A Broken World Read online

  Perhaps some poet has already seen this majesty unveiled – heard this melody, which may be nothing but a bellow, so that it can be reproduced. As for myself, the sounds increase, but the melody and rhythm remain obscure.

  And if I could summon all the poets of past times to sing the War they might all remain silent – unless one should answer who has been through hell.

  So you may appreciate how hard it is to write about the War. Its Being is veiled; and where the greatness is recognisable human speech has no expression to cope with it. What do you make of it when I tell you that I live in a house with no architectural style, windows that do not shut properly, and high rooms; that I have a bed; that two little old women wait on me and do my cooking; and that I curse the eternal rain that the sky of Flanders pours down upon us? All this seems to me so immeasurably dull compared with the War; just as one can only bear the insignificant things of life by not talking about them. I use the same soap in peacetime; I have time to brush my teeth in the morning; I have a brown coffee-pot and a stove that does not heat well. Why should I tell you about them? The piping of the starlings, the aspect of the sickly fields, the thunderous air and the sour milk will tell you much more.

  But in the midst of the monstrous event stands Man; the thousands and the hundreds of thousands, the combatants and the non-combatants; who all have one wish and one goal: to cast aside the War; to render its effect invisible so far as they can be understood; to let a well-earned Peace grow its grass over the victims and to carry on as before, broadly speaking. The times may be as big as they will; man remains small. Transformation and cleansing have nothing to do with him.

  They say, they know, that we will win; what a wonderful thing it is to know this and to say it. But we shall not conquer ourselves. We will carry on as before and think what wonderful new things we have set up in place of the old. For many things that ought to be scrapped; and many that are as yet undiscovered are worth bringing to life.

  That sounds very hard, doesn’t it? But it should at least be allowed to him who feels the hardness of the times to speak out his hard words. You will ask what I would put in the place of that which is past or what new things there are to be discovered.

  I believe that it could be expressed thus – a religion of defensive power – for all peoples. There should be a belief in the right to be in a state of defence, to defend oneself; this and nothing more. This would give to us and to the world, which would adopt our religion, such immense strength – for religions outlast history, peoples and empires, civilisation and philosophy, discoveries and the progress of man – so that no nation or concourse of nations would stand up to us. Defensive power would stand sanctified, with the weapons of defence in her hand, as with the products of toil in her arms; unattackable, uniting through the strength of the idea, resting on a joyous security of belief, inspiring piety because of man’s belief in her. I would not challenge this time to bring forth a religion did I not know how great it is. It bears the child; we are but clumsy helpers in her heavy hour; and who shall deny either the immensity of the event or the helplessness of mankind – even for our people alone – to turn it into good?

  An enormous longing arises in the world, not longing for strange countries, not for seas, fortresses, riches, and power – but for a gift of grace from these times that are worthy alike of themselves and of us.

  BERT BAILEY was a rifleman in the 11th Battalion of the Rifle Brigade. The passage below is from a letter included in 1914–1918: Voices and Images of the Great War by Lyn Macdonald. He was killed a few hours after it was written.

  Wednesday, 27 October [1915]

  My Darling Wife,

  Another night has passed and another morning come and I am still in trenches and in good health. Although all day and night on Monday it rained steadily yet Tuesday (yesterday) morning broke fair and fine and we had a nice day except that underneath everything was mud and slosh. We were employed all morning and afternoon in putting down boards along the trenches and have greatly improved it for walking. As I stopped to rest awhile I could not help being struck by the exceptional beauty of the moon as the clouds kept flitting past. The moon was nearly full, partially obscured by the thin fleecy clouds but these soon passed by and after a spell of clear shining dimly through a great rift in the clouds, then the whole closed up. The sky at that spot was absolutely black, but there was no rain, and although the great black ugly side was turned to me I knew the other side must be shimmering with the pure white light. Let us hope that this time of our lives is like that, a great dark cloud which passes away, so that afterwards the light is brighter than before. It has been raining in fitful showers all this morning up till now (ten o’clock) and we have not had to fall in for working yet.

  Just a few words now about your last parcel. I don’t often mention everything, but I do appreciate the rag you sent me, it is so very useful. The piece this week is lovely and I make a very shrewd guess that, when I am using it as a tablecloth, it was not always used for that purpose but once formed part of my lady’s – ‘Oh dear, oh dear, what am I saying?’ – nevertheless it is grand to wrap my bread in and keep my food clean and nice. Cigarettes – capital but don’t send any more until I ask you to. Toffee, condensed milk, candles, rice and potted meat: the toffee, milk, rice and one candle have all gone. Potted meat for tea today, candle tonight if necessary. The Oxo cubes will be very nice to augment my soup with no doubt. Don’t send me any more Oxo or Bovril until I ask you to, Darling, will you. The little pat of butter is always welcome, and the bread dodge I think is an improvement on buying expensive cakes. Of course a little home-made cake is nice, but I was never a lover of cake. Good substitutes for things I have asked you not to send would be sardines, pickles, or a bit of cheese. Please discontinue sending tea, sugar and salt for a bit, Darling, as I have plenty. Don’t think I am trying to economise and stint myself because it is not that, and it all helps us, dear, doesn’t it? And you never know I may want something ever so expensive one of these times, eh, what!

  Now my little Darling you must be patient with me won’t you and don’t get cross because I have been having a lot to say about the parcels. You are a pet to send them and you know you asked me to guide you as to what I most required, didn’t you?

  The pastry of your own make was absolutely A1, and a perfect success – and she’s the little girl who said, ‘Oh, I can only cook a plain dinner.’ One great thing is off my mind and that is that I need never fear for my life in the future when you send me or make me pastry!

  The weather has remained fine all the afternoon and let’s hope it will be fine tonight. A cold night’s bad, but a wet cold night is worse. You must not worry about me, Darling, because I am just as able to look after myself as the other chaps. So, dearest little one, just keep cheerful and enjoy yourself all you can, and wrap up now the cold is here. If you require new clothes in the way of overcoat or mac or gloves or anything in fact for the winter, don’t let yourself go short will you? Just take it from the cash and note it in the book as I told you, so that we can see how the cash is made up for the sake of keeping proper accounts. Now, love, I will answer the other letters later. I’m afraid I twaddle a lot but never mind.

  I remain

  ever your own devoted

  Bert.

  FRANK COCKER served as a private and a lieutenant fighting in France and Belgium. The excerpts below detail his friendship with Lance Corporal Charlie Wood. Both had girlfriends at home. The letters were written by Cocker, and were sent to his girlfriend Evelyn and to his ‘homefolks’.

  The Front,

  France.

  June 12/15

  My own sweet lassie,

  […] During the time we were at the ‘redoubt’ of which I wrote a few weeks ago, I met a young fellow there, a stretcher-bearer and first-aid man he is, and a lance corpl.

  It is a curious thing, but you will understand what I mean when I tell you that wherever I go I am always interested in people’s faces, and
I scrutinize them a good deal, – why? I asked myself the question the other day as we passed another battalion on the march and I found myself searching every face that passed as though looking for some one I knew. Then I realized that it was my soul searching for a kindred spirit in tune with my own. And though I searched every face that passed not one was there which really pleased me. When I first met Alfred whom we now know so well, I had that pleased feeling which told me that here was a soul which would harmonise with my own, and the friendship since developed, has meant many hours of pleasure to me. So when I met Lce. Cpl. Charlie Wood, we looked at each other and mutually agreed that we liked each other straight off, though neither of us has said so in so many words, but both have since shown it. I first met him at 4 o’clock one morning just as the sun was rising. It was the first morning after our arrival at the ‘redoubt’. We had all come the previous night in the dark. I had noticed that the ground behind the ‘dug-outs’ was rather too high to be quite safe, and as I felt rather chilly, I picked up a spade and set to work to lower a portion of it, in fact to make a shallow trench right along. I had been engaged on this occupation for about half an hour and was just resting my spade and looking far away over the channel (you know where), when I became aware of someone crawling out of one of the ‘dug-outs’, first two hands, then a head wearing a knitted cap and then the rest of the figure, crawling on hands and knees. I was watching him, not particularly interested, but when he stood up and I saw his face I was interested at once. We looked at each other for about ten seconds and then he smiled and said ‘Good morning corporal’. I said ‘Good morning’, and then ‘You’re busy early, – not a bad job either for a cold morning, ugh!’ – he shrugged his shoulders and seized a pick and began to make the muck fly while I sort of observed him and weighed him up.

  […]

  Somewhere in Belgium

  July 1/1915

  My dear dear Evelyn,

  Your sumptuous parcel reached me yesterday morning after a long march the night before, and as we had another long march to face at sunset, the contents of the parcel were subjected to a rather extravagant consumption. The tin of peaches and most of the maltwheat loaf disappeared at dinnertime, with the aid of a few willing friends. Charlie was not to be found then, the reason being, it turned out, that he had not arrived, for about the middle of the afternoon a timber waggon [sic] drove up into the field in which we were, and a cheery voice which I at once recognised, shouted ‘Gentlemen, we have arrived’, and I looked round and saw Charlie’s lithe figure springing off the wagon and unloading his belongings. I was just starting on an errand so did not get to speak to him just them [sic]. He spied me though and called out his usual ‘Hello Frank me lad, how are we?’ ‘Oh, in the pink, – see you later!’ ‘Right O!’

  I saw him at tea time and after opening the tin of pineapples and cutting the nice ginger cake, I put some out on a tin plate, with two pieces of the cake and walked across to him and presented to him, – you should have seen his eyes open wide, – I said, – ‘With the gracious compliments of a girl somewhere in England.’ He jumped to his feet and made a most elaborate bow, and while his left hand accepted the dish, his right hand threw kisses to the invisible donor, ‘Aha! monsieur, merci beaucoup, give the dear young lady my grateful thanks and kind regards.’ There were a lot of fellows sat round and he amused himself by making them green with envy, by taking a spoonful of the fruit and inviting them to look at it, and then slowly moving it to his mouth and taking it in and making goo-goo eyes to express his enjoyment, finishing each spoonful with a smack of the lips, until they got exasperated and threatened to throw lumps of bread at him.

  […]

  Tuesday August 17th

  [Following the description of an attack]

  Poor Charlie returned and I had some hot tea for him. He looked fagged out but revived somewhat afterwards. On Sunday however the inevitable reaction set in and by evening he was in the blues properly. I tried my best to console him and I realized that a great love had sprung up between us. We suddenly caught each other’s glance and both his eyes and mine were wet with tears. He tried his best to smile but it was a very sickly attempt. He said, ‘I’m afraid I am making but a poor companion Frank, but it’s no use, I’m done and I must go down and see the doctor.’ I urged him to do so and so he went, and the doctor sent him to hospital for a rest.

  The Trenches

  Belgium

  August 26/1915

  My dear sweet lassie,

  You will no doubt have heard the bad news by now [Frank’s brother, Private John F. Cocker, known amongst friends as ‘Jack’, had been killed by a German sniper]. My heart is so stunned I don’t know whether it is broken or not. I cannot realize that I shall never see him again. The fellows have been very kind to me and shown every consideration and sympathy. I was asleep in a dug-out in the reserve trench when I was awakened by a corporal who handed me a letter addressed to Jack from Eddie, and at the same time said, ‘They say your Jack’s been hit’. I jumped up immediately, never dreaming the truth. ‘Where is he,’ I asked. ‘They’ll tell you on yonder,’ he said. Something about his face however, made me anxious, and I had not gone far before I was informed of the truth. I then sought out Charlie and found him asleep in his dug-out. I woke him gently and when he opened his eyes and saw me, such a look of tender love and sympathy came into his face and he drew me into his arms as a mother might have done, and there I shed a flood of tears which relieved somewhat the stunning ache in my heart.

  […]

  Written at ‘HOUTKIRKE’

  Somewhere in France

  (Belgian Frontier)

  Jan 6/16

  Dear old homefolks,

  It is the hour of 8 pm. and I am writing by the light of a candle in an old barn somewhere in Northern France. This particular barn is built on the fresh-air principle, or rather I should think it has developed the fresh-air principle with age, for the breeze which wafts round nearly blows the candles out. Still, we manage to keep fairly warm at night, and the place is no worse for its ample ventilation, will it Eddie? Fortunately the weather has been very mild for this time of year.

  Today I have received Minnie’s letter of Jan. 2; also the parcel, a letter from Evelyn, ‘Public Opinion’, and some papers from Eddie. Thanks Minnie dear for such a nice letter.

  I’m glad you like Charlie. I thought you would be fascinated by his face. I have watched Charlie’s face intently under all manner of circumstances, but I think I never thought his expression so beautiful as one occasion in the front line when a heavy bombardment was in progress. There he sat on the firing step, while the shells whizzed and banged and crashed all over the place, with his medical case beside him, and his face looked like the face of an angel, serene with a faraway look in his eyes, as though he were sitting in a peaceful garden with beauty all around. I gazed at him and loved him. Suddenly the call came ‘Stretcher-bearers’! His expression changed immediately to one of energetic purpose. He was up, bags in hand, ‘Come on kid’, (to a junior S.B. next to him) and he was off like a ‘whizz-bang’ to his case. Yes, Monie, you are right, his heart is as tender as a true woman’s, and with all the strength of a true man besides. You are right too, in your psychological diagnosis of his humerous [sic] qualities. I have seen Charlie dance and caper around and keep a roomful of fellows entertained and I have seen him turn the tables on a man who was trying to pull his leg with such a mouthful of withering satire as you never heard. You would notice his stalwart physique, the result of twelve years’ Boys Brigade gymnasium instruction. I can understand full well the consolation it is to you that Charlie’s hands tended our laddie, though he could do nothing but reverently cross his hands on his breast and leave him until dark.

  I am eagerly looking for his return tomorrow.

  […]

  Somewhere in France.

  Jan 12/16

  My own dear lassie,

  It is the hour of 6pm. and I am sitting in our barn-billet as I w
rite this. The sweet mellow tones of Charlie’s clarinet float over the partition which divides the barn into two parts. He came back the other day, a day a day [sic] after your letter with its description of your meeting. He gave me the knife, an exact replica of the one I had lost, and also 4/6 in silver from you. Thank you very very much, lassie darling. He also gave me a flashlamp from Arthur. It gives a splendid light and will be very useful. Then he remembered a letter he had for me in his pocket. It contained Arthur’s £1 note and a 10/- note for Charlie. I read Arthur’s short letter and then handed it to Charlie. He was much touched and declared that he didn’t deserve it, and all that sort of rot, and then he laughed and confessed that he had only threepence left in his pocket. He was very pleased I could see plainly. Later we went out for a walk and he told me all the story of his leave, especially of his visit to Brighouse. He congratulated me warmly on my girl. It seemed strange to hear him talking about you and Arthur, and Mother and Father, as one who knew you all personally and tangibly. When we got back to the billet it was dark and I was shining my light to see the way. As we arrived at the barn-door he said, ‘Just a minute, Frank, before we go in I’ve something else to give you – put that light out.’ I put the lamp out and into my pocket, wondering what was coming. Then I felt an arm round my neck, and the dear lad kissed me once – ‘that’s from Evelyn’ he said; then he kissed me again and said, ‘that’s from your Mother’. I returned his tender salute and said, ‘that’s from me’. There we were, two men, like a couple of girls – but then, there was no one about, and the matter was a sacred one between us, and you.

  Well sweetheart, it has made me long to see you again, but I’m afraid it will be a while yet before my next leave, and as to the commission, that’s a slow business too, and the war doesn’t seem to present any striking signs of finishing, so there’s nothing else for it but to lay in a new stock of patience.