them both actively busy and mentally occupied – often far too busy and occupied to dwell too long on disillusionment.

There is a reason for repeatedly refuting the central role of disillusionment, as also the focus upon the volunteers. And the reason is that while all soldiers experienced the horrors of trench warfare, these images are relevant at best to just under half the soldiers of the First World War – since just over half were conscripts. Such men did their duty due to compulsion and had few illusions to lose. As of 1916, these were the men that joined the British Expeditionary Force, and by the end of the war they were the majority. In other words, the army that won the war was largely an army of conscripts not volunteers. They held the line, fought, conquered and survived – then they went home and instantly became submerged within the sweeping imagery of the volunteers. For despite their huge contribution, in public perception real men and real soldiers were volunteers who went out in search of masculine fulfilment, as an expression of patriotism and duty; not men who donned uniform thanks to a call-up notice. To civilians, and to the early volunteers, men took themselves off to war with all these illusions, only to have them shattered by the horror and futility of the event, leaving nothing more than the bitter taste of disillusionment. These perceptions, established in the first months of the war and pervasive ever since, totally negate any correlation between soldiering, duty, patriotism and conscription. They do not accept that men may be patriotic without wishing to express it through soldiering, or that men may see fighting as a job of duty rather than a great masculine illusion. They do not accept the existence of combat conscripts in the First World War.

* * *

Reading Birdsong in Sarajevo was a curious experience: here was a novel that sought to recreate artistically the awfulness of the trenches on the Western Front in 1915, when men were living and fighting in precisely the same conditions just a few miles up the road, in 1995. Rather than wonderful, this was a very bizarre duality of fiction and reality. Sarajevo was stagnant in siege, slowly being choked of life, living and humanity; and elsewhere around Bosnia the enemies were formulated in often stagnant lines, shelling, desecrating, killing, drinking, eating, retiring in the cold.

There is undoubtedly something symbolic in the fact that the two ends of the Short Twentieth Century, as Eric Hobsbawm recently defined it, have been marked by war in Sarajevo. The parallel is even more profound when one considers that while the murder of Archduke Ferdinand in July 1914 ultimately brought down the entire international system of the time, the latter-day round of murderous activities in the same location has brought in nearly every major player in the international system, with little benefit to their reputations. But the matter goes beyond profound symbolism to an awful irony (or possibly an ironic awfulness): that the nature of war, the methods of killing, have seemingly changed so little in eighty years. That for all the technological innovation, the invention of The Bomb, the amazing capabilities of SAM, Scud and Cruise missiles – that for all these and many more such impersonal and long-distance tools of modern combat, the method of warfare in the Bosnian conflict was not far removed from that employed in the First World War. Both lasted four years, with large offensives reserved for the warmer months and less intensive shelling in the long winter. In both the confrontation line was more or less established in the first months of battle, with subsequent and often minimal changes occurring at huge cost to human life. And the worst sites in both were near-stagnant, with close and very personal combat.

In Bosnia, one of these was in the north, in the Posavina Corridor: a flat but crucial plane that had devolved into nothing more than a grim setting for two parallel lines. In some places these were just 80 metres apart, the two sides eyeing each other with clarity before shooting. The clarity was enhanced by the totally stark landscape: there was nothing left. Not a house with a roof, or a tree beyond a trunk. Everything had been destroyed by the war, and for the war. Trench warfare is possible only on open ground, and this was vintage trench warfare. Not fiction, nor history, but a late twentieth-century reality.

As I toured a section of that line on a grey, cold day in autumn 1995, my own search for clarity in the face of the unknown-yet-familiar came to its terminus. Walking on duckboards between two man-high walls of mud and sandbags, water streaming beneath the planks and a forbidding sky above, I seemed to be walking back in time: these were the trenches, the landscape, the people I had spent so long discovering in the Imperial War Museum. It was Flanders in Bosnia, or Bosnia in Flanders. There were the pill-boxes jutting out and above the parapet for observation and shooting, the dug-outs in the sides of the wall, the name and direction signs, the appalling look of grubby makeshift permanence. There were the men, no less grubby, smothered in an assortment of coats and mufflers, brewing coffee on an improvised stove. (That was actually a significant difference: British soldiers in the First World War would have brewed tea.) But there was the grim set of their mouths, the combination of fatigue, fear, disgust and disinterest. Like the Western Front in the latter years of the war, most of the men were the lucky and determined survivors of dreadful bouts of battle in which close friends and comrades had perished. Like the conscripts in the latter years of that earlier war, these men just wanted to go home – but not if it meant defeat or relinquishing hard-won territory. They were temporary warriors who did not want to be soldiers, but they did their job, and did it well.

* * *

All wars come to an end. Even long, unremitting ones eventually arrive at a full stop – or at least at a semi-colon, allowing a generation or two to reassemble their gripes and troops into another round, usually defined as a new war. Within the great cycles of history, war is probably the most repetitive and linked. One leads to another. Such words seem a bit slick; an over-simplification of many issues and realities, yet nonetheless true. The First World War held the seeds of the Second, which in turn germinated the current wars of the former Yugoslavia. Some of these are still going on, others have now been halted – but another will inevitably start. If not there, then elsewhere. It is the nature of the beast: startling, luring, tragic.

Wars tend to start with a flourish. The shattering of mundane everyday life into conflict is undoubtedly dramatic: the sketch of peacetime is replaced by the theatre of war. However, in order to sustain audience interest, wars should be scripted very precisely: not too long, with some blood and gore but not too many victims, and some clearly defined heroes. Set-piece offensives should be kept to a minimum, in order to focus emotions and ensure heavy applause, with the best battle saved for last; victories are an imperative. The First World War started out well: it was to be the war to end all wars, and over by Christmas. In accordance with this script, within weeks there was much battle, blood, death and heroism; a huge drama, which men rushed to join. But then trench warfare set in, and the plot went wrong on practically every count: too much blood, gore and victims; too many battles with too few victories; above all – too long and drawn out, with an ill-timed and ill-planned climax. The Somme, in 1916, was billed as the ultimate battle of the war, but it was a colossal failure; even worse, it failed to end the war, which meandered on for another two years. Unfortunately for the conscripts, they were the heroes of this latter part of the script, but the audience had lost interest, despite another two major offensives and an eventual victory.

The conscripts were ignored because they arrived too late, once heroes had been defined and the crucial battle had taken place. Yet in many ways that is their greatness: they were ordinary men who became soldiers, fought, and – for those who survived – went home. From manual workers to clerks and solicitors, they were very ordinary, and they went to war and fought as ordinary men experiencing an extreme and unique event in their lives. And when the war was over they remained ordinary men. They were Mr Pooter, and his son and neighbours – the whole gamut of everyday white-and blue-collar Britishness. It is the essence of their charm and importance: the quintessential anti-heroes who plodded along. They may not have been dashing, nor did they dash off to volunteer, but they went when called and plodded through to victory. That is also their immense historical significance: like their counterparts in Germany, France and practically everywhere in Europe during the First World War – including the composite parts of what ultimately became Yugoslavia – they became the basic model of the twentieth-century soldier of total war: a civilian warrior, fighting for nation, survival and a return to civilian life. Since the trenches of Flanders, there have been millions of such men in Europe over the past eighty years. The latest generation, but the same model, were in the trenches of Bosnia.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

There are happy debts to acknowledge for this book. The late Professor James Joll first listened to my thoughts on the subject, and was kind enough to point me in the right direction a number of times. Zvi Razi was a supreme mentor on the mysteries of methodology, and a constant prod on producing a manuscript. At various times, David Trotter, Martin Daunton, Keith Simpson, Doron Lamm and Avner Offer were kind enough to read parts of it. Billie Melman was extremely helpful in developing ideas; and Ron Barkai and Gabi Cohen were of great assistance. But all errors are, of course, my own.

The staff of the Imperial War Museum, and especially Nigel Steel, were exceedingly patient and helpful throughout the year I spent in the Department of Documents. The late and much lamented Alan Deacon called upon large reserves of humour and kindness in the face of my computer illiteracy. The Reuter Foundation Programme provided a wonderful writing environment, entirely enabled by Godfrey Hodgson. Rosemary Allan is the steadfast rock of us all. At Sutton, Jonathan Falconer and Anne Bennett were a revelation: they made the process of publication almost painless, at least for me.

Robin Denniston and Andrew Lownie made the book possible. But, as true and promised, it is sponsored by David Ish Horowicz and Rosamund Diamond. Al Feldmann cannot be thanked enough. Martin Bugelli, Anton Mifsud Bonnici, Ksenia Bobkova, Marian Hens and Emiko Terazono were great. Sandy Russell was, and is, the non pareil. And as ever, Dov, Ophra, Meira, Mike, Noa, Omer and Timna gave constant love and support.

INTRODUCTION

CONSCRIPTION IN THE FIRST WORLD WAR

The First World War did not have much reality.

W.B. Yeats

The First World War ended eighty years ago, yet it still stands out as a unique and incomprehensible phenomenon. Atrocities had occurred before and certainly since, but the shattering realities of this war still render it in a class of its own. Indeed, judging by the perpetual flow of scholarship, popular books and films, the passage of time seems only to have enhanced both the importance of the war and the questions posed by it. Yet the salient facts were as clear then as they are now: a generation of men were mutilated, together with many cultural and social concepts that had been carefully constructed in the Western world throughout the preceding century. So obvious were the facts that as early as 1915 Freud wrote of ‘The Disillusionment of War’, claiming it ‘tramples in blind fury on all that comes in its way, as though there were to be no future and no peace among men after it is over. It cuts all the common bonds between the contending peoples, and threatens to leave a legacy of embitterment that will make any renewal of those bonds impossible for a long time to come.’1 It was destruction, whether through death or diminishment, which became the central cultural image of the war.

The events themselves created memory, which was transcribed into history, and from the combination of both evolved mythology. This is especially true of the trenches in Flanders, which, correctly or not, symbolise the First World War in the minds of most: mental images of long lines of trenches in a totally desecrated landscape; of much shooting and shelling; of patriotic men volunteering to fight for King and Country; of gallant poets donning uniform and entering battle. And in fact, these brave men of letters assisted most in the creation of the mythology of the Western Front. However, the British army was not a society of poets and authors who could distil experience into poetic imagery; nor only of courageous volunteers. Rather, it was composed of an anonymous mass of men from all walks of life, whom we still perceive as no more than the ‘Unknown Soldier’ – a term coined in the First World War – of war memorials. Yet still so little is known of these men or of the realities trench warfare imposed upon them. And what has been discovered, both through literature and research, does not refer to the real unknown soldiers: the men who were conscripted into the army after 1916. Myth still insists that it was the war of the volunteers.

The conscripts were not a minority population within the wartime British army. Between August 1914 and December 1915 2,466,719 men volunteered; but from January 1916 to the end of the war 2,504,183 men were conscripted into the army. This means 50.3 per cent of all wartime enlistments were conscripts.2 Indeed, by the Allied summer advance of 1918 a majority of the men fighting in the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) were conscripts, and it was this force which won the war. The subsequent disappearance of such a vast population and its achievements is undoubtedly a major historical and historiographical puzzle. Moreover, the conscripts disappeared while a minority of approximately 16,500 men pertaining to them, the conscientious objectors, have been widely discussed; whereas the regular soldiers and the volunteers have been documented in every scholarly and literary form throughout the past seventy years. It therefore appears that the conscripts were not forgotten but ignored in comparison with all the other singular groups of men who came in contact with the British army during the war.3 As such, this situation poses two major questions: who were these men, these British conscripts? and why were they ignored?

Conscripts were British men, just as the regular and volunteer soldiers before them were. They were men from all walks of life who entered the army at a later stage of the war. The army, the British Expeditionary Force, remained essentially the same organisation, with the same objective of fighting and winning the war. The men were taken from the same towns, streets and sometimes even families as the volunteers, and apparently received the same equipment and fought in the same battles. There was only one difference between them and those who went into the army at the earlier stage: they were conscripted instead of volunteering. Their transition from civilians into soldiers was enforced rather than self-induced. In other words, it was the method by which they became soldiers that set them apart. And this was a crucial difference.

Conscription was always seen as very un-British: a measure that contradicted the essence of both an underlying national liberal ethos and the Liberal politics of the ruling government; one associated with the excesses of the Napoleonic wars and the brutishness of Prussian militarism. But during the war, Britain moved from the principle to the specific. It was a country that enshrined the concepts of ‘sacrifice’ and ‘heroism’ even as the war was unfolding; a country that projected images of cavalry charges to its civilians while men were shooting each other in trenches; a country that only got organised to fight a war after countless men – who had volunteered – had been killed and wounded; a country that created a context in which conscription was not only deemed unBritish, but also unpatriotic.

Put in this context, it is clear the conscripts stood no chance, as men afflicted by bad timing, and even worse imagery. They arrived after the image of the soldier had been established as that of the volunteer; after hundreds of thousands of volunteers had been killed and wounded; after women had stopped handing out white feathers, since duty and cowardice had lost any meaning. They were the heroes of the second half of the war, but by then the concept of heroism had become hollow. They had no adequate definition. Searching for the conscripts is therefore a process of sifting through the events of war they experienced in the army and the front line, and the images of war that surrounded them in Britain. It is an attempt to understand how they viewed their enforced transformation from civilians into soldiers, and their lives as soldiers – and to measure this view against their public image, both during the war and ever since. In other words, it is a search for their identity, as British men and British soldiers – and it is the subject of this book. With more than one thousand quotes from original sources, these men are revealed, in their own words, through their own experiences. It is their narrative, as much as possible – but it must be placed in historical and literary context, which is the purpose of this introduction.

* * *

Chronology was probably one of the most influential factors in deciding the imagery of the conscripts. Conscription commenced in January 1916, after the volunteers had been fielded – but also after the nation had been drained by a year and a half of war. As Lloyd George put it in his memoirs:

Looking backward, there is no doubt at all that we should have been able to organise the nation for war far more effectively in 1914, and bring the conflict to a successful issue far more quickly and economically, if at the very outset we had mobilised the whole nation – its manpower, money, materials and brains – on a war footing and bent all our resources to the task of victory on rational and systematic lines. Towards the end, something approaching this condition was in fact reached, but there had intervened a long and deplorably extravagant prelude of waste and hesitation.4

The conscripts were part of the late attempt to mobilise the nation: they were a product of the war, as much as they were part of it. And understanding this element of their background is crucial to establishing their identity.

Britain was the only major power to enter the First World War with a force composed of its small regular army, mostly dispersed throughout the four corners of the Empire, and a ‘part-time’ Territorial Army. In all, it mustered approximately 700,000 men, of which half were not immediately available for service. In comparison, Germany, Russia and France each fielded conscript armies of millions from the very start, replacing their losses with yet more conscripts as the killing progressed. This was a result of Britain’s interpretation of European foreign affairs, and its role within them as a dominant yet removed power. Pre-war planning was based mainly upon economic precepts: as a financial force Britain would become banker to the Allies; and as the nation that ‘ruled the waves’ its almighty navy would impose a blockade upon the enemy nations, especially Germany, so starving them into submission. This was a policy of ‘business as usual’, in which Britain would have retained her prewar economy and population more or less intact, basically at the expense of all the other belligerents. As Lord Salter, the Director of Ship Requisitioning during the war, noted, it ‘was contemplated that Britain’s real contribution would be naval, industrial and financial, the Navy keeping the seas open against cruiser attack for Allied imports and trade, and denying them to the enemy’.5

Overall, any proposed war was deemed to be short and contained in terms of space and manpower. Within this view, conscription was considered costly and unnecessary, since Britain did not intend to field a large-scale army comparable to those gathered by the other warring nations. This strategy, however, did not really consider the nature of modern warfare, which entailed a prolonged and sustained effort in terms of manpower and ammunition. More significantly, it did not account for the complicated entanglement of international accords and agreements that eventually led most of the nations of Europe to war – nor for Britain’s obligations within it. Indeed, even in 1914 most soldiers and civilians were not properly aware of Britain’s commitment to France.6 But the force of events quickly made its impact upon policy-makers, and in turn upon the nation. Faced with the reality of a full continental commitment, a call went out for volunteers, with a massive response that yielded an impressive army of over two million men up to January 1916. Yet this endeavour was still undertaken within the pre-war concept of Britain’s role in the war, with the government constantly attempting to balance the national military commitment against the limited ‘business as usual’ principle. It was only when this balance became impossible to maintain – in other words, when it was clear that a viable military commitment could only be sustained with the backing of a full economic commitment – that universal compulsory service was enforced. In other words, conscription actually signified Britain’s final departure from its concept of magnificent isolation and minimal participation in the continental war.

Upon this international background, and the raising of a volunteer army, it may be assumed that the introduction of conscription in the midst of the war was a sudden departure within Britain. But that was far from the case. The wider cultural context is explained in the Epilogue, but it is important to emphasise that the issue was already placed on the political and public agenda in 1901, because of the Boer War. For despite an eventual victory, the army at that time displayed severe shortcomings that amounted to a military failure. Both within and outside Parliament voices were raised in demand for a thorough reform of the military forces, a task undertaken in a series of measures by R.B. Haldane, Secretary of State for War between 1905 and 1912. Throughout this period the option of compulsory service was raised several times, but never too forcefully, and this for two major reasons. The first was financial: a national service scheme of any kind would have meant a huge increase in the army budget, and therefore an unacceptable drain upon the capitalist–mercantile economy of turn-of-the-century Britain. The second was conceptual, in that conscription was viewed as an infringement of individual civil rights, and a significant break with centuries of a tradition of volunteering – as well as a decisive step towards Germanic culture and militarism. However, this objection to compulsion was hollow, since forms of militarism – from membership in the Volunteer Force to various elements of Anglican and Nonconformist Christianity – were widely spread throughout Edwardian society. In other words, British militarism existed, but not as an organised political or state endeavour which could be equated with Prussianism.7

In the light of these obstacles, any pre-war debate on national service was doomed to failure. Yet there were debates, and they were persistent. In the political arena, the predominantly Tory pro-conscriptionist lobby slowly gained adherents, but the majority of MPs still felt the British public rejected the concept. Their hesitation was compounded by reticence in the higher echelons of the army, who never openly requested compulsion as a matter of military necessity or planning, and therefore a national question that could sway politicians. This also influenced the debate outside Parliament, which was dominated by the activities of the National Service League. Founded in 1902 in order to create a popular basis for its namesake, and headed by the ageing but universally admired war hero Lord Roberts, the League never gained massive support since its appeal was intrinsically to the upper classes of society. However, by August 1914 it had an estimated membership of 250,000 and a significant network of branches; it also boasted the support of well-known Tory figures, and its own journal, A Nation in Arms (previously the National Service Journal).8 But ultimately the League never managed to bring about a significant political conversion to the cause of compulsory military service, since economic considerations always far outstripped its non-Liberal, and expensive, ideological proposals.

Public opinion, on the other hand, though intrinsically against the issue, was confronted by an intense quasi-ideological campaign for conscription from the rapidly emerging popular press. Fiercely nationalistic, the new tabloids apparently enshrined traditions of liberalism and volunteering. But at the same time, they quickly came to be characterised by a concern with peripheral or disjointed subjects, such as food supply in a future war, which were often removed from context and described in menacing tones. In this way, while The Times and the liberal Manchester Guardian reported on the conscription debate mostly within the confines of political interests, the new papers, led by the mass circulation Daily Mail, had no such scruples. Placed in the context of the German military threat, which was inflated by Lord Northcliffe and his editors to menacing proportions, national service was portrayed as a logical necessity that was being denied the country by politicians. It was not a muted campaign, nor was it short.9 And combined with the political discourse of the time, and the work of the League, it makes clear that long before compulsory military service became a reality in England, the case had been squarely set before all elements of society and public opinion, and in a surprisingly positive way. Indeed, it could be said that the tradition of voluntarism had been broken with at least a decade before the first conscript received his ‘call-up’ papers in 1916.

The outbreak of war in August 1914 forced the issue of compulsory service to the very forefront of national life, lowering it from the lofty realms of principle and ideology to those of military manpower and national necessity. The initial burst of mass voluntarism that characterised the first two months of the war was followed by a steady decline in the numbers of men willing to put themselves voluntarily at the service of King and Country. Much has been written about the recruiting efforts under the voluntary system, yet it must be noted that it actually reached its peak in September 1914, with an immense 462,901 recruits. By February 1915 the monthly recruiting figures had dropped below 100,000, and continued throughout the year in a downward spiral.10

In May 1915 the so-called ‘Shell Scandal’ broke, which charged that the forces at the front were underarmed. As such, it really exposed the severe shortcomings of the British war economy and military organisation, and their combined inability to sustain an adequately equipped army on the battlefield. Since both issues were deeply rooted within the problem of manpower allocation, it became clear that aside from a growing failure to secure recruits, a basic flaw of voluntarism was its lack of method. Each volunteer decided upon his own enlistment, and so a qualified engineer or a miner could remove himself from the workforce, regardless of whether he would be of more use to the war economy if he remained in his civilian occupation. This was possible not only because of the personal nature of volunteering, but also because there was no contemporary data on the population as a whole against which an individual’s value could be assessed. The first step towards any system of statewide manpower allocation therefore had to be a national survey of the population in its entirety – and one which would reflect upon the skills and size of the available workforce. For in order to single out an individual male citizen for conscription, or his placement in a reserved civilian occupation, his existence and availability for service had first to be established. The National Register of 15 August 1915 was compiled to do this.

The National Registration Act was passed on 15 July 1915. It called for the registration of every citizen and resident of England, Scotland and Wales, male and female, between the ages of 15 and 65, through a personal form which asked:

(a)Name; place of residence; age; whether single, married or widowed; number of dependents . . .; profession or occupation (if any), and nature of employer’s business; . . .

(b)Whether the work on which he is employed is work for or under any Government Department.

(c)Whether he is skilled in . . . any work.11

A certificate of registration was to be issued against every completed form, so making each registered person responsible for notifying the local registration authority of his/her removal to a new address within 28 days of its occurrence.

The task of compiling a register was allocated to the ‘Registrar-General, acting under the directions of the Local Government Board’.12 This coupling reflects quite precisely the basic problem of the wartime manpower system: from the start of the war military recruitment had been organised on a local rather than a national basis. It was therefore imperative to involve the Local Government Board, both to gain the existing data on recruitment and to ensure continuity with any system to be introduced subsequently. However, any information pertaining to the overall population in Britain was within the jurisdiction of the Registrar-General. It was also the only organisation that could undertake a national survey, since it was responsible for conducting the national census every ten years, which was another form of population accounting. However, the previous census had been compiled in 1911, and was not only outdated, but also inappropriate for the task of providing continuous information on the population:

Registration differs from census taking in the important respects –

(a)That it is concerned with individuals instead of statistics, and

(b)That it must provide information as to the position at any time, instead of at a single appointed date.13

This definition was written by S.P. Vivien, Assistant Secretary to the English Commission of the National Health Insurance Commission, who was advising the Local Government Board on the compilation of the register. His experience from the Insurance Scheme initiated in 1911 made him exceedingly sceptical as to the effectiveness of such an endeavour. For while a census placed the responsibility for supplying the relevant data upon the head of a household, in the case of a register individuals were responsible for themselves. As such, he claimed, it would be virtually impossible to check up on each person, nor would threats or actual punishment by law be of any great use:

The result will be that registration will be seriously incomplete, not owing to pat abstention, but from sheer inertia, indecision, and lack of guidance. . . . Few people have any conception as to the extent to which movement from one address to another takes place among the industrial population. One large Approved [insurance] Society has put it as high as one removal per member, per annum. The London Insurance Committee received, during 1913, 600,000 notices of removals affecting members of an insured population of 1,450,000 under a system which broke down because removals failed to be notified.

Vivien attacked not only the concept of registration as unviable, but also the specific wording of the Act itself: ‘Every one of its features has a counterpart in some feature of the early system of registration experimented upon by the Insurance Commission, which was abandoned as unworkable as a result of dearly-bought experience.’14

Despite these warnings and reservations, however, National Registration day went ahead on 15 August 1915 in accordance with the guidelines laid down by the Act. In a memorandum to local registrars the Registrar-General gave instructions, which were somewhat complex, as to the tabulation of the completed registration forms, which were to be coded according to occupations, 46 in number.15 When this process was completed in October 1915, the Register for England and Wales had 21,627,596 names on it.16 Combined with further Scottish returns, which were administered by a separate authority, 5,158,211 were recorded as men of military age, of which 1,519,432 were starred as men in reserved occupations, i.e. those needed for the economic war effort in industry and agriculture. ‘Further reducing the number available by the accepted average of 25 per cent for medical rejection, this left a [military] manpower pool of approximately 2,700,000.’17

Once the Register was compiled a policy committee was created, to advise on the best use to be made of it. Their most important suggestion was the creation of a permanent committee in order to co-ordinate the requirements of the army and industry. In October 1915 this evolved into the Reserved Occupation Committee, which was also responsible for tabulating the forms. This indicated a degree of order, but it also masked deep shortcomings in the effectiveness of the Register. Since his overall criticism of the scheme had been rejected, in a second memorandum Mr Vivien had suggested putting the onus of notification of removal upon employers, given that the ‘industrial classes change their address many times without changing their employment. . . . [and those] who employ the bulk of the employed population are relatively few and responsible.’

The major drawback of this plan lay in securing the returns from small employers, since this would be dependent ‘upon the zeal of the local registration authority’. Domestic employers were deemed unimportant.18 However, according to the final report written after the war by the General Register Office, this suggestion was also not implemented, nor was any other effective updating system introduced. However, ‘at a later date (May 1916) an Order in Council amending the Defence of the Realm Regulations required all employers of males of military age to make and to exhibit on their premises lists of all such employees’. Overall, the final report criticises the wording of the Act, since ‘the provisions for its maintenance did not secure the constant revision necessary to keep the Register strictly on its original lines. Thus, although every person between the ages of 15 and 65 years . . . was included at first, by the lapse of time the register at the end of 1916 related to persons between the ages of 16 years 4½ months and 66 years 4½ months. Moreover, the Register excluded men who had been discharged from the naval or military forces and, owing to the absence of any legal obligation in the matter, had purposely refrained from registering.’19

It therefore appears that even before its compilation the effectiveness of the Register, as a continuous source of viable information on the state of employment and manpower availability in the country, was deemed limited. And once created and put to use, its limitations were glaringly apparent, as Mrs Violet Carruthers, a member of the original National Register Committee, later admitted in a personal letter to Mr Vivien: ‘I shall strictly charge my Secretaries that all reference to my connection with the National Register Committees is to be kept out of my tomb stone. I am most heavily ashamed of the whole business, which for futility and ineptitude has been hard to beat – even in this war.’20

Lack of organisation was patently to blame for such a situation, but lack of political will was also a key factor, since Liberal leaders still recoiled from the ideology of compulsion. Walter Long, President of the Local Government Board, claimed not to agree that ‘compulsory registration means compulsory service, and I am strongly of opinion that the ultimate object in view can to a large extent be secured given compulsory registration, without resort to any further compulsion either for the army or for industrial purposes’.21 This attitude was coupled with an insistent but not necessarily well-founded fear of popular revolt at such a measure. But in September 1915, after registration was completed, it was clear that a conscription bill of some kind was expected. Instead, events took another indecisive turn with the appointment of Lord Derby as Director of Recruiting. He was given the twofold task of generating sufficient troops for the army, within the confines of the voluntary system; and of doing so in a way which would ensure that young, single men would be taken before the older, married men.

What evolved was a personal canvass based upon the returns of the National Register, in which all British men available for military service between the ages of eighteen and forty-one were asked to attest their willingness to serve in the army (due to political tensions it was decided to exclude Ireland from this scheme, and from the later conscription Acts). Those who responded positively were attested and sent home, under the understanding that they could be summoned to the Colours with two weeks’ notice. The returns of the canvass were divided into 46 groups, according to ascending age and marital status, so making it possible to summon single, younger men before married men. The results of the scheme were, however, disappointing: of the 2,179,231 single men noted in the Register, only 1.15 million attested their willingness, of whom 318,533 were actually available for service as both medically fit and in an unstarred occupation. Attestation among married men was much higher since they were publicly promised, by the prime minister, that single men would be taken first. Yet even this group produced only 403,921 fit and unstarred men, out of a total 2,832,210 available.22 In other words, the Derby Scheme did not secure the voluntary services of the majority of British manhood, though it did introduce a degree of method and system yet unknown to the recruiting effort in Britain. And so, by Christmas 1915, it became clear that the introduction of conscription was unavoidable.

On 5 January 1916 the Liberal prime minister, Herbert Asquith, proposed a bill in the House of Commons, which eventually led to universal compulsory military service for all British men. This, the first Military Service Act, was to be applied only to unmarried men and widowers without children or dependants, between the ages of eighteen and forty-one. Unmarried men engaged in work of national importance, or those who were the sole supporters of a household, were to be excluded; as were men with medical disabilities and conscientious objectors – who could apply to military tribunals detailed by the Derby Scheme. Indeed, the entire bill was suggested as a consequence of the Derby Scheme, and within the terms of reference laid out by it, and not as a proposal for conscription. In his speech, Herbert Asquith claimed that ‘in view of the results of Lord Derby’s campaign, no case has been made out for general compulsion. . . . This Bill is confined to a specific purpose – the redemption of a promise [to enlist the unmarried men first] publicly given by me in this House in the early days of Lord Derby’s campaign’.23 The bill was passed in the Commons on 12 January 1916, and received the Royal Assent on the 27th. In principle, and despite Asquith’s words, Parliament had, for the first time, enforced conscription upon a section of its male citizens.

From its inception this ‘Bachelors’ Bill’, as it became known, proved to be inadequate in providing sufficient military manpower – and that was hardly surprising. By this time voluntary recruitment had diminished to an exceptionally low level, the numbers produced by unmarried Derbyites and conscripts were not very high, and married men in both latter categories were not being called up. By March 1916 it became clear that this intermediate measure was, in the words of Sir William Robertson, Chief of the Imperial General Staff, a ‘farce and a failure’. In a memo to the Cabinet he claimed that ‘Of the 193,891 men called up under the Military Service Act no fewer than 57,416 have failed to appear’.24 A further problem was the inadequacy of the National Register, and keeping it updated for recruiting purposes, precisely as envisaged by Mr Vivien before its compilation. On 16 March 1916, for example, The Times reported that ‘there have been nearly 100,000 removals since the Register was taken on August 15 last, and a large number of men of military age have not been traced’. By September 1916 ‘the military authorities began taking strong action against the supposedly large numbers of unexempted men who were evading the net. Parties of soldiers swooped on the exits from railway stations, parks, football fields, cinemas, theatres, and prize fights. All males who looked of military age and were not in uniform were apprehended.’25 Few men were found in this manner, which greatly antagonised the public, and was ultimately abandoned.