Voices of Silence

by Vivien Noakes

  The horrible toll of the dead.

  None of the Soldier’s elation;

  Small share of the Victor’s pride;

  Just a butt for ‘Q’ of Division:

  You may not believe it – I’ve tried.

  SEVENTEEN

  Third Battle of Ypres (Passchendaele)

  The missing and the dead, burials and the horrors of no man’s land, rain, winter 1917, fatigues and carrying parties, horses and mules, bombing behind the lines, the end of the Battle of Passchendaele

  The third Battle of Ypres, known as the Battle of Passchendaele, was planned for the summer of 1917 with the objective of breaking through the German lines north-east of Ypres. Haig believed that the heavy casualties suffered by the enemy at Verdun and on the Somme had weakened the German willingness to fight, and that with careful planning a new attack would overwhelm them and bring an end to the years of stalemate on the Western Front.

  One thing that Haig could not plan was the weather. The heavy preliminary bombardment, which could again be heard in southern England, destroyed the drainage system that had redeemed the flat, waterlogged countryside round Ypres, and then – the day after the British went over the top on 31 July – the rain started to fall. The attacking forces faced a growing quagmire and strong enemy defences. The Germans had built small concrete redoubts, nicknamed by the Tyneside soldiers ‘Tyne cots’ since they reminded them of cottages at home: some of these have survived to this day and give their name to Tyne Cot, the largest British cemetery on the Western Front.

  The battle, which lasted for three months, was fought in some of the worst conditions of the war. As the front line inched its way forward, wooden tracks and duckboards were laid across the morass, but one slip or false step meant that men and horses could drown in liquid mud. Going in and out of the line, or bringing up supplies, was carried out under heavy shellfire, for the German guns had the roads and tracks ranged precisely. The exposed road leading out of Ypres towards Menin, along which men and horses must travel, acquired a fearful reputation. At the beginning of November the battle came to an end with an advance of 5 miles and the capture of the village of Passchendaele.

  By this stage in the war, German aircraft were bombing the rest areas behind the lines. There seemed nowhere to escape. The French armies mutinied, ground down by the losses at Verdun, but British morale held.

  The Sound of Flanders Guns

  Let me go far away, so far I shall not hear

  The deep, insistent throbbing of the guns; they beat

  For ever day and night – my tired heart and brain

  Can find no rest, but beat and throb in unison.

  A long, long journey, punctured through and through

  With restless darts of pain, for ever loud above

  The din of traffic and the busy travellers’ talk,

  I hear them muttering still, on and for ever on;

  Oh, shall I never reach the Haven where I would be.

  What could be fairer than this little village, set

  Between its rocky sentinels, that watching stand

  On either side, their bases lapped by seas of emerald,

  Capped by great rolling hills, whose sides appear

  Cushioned in velvet, for some giant king’s repose?

  Thinking, Here must be Peace, I raise my weary eyes

  And scan the far horizon; there I see appear

  A long grey shape, so silent, grim and stern:

  Our sea-hounds prowl, guarding our English homes.

  A goodly sight, indeed, but still it seems to me

  I hear the echoes of the Flanders guns again.

  I hear them in the plash of wave, the sea-birds’ call,

  And in the little church upon the windy hill,

  Above the children’s voices, shrilling loud and clear,

  Above the parson’s voice, they sound so in my ear

  That ‘Peace on earth, goodwill to men’ appears

  But as some faint, almost forgotten dream.

  And some will hear them to their dying hour,

  Grim legacy of days of waiting pain; will hear

  Above the clarion voice of Victory, and the happy talk

  Of re-united friends, the gladsome laugh of children

  And hum of peaceful cities, still that baleful sound

  Will be the under-current of their daily lives,

  One tarnished thread, that, running through and through,

  Will soil life’s fairest fabric. We shall sometimes feel

  Deep in our hearts a silent stab of pain, and hear

  The low deep throbbing of the Flanders guns again.

  Mary Beazley

  The Burning Question

  Three Tommies sat in a trench one day

  Discussing the war in the usual way,

  They talked of the mud, and they talked of the Hun,

  Of what was to do and what had been done;

  They talked about rum, and – ’tis hard to believe –

  They even found time to speak about leave,

  But the point which they argued from post back to pillar

  Was whether Notts County could beat Aston Villa.

  The night sped away and zero drew nigh,

  Equipment made ready, all lips getting dry,

  And watches consulted with each passing minute

  Till five more to go, that ’twould find them all in it;

  The word came along down the line to ‘get ready!’

  The sergeants admonishing all to keep steady,

  But out rang a voice getting shriller and shriller:

  ‘I tell yer Notts County can beat Aston Villa!’

  The Earth shook and swayed, and the barrage was on

  As they leapt o’er the top with a rush, and were gone

  Away into Hunland, through mud and through wire,

  Stabbing and dragging themselves through the mire.

  No time to heed those who are falling en route

  Till, stopped by a strong point, they lay down to shoot,

  Then through the din came a voice: ‘Say, Jack Miller!

  I tell yer Notts County can beat Aston Villa.’

  The strong point has gone, and forward they press

  Towards their objective, in number grown less.

  They reach it at last, and prepare to resist

  The counter-attack which will come through the mist

  Of the rain falling steadily; dig and hang on,

  The word for support back to H.Q. has gone,

  The air, charged with moment, grows stiller and stiller –

  ‘Notts County’s no earthly beside Aston Villa.’

  Two ‘Blighties’, a struggle through mud to get back

  To the old A.D.S. down a rough duckboard track;

  A hasty field dressing, a ride in a car

  A wait in a C.C.S., then there they are:

  Packed side by side in a clean Red Cross train,

  Happy in hopes to see Blighty again.

  Still, through the bandages, muffled, ‘Jack Miller,

  I bet you Notts County can beat Aston Villa!’

  Between the Lines

  When consciousness came back, he found he lay

  Between the opposing fires, but could not tell

  On which hand were his friends; and either way

  For him to turn was chancy – bullet and shell

  Whistling and shrieking over him, as the glare

  Of searchlights scoured the darkness to blind day.

  He scrambled to his hands and knees ascare,

  Dragging his wounded foot through puddled clay,

  And tumbled in a hole a shell had scooped

  At random in a turnip-field between

  The unseen trenches where the foes lay cooped

  Through that unending battle of unseen,

  Dead-locked, league-stretching armies; and quite spent

  He rolled upon his back within the pit,

  And lay secure, thinking of all
it meant –

  His lying in that little hole, sore hit,

  But living, while across the starry sky

  Shrapnel and shell went screeching overhead –

  Of all it meant that he, Tom Dodd, should lie

  Among the Belgian turnips, while his bed . . .

  If it were he, indeed, who’d climbed each night,

  Fagged from the day’s work, up the narrow stair,

  And slipt his clothes off in the candle-light,

  Too tired to fold them neatly in a chair

  The way his mother’d taught him – too dog-tired

  After the long day’s serving in the shop,

  Inquiring what each customer required,

  Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . .

  And now for fourteen days and nights, at least,

  He hadn’t had his clothes off, and had lain

  In muddy trenches, napping like a beast

  With one eye open, under sun and rain

  And that unceasing hell-fire . . .

  It was strange

  How things turned out – the chances! You’d just got

  To take your luck in life, you couldn’t change

  Your luck.

  And so here he was lying shot

  Who just six months ago had thought to spend

  His days behind a counter. Still, perhaps . . .

  And now, God only knew how he would end!

  He’d like to know how many of the chaps

  Had won back to the trench alive, when he

  Had fallen wounded and been left for dead,

  If any! . . .

  This was different, certainly,

  From selling knots of tape and reels of thread

  And knots of tape and reels of thread and knots

  Of tape and reels of thread and knots of tape,

  Day in, day out, and answering ‘Have you got’s

  And ‘Do you keep’s till there seemed no escape

  From everlasting serving in a shop,

  Inquiring what each customer required,

  Politely talking weather, fit to drop,

  With swollen ankles, tired . . .

  But he was tired

  Now. Every bone was aching, and had ached

  For fourteen days and nights in that wet trench –

  Just duller when he slept than when he waked –

  Crouching for shelter from the steady drench

  Of shell and shrapnel . . .

  That old trench, it seemed

  Almost like home to him. He’d slept and fed

  And sung and smoked in it, while shrapnel screamed

  And shells went whining harmless overhead –

  Harmless, at least, as far as he . . .

  But Dick –

  Dick hadn’t found them harmless yesterday,

  At breakfast, when he’d said he couldn’t stick

  Eating dry bread, and crawled out the back way,

  And brought them butter in a lordly dish –

  Butter enough for all, and held it high

  Yellow and fresh and clean as you would wish –

  When plump upon the plate from out the sky

  A shell fell bursting . . . where the butter went,

  God only knew! . . .

  And Dick . . . He dared not think

  Of what had come to Dick . . . or what it meant –

  The shrieking and the whistling and the stink

  He’d lived in fourteen days and nights. ’Twas luck

  That he still lived . . . And queer how little then

  He seemed to care that Dick . . . perhaps ’twas pluck

  That hardened him – a man among the men –

  Perhaps . . . Yet, only think things out a bit,

  And he was rabbit-livered, blue with funk!

  And he’d liked Dick . . . and yet when Dick was hit,

  He hadn’t turned a hair. The meanest skunk

  He should have thought would feel it when his mate

  Was blown to smithereens – Dick, proud as punch,

  Grinning like sin, and holding up the plate –

  But he had gone on munching his dry hunch,

  Unwinking, till he swallowed the last crumb.

  Perhaps ’twas just because he dared not let

  His mind run upon Dick, who’d been his chum.

  He dared not now, though he could not forget.

  Dick took his luck. And, life or death, ’twas luck

  From first to last; and you’d just got to trust

  Your luck and grin. It wasn’t so much pluck

  As knowing that you’d got to, when needs must,

  And better to die grinning . . .

  Quiet now

  Had fallen on the night. On either hand

  The guns were quiet. Cool upon his brow

  The quiet darkness brooded, as he scanned

  The starry sky. He’d never seen before

  So many stars. Although of course, he’d known

  That there were stars, somehow before the war

  He’d never realised them – so thick-sown,

  Millions and millions. Serving in the shop,

  Stars didn’t count for much; and then at nights

  Strolling the pavements, dull and fit to drop,

  You didn’t see much but the city lights.

  He’d never in his life seen so much sky

  As he’d seen this last fortnight. It was queer

  The things war taught you. He’d a mind to try

  To count the stars – they shone so bright and clear.

  One, two, three, four . . . Ah, God, but he was tired . . .

  Five, six, seven, eight . . .

  Yes, it was number eight.

  And what was the next thing that she required?

  (Too bad of customers to come so late,

  At closing-time!) Again within the shop

  He handled knots of tape and reels of thread,

  Politely talking weather, fit to drop . . .

  When once again the whole sky overhead

  Flared blind with searchlights, and the shriek of shell

  And scream of shrapnel roused him. Drowsily

  He stared about him, wondering. Then he fell

  Into deep dreamless slumber.

  * * *

  He could see

  Two dark eyes peeping at him, ere he knew

  He was awake, and it again was day –

  An August morning, burning to clear blue.

  The frightened rabbit scuttled . . .

  Far away,

  A sound of firing . . . Up there, in the sky

  Big dragon-flies hung hovering . . . Snowballs burst

  About them . . .

  Flies and snowballs! With a cry

  He crouched to watch the airmen pass – the first

  That he’d seen under fire. Lord, that was pluck –

  Shells bursting all about them – and what nerve!

  They took their chance, and trusted to their luck.

  At such a dizzy height to dip and swerve,

  Dodging the shell-fire . . .

  Hell! but one was hit,

  And tumbling like a pigeon, plump . . .

  Thank Heaven,

  It righted, and then turned; and after it

  The whole flock followed safe – four, five, six, seven,

  Yes, they were all there safe. He hoped they’d win

  Back to their lines in safety. They deserved,

  Even if they were Germans . . . ’Twas no sin

  To wish them luck. Think how that beggar swerved

  Just in the nick of time!

  He, too, must try

  To win back to the lines, though, likely as not,

  He’d take the wrong turn: but he couldn’t lie

  Forever in that hungry hole and rot,

  He’d got to take his luck, to take his chance

  Of being sniped by foes or friends. He’d be

  With any luck in Germany or France


  Or Kingdom-come, next morning . . .

  Drearily

  The blazing day burnt over him. Shot and shell

  Whistling and whining ceaselessly. But light

  Faded at last, and as the darkness fell

  He rose, and crawled away into the night.

  Wilfrid W. Gibson

  Missing

  ‘He was last seen going over the parapet into the German trenches.’

  What did you find after war’s fierce alarms,

  When the kind earth gave you a resting place,

  And comforting night gathered you in her arms,

  With light dew falling on your upturned face?

  Did your heart beat, remembering what had been?

  Did you still hear around you, as you lay,

  The wings of airmen sweeping by unseen,

  The thunder of the guns at close of day?

  All nature stoops to guard your lonely bed;

  Sunshine and rain fall with their calming breath;

  You need no pall, so young and newly dead,

  Where the Lost Legion triumphs over death.

  When with the morrow’s dawn the bugle blew,

  For the first time it summoned you in vain;

  The Last Post does not sound for such as you;

  But God’s Reveillé wakens you again.

  Geraldine Robertson Glasgow

  Trampled Clay

  We crept into the gas-polluted night,

  A little band allotted for fatigue;

  And yard by yard we searched a quarter league

  Of ground new won by blood and strife and might;

  Of ground dear lost, dear gained, and dearer held,

  Where shell on shell still burst among the felled.

  We went to seek the dead; with rough respect

  To roll their mangled bodies down the shade

  Of crater-lips that shrieking shells had made.

  O, Mary, Mother, in white samite decked!

  Beyond the chaos of our earthly strife,

  What of the waiting mother, sister, wife?

  The dreamer lay with blood-gout on his lips,

  The strenuist with virile limbs stretched wide,

  His leaded ‘cosh’ still lying at his side,

  His bombing-jacket corded to his hips.

  (At home the English journals said that we

  Had gained another easy victory.)

  We left them covered with an earthy shroud;