There are four thousand of them lying on straw in the outer hall, in a space larger than Olympia. They are laid out in rows all round the four walls, and on every foot of ground between; men, women and children together, packed so tight that there is barely standing-room between any two of them. Here and there a family huddles up close, trying to put a few inches between it and the rest; some have hollowed out a place in the straw or piled a barrier of straw between themselves and their neighbours, in a piteous attempt at privacy; some have dragged their own bedding with them and are lodged in comparative comfort. But these are the very few. The most part are utterly destitute, and utterly abandoned to their destitution. They are broken with fatigue. They have stumbled and dropped no matter where, no matter beside whom. None turns from his neighbour; none scorns or hates or loathes his fellow. The rigidly righteous bourgeoise lies in the straw breast to breast with the harlot of the village slum, and her innocent daughter back to back with the parish drunkard. Nothing matters. Nothing will ever matter any more.
They tell you that when darkness comes down on all this there is hell. But you do not believe it. You can see nothing sordid and nothing ugly here. The scale is too vast. Your mind refuses this coupling of infamy with transcendent sorrow. It rejects all images but the one image of desolation which is final and supreme. It is as if these forms had no stability and no significance of their own; as if they were locked together in one immense body and stirred or slept as one.
Two or three figures mount guard over this litter of prostrate forms. They are old men and old women seated on chairs. They sit upright and immobile, with their hands folded on their knees. Some of them have fallen asleep where they sit. They are all rigid in an attitude of resignation. They have the dignity of figures that will endure, like that, for ever. They are Flamands.
This place is terribly still. There is hardly any rustling of the straw. Only here and there the cry of a child fretting for sleep or for its mother’s breast. These people do not speak to each other. Half of them are sound asleep, fixed in the posture they took when they dropped into the straw. The others are drowsed with weariness, stupefied with sorrow. On all these thousands of faces there is a mortal apathy. Their ruin is complete. They have been stripped bare of the means of life and of all likeness to living things. They do not speak. They do not think. They do not, for the moment, feel. In all the four thousand – except for the child crying yonder – there is not one tear.
And you who look at them cannot speak or think or feel either, and you have not one tear. A path has been cleared through the straw from door to door down the middle of the immense hall, a narrower track goes all round it in front of the litters that are ranged under the walls, and you are taken through and round the Show. You are to see it all. The dear little Belgian lady, your guide, will not let you miss anything. ‘Regardez, Mademoiselle, ces deux petites filles. Qu’elles sont jolies, les pauvres petites.’ ‘Voici deux jeunes mariés, qui dorment. Regardez l’homme; il tient encore la main de sa femme.’
You look. Yes. They are asleep. He is really holding her hand. ‘Et ces quatre petits enfants qui ont perdu leur père et leur mère. C’est triste, n’est-ce pas, Mademoiselle?’
And you say, ‘Oui, Mademoiselle. C’est bien triste.’
But you don’t mean it. You don’t feel it. You don’t know whether it is ‘triste’ or not. You are not sure that ‘triste’ is the word for it. There are no words for it, because there are no ideas for it. It is a sorrow that transcends all sorrow that you have ever known. You have a sort of idea that perhaps, if you can ever feel again, this sight will be worse to remember than it is to see. You can’t believe what you see; you are stunned, stupefied, as if you yourself had been crushed and numbed in the same catastrophe. Only now and then a face upturned (a face that your guide hasn’t pointed out to you) surging out of this incredible welter of faces and forms, smites you with pity, and you feel as if you had received a lacerating wound in sleep.
Little things strike you, though. Already you are forgetting the faces of the two little girls and of the young husband and wife holding each other’s hands, and of the four little children who have lost their father and mother, but you notice the little dog, the yellow-brown mongrel terrier, that absurd little dog which belongs to all nations and all countries. He has obtained possession of the warm centre of a pile of straw and is curled up on it fast asleep. And the Flemish family who brought him, who carried him in turn for miles rather than leave him to the Germans, they cannot stretch themselves on the straw because of him. They have propped themselves up as best they may all round him, and they cannot sleep, they are too uncomfortable.
More thousands than there is room for in the straw are fed three times a day in the inner hall, leading out of this dreadful dormitory. All round the inner hall and on the upper storey off the gallery are rooms for washing and dressing the children and for bandaging sore feet and attending to the wounded. For there are many wounded among the refugees. This part of the Palais is also a hospital, with separate wards for men, for women and children and for special cases.
Late in the evening M. P— took the whole Corps to see the Palais des Fêtes, and I went again. By night I suppose it is even more ‘triste’ than it was by day. In the darkness the gardens have taken on some malign mystery and have given it to the multitudes that move there, that turn in the winding paths among ghostly flowers and bushes, that approach and recede and approach in the darkness of the lawns. Blurred by the darkness and diminished to the barest indications of humanity, their forms are more piteous and forlorn than ever; their faces, thrown up by the darkness, more awful in their blankness and their pallor. The scene, drenched in darkness, is unearthly and unintelligible. You cannot account for it in saying to yourself that these are the refugees, and everybody knows what a refugee is; that there is War – and everybody knows what war is – in Belgium; and that these people have been shelled out of their homes and are here at the Palais des Fêtes, because there is no other place for them, and the kind citizens of Ghent have undertaken to house and feed them here. That doesn’t make it one bit more credible or bring you nearer to the secret of these forms. You who are compelled to move with them in the sinister darkness are more than ever under the spell that forbids you and them to feel. You are deadened now to the touch of the incarnate.
On the edge of the lawn, near the door of the Palais, some ghostly roses are growing on a ghostly tree. Your guide, M. P—, pauses to tell you their names and kind. It seems that they are rare.
Several hundred more refugees have come into the Palais since the afternoon. They have had to pack them a little closer in the straw. Eight thousand were fed this evening in the inner hall.
In the crush I get separated from M. P— and from the Corps. I see some of them in the distance, the Commandant and Ursula Dearmer and Mrs. Lambert and M. P—. I do not feel as if I belonged to them any more. I belong so much to the stunned sleepers in the straw who cannot feel.
Nice Dr. Wilson comes across to me and we go round together, looking at the sleepers. He says that nothing he has seen of the War has moved him so much as this sight. He wishes that the Kaiser could be brought here to see what he has done. And I find myself clenching my hands tight till it hurts, not to suppress my feelings – for I feel nothing – but because I am afraid that kind Dr. Wilson is going to talk. At the same time, I would rather he didn’t leave me just yet. There is a sort of comfort and protection in being with somebody who isn’t callous, who can really feel.
But Dr. Wilson isn’t very fluent, and presently he leaves off talking, too.
Near the door we pass the family with the little yellow-brown dog. All day the little dog slept in their place. And now that they are trying to sleep he will not let them. The little dog is wide awake and walking all over them. And when you think what it must have cost to bring him—
C’est triste, n’est-ce pas?
As we left the gardens M. P— gathered two ghostly roses, the
last left on their tree, and gave one to Mrs. Lambert and one to me. I felt something rather like a pang then. Heaven knows why, for such a little thing.
ROBERT GRAVES (1895–1985) was a poet and novelist. He was born in London to an Irish father and German mother. He served in the Royal Welch Fusiliers. Graves’s wartime experiences are described in his 1929 autobiography Goodbye to All That. In the extract below, soldiers examine remnants of the lives of the inhabitants of an abandoned village. It is dated 24 June 1915; Graves was billeted at Vermelles at the time.
This is a very idle life except for night-digging on the reserve line. By day there is nothing to do. We can’t drill because it is too near the German lines, and there is no fortification work to be done in the village. To-day two spies were shot. A civilian who had hung on in a cellar and had, apparently, been flashing news; and a German soldier disguised as an R. E. corporal who was found tampering with the telephone wires. We officers spend a lot of time practising revolver-shooting. Jenkins brought out a beautiful target from the only undestroyed living-room in our billet-area. It was a glass case full of artificial fruit and flowers, so we put it up on a post at fifty yards’ range. He said: ‘I’ve always wanted to smash one of these damn things. My aunt had one. It’s the sort of thing that would survive an intense bombardment.’ For a moment I felt a tender impulse to rescue it. But I smothered it. So we had five shots each, in turn. Nobody could hit it. So at last we went up to within twenty yards of it and fired a volley. Someone hit the post and that knocked it off into the grass. Jenkins said: ‘Damn the thing, it must be bewitched. Let’s take it back.’ The glass was unbroken, but some of the fruit had come loose. Walker said: ‘No, it’s in pain; we must put it out of its suffering.’ He gave it the coup de grâce from close quarters.
There is an old Norman church here, very much broken. What is left of the tower is used as a forward observation post by the artillery. I counted eight unexploded shells sticking into it. I went in with Jenkins; the floor was littered with rubbish, broken masonry, smashed chairs, ripped canvas pictures (some of them looked several hundreds of years old), bits of images and crucifixes, muddied church vestments rotting in what was once the vestry. Only a few pieces of stained glass remained fixed in the edges of the windows. I climbed up by way of the altar to the east window and found a piece about the size of a plate. I gave it to Jenkins. ‘Souvenir,’ I said. When he held it up to the light it was St Peter’s hand with the keys of heaven; medieval glass. ‘I’m sending this home,’ he said. As we went out we met two men of the Munsters. They were Irish Catholics. They thought it sacrilegious for Jenkins to be taking the glass away. One of them said: ‘Shouldn’t take that, sir; it will bring you no luck.’
[Footnote: Jenkins was killed not long after.]
HAVILDAR ABDUL RAHMAN was a Punjabi Muhammadan whose censored letter, below, was sent to Naik Rajwalk Khan of the 31st Punjabis at Fort Sandeman, Zhob District, Baluchistan. Rahman was fighting in France for the British Forces as part of the colonial army, in the 59th Scinde Rifles, 8th Company. Written in Urdu the letter was censored by a British officer; it is available to read because the censor would make reports in which excerpts would be translated and transcribed.
[20th May 1915]
For God’s sake don’t come, don’t come, don’t come to this war in Europe. Write and tell me if your regiment or any part of it comes and whether you are coming with it or not. I am in a state of great anxiety; and tell my brother Muhammad Yakub Khan for God sake not to enlist. If you have any relatives, my advice is don’t let them enlist. It is unnecessary to write any more. I write so much to you as I am pay havildar and read the letters to the double company commander. Otherwise there is a strict order against writing on this subject. Cannons, machine guns, rifles, and bombs are going day and night, just like the rains in the month of Sawan (July – August). Those who have escaped so far are like the few grains left uncooked in a pot. That is the case with us. In my company there are only 10 men. In the regiment there are 200. In every regiment there are only 200 or 280.
DIARY OF AN UNKNOWN RAMC ORDERLY, Western Front, 1916. The following is taken from the Imperial War Museum Archives. Little is known of the anonymous author other than that he was an orderly working at the Somme.
Wed. 19. [April 1916]
V. WET.
Sleep all day. Heavy shelling. On night duty in ‘Lone Barn’. Very busy all night, see some terrible sights. Bad case of feet blown off.
[…]
Fri. 5. [May]
FINE. Have a drastic letter from Madge. On day nursing in officers’ ward in hospital at Essars near Bethune. Go to Bethune for first time with Ernie. Have a very nice time.
[…]
Wed.17. [May]
V. HOT. Change from day to night work. Busy nursing in officers’ wards. Have letter from Madge saying she wishes only to be friends. We do not agree on several points.
[…]
Fri. 19. [May]
V. HOT. a.m. Write a final letter to Madge.
2 p.m. Go for a walk by the La Bassee canal to Essars with Frank.
Have a tune in CEMS hut.
[…]
Sat. 3. [June]
FINE.
Sleep all day.
Write a final letter to Madge.
[…]
Wed. 14. [June]
WET. V. COLD.
Have letter from Madge saying she will not accept me only as a friend. On night duty.
Thurs. 15. [June]
WET.
On night duty.
Write long letter to Madge.
[…]
Wed. 21. [June]
FINE.
9.0 a.m. Go for walk to Locon with E. M. Ware and I see Frank. Learn that Madge has a boy in the A.S.C.
[…]
Fri. 21. [July]
V. FINE.
Go to gas school & go through gas chamber containing gas five times stronger than the enemy send over.
6. p.m. Go to Bethune theatre with D. Earl.
[…]
Sun. 13. [August] Orderly on Motor Amb, at Balliel near St Pol.
V. HOT.
At Ballieu near St Pol.
a.m. Clean Car Big post 9 letters 1 Madge.
p.m. Take patients on car to St Pol hospital. Have tea at canteen.
[…]
Wed. 13. [September]
FINE.
Leave Vauchelles and go with car up the line to Cookers A.D.S. On the edge of Thiepval Wood. Sleep in dug outs. Pretty scenery. Heavy bombardment.
[…]
Sun.8. [October] In the trenches stretcher bearing at Thiepval. Go over parapet. Knocked down many times by shells.
V. WET.
Leave car at workshop and return to Amb. Put on nursing & clerking duties with Sykes, in evacuating ward Clairfoy. 6 p.m. Go to Acheux with Sykes, and see Frank.
Sat. 14. [October]
FINE.
In trenches and German dug outs (Thiepval). Big attack. Go up first line at midnight and get the wounded. Heavily shelled. Up all night. Schawben redoubt won.
Memo. Go up the trenches bearing for first time. In German dug outs in Thiepval. Advance. Many dead lying about. Most awful experience of my life.
Accompanying the written war memories W. G. Seymour sent to the BBC in 1963, he included ‘a small photograph of myself holding a kitten that we got from a wild cat litter out of a dug-out in 1917’.
This is a ‘white feather’ postcard given to a male civilian on the grounds that he was believed to be a coward. His refusal to enlist is aggressively linked with support for the enemy. The German Iron Cross has been cut out from the card. It is held at the Imperial War Museum.
W. H. RIDDELL submitted this letter to the BBC following its invitation in 1964 for memories of people who had given or received white feathers. He was a conscientious objector.
19. 5. 64
The Secretary
B.B.C.
Bristol
Dear Sir,
With reference to the enclosed newspaper cutting, would my experience be useful to you.
In Feb 1916 I applied for exemption from military service on religious grounds. My appeal was heard at the Wimbledon Tribunal. I was directed to find work of national importance under the Pelham Committee.
Under the Society of Friends I found work market gardening at Evesham and left London in July 1916 as this was agreed to.
One morning I was crossing the Avon bridge at Evesham to go to work at Bengeworth.
Here I was challenged by three young women who promptly tried to put a white feather in my lapel.
Of course, I did not agree with them neither would I accept their gift, whereupon they decided to throw me over the bridge into the river, which I understand is about fifteen feet deep at this point. This developed into an awkward struggle with me on the losing side.
Of course I prayed as never before for I was getting desperate when unnoticed by me two dogs about six feet away began a disagreement which developed into a dogfight whereupon the girls left me.
I went onto a farm at Wickamford after three months so never met them again I am glad to say.
Yours faithfully
W. H. Riddell.
VERNON LEE (the pen name of Violet Paget, 1856–1935) was a writer, born in France. As a child, she also lived in Germany, Switzerland and Italy and was fluent in four languages. The passage below was published in Jus Suffragii: Monthly Organ of the International Woman Suffrage Alliance on 1 January, 1915.
I was at the Temple on Christmas Eve for Bach’s music. The shimmering double church was full of old and elderly men, of women of all ages, with a sprinkling of soldier-lads, brought along, on what may be their last Christmas in this world, by their mothers and sisters and sweethearts. Everyone – but it was perhaps that my own eyes and heart were opened – everyone seemed so altered from other perfunctory times, grave, sincere, aware of all it meant.
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