Tommy Rot E-Book

John Sadler

• Herausgeber: The History Press
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2013

Beschreibung

The Great War 1914−1918 was dubbed the 'war to end all wars' and introduced the full flowering of industrial warfare to the world. The huge enthusiasm which had greeted the outbreak of hostilities in August 1914 soon gave way to a grim resignation and, as the Western Front became a long, agonising battle of dire attrition, revulsion. Never before had Britain's sons and daughters poured out their lifeblood in such prolonged and seemingly incessant slaughter. The conflict produced a large corpus of war poetry, though focus to date has rested with the 'big' names − Brooke, Sassoon, Graves, Owen, Rosenberg and Blunden et al – with their descent from youthful enthusiasm to black cynicism held as a mirror of the nation's journey. Their fame is richly merited, but there are others that, until now, you would not expect to find in any Great War anthology. This is 'Tommy' verse, mainly written by other ranks and not, as is generally the case with the more famous war poets, by officers. It is, much of it, doggerel, loaded with lavatorial humour. Much of the earlier material is as patriotic and sentimental as the times, jingoistic and occasionally mawkish. However, the majority of the poems in this collection have never appeared in print before; they have been unearthed in archives, private collections and papers. Their authors had few pretences, did not see themselves as poets, nor were writing for fame and posterity. Nonetheless, these lost voices of the Great War have a raw immediacy, and an instant connection that the reader will find compelling.

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 and our 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; the Trustees of the Durham Light Infantry Museum and Art Gallery; the staff of Durham County Record Office; the staff of Northumberland County Archives at Woodhorn; the Trustees of the Fusiliers Museum of Northumberland, Alnwick; to colleagues at the North East Centre for Lifelong Learning at the University of Sunderland; staff at the Literary and Philosophical Library, Newcastle; staff at Central Libraries, Newcastle and Gateshead, Clayport Library Durham, Northumberland Libraries at Morpeth, Alnwick, Blyth, Hexham and Cramlington; Lindsey and Colin Durward of Blyth Battery, Blyth, Northumberland; Amy Cameron of the National Army Museum; the curator and staff of the Royal Engineers Museum, Library and Archive, Chatham; Tony Ball of the Western Front Association; Jennifer Laidler and Samantha Kelly for original verse; and to Morag Miller and family. In particular, Gerry Tomlinson 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, January 2013

At every Great War memorial service, the soldier is referred to as though patriotism had been the chief influence that had made him join the army and ultimately die in action. To the ex-serviceman who has had his eyes opened to the lies and deceptions of the Great War, how sad and ignorant it all is, he knows that practically all the pious outpourings over their dead comrades and comrades enemies are based on a false thesis.

The majority of the rank and file of the ‘Contemptibles’ joined the army for many various reasons other than that of patriotism; unemployment, home troubles and petty evils were the best recruiting sergeants in pre-war days and, when the war came, the spirit of adventure was the main influence, backed by every possible means of enticement and coercion. If the psychology of the un-conscripted Great War British soldier could ever be written, patriotism would be the least of impulses and hard instinct of men of fighting temperament at the top.

The truth about the non-commissioned soldier, who fought in the Great War, is a thing to be ashamed of, instead of being blessed and glorified as a virtue by those who are far removed from the foul realities of it.

Sergeant Charles H. Moss, 18th (Pals) Battalion, Durham Light Infantry, c.1924

CONTENTS

Title

Dedication

Acknowledgements

About the Book

Introduction

1 1914: Expectation

2 1915: Resignation

3 1916: Death

4 1917: Mud

5 1914–18: Home Front

6 1918: Victory

Sources

Plates

Copyright

INTRODUCTION

Charles Hamilton Sorley (1895–1915) had been studying German at Jena for six months when war broke out. The Scot immediately joined up and, serving with the Suffolk Regiment, he had reached the rank of Captain when he was killed during the Battle of Loos at the age of 20. His final poem was discovered in the kit bag attached to his lifeless body. Sassoon and Masefield maintained that he would have taken his place amongst the greatest war poets had he lived.

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,

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 never-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.

Charles Hamilton Sorley

On the sultry afternoon of 28 June 1914, an 18-year-old terrorist shot Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife outside a pavement café in the Bosnian city of Sarajevo. Few in Britain at that time had heard of the Duke, the city or the province and, for the most part, cared rather less; just another ‘Balkan do’. It wasn’t. This was the spark that lit the world, blowing the fuse that consumed the great empires and dynasties of Europe. Austria-Hungary, Germany, Russia and Turkey would be blown clear away. Britons were swept up in a tidal wave of righteous sentiment; the beastly Hun had to be stopped and gallant little Belgium restored. No other nation sustained its war effort relying solely upon volunteers. The stern, commanding face of Herbert Kitchener let every man know what path duty demanded he take. Nobody had any real inkling, except perhaps the general himself, of what consequences would follow. It was all about the glorious crusade.

AN EXTRACT FROM VICTORY DAY – ANTICIPATION

As sure as God’s in his heaven,

As sure as he stands for right,

As sure as the Hun this wrong hath done,

So surely we win this fight!

Then! –

Then, the visioned eye shall see

The great and noble company,

That gathers there from land and sea,

From over-land and over-sea,

From under-land and under-sea,

To celebrate right royally

The Day of Victory

Not alone on that great day

Will the war-worn victors come,

To meet our great glad ‘Welcome Home’!

And a whole world’s deep ‘Well done’!

Not alone! Not alone will they come,

To the sound of the pipe and the drum;

They will come to their own

With the pipe and the drum,

With the merry, merry tune

Of the pipe and the drum; -

But-they-will-not-come-alone!

John Oxenham

These noble, desperately naïve posturings would not endure. The conflict that ‘would be over by Christmas’ dragged through numerous Christmases to consume blood and treasure at a rate undreamed of. For the British, however, the idea of conscription was anathema: free men enlisted because it was right, not because the state compelled. Never before in history, and probably never again, was the road to war so heavily subscribed.

NO CONSCRIPTION

Would you show your love for freedom?

Would you stand for truth and right?

Would you take the path of wisdom?

Then be ready for the fight!

[Chorus]

For we won’t have conscription,

We all hate conscription,

We don’t want conscription

So we’ll all be volunteers.

Would you keep your homes in safety?

And protect the fatherland?

Have your commerce prosper greatly,

On the sea and on the land

[Chorus]

Have we foes across the water?

Who must be kept at bay?

If we value freedom’s charter,

We’ll be ready e-en than they.

[Chorus]

But should the foe ever threaten,

Or but touch our silver strand,

We will drown him in the ocean,

By the aid of God’s right hand!

[Chorus]

For gold the merchant ploughs the main;

The farmer ploughs the manor;

But glory is the soldier’s prize,

The soldier’s wealth is honour.

The brave, fair soldier ne’er despise,

Nor count him as a stranger

Remember, he’s his country’s stay

In day and hour of danger!

‘Bobby’ Burns, 11 February 1917

Enlist today. (Author’s own)

The editor of In Flanders Fields quotes Edward Thomas when he observes that war poetry does not generally endure. Despite our seemingly endless fascination with the Great War poets, this remains true. How many of us have heard of Colwyn Erasmus Arnold Phillips (1888–1915)? He was killed in action at the age of 26 and his poem, ‘Release’, was found in his kit bag when his belongings were sent home:

There is a healing magic in the night,

The breeze blows cleaner than it did by day,

Forgot the fever of the fuller light,

And sorrow sinks insensibly away

As if some saint a cool white hand did lay

Upon the brow, and calm the restless brain.

The moon looks down with pale unpassioned ray

Sufficient for the hour is its pain.

Be still and feel the night that hides away earth’s stain.

Be still and loose the sense of God in you,

Be still and send your soul into the all,

The vasty distance where the stars shine blue,

No longer antlike on the earth to crawl.

Released from time and sense of great or small,

Float on the pinions of the Night-Queen’s wings;

Soar till the swift inevitable fall

Will drag you back into all the world’s small things;

Yet for an hour be one with all escaped things.

Colwyn Phillips

His brother, Roland, was killed just over a year later in July 1916, also at the age of 26. Colwyn was a racing enthusiast, and here he compares war to racing:

RACING RHYMES

HAVE you felt the joy that is almost fear

As you face the ditch and are two lengths clear,

And you hear the thunder of hoofs in rear?

There is just a second when you may see

Clear out what the consequence will be

If you go too close or take off too far

Comes a rending crash and a sickening jar,

A futile arm that you raise to defend,

And the battering hoofs that bring the end.

You are stride for stride, and you set your lip

As you urge with your heel and raise your whip,

And the moment he feels the whipcord sting

He leaps from the track with a glorious spring.

You hear the crash as the stout birch sunders,

And gain a length as your rival blunders.

Colwyn Phillips

1

1914: EXPECTATION

Industrial warfare dawned as a crusade; noble, chivalric, Homeric. The reality was to prove very different. You can tell this was written before the cold reality had become apparent.

SHALL WE FORGET THEM?

Shall we forget them?

They who marched with smiles away,

When dawned the long-expected day,

Of German making

High were their heads and firm their lips,

As they trod the street to the waiting ships,

Then eastwards taking.

Shall we forget them?

Men of blood who gave up life

In a noble cause in day of strife,

And to glory trod.

Or, in the days to come shall our children tell

The story of those who fighting fell?

For England and for God!