Infantryan's view of the world

[jdullighan]

Siegfried Sassoon was a much-decorated combat infantry officer in World War 1. He was also the son of a very wealthy and influential family. He became convinced that the British Government was not doing everything possible to win the war and he wrote an Open Letter about it, which he distributed as widely as possible. He expected and wanted to be court-martialed as a way to generate the maximum publicity.

But the brass hats knew how to punish him. They said,
“Clearly the chap is insane. Such a pity, comes from such a nice family”
They took him away from his men who were just about to return to the trenches. Sassoon could not stand the thought of a stranger leading his men and getting them killed. So he retracted his letter on condition that he be allowed to return to his unit. He survived the war, living until 1967 and became a famous author and poet.

This is the poem he wrote about his men after his return to combat.

I AM banished from the patient men who fight
They smote my heart to pity, built my pride.
Shoulder to aching shoulder, side by side,
They trudged away from life's broad wealds of light.
Their wrongs were mine; and ever in my sight
They went arrayed in honour. But they died,--
Not one by one: and mutinous I cried
To those who sent them out into the night.
The darkness tells how vainly I have striven
To free them from the pit where they must dwell
In outcast gloom convulsed and jagged and riven
By grappling guns. Love drove me to rebel.
Love drives me back to grope with them through hell;
And in their tortured eyes I stand forgiven.


This is what he thought of REMFs

IF I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.
You'd see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
Reading the Roll of Honour. `Poor young chap,'
I'd say -- `I used to know his father well;
Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap.'
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I'd toddle safely home and die -- in bed.


He didn’t think much of Generals either

'Good morning, Good morning !' the General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
'He's a cherry old card', grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.

But he did for them both with his plan of attack.

[Ed Egan]

John, that was a superb contribution. Thanks. I'm pretty well-read, but was unfamiliar with Sassoon. If there's more than one book or collection, can you tell us which that came from?

He has a Kipling characteristic, who along with A.E. Housman and Joyce Kilmer, best wrote of war - at the individual level, as we knew it.

Man, he called them as he saw them, as most of us are wont to (but so often are stifled and censored). I think most of us would agree with his insights.

Thanks again: that was a real gem.

[jdullighan]

Sassoon was one of a group of poets who wrote about their experiences in the trenches in WW1, where most of them were killed. The best of them was Wilfred Owen, who was killed just before the end of the war. His parents received the dreaded telegram as the church bells were ringing out to celebrate the Armistice.

I am not much of a poetry reader but I am fascinated by war poets. the emotion just comes pouring out. I was introduced to the WW1 poets by a fellow member of the wardroom when I served with HC-3 on the USS Camden. He gave me a book called "Men who Marched Away" a collection of WW1 poets, starting with the feelings of excitement on going on a great adventure, through the disillusion, the fear and finally the unrestrained anger. Most of them were killed. I still have the book. I'll send you information about them separately, unless Curt thinks I should do it on the forum. A couple more poems.


(1) Wilfred Owen, Anthem for Doomed Youth (1917)

What passing bells for those who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries for them from prayers or bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in the eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.


The Hero (Sassoon)

‘JACK fell as he’d have wished,’ the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she’d read.
‘The Colonel writes so nicely.’ Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. ‘We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.’ Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He’d told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he’d been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how ‘Jack’, cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he’d tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

You can always tell Sassoon. He is so angry.

A personal note. My paternal Grandfather was killed in WW1. And all my Great Uncles. My Grandmother was 28 when she was left a widow with 4 children. When I was a teenager she showed me a picture of herself when she was 18. She was beautiful. With the typical tact of youth I asked her why she hadn't remarried. I'll never forget her reply: "Ah, sonny boy", she said, "who to, tell me who to." Every male she knew had been killed.

[Ed Egan]

Poignant.