Words and The First World War

by Julian Walker

  The anglicisation of place names in France and Belgium is a well-known aspect of British soldiers’ linguistic problems and solutions. The process raises the question of how these came about; the still successful humour of the result should lead us to look for the process of word-creation. There is no evidence for the origin for calling Ypres ‘Wipers’, so we are thrown back on internal or circumstantial pointers. Wipers is the most well-known anglicisation, but the place was also called ‘Eeep’ and ‘Eeprees’; the first example comes from John Buchan writing in 1919, who said that ‘ “Wipers” [was] not a name given by the British private soldier. He called it “Eeep.” “Wipers” was an officer’s name, gladly seized on by journalists and by civilians at home’,229 though the Sunderland Daily Echo quoted a Manchester Guardian correspondent who felt that ‘Wipers’ was a ‘horrible word … a relic of our first expeditionary force, the personnel of which were better fighters than scholars’, and one which was dying out, thankfully, due to there being by 1917 ‘more educated men in the ranks’.230 Veteran RFA gunner (i.e. non-officer) Percy Bryant interviewed in 1975 pronounced it ‘Eeprees’.231 Herbert McBride wrote that ‘ “Eéps” was the word that went up and down the line, that being the Flemish pronunciation of Ypres’,232 presumably the pronunciation coming from a local guide.

  Given that there was little contact there between British soldiers and Flemish speakers, the greater likelihood is that exposure to the name was through its French pronunciation, which would have come into English as ‘Eepra’, or reading the French or Flemish spelling (Ypres/Ieper), which would have given ‘Eepres’ or ‘Yeper’; the local Flemish pronunciation is more like ‘Eeper’. Both officers and men would have heard it pronounced ‘Eeper’ or more likely ‘Eepra’, the second (French) pronunciation from interpreters, liaison officers and estaminet-keepers – the last of these recorded as speaking French more often than Flemish.

  ‘Wipers’ seems to be a deliberate joke based on the first letter of the French spelling. The standard English pronunciation, with a bit of knowledge as to how French pronunciation works, would have given Buchan’s proposed ‘other ranks’ version, ‘Eep’, or ‘Eepr’; with a bit less knowledge of French, but making a good attempt, this would easily come out as ‘Eeprees’. It is worth remembering here that there is plenty of evidence for British soldiers being prepared to have a go at French, and in many cases to set themselves to try to learn a bit: in a recorded dramatisation In the Trenches directed by Major A. E. Rees in 1917, which has both authenticating and absurdly unrealistic aspects, cockney private Reginald ‘Tippy’ Winter is spotted reading a French manual, though his chum Ginger claims he is doing it only to be able to speak to French girls. Brophy and Partridge233 claim that though ‘Wipers’ was the soldiers’ pronunciation in 1914 and early 1915 ‘the majority of the troops seemed to harbour a suspicion that French was not properly pronounced by the same rules as English … The commonest methods of tackling Ypres were “Eepray” and “Eeps” ’. Brophy and Partridge also give the form ‘Ips’ as used. But the amount of documentation of the soldiers’ imaginative use of ‘Wipers’ is difficult to ignore, from the limerick which has ‘Ypres’ rhyming with ‘two snypres’ and ‘the Argyll and Sutherland pypres’,234 to the mournful ballad with its chorus of ‘Wipers in the wet’ printed in the Yorkshire Evening Post (2 November 1918). H. S. Clapham in Mud and Khaki written from diary notes (4 February 1915) states that he wandered into a church at Ypres and noted the use on local tombstones of ‘Wyper’ ‘from which it would appear that Tommy is, after all, justified in his speech’,235 indicating awareness of some discussion of the subject at the time.

  There are two other factors: the medieval Ypres Tower at Winchelsea which, Fraser and Gibbons point out, was always called the ‘Wipers Tower’; and we should not underestimate the post-war influence on this question of the Wipers Times. Altogether the evidence would indicate that the joke version of Ypres came from officer-level wordplay based on the written/printed word, while the ‘have a go’ version came from spoken language among the other ranks; Partridge states that the ‘Wipers’ pronunciation ‘was encouraged by the powers at the very beginning of the war’,236 suggesting the possibility that other pronunciations may have been a reaction against authority. There is also evidence of regional variation from a poem written by Pte Robin of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, printed in the Stirling Observer 18 September 1915, which has Ypres rhyming with ‘keepers’.

  The Portsmouth Evening News, in an article discussing the pronunciation of Ypres, Ghent, Compiegne and Aisne, stated ‘Fortunately we have Przemysl already, and have agreed to call it Primrose Hill.’

  But there was an influence on soldiers’ pronunciation before many of them got to Flanders. ‘Wipers’ was quoted widely in the regional press,237 quickly spreading into general consciousness. As the city’s name became fixed in public consciousness newspapers were continually asked how to pronounce it: generally the answer was ‘Eepr’.238 The Nottingham Evening Post pointed out that the question had been ‘answered several times recently’,239 though its 15 October 1914 issue had given the pronunciation as ‘Yeeper’.240 Other variations were ‘Ee-pre’ in the Newcastle Journal241 and ‘Eep-rh’ in the Berwickshire News,242 while the Yorkshire Evening Post suggested ‘we should not rule out “Eepray” as inadmissable’.243 The same paper had previously given the local pronunciation as ‘ee-per’.244 Other place names caused worry for newspapers: the Sheffield Evening Telegraph offered the pronunciation of Yser as ‘probably “Eessaire” ‘but we do not guarantee this’,245 while the more confident Liverpool Echo gave it as ‘eeser (slightly stressing “er”)’.246 The Aberdeen Journal gave the pronunciation of Thiepval as ‘Tee-ay-val’,247 but Przemysl confounded many: the Birmingham Daily Post noted that there was a ‘general agreement here to call the place either “Jemizzle” or “Shemozzle”, the latter being the more favoured in the East End because it is an old piece of Yiddish slang.’248 The Motherwell Times was more respectful if no more helpful, offering the pronunciation ‘przhem-isl – pronounce as if all one syllable’;249 the Portsmouth Evening News, in an article discussing the pronunciation of Ypres, Ghent, Compiegne and Aisne, stated ‘Fortunately we have Przemysl already, and have agreed to call it Primrose Hill’.250

  It is clear that some pronunciations developed from reading and others from hearing: Jonathan Lighter lists ‘bokoo frankies’ (beaucoup francs) which would have come from hearing, and ‘three beans’ (très bien) more likely to have come from reading; ‘silver plate’ (s’il vous plaît) could have come from either. Clear patterns of etymology can be seen in other place name anglicisations. In the case of the wonderfully dismissive change from Albert to ‘Bert’, the French pronunciation of the town is nothing like the anglicisation, lending weight to the proposal that this case derived from the written or printed word. Moo-cow Farm/Mucky Farm (Mouquet Ferme), About Turn (Hébuterne), Armentears/Armentiers (Armentières), Inky Bill (Ingouville) and Ocean Villas (Auchonvillers) clearly are examples of anglicisation from sound, as are, from the Flemish, White Sheet (Wytschaete) and Dickybush (Dickebusch). But the anglicisation of Bois Grenier as Boys Grenyer depends on spelling, as do Dogs Knees/Doing it (Doignes), Aches-and-Pains (Aix-les-Bains) and Business (Busnes), the French pronunciation not resembling the anglicised version. Gertie Wears Velvet (Godewaersvelde) is less clear, but the Flemish spoken version would have been fairly difficult for the untutored British soldier to unravel, so the anglicisation here possibly comes via both paths. In any case the anglicised versions travelled along spoken paths with speed, and settled quickly to what sat comfortably in the various accents of the British Army as Hoop Lane (Houplines), Plugstreet (Ploegsteert) and the delightfully pragmatic Pop (Poperinghe). Sally on the Loose (Sailly sur la Lys) indicates a nod in the direction of knowing some French, while Ruin (Rouen) pretends nothing, and Extra Cushy (Estree Cauchy) called out for anglicisation. There is not extensive documentation of Armentières as Arm in Tears, and th
e compromise ‘Armentears/Armentiers’ seemed to cause so little trouble that R. H. Mottram felt ‘it may be said to have entered the language’.251 The curious renaming as ‘Coxgrove’ of Coxyde (Koksijde) may indicate a personal reference, or perhaps a decorous version of an obscene nickname for a letter of condolence.252 In passing, it is comforting to know that the German soldiers also played with place names, turning Neufchatel into Neuschrapnell and Pérenchis into Bärenschiss (‘bearshit’).253

  FIGURE 2.12 In October 1918 Rifleman Fred Walker was stationed near Houplines, written in his diary entry for 5 October as ‘Hoop Lane’.

  The invention of names is a clear instance of the individual and the group trying to regain some control over a bewildering situation: the names and nicknames developed through wordplay show people expressing their will and their determination to not shut down. Naming a gun ‘scene-shifter’254 or ‘Christians Arise’255 are reactions to situations, cynical and dismissive in the extreme, and simultaneously noting the effects of and belittling the guns. The opportunities afforded for naming tanks, largely at the discretion of their commanders, provided a range of names that show creative thinking, beneath the range of sentiments from patriotism to sentimentality to irony to revenge: Iron Duke, Lady Wingate, War Baby, Hyacinth, Oh My Word, We’re All In It Together, Lusitania, Destroyer.

  Humour

  How is it that so much humour has survived? Or is it maybe that what people wanted to record was the humour, to compensate for the unending dreariness punctuated by moments of extreme horror? Humour no doubt helped both soldiers and civilians get through, and is an essential part of the record of language; does it still raise a smile, and does it help us understand the experience any further? The range of humour recorded is an indicator of people finding, and significantly wanting to record, an experience away from the casualty lists, the squalor and degradation of the Front, the fear, the anger and the hopelessness. The range is also an indicator of the amount: in presenting a range of different kinds of humour, this section goes some way to presenting the extent to which humour was part of everyday language use.

  Humour among the horrors of trench life included jokes, puns, satire, wordplay, gallows humour, and those curious incidents of the bizarre – the unburied arm used as a hook for a pack or as a geographical marker, or the laughter of relief, as at the look on a man’s face when he gets his foot caught while trying to escape from a grenade.256 Laughter at the bizarreness of the situation, or at the relief of survival, or of something happening to someone else, was a continual occurrence at the Front: ‘somebody slipped in a shell hole and the laughter was positively hyenish’.257

  Alternatively, being cheerful (‘cheery and bright’ and ‘merry and bright’ are the phrases met with most often) was ‘the only way to keep going out here’,258 ‘to mix jollity with other matters is all one can do out here. There’s so hanged little joy or laughter floatin’ about that you have to jolly well create it, or languish in gloom’.259 There were claims of spontaneous humour under fire – ‘Many of the wounded who have been invalided home were asked whether this humour in the trenches is the real thing, or only an affected drollery to conceal the emotions the men feel in the face of death; but they all declare that it is quite spontaneous’.260 For one young officer it was necessary to ‘hang on to one’s humour like grim death, otherwise I think you are bound to crack’.261 But the general feeling is that, certainly after 1914, soldiers’ humour was ironic, hard, reactive to the situation and frequently very creative. 2nd Lt Arthur Clarke described it as ‘sometimes rather twisted but most always to the front’.262 What the trenches produced was a ‘war humour’ that was reactive and referential, a verbal and situational humour that was bound to be more successful than performative or pictorial humour, by virtue of the circumstances; and by being reactive and referential it depended on and created an inner circle of those who understood, a ‘free-floating circuit of logic independent of the outside world, uniting initiated soldiers by their fluency in the real knowledge of the war’.263 As a way of reacting creatively to circumstances its influence was longstanding: for example, Paul Fussell believed that ‘with the war, irony became the dominant mode in English literature’.264

  The ironic, the cynical, and the satirical produced a range of verbal humour reacting to various aspects of the nature of the war. The writers and editors of trench journals saw these publications as a way of applying the culture of social satire to the situation of being in the trenches, the prosecution of the war, both politically and by staff officers, and the hiatus between the soldier and the civilian. Deeply territorial to individual regiments, columns such as ‘Things we would like to know’, ‘Things overheard on the March’, or ‘We know, but we shan’t tell’ reinforced the insider identity with overt or thinly disguised references to known people, events or situations. In a sense the trench journal produced a closely parallel view of the world, a play version which showed the deadly effects of the real thing in a disorienting way. These allowed a blurring of the border between reality and fantasy, offering a possibility that this was all a joke that nobody could really understand: an advertisement in the Grey Brigade for ‘The Handy Pronouncer – Every name of importance correctly pronounced. No more blunders. Turn up the index and there you are. Thus Yser, Ypres, and other places need cause no alarm. Also: the automatic saluter, our boomerang bullet’.265 While most trench journals satirised the war, the parallel view of the Wipers Times and its later manifestations created its own version of the industrial-scale destruction in satirising practically anything within reach – page 4 of The Somme Times (31 July 1916) has a limerick about a young girl being blown up and an anti-love poem to a trench mortar. As The Kemmel Times266 its advertisement page offered insurance for dug-outs, house ventilation, even the notice of a ‘film play’ called ‘Gas’; while enjoying praise from the home press – the Dublin Daily Express described it in 1917 as ‘probably the most remarkable newspaper ever published’267 – the Wipers Times took merciless shots at the journalism of Hillaire Belloc and William Beach Thomas, renamed as Belary Helloc and Teech Bomas. Fall In offered a narration of a day in 1956 with the war still going on,268 and The Ghain Tuffieha Gazette carried an article about the investigation of the theft of a bun and the subsequent trial.269 A model in many trench journals is the mock–glossary satirising the home press’s interest in soldiers’ slang; The Gasper produced one that includes ‘Officer: a private in the UPS [University and Public School] Battalions. Wrist watch: a good excuse for appearing late on parades’.270 The ‘parallel world’ nature of the Front is seen also in the application of British place names to trenches, creating a parody of both places; senior officers visiting the trenches were doing a ‘Cooks Tour’.

  Paralleling the authorised destruction going on, soldiers applied satire to the language that was dealt to them. Officers called daily memoranda from staff HQ ‘Comic Cuts’, or soldiers, in the reverse process, used ‘officialese’ on non-official subject matter – thus, taking the model of a person acting as a substitute for someone of a higher rank being called ‘acting …’, bully beef with biscuit was called ‘acting rabbit pie’. ‘Mesopolonica’ mixing Mesopotamia and Salonika, mocked the remoteness and apparent irrelevance of both places, while soldiers mocked the terminology of enlisting by wishing ‘roll on duration’.271 Taking a swipe at the traditions of the army, the aristocracy, and the bizarre nature of the war as family argument between the royal houses of Europe, the term ‘The Kaiser’s Own’ was applied to the King’s Royal Rifle Corps (whose badge, a Maltese Cross, resembled an Iron Cross), to the 2nd City of London Fusiliers, and to a company of the Manchester Special Constables Brigade and a labour battalion of the Middlesex Regiment (both due to the number of naturalised Germans serving).272 If irony carried a sense of challenge through humour then wartime irony was seen after the war in German resentment, the black-bordered stamps pastiching stamps of former colonies, the stamps urging Germans ‘nicht vergissen unser Kolonien’ (d
on’t forget our colonies), and strong irony was evident in the attempt by a Hamburg shipping company in 1922 to name their vessels provocatively as ‘Hun’, ‘Boche’, ‘Pirate’, and other names used against Germans. The company was persuaded to drop the idea.273 A discourse of resentment was manifested in the sense of outrage at the material destruction of north-eastern France and western Flanders: an extensive series of postcards published in France showed villages and towns shattered to matchwood, with captions saying ‘après le passage des barbares’ or ‘Combles, what’s left of it’.