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Hudson was just 25 and very young to be on a Senior Officers’ Course. He had, almost miraculously, survived unscathed the Ypres salient, the Somme, Passchendaele and Messines. Men followed him. He was certainly not fearless. He understood the constant peril of death, but he seemed to be imbued with a determination to take some kind of positive action whatever the circumstances. At times he clearly was foolhardy, such as blowing into the chink in the German dugout. But these actions were more of an escape from the normal ghastly environment in which the front-line soldiers were living than an expression of mindless arrogance. He loved his country with all the fervour of nineteenth and early twentieth-century patriotism which his upbringing and experience had instilled in him. As he put it, later, in a poem:
England
England, a poem in a single word,
As to a lover whispering low the name
Of his beloved, again, again. A cord
That binds and, chafing, sets my heart aflame
As lovers wishing openly to claim
Their love by very mention of a name.
To them the name itself is beautiful,
The name that conjures up a perfect grace
And all the images that lovers dutiful
Will ponder on, the details of a face,
Those fascinating ways, those moods, nor space
Nor time can dim the beauty that they trace.
So England lives and ever will remain
For me and England’s sons, our own fair land.
So England lives and ever will retain
Our constant love. The ever present band
Of sea that circles her, the cliffs, the sand,
The tiny fields so neatly chequer planned.
England a poem in a single word,
Her wealds, her lakes, her open plains, her hills,
Diversity, that sheath enfolds a sword
That gives a force to love, but piercing fills
Our hearts with shame to see the awful ills
Of slums and factories and smoke grimed hills.
Poets have sung of Spring, its vibrant life,
Of Winter’s tracery that’s etched each year
Against the sky, or sunlit sleepy mere,
Or Summer’s woodland scene with startled deer
Standing alert filled with their age-long fear.
Artists have sketched, and later tried to paint
Those scenes that poets build in gifted lines
And yet to nature’s truth there are but faint
Resemblances between what man designs
And all that love which in her own confines
England has stored, deep in her secret mines.
He accepted the logic of military discipline but, paradoxically, was ready to disregard orders when he thought he saw a fleeting opportunity for offensive action. He was far from a military automaton, able to appreciate beauty when it existed and to focus his mind on matters other than the obscenities around him. Like much of mankind, his personality was complex and often contradictory. At first he was overwhelmed by the heavy responsibilities he carried, but he came to accept these without too much internal anguish, although, as his poem ‘Victory’ makes clear, he was starkly aware of death.
Victory
They said ‘We’ve won the battle
The enemy have fled,
Those that could flee
The rest are dead.’
A wire ‘Congratulations’
Came through ‘Your well fought fight.’
They said ‘We’ll celebrate,
Then sleep tonight.’
Oh hateful jubilations,
All that was done
Is worthless, now
My friend is dead.
His poem ‘War’ strikes a Shakespearean chord of beauty amid the squalor.
War
The modern poets say that war’s all dirt,
They fear romance and say it’s otherwise.
They need not seek to disillusion men
Who’ve fought, but only those who stayed at home,
Or going, never heard a bullet crack
The way for these is comradeship in death,
‘We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.’
There find in one short line the truth of it
For fighting men. The cruelty, the blood,
The senselessness, the stricken families,
They know are there in stark intensity,
But in this cauldron of revoltant fear
A soldier, forced to dip, will find this pearl
Before he dies or sees his comrades die.
He had only been on the course for ten days when, having just received news of the award of a bar to his DSO, he received peremptory orders to return to his battalion to take over command of it as from 7 November 1917. The whole of his division had been ordered to Italy under command of General Plumer. At the time they had no idea why this was happening, but it later became apparent that they were there to support the Italians who had been defeated at Caporetto in the mountains north of Venice and were in full flight.
The battalion went to Italy in two trains, detraining at Mantua. They then marched to the River Piave hoping to get there before the enemy did. The march was made on a paved road and the soldiers’ feet suffered badly, having been used to the mud of Belgium. As they marched on the right of the road the defeated Italian Army struggled down the left. No sort of order was maintained and no arms were carried.
The men were terribly emaciated and practically starving. At first our men began calling out friendly encouragement but the Italians were too dispirited to respond and for mile after mile we marched by each other in an embarrassed silence. Nearer the front we began to meet wagons packed with soldiery and drawn by horses that filled us with horror. The poor beasts could only just stagger; their rib bones were clearly visible, their eyes were glazed and when their merciless drivers flogged them on, our men angrily remonstrated and some ugly situations were narrowly averted. Later we passed groups of men gathered round fires and realised that a horse’s misery ended when it fell exhausted, was dragged aside and was delivered to the pot. On one occasion we had fallen out for a normal short halt when a civilian open carriage of extreme decrepitude, drawn by well-fed and groomed horses, came trotting by. The occupants were four equally well-fed and groomed Italian officers in sky-blue uniforms and gold braid. The contrast between these Italian officers and their starving men was too much for some of our men; some booed, others cat-called. This exhibition of discourtesy to our allies, however much justified, could not be countenanced and by trotting close behind the equipage I was able by gestures to check our own men, but I could not fail to note the raised fists of the angry Italian soldiery as the carriage passed.
When they reached the River Piave there was no sign of the enemy. The battalion took over a battalion position from an Italian regiment. For a week or so the soldiers lived on Italian rations – breakfast was a cup of black bitter coffee and some hard biscuits, lunch was a mountain of spaghetti, in which was hidden a morsel of doubtful meat, and a mug of wine. Supper was the same as breakfast. The Italian officers, on the other hand, did themselves very well and Hudson had lunch with them, having difficulty after lunch in persuading them to show him round the trenches. Apparently no officer knew his way and eventually a senior NCO was found to guide him.
The defence scheme was explained:
On being heavily attacked the soldiers in the front line were to withdraw to the second line. The soldiers in the second line, on being heavily attacked were to withdraw to the third line. The document did not say who was to decide whether or not an attack was ‘heavy’. Something of course had to be left to the imagination. An excellent sketch accompanied the scheme and on this was shown in varying colours the trenches that had been dug and those that as yet were only projected. I asked what happened when the third line was reached, upon which the Commanding Officer rose from the table, flung his cloak back over his shoulders with a magnificent gesture and said, ‘In the third line we die for Italy.’ At this the attendant headquarters’ officers all cried ‘Bravo’. I forbore to point out that the trench in which they were to die for Italy had not yet been dug.
Hudson became very fond of the Italians, but regarded their martial fervour, when it occurred, as something of a joke. He used to tell of how it was eventually decided that they would make an attack. The attacking group was together in a trench waiting for zero hour. The minutes and then seconds ticked by and when the moment came the officers drew their swords and leapt forward over the parapet. The soldiers, however, stayed where they were, applauding. ‘Bravo, Bravissimo!’they shouted.
The battalion spent two and a half months in that area of Italy. It was a pleasant break. Total casualties were one officer, two other ranks killed and ten other ranks wounded. ‘About what might be expected in one short tour in the trenches of France or Belgium in a quiet sector.’
In the middle of February 1918 the battalion was sent to take over from an Italian regiment on the Asiago plateau in the mountains of northern Italy near Granezza. In order not to make it obvious to the enemy that the British had taken over, they donned Italian helmets and lived for a short time on Italian rations. It was bitterly cold. The new trenches were cut in many places through solid rock. They ran along the fir-clad slopes overlooking a broad grassland plateau on the far side of which rose a high mountain barrier held by the enemy.
Routine life on the plateau was pleasant enough and except for occasional shellings there was little to remind them of war. There was no question of home leave but local leave was given about every three months. A leave camp was established at the southern extremity of Lake Garda, the northern end of which was held by the Austrians. A line of buoys across the lake marked the agreed boundary between the British and the Austrians. An Austrian patrol vessel patrolled on the far side but never fired on our sailing boats provided we remained on our side of the buoys.
Hudson went to the leave camp several times.
While lunching in the pleasant officers’ club overlooking the lake, a party of staff officers came in. Their advent caused quite a stir, for among them was a slender, fresh complexioned and elegant young officer dressed in a style of uniform all his own. He had a curious air of shyness and visibly flushed when a hush followed his entrance. The Prince of Wales was in our midst.
For his only leave in Italy, apart from his three days on Lake Garda, Hudson went to Rome and Florence in the company of his American doctor. In Rome they stayed at a pretentious hotel. There then ensued a totally hilarious game of golf.
One morning I was somewhat flattered when the elder of two beautiful young American girls asked if by any chance I played golf. The Americans and their mother occupied an expensive suite in the hotel, and had never deigned to cast so much as a glance in our direction before. It seemed I was wanted to complete a foursome. The other man was to be the diplomatic representative of a South American state, a person, I was given to understand, of considerable standing, great wealth and ambassadorial rank. At first I thought I was wanted as an adjunct to a carefully staged matchmaking enterprise, but I was wrong. The girls, keen golfing enthusiasts, really wanted exercise on a golf course if only to keep their figures slim. It turned out their hearts were not set on the ambassador but on his car. Petrol rationing in Rome was very strict and even in diplomatic circles only the highest-ranking members could use a car for pleasure. The golf course was some way out, buses were too plebeian and taxis did not exist. In angling for the use of the ambassador’s car they had asked him to play, never dreaming he would accept. To their mingled horror and amusement he had accepted and now they had to find a fourth. Would I mind?
That afternoon we drove out in great state; the car called at an imposing house to pick up the ambassador who had attended an official luncheon party there. He was wearing a morning coat and check trousers (pants to the Americans) but told us he intended to change into clothing more suitable for ‘sport’ at the golf club. He also said he hoped that he would not find the golf game too difficult, he had not tried before. No doubt, he added, he would be able to get himself fitted out with the necessary balls and sticks at the golf house. The girls, to whom he had so far addressed himself exclusively, being incapable of speech, I murmured that I had no clubs either and would have to hire. He pointed out that as he intended to take the game up seriously in future, he would buy all he would require now, and was gracious enough to say that he would be glad of my assistance in the matter.
At the clubhouse the Americans vanished into the ladies’ cloakroom and I left the ambassador to change while I went over to the pro’s hut. On my return the ambassador was arrayed in a canary-coloured pullover, a small white canvas cap perched precariously and centrally on the top of his head, white tennis shoes and check trousers. As I joined him on the verandah the sisters emerged, but only for a moment, for at the sight of him they were overcome with giggles and hastily retired again.
The ambassador and I went over to the pro’s shop where the pro made hay while the sun so obviously shone. Our reappearance was heralded by a great assembly of diminutive caddies, to one of whom the pro handed over an outsize leather golf bag bulging with clubs. The only control I had been able to exercise was to defer the purchase of a left-handed club until further experience should prove its necessity. I had bought a few ‘repaints’, but for the ambassador a second caddy was entrusted with the duty of carrying a box of a dozen of the most expensive balls in the shop.
Our partners joined us at the first tee, still in a shaky state but sufficiently in command of themselves to be able to drive their balls firmly and surely down the centre of the fairway. We were all to drive, but only the longest ball of each partnership was to be subsequently played. It was the ambassador’s turn and a formidable driver was handed him. He addressed the ball in a fair but awkward imitation of the stances adopted by our partners. Refusing to take any preliminary practice shot he asked which of a row of fore caddies he should aim at? Then with a prodigious swing he made a complete air shot. The girls were behind him and one who had already nearly swallowed her handkerchief in her efforts to suppress her laughter was unable to speak, but the other and myself hastily agreed that a miss did not count.
Another air shot followed, and, as we held our breath, at the third shot he struck the ground about a foot behind the ball with such force that we feared he must have broken his wrist. Whether he thought the anguished cries from the girls were in sympathy with him or not, I do not know, but his blood was up and only when pure exhaustion intervened did he give up and decide that he would select his own club from the formidable bag. He chose a putter. Once more he stood menacingly and more directly over the stationary ball. At the second or third shot and without once touching the ground he hit the ball a very creditable whack straight down the course. He turned to his partner with a pleased smile.
‘It would have been better,’ he said, ‘if the ball had gone into the air. They don’t seem to have cut the grass in front of the tee.’
From now on he insisted on using his putter, explaining that he would learn the use of the other ten or dozen clubs in his bag, later. Reluctantly he agreed to the ball being teed up whenever it was his turn, for by this means we hoped to reduce the carnage which his frequent onslaughts on the fairway were making.
It was already getting dark when we came to a very short hole. The tee shot was over a deep, narrow gully spanned farther down by an old Roman viaduct. On the far side lay the green, well guarded by bunkers except immediately opposite the tee. My partner’s ball landed on the slope and rolled ignominiously back into the gully. My ball and the ambassador’s partner’s ball landed in the bunker well beyond the green. The ambassador hit his ball hard and clean. It ricocheted off the slope into the air at a remarkably steep angle and landing just short of the hole rolled slowly forward, coming to rest on the very lip of the tin. This feat was greeted with loud applause, which the ambassador accepted with a delighted smile and the removal of his diminutive cap.
As I followed the party down into the gully I remembered I had left my tee peg behind. Returning to retrieve it I was just in time to see a caddie, who must have been taking cover in a bunker, dart across the green, tip the ambassador’s ball into the hole and nip back out of sight. My partner had some trouble driving her ball out of the rough, during which time I was able to tell both girls what I had seen. As we breasted the steep rise the disappearance of the ambassador’s ball was met with astonishment and dismay which turned into loud cries of delight when a caddy, running forward, lifted a ball from the hole itself, and held it triumphantly aloft.
The ambassador was somewhat overcome by the excitement caused by the crowd of caddies, assistant caddies and miscellaneous onlookers who seemed to spring up from all sides. He asked if holing out in one hit was very unusual. A spokesman caddy, apparently reputed to speak English, was pushed forward from the crowd. By the use of a few English words, such as ‘good-morning’, ‘goodnight’, accompanied by a wealth of gesture, he soon made it plain that the occasion demanded special acknowledgement in the form of a gratuity to all who had witnessed this remarkable feat, and in particular himself. Though agreeing in principle with the main contention, each of the others proceeded to refute any special claim to consideration put forward by anyone other than themselves and, as is the way with small boys the world over, the meeting soon broke up into a seething mass of individual wrestling matches. It was a memorable day, ending with liberal potions of champagne in the bar.
In sharp contrast to the golf match the action was now approaching where Hudson was to win his Victoria Cross (VC) and to receive his first wound. His battalion was to hold a sector of the front line on the San Sisto ridge. An attack was to be mounted through their position, which they were to follow up. The French were on their right. On the near side of the ridge the ground was steep but on the enemy side the ground sloped more gently through fir trees to the front line which ran just inside the edge of the woods. Two companies held the front trench, a third was on the top of the ridge and the fourth was in reserve behind the ridge. Battalion headquarters was in a quarry behind the ridge just below the top. In the year 1998 when the author visited it, the whole area was exactly as it was in 1918. Even the trenches were totally undisturbed.
On 14 June information came through that two Czechs, one a doctor, had deserted to the French and had categorically affirmed that the enemy would attack on the morning of 15 June and that the main axis of attack would be precisely where the 11th Sherwood Foresters were situated. There was no doubt about the information, which had been corroborated by other means. There was to be a four-hour bombardment, including gas, followed by a dawn attack.
The bombardment started punctually at 3 a.m. The enemy was using heavy calibre guns and there was the sweet smell of gas. A heavy Italian mortar battery had been established in a tunnelled position close to the battalion headquarters. Hudson went to see them in order to ask for help. As he entered, the battery was ordered to come to attention. Unfortunately most of them were trouserless as they were in the act of donning rubber drawers as a protection against gas, as the battery commander put it: ‘The future of Italy had to be borne in mind.’ In the event, for various reasons, the mortar battery was not of much help.
Hudson’s intelligence officer was able to climb a tree and he saw dense columns of enemy infantry led by an officer on a white horse advancing across the plateau towards the ridge. A number of men were pushing bicycles. Hudson sent his secondin-command to bring up the reserve company. He evacuated his headquarters, which was in a very vulnerable position. Cooks, batmen, signallers and sanitary men were spread out in a rough line pending the arrival of the reserve company. Hudson sent his Italian liaison officer to visit the French on the right to find out what was happening there. He returned, very upset, to say that the French had withdrawn and Hudson’s battalion’s flank was completely exposed. Fire began to be directed on the battalion headquarters from the ridge above. It was clear that, in some areas at least, the enemy had broken through the front line. Gathering what men he could find – mostly the battalion headquarters’ staff – Hudson advanced up the ridge in order to attack the enemy who had broken through. He went on alone along the remains of the front line trench. He came on a wounded Austrian soldier lying full length on the fire step.
He was a middle-aged man and deathly pale. On seeing me apparently threatening him with my rifle he mumbled something and attempted to raise his hand in token of surrender, but he was too weak and his arms fell pathetically back. To reassure him I lowered my rifle and smiled but placed my finger on my lips to indicate silence. Relieved, he gave me a wan smile, and we looked into each other’s eyes. I do not think that the utter futility of war had ever been more strongly borne in upon me as I gazed at this wounded enemy soldier. His wounds had been bound up, and as I bent over him he shook his head, as much as to say there is nothing to be done and his eyes closed.
The echo of the Walt Whitman poem ‘Reconciliation’ (see page 22) is remarkable.
Hudson sent for his reserve company to join him in order to make a counter-attack at a crucial moment. He was joined by a sergeant who, without waiting for orders, jumped to his feet and rushed forward towards the Austrian line. He was shot and collapsed on the ground. Hudson then advanced himself and
I found myself standing over our own front line looking down on some twenty or thirty Austrians in the trench below. I shouted in English ‘Hands up!’ and those who had their backs towards me turned, others sitting on the fire step rose and some, who were eating, continued to sit stolidly where they were; all, however, with one exception, raised their hands above their head. . . . One or two of the men began lowering their hands slowly and I threatened them again, trying to appear master of the situation and wondering how on earth I was going to extricate myself. . . . In an effort to create the impression that I was supported, I shouted back over my shoulder, telling my imaginary troops to stay where they were. Then I beckoned an officer out of the trench towards me. He was a feeble, untidy looking creature wearing spectacles and he came obediently out of the trench. As he approached I stepped slowly back as far as I dared, but I could not afford to lose sight of the men in the trench. This was a mistake, for in a flash a truculent-looking NCO bobbed down out of sight. . . . A tremendous explosion blew me into the air. How I could have missed noticing a stick bomb drop on my feet I do not know. . . . I tried to get up but could not.
Hudson rolled and dropped into the trench. Two bombs exploded just above him. He fainted. At that moment a platoon from one of the forward companies arrived and, having recovered his senses, Hudson was taken back on a stretcher to his battalion headquarters. He fainted again before he reached the headquarters, but came to and insisted on directing the reserve company and another company which had been sent forward to help in a counter-attack.
Hudson’s adjutant was very upset at his condition because the doctor had told him that he was unlikely to live and would in any case lose a leg.
‘Partly to comfort him, and partly to show that I was not done yet,’ wrote Hudson, ‘I challenged him to a game of chess while we awaited the arrival of the company but it was not long before I had to abandon the game.’
The counterattack came off and was highly successful. The battalion ended the day with its position intact, having captured 4 officers, 152 other ranks, 5 flame-throwers, a trench mortar and 8 machine guns. The British losses during the day were only 1 officer killed and 3 wounded, 7 other ranks killed and 41 wounded with 3 missing.
Hudson was evacuated, first to a casualty clearing station, then to a hospital in Genoa, then by ambulance train to Marseilles and finally by boat to London and a small hospital in Mount Street, London. At Genoa Hospital he was awoken by a surgeon who told him that he would probably die if he did not agree to the amputation of a leg. Bloody minded as ever, Hudson refused the offer and went to sleep again. (He did not lose his leg.) He was appalled at the change from real devoted care at the front gradually deteriorating into mindless bureaucracy further back from the front. However, his final destination in the small private hospital was very different. He was nursed by a charming Voluntary Aid Detachment (VAD), who later became his adored and adoring wife.
A few weeks later a staff officer of my division, known as the White Rabbit, called to see me, out of visiting hours. He said his business was of the most urgent nature, and I was much amused for the White Rabbit always managed to invest his doings in a shroud of mystery and importance. It was however very good of him to have hunted me out, and I asked that he might be allowed up. After preliminary greetings he gave me to understand that his mission was a very secret one involving personages of the highest rank. Glancing round the ward he whispered that I must give him my word that I would not breathe a word of what he was about to tell me until his secret had become public. In that case, I said, would it not be better to wait until that moment? His face fell and he was so obviously disappointed that I relented and gave him the assurance he required. He then told me that my name had been submitted for the Victoria Cross. He had been to the War Office and the recommendation would be placed before the King on the following morning, but until His Majesty’s approval had been given, the matter had to be regarded as strictly confidential.
I was completely flabbergasted. He said recommendations had to be supported by two eye-witnesses, and explained how he had gone personally to the prisoners’ cages in Italy and had ferreted out Austrian prisoners to support the recommendation sent in. The British sergeant had already been awarded a DCM, and the delay in my case had been due to the time taken in finding the witnesses. Next day I received official notification of the award, and with it the information that the Italian High Command had given me the Italian Croce Di Valori in silver, which, I was informed, was the highest award open to a foreigner. It seemed to me that the whole thing was being rather overdone, but at least I could assume that the honour was paid as much to the battalion as it was to me personally.
The only officer killed in that action was Edward Brittain, the famous author Vera Brittain’s adored brother. Just before the battle Hudson had been told by the Provost Marshall that a letter from an officer in the battalion to another in the same company had been censored at the base and that from the context of the letter it was unmistakably clear that the two were involved in homosexual activity with men in their company. One of them was Edward Brittain. This was an extremely serious crime with a maximum penalty of ten years’ penal servitude. Hudson was told to avoid letting the officers become aware of what was known since further enquiries were being pursued, but to keep an eye on them. Hudson did not approve, as he saw it, of spying on his own officers: ‘He had been loyal to me and it seemed disloyal to him to play cat and mouse with him.’
In fact, he did give Edward Brittain a strong hint of the situation by saying to him: ‘I did not realise that letters written out here were censored at the base.’ Brittain made no comment but went very white.
Brittain was found shot in the head and Hudson wondered if he had in fact killed himself or deliberately exposed himself in order to get killed. He was highly intelligent, a man with a very loving family who would have been shattered if he had been court-martialled for homosexuality with men under his command. The possibility of suicide was clearly there.
Later, when Hudson was in hospital, Vera Brittain visited him and asked him exactly what had happened. Hudson tried to console her by telling her that her brother had suffered no pain being shot through the head, but she became extremely angry, perhaps sensing Hudson’s embarrassment. She did not believe him and was certain that he was holding something back. She pursued him for days, even writing a poem hinting that Brittain had deserved the VC no less than had Hudson, and that Hudson was covering something up. The last verse read as follows:
’Tis not your valour’s meed alone you bear
Who stands the hero of a nation’s pride;
For on that humble cross you live to wear
Your friends were crucified.
In her book Testament of Youth Vera Brittain characterised Hudson as ‘ambitious and intrepid, the son of a Regular Army officer who could not afford to equip him for a peacetime commission [author’s note – this is of course quite wrong], the young man had found in the War the fulfilment of his baffled longing for military distinction.’
She went on to talk of his ‘hard young face’ and, with his VC, of his ‘sitting on the pinnacle of his martial ambitions – a stiff young disciplinarian, impregnated with all the military virtues but limited in imagination and benevolence.’ At no stage at that time did Hudson even hint at the real reason for his embarrassment and hesitation. In fact, as Hudson later found out, it was very likely that Brittain had in fact died when going forward up the hill to find out what was happening to a platoon of his which was out on an outpost in no man’s land. The truth will never be known. Vera Brittain, however, persisted in her view that Hudson was denying her brother recognition for some act of gallantry.
Much later, after reading Testament of Youth, Hudson thought that Vera might well want to know what had really happened. He wrote to her suggesting a meeting, which she accepted. ‘It is quite possible that had my brother survived the War he might have told me whatever facts you have to relate,’ she said
They met on 9 July 1933 in her house in Chelsea and Hudson told her the truth. It was a great shock to her, but she resolutely refused to entertain the idea that Edward had committed suicide and held to the belief that he had died when carrying out some heroic act. She may well have been right. However, she accepted his homosexual leanings. This was confirmed later in 1937 when her mother told her that she had found a diary of Edward’s while he was at Uppingham which clearly confirmed his sexual proclivities. It is a sad story.