CHAPTER SIX

Hope amid the Madness

TIM COOK

The shell-shattered Western Front, with its hundreds of kilometres of trenches, barbed wire, and unburied corpses, is the most powerful motif of the Great War. A hundred years later, we shudder at the thought of soldiers crouched beneath the earth, cowering under the fall of shells or the raking fire of bullets, trapped in a struggle of suffering, deprivation, and despair.

Yet there was more to the soldiers’ experience in the trenches. They banded together, drew strength from one another, wrote letters home to loved ones, and were cycled to the rear for a rest every four to six days. They also found ways to cope by developing and sustaining a rich and closed culture.

Historians have studied the culture of the Great War, but usually through the eyes of the elite poets, novelists, or painters. While this small group has left a powerful legacy of cultural artifacts, most of the Canadians who enlisted averaged a grade-six education; they would never paint in the official war art program or write poignant prose or poetry like the university-educated officers who have become the memory guides for generations.

New recruits horse around at Camp Hughes circa 1916. Did all these smiling men survive the war?

Yet rank-and-file soldiers also had a culture that emerged in the trenches. This was a lowbrow, popular culture, and it can be partially reconstructed through the rumours and songs that were wildly popular on the front lines. There were also soldier-published newspapers that captured their thoughts, poetry, and cartoons in print. Often steeped in humour, this culture normalized the abnormal, helped make sense of the war, and even offered hope during the long nightmare of trench warfare.

A series of photos belonging to Great War veteran Eric Hearle of Hamilton offers a candid glimpse of life during training in England. Here, Hearle and other members of the 4th Battalion are seen playing cards, smoking, relaxing, and even picking their clothes free of lice while at the training camp at Salisbury Plain, England, circa 1914. Hearle died in 1934 at age forty-one.

RUMOURS

“The closer we got to the war the less we knew of it,” wrote Lieutenant James Pedley of the 4th Battalion. Although the soldiers were at the coal face of battle, information was fragmented and filtered through censorship. Newspapers that were a day or two old could be bought behind the lines, usually from Belgian or French boys who braved the shellfire and poison gas, but the papers were heavily censored and laced with patriotism that skewed the truth of what was happening. On the questionable content of newspapers, Percy Willmot of the 25th Battalion wrote in early 1917 to his sister, “As a rule … to find the soul of truth in a tissue of falsehoods: Read the story, divide it by two, add 0000, subtract 100% and take the remainder with a pinch of salt.”

Stories bred rapidly in the trenches. While standing sentry, searching for lice in their clothes, or visiting the latrine, trench soldiers shared and passed on what they had heard. There were constant dark rumours about how the home front had abandoned them to rot in the trenches. Resentment against senior officers was common. There was always some snide insinuation circulating about a special food delivery or a rich meal to be prepared behind the lines for the officers, at the expense of the rank and file. Every few months, a wishful yarn circulated about the death of Germany’s Kaiser, and therefore the end of the war. In winter, there were hopeful tales of the Canadians being sent to Egypt or some other warm theatre of battle. In summer, they were to be cycled to cooler northern climes.

There was wild speculation about German atrocities. For instance, the story of a Canadian crucified during the April 1915 Second Battle of Ypres was widely believed, despite the lack of credible witnesses. Captain W. W. Murray recounted that before a battle the “rumour-factory worked overtime” and the “Battalion just revelled in these mysteries.” Rumours, gossip, and wild stories effectively bound the soldiers together, helping them to make sense of the war, pass the time, cling to hope, and get motivated for battle.

songs

Amid the crash of deadly explosives, the soldiers sang. At night, as men sat in holes carved out of the trench walls, or in their dark dugouts in the ground, they often joined together in song. Soloists and groups, perhaps accompanied by a mouth organ, fiddle, or violin, ran through their favourites. The pre-war hit “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary” was popular throughout the English-speaking armies. “Everyone is singing it; without doubt it is the song of the war,” wrote Private Louis Keene.

The men drew on a wide variety of songs. Church hymns were easily incorporated into the new soldiers’ society, as were folk songs. Comrades on leave in Britain brought back sheet music containing popular music hall ditties. Sometimes records were played on battered gramophones that were fiercely protected by their owners.

I want to go home, I want to go home.

I don’t want to go in the trenches no more,

Where whiz-bangs and shrapnel they whistle and roar.

Take me over the sea, where the Alleyman can’t get at me.

Oh my, I don’t want to die, I want to go home.

Other songs trivialized mud, lice, and sudden death and reminded soldiers that they had to find ways to endure the discomfort and distress. “Never Mind” offers insight into the bravado—perhaps forced—of those in the trenches:

When old Jerry shells your trench, never mind.

And your face may lose its smile, never mind.

Though the sandbags bust and fly you have only once to die.

If old Jerry shells the trench, never mind.

There were countless songs devoted to pursuing women and sex, with the most popular being the ever-changing “Mademoiselle from Armentières.” In their singalongs, soldiers added filthy verses on the fly, and most of them related to sexual relations with the lady from Armentières, or her daughter and neighbours, in all manner of shocking situations. While soldiers might sing out these smutty songs one minute, they could easily turn to sentimental and sappy ballads like

Edward Brogden, middle row, sixth from left, poses with his military bandmates—and friends—circa 1916. Brogden enlisted in Toronto with the 126th Battalion on February 14, 1916. He was thirty-two, married to Nelly Scully, and working as a conductor at the time. (Submitted by C. Betty Greenwood. Edward was her great-uncle.)

For many soldiers, a trip behind the lines for leave, or perhaps minor medical care, was a welcome relief—especially if it meant meeting members of the opposite sex. Here, Ralph Clark, left, and a friend pose in Belgium with two unidentified Belgian sisters, circa 1916–1918. For Clark, the Great War was no adventure. In later years, when prodded by his youngest son, Peter, Clark would only utter, “It was terrible—so many of my friends were killed.” (Submitted by Peter Clark, Ralph’s son.)

Many regiments created lighthearted spoofs of popular songs, such as these ditties composed by members of the 66th Field Battery, Canadian Field Artillery. The songs built camaraderie and helped alleviate the stress of battle.

“Roses of Picardy” and “Keep the Home Fires Burning,” which brought a lump to the throat as men dreamed of one day returning home to loved ones.

“A common song (even now and then a dirty song),” wrote Lieutenant Henry Simpson, “can make one glad and sad beyond words.”

NEWSPAPERS

The army of citizen soldiers had editors, journalists, and cartoonists in its ranks. As a result, throughout the summer of 1915, soldiers founded a number of trench newspapers for their comrades-in-arms. Some lasted only a few issues, sometimes stopped cold when the editorial team was killed or wounded, while others, like The Listening Post, grew to a circulation of 20,000 and survived into the postwar years.

Infantry, artillery, engineering, and medical units published dozens of newspapers during the war, with titles like The Dead Horse Corner Gazette, The Brazier, Tank Tattler, The Iodine Chronicle, and R.M.R. Growler. Published every couple of weeks, they varied in length from four pages to dozens.

The editor of The Forty-Niner, in seeking copy for the fifth edition of the newspaper in early 1916, nearly begged his comrades for stories, jokes, and poems, reminding the recalcitrant that “this was a medium where he [the soldier] can make himself heard.” With everyone under tremendous strain and fatigue, it was never easy to get material from soldiers. Yet the papers limped on, published behind the lines using French or Belgian printing presses and with paper that was borrowed or stolen.

Independent of the high command, most of the papers avoided sounding like propaganda rags. In fact, the content could be quite biting, with casualties bemoaned and officers lampooned. In a grousing column in The Listening Post, one writer demanded, “Who is the officer who remarked to the sergeant when he went for the rum ration in the morning, ‘The supply is very low, I guess I will have mine now.’“

The newspapers also published soldiers’ poetry. At the time, poetry was a widespread and popular means of communicating one’s emotions and of capturing one’s experiences. Much of the soldiers’ poetry was downright awful, but it reflected their closed society and unique environment. There were odes to cigarettes and rum, attacks on shirkers at home who refused to enlist or do their duty, laments to honour fallen comrades, and hyper-patriotic cheers to the Empire. Most of the poems were humorous, such as this ditty:

Oh where do we go from here, boys?

Where do we go from here?

We’ve been from Ypres to the Somme And haven’t found good beer.

We’re sick as hell of shot and shell And generals at the rear—

We’ve got no rum and we’re feeling bum,

Where do we go from here?

And then there were simple but powerful poems, like this one from The Brazier:

A group of soldiers read the Canadian Daily Record In trenches near Lens, France, circa February 1918.

There were nine of us camped at West Down South,

And nine of us crossed to France,

And we grew to savvy each other’s gaits,

When all of a sudden we fouled the fates,

And the only one left of all my mates

Is me, by the grace of Chance.

The trench newspapers poked fun at subjects that were a constant source of complaint, such as food and work fatigue, or taboo subjects, such as uncaring officers and shell shock. The content was not meant for those outside of the soldiers’ culture. The R.M.R. Growler apologized half-heartedly in its first issue: “Should any layman be unfortunate enough to secure a copy, we can only sympathize with him and apologise, as it was not intended that the ‘Growler’ should wander from the family circle.”

The soldiers’ closed culture of rumours, songs, and poetry functioned as a powerful means of escape. It brightened the soldiers’ lives, allowing them to cope, endure, and make sense of their cruel environment.

A page from The Listening Post, a trench newspaper.

A cartoon typical of those found in trench newspapers during the First World War.

A Canadian soldier enjoys a quick swim in a shell hole.

Many soldiers stiffened their resolve prior to an attack with a generous dollop of rum. In Samuel Watson’s case, his rum ration may have saved his life. According to family lore, Watson, shown here in France in 1918, was given a stiff drink of rum on the eve of a bayonet charge. It clearly went straight to his head, because, as Watson’s nephew, Mick Watson, related, “Uncle passed out, since it was the first shot of rum he ever had.” The Pincher Creek, Alberta, man was carried out of the trench on a stretcher, thus avoiding the bayonet attack. (Submitted by Mick Watson, Sam’s nephew.)

Organized sporting events helped keep soldiers’ minds off the war. Here, soldiers test their skills in the pole pillow fighting competition at the Canadian Championship Athletic Meet in France, 1917.

Sports provided a welcome distraction from the war and were also a way to build camaraderie among the troops. Here, a poster advertises an exhibition baseball match between the Canadian and American “champions.” The game was played in September 1917 behind the lines in France. Officers paid a franc to attend, while enlisted men got in for half that price. (Submitted by Jane Dimock-Mahoney, who had several relatives who served in the war.)

Men from the 72nd Batallion take part in the Tug of War finals in September 1917.

Guy Dunmall, seated second from the left (holding fan), in drag, and friends pose for a photo in spring 1919 at a masquerade party held to celebrate his promotion to sergeant. Dunmall emigrated to Canada prior to the war and enlisted in September 1915. The Toronto resident served with the 11th Battalion of the Canadian Expeditionary Force and was gassed in September 1917. In 1918, he transferred to the 75th Battalion. He returned to Canada in May 1919. (Submitted by Kevin Grobsky and Lynne Grobsky; Lynne is Guy’s granddaughter.)

A GLIMMER OF HOPE

THE BATTLE OF MOUNT SORREL

JOEL RALPH

By early 1916, the Canadian Corps was starting to take shape. The 2nd Canadian Division had arrived at the front in September of the previous year, and the 3rd Canadian Division had arrived and taken a position in the Ypres Salient in Belgium.

Furthermore, the Canadians had received a new British commanding officer—a cavalry officer by training, and Canada’s future Governor General, Julian Byng. General Byng proved to be the perfect match for the young Canadian Corps when only a few short days into his command of the Canadians, he was thrust into an emergency situation.

On June 2, 1916, the Germans launched a massive artillery barrage that pounded the newly arrived 3rd Division’s position for several hours. In the attack that followed the artillery barrage, the Germans seized nearly the entire Canadian position, capturing vital high ground in a move that threatened to collapse the Ypres Salient.

The Germans were determined to hold the area, and the Canadians had been thoroughly overpowered—but Byng was determined to retake the lost ground. He moved the 1st Canadian Division forward and provided them with additional artillery support. Aerial photographs gave gunners a clear list of potential targets, and for more than five days, Canadians pummelled exposed German positions.

Finally, during the morning of June 13, the 1st Canadian Division launched a daring attack under the cover of darkness. Desperate hand-to-hand fighting took place throughout the night. Despite heavy casualties, the Canadians were able to recapture all of the lost territory and push the Germans back to their original lines from two weeks before.

The bloody fighting around Mount Sorrell cost the Canadians more than 8,700 dead and wounded. The 3rd Canadian Division was particularly hard hit, losing its commanding officer and thousands of men who had only just arrived on the Western Front. But out of the battle came a glimmer of the exceptional fighting unit the Canadians were to become. There were still lessons to be learned, but it was clear that proper planning and overwhelming artillery fire could create the conditions for a successful attack.

Post-battle image of the June 1916 Mount Sorrel battlefield. The debris is all that remains of a dugout and shelter destroyed by artillery fire. Prior to the war, most of the terrain there was heavily wooded.

Mary Winter holds a bouquet of wildflowers as she walks along a grassy pathway behind the Beaumont Hamel war memorial in France in 1938. Accompanying her is a man believed to be the memorial’s park caretaker, William Brown, and a Newfoundland dog. Winter and her husband, James Winter, Newfoundland’s Commissioner of Home Affairs, were taking part in an official tour of Newfoundland’s war memorials in France and Belgium.

NEWFOUNDLANDERS HAVE THEIR OWN UNIQUE WAY OF REMEMBERING THE GREAT WAR.