All Quiet on the Western Front

When I was growing up, in Blackburn, in the North West of England, I knew a man named Tommy. I have no idea whether or not it was his real name, but that's what everyone called him. Most days, when my mother sent me to the grocery store that neighbors operated out of their front room, I would pass Tommy's terraced house. Unless the weather was poor, (which, to be honest it often was), he would be sitting on a stool by his front door, smoking Woodbines, quite prepared to pass the time of day with anyone who happened by. Of course we became friends. There is a natural affinity between the elderly and the young - there are simple pleasures to be shared, like a bag of pear drops; the concerns of the world may be blissfully ignored when you are 7 or 77. Not that I had any idea how old he was. To me, Tommy was just old. He always had a smile and a happy wave. He was harmless. He was also a trained killer.


Tommy had served in the fiasco that was Gallipoli. He had a pith helmet with a bullet hole in it to prove his story. After more than fifty years he was still angry at the stupidity of the commanders who would not let their troops take the high ground in safety, instead pitching camp at the foot of cliffs, allowing Turkish troops to occupy the positions that would lead to the debacle. Tommy had also served on the Western Front. It was there that he had succumbed to shell-shock, the paralysis of the will caused by being subjected for too long to the horror and noise of battle. Since demobilization, in 1919, Tommy had not been able to do anything but the most menial of jobs. In retirement, drawing a meager pension, he spent his days smoking, and talking his time away.
I thought of Tommy as I read, recently, Malcolm Brown's Imperial War Museum Book of the Western Front.
This is a different type of account of the 'war to end all wars', quite unlike the dry dispatches of the official historians. Instead of pretending to view the events of those four fateful years from some dispassionate position, high above the fields of battle, Brown's book uses first hand, contemporary accounts to paint a very different picture. The book is written in a series of short chapters, each chapter concentrating upon some aspect of the experience of the common soldier. It is liberally illustrated with extracts from letters and diaries. Many of those quoted did not survive the war. Here are a few of the things that caught my attention:
- The humanity of the ordinary man. Unlike the modern, fictional hero, who is applauded for his ability to 'take out' the enemy, Tommy Atkins (the nickname for all British soldiers at that time) was a decent chap who did not kill unless he had to.
- In order to win, therefore, most killing had to be done at a distance. Thousands did die in suicidal rushes across no-man's land, but many more were killed by the use of heavy artillery. Indeed, many soldiers remarked that it would have been easier to have fought face to face, instead of wondering whether the next screaming shell "has my name on it."
- Since combatants could do nothing to prevent their deaths at the hands of artillery fire, a fierce fatalism developed during the war years, which had more in common with Islam than with Christianity. It seemed, to those who hunkered down in the trenches of Ypres or the Somme, that either God slept or He was unconcerned by their fate. In the end, the tenets of historic Christianity were sacrificed in the interests of survival. Sociologists have often noted that the decline of the church in the West can be traced to the First World War. It did not help that political jingoism was trumpeted from the pulpits of both Britain and Germany. Every German infantryman bore, on his belt buckle, the words Gott mit uns. This did not prevent his superiors from turning loose poisoned gas upon the cream of England's youth. Ironically, the belt buckle became, in the mind of Tommy Atkins, just another proof that his enemies were just "Huns," less than human.
- At the same time, the stories recorded in the book speak of an incredible heroism, and of a dedication to King and country that has largely dissipated today. Nationalism may have a great deal to answer for, and patriotism may, as Johnson said, be the last refuge of scoundrels, but it is better than the cringing anarchy of today, where no good thing is immune from carping cynicism. Despite the disillusionment that developed towards the end of the war, hardly surprising considering the huge losses, there is still something noble about Tommy Atkins. He may be a little rough around the edges, overly fond of hard drink, but he is also a gentleman. There's one telling story about a group of weary, grimy soldiers given a brief respite from the Front, for whom a troupe of visiting entertainers put on a show. One of the artistes was a beautiful young woman who sang for the soldiers. Between songs she teased them with racy comments (doubtless incredibly mild by today's standards). The men were simply embarrassed. They spent their days and nights killing or being killed, but when a young woman sang to them, they remembered their mothers and their wives.
- One final thing. The war was almost lost to the Allies in late 1917 when a German offensive pushed them back from the positions they had held for over three years. If the Germans had reached the coast they would have split the Allies, and probably outflanked them. Axis forces could have strutted down the boulevards of Paris, or maybe even the avenues of London. But the retreating armies did not break, though they bent. Soon, reinforced by the doughboys from over the water, they were able to turn the tide. In reaching too far the German offensive stalled. Before they could dig in, and trench warfare recommence, the Allies counterattacked. A war that had looked lost in March was over by November. Here's the startling fact - many of the soldiers who pushed back the Kaiser's troops were still in their teens. Barely old enough to vote, or to drink, they were old enough to kill.


Anyone who seeks to glorify unnecessary warfare should read this book; anyone who seeks to demonize those who fight should also read it. Wars are not really fought by generals, but by eighteen year old boys, like Tommy.