Ode to Bully Beef E-Book

Rosie Serdiville

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2014

Seitenzahl: 135

Beschreibung

The Second World War (1939–45) was not greeted with the same lavish outpouring of patriotic fervour that had attended August 1914. Any rags of glory had long since been drowned in the mud of Flanders. The Great War had been heralded as 'the war to end all wars'; veterans were promised 'a land fit for heroes'. Both of these vain boasts soon began to sound hollow as depression, unemployment, poverty and a rash of new wars followed. The sons and daughters of those who had embarked upon their own patriotic Calvary did so again in an altogether more sombre spirit. One significant difference between the two conflicts is that, whilst both were industrial wars, the Second World War was far nearer the concept of total war. The growth of strategic air power, in its infancy in 1918, had by 1939 become a reality. In this war, even more widespread and terrible than the last, there were to be no civilians. Death sought new victims everywhere; British citizens were now in the front line, there was to be no respite, no hiding place. This is the poetry and prose of those who were there, ordinary people caught in the terrible maelstrom of mass conflict on a scale hitherto unimagined; this is their testimony.

Leseprobe

This one is for all of them

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book could not have been written without the generous assistance of a number of organisations and individuals. Particular thanks are due to: Roberta Goldwater of A Soldier’s Life and colleagues at Tyne and Wear Archives and Museums; Ian Martin of the King’s Own Scottish Borderers Museum, Berwick upon Tweed; the Trustees of the Green Howards Museum, Richmond; of the Durham Light Infantry Museum and Art Gallery, staff of Durham County Record Office; the staff of Northumberland County Archives at Woodhorn; staff and Trustees of the Fusiliers Museum of Northumberland, Alnwick; colleagues at the North East Centre for Lifelong Learning at the University of Sunderland; staff of the Literary and Philosophical Library, Newcastle; staff of Central Libraries, Newcastle and Gateshead, Clayport Library Durham, Northumberland Libraries at Morpeth, Alnwick, Blyth, Hexham and Cramlington, Lindsay and Colin Durward of Blyth Battery, Blyth, Northumberland; Amy Cameron of National Army Museum; the curator and staff of the Royal Engineers Museum & Archives, Chatham, Captain S. Meadows 2 RGR, Peter Sagar, Kathleen, Wendy and John Shepherd, Margaret Ward, Joan Venables, Ann Havis, Mrs. J. Geddes, David Roberts, editor of the War Poetry Website and Dr. Joan Harvey. Gerry Tomlinson, in particular, has been a source of immense support and stimulation. Special thanks are due to editorial colleagues at The History Press for another successful collaboration.

As ever, the authors remain responsible for all errors and omissions.

Rosie Serdiville, & John Sadler, Northumberland, May 2013

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Introduction

1. 1939: Sitzkrieg

2. 1940: Blitzkreig

3. 1941: Standing Alone

4. 1942: End of the Beginning

5. 1943: Beginning of the End

6. 1944–45: The Second Front

7. Empire of the Sun

8. Aftermath

Sources

Plates

Copyright

Assist us, O Lord, in these our supplications and keep within Thy protecting hand those who, this night, on sea, land, and in the air, keep vigil on our behalf. Be Thou their comfort in loneliness, their strength in weariness, their defence in danger, and by Thy most gracious and ready help, keep them in all their ways; for the sake of Jesus Christ our Lord.

An Evening Prayer for Sailors, Soldiers, Airmen, Police, Air-raid Wardens, and Firemen

INTRODUCTION

THE POOR BLOODY INFANTRY

Hail, soldier, huddled in the rain,

Hail, soldier, squelching through the mud,

Hail, soldier, sick of dirt and pain,

The sight of death, the smell of blood,

New men, new weapons bear the brunt;

New slogans gild the ancient game:

The infantry are still in front,

And mud and dust are much the same.

Hail, humble footman, poised to fly

Across the west, or any, Wall!

Proud, plodding, peerless P.B.I. –

The foulest, finest, job of all

A.P. Herbert

Poor Bloody Infantry indeed (or P.B.I. as soldiers’ slang swiftly had it). Those words have the heartfelt quality of one who had done some marching, although Herbert’s military career was actually in the Navy. Unlike many of those whose words appear in this anthology, Herbert would go on to have a career as a professional writer (amongst many other occupations). Heartfelt is the quality that leapt up at us as we explored the archives of the North East, seeking out the reactions of ordinary men and women to the conflict that engulfed the entire world in 1939–45. Sometimes the most prosaic of words summed up a moment or an experience in a way that connected across the decades, and it felt almost as though the writers were speaking to us now.

That opening prayer, for example. It comes from the parish magazine of St Columba’s Church at Seaton Burn in Northumberland. Written in October 1941, it conjures up the faces of all those who survived the Blitz and bombing campaigns, all those thinking of men serving away and those at home who had preserved them from harm, ‘Their strength in weariness, their defence in danger’. Whoever wrote it knew what it was like to keep watch as the planes came over, night after night. Perhaps it was written by the vicar, Cecil Gault – we don’t know for sure because it was unsigned. An ephemeral verse which was not intended for posterity, casual words written to meet a need, to communicate a sense of shared danger, hope and endeavour.

TAINT

’Taint what we have, but what we give

’Taint what we are, but how we live

’Taint what we do, but how we do it

That makes this life worth going through it

Resolve each day to perform what you ought

And to perform without fail what you resolve

J. White (143 Battery Field Artillery)

Much of what appears in this collection is anonymous. Much is doggerel, written by those without any pretension to be great writers of prose or verse. But their words still have the power to reach us from the blank space of their anonymity.

VALE

I am forever haunted by one dread

That I may suddenly be swept away,

Nor have the leave to see you and to say

Goodbye; then this is what I should have said

I have loved summer and the longest day

The leaves of trees, the slumberous film of heat

The bees, the swallows and the waving wheat,

The whistling of mowers in the hay.

I have loved words which left the soul with wings

Words that are windows to eternal things

I have loved souls that to themselves are true

Who cannot stoop and know not how to fear

Yet hold the talisman of pity’s tear:

I have loved these because I have loved you.

Anon

1

1939:SITZKRIEG

HITLER HAS ONLY GOT ONE BALL

(sung to the tune of ‘Colonel Bogey’)

Hitler has only got one ball,

Goering’s got two but very small,

Himmler is very similar,

And poor old Goebbels’ got no balls at all.

Frankfurt has only one beer hall

Stuttgart, die Munchen all on call,

Munich, vee lift up our tunich,

To show vee ‘Chermans’ have no balls at all.

Anon

It was at 11.00 a.m. on 3 September 1939 that Britain entered a new era. The transition from peace to war was swift and dramatic. The country had put on uniform. No sooner had Chamberlain issued his mournful declaration of war than the National Service (Armed Forces) Act – conscription – came into immediate effect. If there was to be no spectacular rush to the colours this time around, there was at least a steady trickle. Men came forward to enlist voluntarily, more in a spirit of stoical acceptance than in any marked swell of patriotic fervour. It seemed the ‘War to end all Wars’ had, in fact, changed nothing; a new generation had to pick up the baton. Unlike their fathers, they had few illusions. Sometimes, they leave us with few. These are ordinary human beings, products of their time. Some of their views we can still share, while some jar our modern sensibilities.

BELISHA’S ARMY

We had to join,

We had to join,

We had to join Belisha’s army

Fourteen bob a week and FA to eat,

Hob-nailed boots and blisters on your feet

If it wasn’t for the war

We’d have f****d off long ago

Belisha you’re boring …

Anon

Leslie Hore-Belisha was an MP and Minister for War from 1937–40. He was the butt of pronounced anti-Semitism, mocked in doggerel, sung to the tune of ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’:

Onward Christian Soldiers,

You have nought to fear.

Israel Hore-Belisha

Will lead you from the rear.

Clothed by Monty Burton,

Fed on Lyons pies;

Die for Jewish freedom

As a Briton always dies.

General Montgomery described his famous ‘Desert Rats’ as a ‘citizen army’. Most who served were conscripts, young men drawn from all walks of life who would not otherwise have dreamed of a military career. Theirs was the ‘last crusade’, the very definition of a ‘just’ war, fought to remove the tyrant’s jackboot from most of Western Europe. Despite this noble purpose, there would be no ecstatic rush to join the colours, no repeat of August 1914:

AND THE BLUE AROUND THEIR CAPS

I must admit my ignorance but just before the war –

I used to meet our Yeomanry, and wonder who they were;

For I’d tumble up against them, of an evening in the street,

Dressed in regulation khaki, but particularly neat;

There were never very many of these horsey-looking chaps;

But I noticed that they wore a strip of blue around their caps.

Now, I’d never cared for uniform of any kind or sort,

And noted Volunteering an unnecessary sport;

Nor could I see a reason why these men should serve the King,

When we had a British Army, just to do that kind of thing.

So, I felt a sort of pity for all Territorial chaps,

With their whips, and spurs, and leggings, or the blue around their caps

But when the war had started, and the troops were mobilised,

I found the parks and school-rooms filled with men I had despised;

They marched along the country roads, and drilled upon ‘The Moor’*

And seemed to do a lot of things I’d never seen before;

And if I went to Gosforth in a crowded car, perhaps

I’d meet some “Khaki Johnnies” with the blue around their caps.

There were lots of other people didn’t take to them a bit,

So we’d do a little chaffing, just to exercise our wit,

And talk about ‘The Noodles’ who were frightened of a horse,

That their drill was simply awful, and their shooting – rather worse;

But the girls would all declare them quite a decent lot of chaps,

Though they were a bit conceited of the blue around their caps.

’Twas a dull September Sunday, when I saw the Yeomen go,

And I thought the whole procession was a quiet sort of show;

For the people who were watching didn’t seem to understand;

There was hardly any cheering and there wasn’t any band.

Still, I could not help admiring all those sturdy-looking chaps,

Riding through our ancient city, with the blue around their caps

First, we heard they went to Lyndhurst, which is somewhere in the South;

Then, a list of idle rumours got about, from mouth to mouth,

Till, suddenly, the newsboys started shouting, near and far;

‘Northern Yeomanry in action! Special news about the war!’

It was just about a skirmish and some trivial mishaps;

But it proved that they were fighting for the blue around their caps.

Then I knew that I’d been sleeping, while the Yeomen were awake;

I had simply been ‘a slacker’ when my country was at stake.

So I joined the gay Commercials, and I did the Swedish drill,

Till I found myself expanding and my chest began to fill;

And when marching with my comrades in the scarlet shoulder-straps,

I could see another meaning in the blue around the caps.

How I wished that – like the Yeomen – we’d been ‘ready’ from the start;

Fit to meet a sullen foeman, glad to play a soldier’s part:

For within that bloody corner of fair Belgium’s stricken land,

First of all our Territorials: there to lend a helping hand;

And I ask a humble pardon for uncomplimentary raps

At their swaggering assurance, and the blue around the caps.

Far, amid the deadly shrapnel, they have held the Hun at bay;

They have fought, and fell, and suffered in the trenches of Ypres,

Side by side with gallant comrades from the corners of the earth,

For the honour of the Northland, for the country of their birth,

They have shared in night combats: they have scored in village scraps;

And they’ve added fame and glory to the blue around the caps!

G. Dodd

We came across this one in the Northumberland Hussars archives. In the accompanying letter (August 1973), Ossie Hall, who had servied in ‘B’ section and was now on the committee of the Hussar’s Old Boys Association, explains that he has reworked the original poem. Hall was sending it on to another Old Boy, Lord Ridley, who would eventually donate it to the Museum. Forty-five years after the start of the Second World War, the marching song of the Hussars still had resonance for this Newcastle man:

MARCHING SONG OF 15/19 HUSSARS

Side by side with gallant commander

From the corners of the earth,

For the honour of the North-land

For the country of their birth

They have shared in mighty combats

They have scored in village scraps

And they’ve added fame and glory

To the blue around their caps

War was not seen as a great patriotic crusade, more as a chore to be dealt with – an interregnum in the business of living.

Thwaites was an Australian who studied at New College, Oxford before serving in the North Atlantic, finally commanding a corvette. He had an active post-war career, publishing several volumes of poetry. He was one of that rare breed, those who spoke about their war to those close to them.

EPITAPH ON A NEW ARMY

No drums they wished, whose thought were tied

To girls and jobs and mother,

Who rose and drilled and killed and died

Because they saw no other,

Who died without the hero’s throb,

And if they trembled, hid it,

Who did not fancy much their job

But thought it best and did it.

Michael Thwaites, November 1939

Many who returned never spoke of their service. It was an episode, necessary but isolated, boxed up in the mind and filed away. A poignant collection of letters from Private (later Lieutenant and then Brevet Captain) Herbert Cook to his future wife Peggy Longthorne, survives in Durham County Record Office. Herbert served in the Pioneer Corps and ROAC in India and latterly Singapore. He was likely a POW but, happily, survived and returned to his Peggy. Their letters are full of everyday events – his plans for promotion, their wedding arrangements, the difficulty of getting out to see your girlfriend when your mam makes her views known.

Bunker, Otto Hirst in Kunst der Front. (Courtesy of the Northumberland Hussars Museum)

November 1940

Dear Peggy,

I am very sorry to say that I can’t meet you tonight. The reason being that I coughed all last night and the folks say that if I want to go to the dance, I have to stay in tonight ... I was very surprised when mother ‘put her foot down’ because it is the first time she has done so for years ...

Love, Herbert

February 1941

My darling,

… Coming down here won’t cost an awful lot apart from the train fare (soldiers wife’s rate) as I can fix you up for practically nothing down here as far as lodgings are concerned, [he appears to be at a Hookswood training camp in Surrey] ... Rations of course, will be quite easy to get from the army, (I have a good pal in the cookhouse here). Plenty of best butters etc. Don’t go spending your coupons on me sweetheart, for wool. I think I can do without a pullover until the war is over. If I need one I can wear yours on the days that you haven’t got it on ...

All my love and lots of kisses sweetheart,

Herbert.

Thursday

I wonder if we are due any more wedding presents, darling. They still seem to be rolling in ... This is a lousy company for getting 48 hours tacked on to one’s leave. The only time it is allowed is when the railway warrant is made out for Scotland. I think I will have my passant made out for Edinburgh and claim the two days, breaking my journey in Sunderland. Quite easy and no penalties attached.

Without Her. (Courtesy of the Northumberland Hussars Museum)

I am terribly fed up at the moment for news – nothing. The major event prevents me from seeing any correspondence about my commission for locking it in a special file in his safe. Personally, I see absolutely no need at all for all this secrecy. Either it has been granted or it hasn’t.

22nd March 1941, Hookwood Camp Surrey

I would have written before this, but I have had a lot of letters to write this week. You see, dear, dad wrote to me saying that he had been talking to a friend of his, a Mr. Davill by name, who lives down here, who says he might be able to get me a commission, and that he was going to try and see me … So you see, darling, you might still be able to walk out with a 2nd Lieutenant, (I hope).

April 1941

Darling,