A War of Words

Poetry from World War I Casualties and Carers

Front Cover – Miss M Lloyd, the Matron of King’s Lancashire Military Convalescent Hospital, drawn by a patient in 1917.

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A War of Words

A small anthology of poetry written by the casualties of war

and their carers.

Published to commemorate the 90th anniversary of

the Great War Armistice.

Compiled and edited by

Yvonne McEwen, Centre for the Study of Modern Conflict,

University of Edinburgh

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Acknowledgements

I would like to thank Professor James McMillan, Director of the Centre for the Study of the Two World Wars for his support of the “Words from the Wounded” poetry events held in collaboration with Edinburgh City Libraries to commemorate the 90th Anniversary of the World War 1 Armistice. In addition Professor McMillan gave me great encouragement to produce the “War of Words” poetry anthology. Funding for the publication of the poetry came from Knowledge Transfer at Edinburgh Research and Innovation, The University of Edinburgh. The Knowledge Transfer team has been consistent in supporting the public engagement initiatives carried out by The Centre for the Two World Wars and we are extremely grateful to them. My thanks go to Alistair McEwen for providing computing and technical support. Without his expertise the booklet would never have made it to the printers on time. The University of Edinburgh Printing and Procurement Department were, as ever, extremely helpful and supportive. The poetry initiative is a joint venture between The Centre for the Modern Conflict and Edinburgh City Libraries. It has been a genuine pleasure to work with Fiona Myles from Central Library. We shared the same vision for the project and we hope that we can build on its success. I would also like to thank Alison Stoddart at Central Library for producing the exhibition that accompanies the “Words from the Wounded” Armistice project and the BBC for funding it.

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Introduction

This small poetry anthology does not contain literary works from famous Great War poets such as Siegfried Sassoon, Wilfred Owen, Edmund Blunden and Isaac Rosenberg. The poetry in this booklet comes from the pen of the sick and wounded while they were being treated in hospital or convalescing. At the beginning of the war poetry was popular, pastoral and romantic, and the propagandists used it to convey bravery and patriotism. By 1915, the perceived romanticism in sending men off to war became questionable and Charles Sorley, a Scottish soldier-poet, expressed his rising distaste for the war when he wrote his last poem “When you see millions of the mouthless dead”. Captain Sorley was only twenty years of age when he was killed in action at the Battle of Loos. From 1916 onwards, a prolific amount of poetry emerged from the Western Front as, for some, there was a need to rationalise the slaughter which they believed was caused by military incompetence. For the benefit of the public, alienated from the war and receiving sanitised reports on its conduct, soldier poets wrote with first-hand experience about what was happening to the minds and bodies of their brothers-in-arms. A lot of the most telling war poetry went unpublished because many men and women writing about their experiences viewed their literary efforts as amateurish and kept the poems in private collections, never to be read by the public. There were those who, as illustrated in this anthology, passed on their works for readership and publication, addressing sadness, anger, bitterness, futility, love, camaraderie and humour. Creative writing became an antidote to physical and psychological pain and suffering. Poems written by and about nurses are included. The nursing profession made a significant contribution to the creation of war poetry by encouraging patients to express their feelings and emotions through creative writing. It was often done with the knowledge that nurses’ skills and compassion alone were not enough to deal with wounds of the flesh and spirit caused by the obscenity of industrial warfare. We are indebted to the casualties and their carers for leaving us such a literary legacy of the personal consequences of war. Yvonne McEwen November 2008

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PRAYER BEFORE ACTION.

O God, Who is the only One! The rising and the setting sun, The spirit of the earth and sea,

Whose feet through all the spaces run,. Forget not me!

By all the pains that I have borne,

Through sleepless nights to aching morn, In dark and troubled quest of Thee; By all the vows that I have sworn,

Forget not me!

Though no great height my soul achieves, And no sure faith my spirit weaves,

Though all the blooms of trust in Thee, Have turned, alas, to withered leaves,

Forget not me!

And if to Death my spirit flies, And ended are the fruitless sighs

For Truth my sight could never see; Take Thou the blindness from mine eyes.

Forget not me!

Forget me not, though I forget Nor count my erring heart in debt,

Who took my wayward soul from Thee; And when that soul and Thou are met,

Forget not me!

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And if for Truth Thou prov'st my zest, Then grant, O God, my one request;

I ask no greater gift from Thee; That I may lay me down to rest.

Forget not me!

Anon.

ON A FRIEND, KILLED IN ACTION.

He was a dreamer, who chanced his dreams as Truth; Beyond the stars were wond'rous lovers' vales,

Parnassian hills to dare immortal youth; That Heaven was not the most sublime of Fairy Tales.

And so he took the Cup, without a sign or fear;

Believing that the sacrificial wine Would clear his eyes to all that puzzled here;

Prove deeper Human love was meant by love Divine.

A. S.-W.

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THE WEDDING DAY.

I passed him in the field at eve, - His girl was white with fears.

She stroked the stripe upon his sleeve, He kissed away her tears

And said, as on his arm she lay, “Soon comes our wedding day."

They saw him 'neath the lid of Hell,

His mirth rang down the line; He flung a joke out when he fell

"My God, they've spilled the wine!" And then he added, so they say,

"It is my wedding day!"

Anon.

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THE GRAVE.

They dug his grave by lantern light, A nameless German boy:

A remnant from that hurried flight, Lost, wounded, left in hapless plight,

For carrion to destroy.

They thought him dead at first until They felt the heart's slow beat; So calm he lay, serene and still,

It seemed a butchery to kill An innocence so sweet.

A movement of his lips, maybe

To call his mother there A tear, a smile of victory -

Then easeful death proclaimed him free, Free from a tyrant's care.

Somewhere a mother droops and sighs

For tidings long delayed: Somewhere a sister mourns and cries For him who in that cold grave lies,

Dug by the foeman's spade.

WILFRED J. HALLIDAY, Private, C Coy., 13th Bn., West Yorks.

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TO A MOTHER.

I would not wish to stay the sudden flow Which found the leakage in your Spartan soul,

And eased the anguish of the mother heart; But let the sun of pride shine through your tears,

Taking a rainbow for your noble sorrow; And when within the secret chapel of your breast

The first dark hours of aching loss are braved, Hold festival within your lucent mind; Let not the music call to melancholy,

That selfish sprite that bars the waiting door To honour's joy; but with a ringing note

Pipe out the gladness that makes sport of grief, Grief whose dull eyes can only spy the tomb, And not the hand that rolls the stone away;

Deck not your harried breast with ashen weeds, But let your heart flame red with fragrant flowers;

Not poppies, symbols of a drugged despair, But roses, emblems of your wakeful joy:

Pine not, nor jealous be that he you loved Made court to Honour and is no longer yours

But ours! for he who for his country dies Lives on eternal in that Pantheon

Nearest to God, a grateful Nation's heart!

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Twas kindly fate that lent a guiding hand, And, from the dull clamour of a fretful peace, Led him, so willing, through the testing fires, And passed him to this high degree of death;

If you were never laggard in your gifts, Let not your tears persuade the careless world You grudged, at duty's call, this noblest grace;

Let not the prying eye, beneath a rouge Of fashioned strength discern a haggard cheek,

But let your blush of joy be real as bloom That, stainless, glows upon a maiden's brow;

Smile bravely in your pride; Keep happy tryst with memory;

For every sigh is treacherous to him; If you are glad that you have named him Son,

Be glad as well that he has named you Mother: Holiest of names, incomparable, divine!

Anon.

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THE CASUALTY CLEARING-STATION.

A bowl of daffodils, A crimson-quilted bed,

Sheets and pillows white as snow - White and gold and red -

And sisters moving to and fro, With soft and silent tread.

So all my spirit fills

With pleasure infinite, And all the feathered wings of rest

Seem flocking from the radiant West To bear me thro' the night.

See, how they close me in, They, and the sisters' arms,

One eye is closed, the other lid Is watching how my spirit slid Toward some red-roofed farms,

And having crept beneath them, slept Secure from war's alarms.

T. W.

Captain, 2nd Essex, Beauval, France, February, 1916.

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PLUCK.

Crippled for life at seventeen, His great eyes seem to question why:

with both legs smashed it might have been Better in that grim trench to die

Than drag maimed years out helplessly.

A child - so wasted and so white, He told a lie to get his way,

To march, a man with men, and fight While other boys are still at play. A gallant lie your heart will say.

So broke with pain, he shrinks in dread

To see the 'dresser' drawing near; and winds the clothes about his head That none may see his heart-sick fear. His shaking, strangled sobs you hear.

But when the dreaded moment's there

He'll face us all, a soldier yet, Watch his bared wounds with unmoved air,

(Though tell-tale lashes still are wet), And smoke his Woodbine cigarette.

Voluntary Aid Detachment Nurse, 1917.

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TO THE REAL HEROES AND HEROINES.

To you, our Brothers, rackt with pain Yet tameless in the battle hell;

To you who soothe with heart and brain, Dear Sisters of the canvas cell;

We pay our homage - yet, withal, Our greatest tribute is too small.

J. M. B.

HOLD ON!

She's weary and faint, and her brain is like lead She'd barter her leave for an hour on her bed

Her heart is one ache, but no tear will she shed Hold on!

The stretchers are coming in - rows upon rows And the air is sick with the reek that she knows; Will she falter or flinch when her care is for those

Hold on! And she who is British will stick it no fear!

0 game little Sister I know you my dear!

Anon.

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MY LITTLE IRISH NURSE

She came to me so cheery kind, Her steps so swift and light,

Her strong, warm hands drove fear away, and soothed me in the night.

Her voice is like the whisperings The angels send to earth.

Her presence is a peace a rest My little Irish Nurse!

Her dark eyes hold a Faith that looks From a soul God knows is His. Life's daily task fulfil a round

Of beauty, mirroring this. 0, Service sacred gift to heal

An aching universe! 'Tis hands like yours lift the cooling draught

My little Irish nurse!

Anon.

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A DOG OF FLANDERS

Dog of the milk-cart, patient, wise, We know you very well;

Deserved you this austere disguise, That makes you hard to recognise

As myrmidon of Hell?

Ah, yet this Hell's no child of ours; And you, too, take a part,

Beneath the cloud of doom that lowers Upon the weary, haggard hours

That crush the gentle heart.

No way but this: To face the foe, And strike him to the dust:

With steadfast eye, and counter blow, Feeling the while, though blood may flow,

We fight because we must.

Beneath the bellowing skies you've stood, Ready to serve or wait;

To aid in wringing soul of good Out of things evil, dark, and rude,

And unregenerate.

Now 'tis the "maxim" you have drawn, Paired, in your harness strong;

Now you're a watch, and then anon A scout - straining your willing brawn

To help your King along.

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Highest of all your services, Wearing the linen band

On which the Red Cross blazoned is! Then is your errand like to His

Who bears a pierced hand.

Faithful, and swift, firm to endure, Your virtues myriad are;

Certes, 'twas no voice immature That cried in accents stern and sure,

"Let slip the dogs of war."

JOHN HOGBEN.

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THE R.A.M.C. (sometimes known rather unkindly

as The Robbers and Murderers' Clan)

The Medical Corps, you'll all agree, Is just the Corps for "knuts,"

No tramps or vagabonds allowed, Or chaps from "Comic Cuts."

'Tis not a show for swank and airs, Or dainty soft white hands,

Or gentleness and tender hearts, Which nursing oft demands.

We're just a rough and ready crew,

Quite keen to give and take. For fun and mischief we're all there,

And simply take the cake, “Rob all my comrades!" it's too bad,

For angels such as we, We may be bad a tiny bit,

But not to that degree.

The "Poultice Wallahs" we are called, They say - Lord help the man

Who falls into our nimble hands, The "rob and murder clan." All sufferers recover quick,

And oft end "framed in oak," With nice brass handles, bright and neat -

This is their feeble joke!

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We all must die when fate decrees, To make some room for more,

So what's it matter if some choose To "peg it" through our corps.

We get all kinds of useless jobs, Of broken legs and sprains,

The chap comes in, he's bandaged up With quite a lot of "pains."

A chap whose soul has gone to heaven,

But left his watch behind. It's just a case of help your self, For says some good old Psalm,

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” The Psalmist took the palm!

Anon. by a R.A.M.C stretcher bearer

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CAMP LIFE

Perhaps you'd like to hear about The Sister's life in camp

And how we lived and how we slept In heat, or cold, or damp

The days were very hot at first The nights were deadly cold We went to bed in jerseys

And we looked like Knights of Old The Batman called us in the morn

A dixie full of tea He pushed inside the tent at seven

And very glad were we! It warmed us up like nothing else And then we washed and dressed We stole what privacy we could

And did without the rest! They're lots of things that I could write

Enough to fill a book But when I told a Sister this

She gave a nervous look She seemed afraid that I should not

Display sufficient tact But truth with me is everything

And all I write is fact!

British Expeditionary Force Nursing Sister, 1914

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"POSSY."

I've read in magazines and books of deeds so nobly done, Of aeroplanes and submarines by which we've straffed the Hun,

I've read of tanks and howitzers, but tell me; if you can, Why don't we read of the famous deeds

Of Plum and Apple Jam.

I've done without my daily wash, aye, for a week or more, When water was as scarce as gold, and shells flew by the score.

I've done without my bully beef and placed on fags a ban, But I've always, always, always had

My Plum and Apple Jam.

In years to come books will be read with many a gasp and thrill, Of deeds of daring recklessness, of men of iron will;

Of men from John Bull's country, standing by with Uncle Sam, Of glorious battles fought and won

On Plum and Apple Jam.

J. W.

(Tickler’s Plum and Apple Jam was a daily ration for the British Army)

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LEAVE.

Oh the rattle and the rumble of the train! Ten days' leave! Ten days' leave!

Shaking down the cobwebs from the rafters of the brain - Nine days' leave! Nine days' leave

Glorious days of sleeping late, Heedless of the breakfast's fate, Be down for lunch at any rate!

Eight days' leave! Eight days' leave!

Oh the doing what you darned well please Seven days' leave! Seven days' leave!

Oh the great big comfy chair for after luncheon ease! Six days' leave! Six days' leave! Everything to suit your whim, Take a snooze or stretch a limb,

To the chorus "Lucky Jim" Five days' leave! Five days' leave!

Oh the fizzle and the gurgle of the wine!

Four days' leave! Four days' leave! Drinking to the memories of Auld Lang Syne -

Three days' leave! Three days' leave! Babbling at your very best.

Laughing o'er an ancient jest, Getting new ones off your chest – Two days' leave! Two days' leave!

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Oh the hurry and the scurry of the clock! One day's leave! One day's leave!

That is Duty calling! Well I know his knock! End of leave! End of leave! Grim you enter at the gate,

Oh what piles of things await, Nine to seven your daily fate,

Back from leave! Back from leave!

W.

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GOOD-BYE. (New words to Tosti's well known song).

Folding leaves and fading light, Lines of cars on an April night, Waiters passing by you and me;

The patients are making them ready to fly, Winding out to the tramcars nigh.

Good-bye, supper! Good-bye, Good-bye!

Hush! A voice from the landlord gay! "Gentlemen, please," he seems to say, "All the suppers are done for to-day, The cook is gone - the cups are dry,

The door must shut and the lamp must die; Good-bye, boys! Good-bye, Good-bye!

“What are you waiting for? Out you dart. 'Tip me straight on the palm! and start';

Again! Again! Oh part! Oh part! What are you waiting for (hide your tie),

A pleading look from waiter's eye? Good-bye, no never! Good-bye. Good-bye!

Anon.

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OOR DAY AT FAIRLEY'S.

Yeste’een I wandered forth in high elation, To accept the kind and welcome invitation

Extended tae us by the bonnie belles, Who work doon at Bruce Peebles' makin' shells,

Wha in the very kindness o' their hearts, Each vied with each to do their several parts,

To make oor efternune a huge success, And they succeeded too, I maun confess.

But first we had, just to begin the day,

Tae look about for our affinity. I had not long been wandering around

Till soon my own affinity I found, An', frien's, when this fair lassie first I saw,

Her beauty fairly took my breath awa'; Her name was Sylvia; kindly bear't in min', Whilst mine, appropriate, was Valentine.

But mindfu' o' the lassie's modesty, Aboot her jist anither word I'll say,

And that - tae thank her for the kindly care Which she bestowed upon the Poet there.

But tae oor screed; wi' song and jest and story The day wore on, an' we were in oor glory;

Each lassie had her ain bit soldier bold, The sailors wer'na left oot in the cold.

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Ae’ tar I spied seemed tae be muckle blest, His arm wis roon his bonnie partner's waist;

The lassie, though she seemed a wee thing shy, His kindly meant attention did enjoy;

And bashfully she smiled at him and jested – Nae mair in song or story interested -

But seemed content wi' him tae sit an' crack; So when I saw this, frien's, I turned my back.

A soldier lad, the next whom I espied, His lassie nestling close intae his side,

Her heid upon his manly shoulder pillowed, As he his story told, she closely followed.

The laddie brave in darkest grey was dres't, The ribbon of the D.C.M. upon his breast –

Reward for some brave deed he had performed, And emblem of the many foes he'd scorned.

But, girls, wi' me you'll think it scarcely right That I your love affairs should thus indite, So if by chance, dear lassies, I've offended,

Forgive me, please - there's nae offence intended. For poor indeed your kindness I'd reward, If I by any chance your wrath incurred –

There's nothing more ungrateful or inhuman Than man's vile inhumanity to "woman."

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Oor worthy Chairman, honest Mr Scott, Uprose, and our attention he besought;

His simple words poured moving on our heart, And found its echo deep in every part -

His every word with kindness was inspired; He told with what deep zeal the hearts were fired,

Of lassies brave, who toiled untiringly To make the shells which keep our country free.

The time gaed on, and we got settled doon,

An' at the tables, wi' oor lassies, seated roun'; An' sic a tea.:you lassies had supplied!

I ate until I thought I should have died - Nae dread had I, though thinking all the while

Of Matron and her dreadfu' castor ile For what cared I for drugs an' medicine -

"Come cat your fill, Mac, man," said I, "Tuck in."

When tea was over, doon the hall we hied, An' faith, tae tail yon cuddie hard I tried;

They tied a hankey roan aboot my eyes Till blin' I was, then much to my surprise I was taken by the shouthers wi' a hizzie

Wha turned me roun' and roun' till I felt dizzy, An' then (it was enough tae rile a body),

I fand I'd tailed the man who held the cuddie.

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Tae cairry on the programme next we got Twa bonnie Irish songs frae Mrs Scott; She finished, an' we shook the very wa's

Wi' loud encores an' thunders of applause. But, as the nicht by this was wearin' thro',

An' as the boys in grey and navy blue Are subject by the higher powers that be

Tae stringent rules, we a' prepared tae lea.

We sine by Mr Bunting were addressed, Who on the minds o' everyone impressed

That so much care and service had been given, And how wholeheartedly each one hid striven

To make our day a day o' worthy merit; How each the labour cheerfully did share it, Unmindful whit the world wid say or tell,

So long as we each ane enjoyed oersel.

We then arose and joyously did sing, Wi' happy grateful hearts, "God save the King"; Then doon the stairs we gaed wi muckle pride,

Each laddie wi' his lassie at his side. But sic a crowd assembled at the door

As never sure has graced Leith Street afore; We managed aff as weel as we were able – Some went in motor cars, I went by "cable."

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An' sae at last oor happy day was ended, And joyously oor hameward way we wended

Each in oor hearts a silent homage pays, Ane wi' the ither adds his song o' praise; And tae the Lord did fervently request

That our hostesses might be doubly blest, An' that He them in mercy might regard,

And meet unto them their weel-earned reward.

Written after the Entertainment to Wounded Soldiers and Sailors, given by the Girls of the Shell Shop of Bruce Peebles &

Co., Ltd., East Pilton, Edinburgh, on Saturday, 6th October 1917 Sergt. J. McEwen,

Mayfield Red Cross Hospital Edinburgh, 7th October 1917

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PERSUASION.

In the strange sea cities I heard men sing How Love still rules the wand'ring world.

But I tossed my head, and I smiled my smile, And I mockingly spoke of the hateful guile

That lives in a sea of passions swirled And binds two fools with a marriage ring.

But when the strange and gilded ships Came speeding out of a weary night, And I saw the eyes of the sailor-men

As they yearned for their sweetheart loves again, I envied them their glorious light

And longed myself for waiting lips.

In the strange sea cities I changed my theme, For Love came by with smile divine

With a woman's eyes and a woman's hair; And I only knew that she was fair

And how the years had made her mine – Fast bound to me in a destined dream.

A. N. S.

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THE SILENT SERVICE.

(A TRIBUTE TO THE NAVY)

Steady of purpose and strong of face, Son of tradition and freedom's race, Knowing the limits of lonely space,

Man with the sea in your eyes.

Cold, mist, or storm, you are undismayed, Sweeping the deep where your path is laid,

Silent – efficient - and unafraid Man with the sea in your eyes.

Fighting with danger above, below, Treacherous mine-field or hidden foe, Half of your glory we never know,

Man with the sea in your eyes.

Guarding our food-stuffs upon their way, Facing the odds of some ghastly fray;

Sleepless and watching by night and day, Man with the sea in your eyes.

We think of you out in the bitter blast,

And pray when your wearisome watch is past, Sunshine and love may be yours at last,

Man with the sea in your eyes

T. H.

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TO THOSE WHO WAX FAT ON THE WAR.

Fat men and women! When you've din'd and win'd, Feeling self-satisfied, with dainty food well lin'd;

Think of the way your riches you have made, And pause and pray, if ever you have pray'd.

The work that means to you fine clothes and rings To other flesh red mutilation brings.

And while you laugh and sing with perfum'd breath, Your handiwork deals swift untimely death To those poor souls less fortunate than you,

Who on the field their duty strive to do. So pause and pray to God that you may learn A better way to spend the wealth you earn.

Go! Feed and clothe the widow'd, orphan'd poor, Made by your Bloody Benefactor, War.

K. G.

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THE FALLEN. (Remembrance Day, August 4th, 1918).

So long as the Cause be living,

The Fallen are never dead; For they are the source of our giving,

They bring us our daily bread; They are the soul of our pleasure, They are the flesh and the blood,

We draw from their veins the measure Of all that we name as good.

'Tis only we who can slay them,

The dead that would live for aye, If there were none to betray them,

By trading their legacy; They have no death, though we mourn it,

If we hold fast to their gain; The hour when we learn to scorn it,

They die, and they die in vain.

A.S.-W.

© Yvonne McEwen 90th Anniversary of the Great War Armistice

Army nursing sisters, V.A.D nurses. Royal Army Medical Corps doctors, stretcher bearers and medical orderlies.