Patrick MacGill (1889 – 1963) - Irish journalist, poet and novelist, known as "The Navvy Poet" as he had worked as a labourer before he began writing seriously

Patrick MacGill was born in Glenties, County Donegal, Ireland on 24th December 1889. 

During the First World War, Patrick joined the London Irish Rifles (1/18th Battalion, The London Regiment), Soldier Number: A/1551, becoming a Sergeant.  He was wounded at the Battle of Loos on 28 October 1915.

In the Preface to his book “The Amateur Army” (Herbert Jenkins, London, 1915) Patrick wrote:

 “I am one of the million or more male residents of the United Kingdom, who a year ago had no special yearning towards military life, but who joined the army after war was declared. At Chelsea I found myself a unit of the 2nd London Irish Battalion, afterwards I was drilled into shape at the White City and training was concluded at St. Albans, where I was drafted into the 1st Battalion. In my spare time I wrote several articles dealing with the life of the soldier from the stage of raw "rooky" to that of finished fighter. These I now publish in book form, and trust that they may interest men who have joined the colours or who intend to take up the profession of arms and become members of the great brotherhood of fighters.

Patrick MacGill. "The London Irish," British Expeditionary Force, March 25th, 1915."

Patrick also wrote a novel based on his wartime experiences entitled “Children of the Dead End”.

After his recovery, Patrick was recruited into British military intelligence and wrote for MI 7b from 1916 until the Armistice in 1918.

In 1915, Patrick married Margaret C. Gibbons in London.  They had three children, Christine, Patricia and Sheila MacGill. Patrick went to America on a lecture tour in 1930, remained in America in poor health and died in Florida, USA on 22nd November 1963. He was buried in Fall River, Massachusetts.

An annual literary event, the Patrick MacGill Festival, is held in his home town  in his honour and a statue of him stands on the bridge where the main street crosses the river in Glenties.

Patrick MacGill’s WW1 poetry collection was published under the title “Soldier songs” (Jenkins, 1917) and he had poems published in ten WW1 anthologies. Here are some of his WW1 poems:

Death And Fairies

Before I joined the Army  

 I lived in Donegal,  

Where every night the Fairies  

 Would hold their carnival.  

 

But now I'm out in Flanders,          

 Where men like wheat-ears fall,  

And it's Death and not the Fairies  

 Who is holding carnival.

A Lament From The Trenches

I wish the sea was not so wide that parts me from my love;

I wish the things men do below were known to God above!

I wish that I were back again in the glens of Donegal,

They’d call me a coward if I return but a hero if I fall!

Is it better to be a living coward, or thrice a hero dead?

It’s better to go to sleep, m’lad, the colour-sergeant said.

Before the Charge

The night is still and the air is keen,

Tense with menace the time crawls by,

In front is the town and its homes are seen,

Blurred in outline against the sky.

The dead leaves float in the sighing air,

The darkness moves like a curtain drawn,

A veil which the morning sun will tear

From the face of death. – We charge at dawn.

Back At Loos

The dead men lay on the shell-scarred plain,

Where death and the autumn held their reign

Like banded ghosts in the heavens grey

The smoke of the conflict died away.

The boys whom I knew and loved were dead,

Where war's grim annals were writ in red,

In the town of Loos in the morning.

Sources:  Find my Past

Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliograph” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) p. 211.

Photo of Patrick in WW1 from his book “The Amateur Army” (Herbert Jenkins, London, 1915)

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/16078/16078-h/16078-h.htm

http://www.ricorso.net/rx/az-data/authors/Mac/M-Gill_P/life.htm

Kenneth Rand (1891 - 1918) - American WW1 poet

My grateful thanks to Paige Roberts, Director of Archives & Special Collections at Phillips Academy, Andover, Massachusetts for invaluable help in finding information about Andover students in WW1 

Kenneth Rand was born in Minneapolis, Minnesota on 8th May 1891. His parents were Alonzo Turner Rand (1854–1925), President of the Minneapolis Gas Company, and his wife, Louise Casey Rand (1861–1891). 

Kenneth’s early years were spent travelling in Europe. He was educated at Phillips Academy in Andover, Massachusetts, where he was a member of the Mandolin Club and wrote for their student publication – “The Mirror”. 

After graduating from Phillips Academy, Kenneth went on to study at Yale University from 1910, where he majored in English literature, was a member of the Elizabethan Club, served as chairman of the board of the Yale Literary Magazine, as literary editor of the “Yale Courant”, contributed to campus humour magazine “The Yale Record” and was the class poet.

American author and literary scholar George Henry Nettleton (1874–1959), who became Professor of English in Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School in 1916,  called Rand's class poem, written as a senior, an unconscious prophecy.

The years have dropped behind us,

The years run out before,

The testing world shall find us

Full weight—we trust—and more.

Kenneth published three volumes of poetry and his poems were published in literary magazines of the time, including The Bellman, The Argosy, Lippincott’s, Snappy Stories, Sport Story Magazine, Picture-Play Weekly, Top-Notch, and The Smart Set.

When war broke out Kenneth tried to enlist. He volunteered for the Navy and all available Army branches, including the Aviation Corps, Infantry, and Artillery, and even attempted to enlist in the Canadian Army, but was rejected because of his poor eyesight.  He was eventually able to enlist in the Quartermaster Corps, and was stationed at Camp Meigs in Washington DC. Recommended to be sent for training as an officer to Camp Joseph E. Johnston, the main Quartermaster mobilization and training camp but after only 60 days at Camp Meigs he contracted influenza - during the great "Spanish flu" pandemic of 1918.   He was sent to Walter Reed Hospital, where he died on 15th October 1918. 

Kenneth's body was sent home to Minneapolis, where he was buried in uniform in Lakewood Cemetery, Minneapolis. Plot: Sec 2, Lot 414, Grave 4. 

The poet Harold Crawford Stearns, a classmate in Rand's graduating class at Phillips Academy, commemorated Rand in a poem entitled “Vale, Kenneth Rand.”  It concluded: 

Oh, Kenneth, how could dreams like ours be false?

Our Avalons, our bright Hesperides,

Our Inds, our islands washed by tropic seas

All faded … faded … echoes of a waltz…

You go (O world he reaches, hold him dear!);

I stay, to tend the embers falling here.

Works by Kenneth Rand:

"The Dirge of the Sea-Children and Other Poems" (Boston, Sherman, French & Company, 1913)

"The Rainbow Chaser and Other Poems" (Boston, Sherman, French & Company, 1914)

"The Dreamer and Other Poems" (Boston, Sherman, French & Company, 1915)

In his poem “Straw-Death”, Kenneth describes his regret at the prospect of dying in a sickbed instead of as a man of action. His final poem, “Limited Service Only”, was written a few days before his death. That poem was found in his uniform and at the time was considered one of the genuine poetic expressions of patriotism written during the Great War. The War Department published the poem on 2nd December 1918, along with a preface praising the "limited service men" who sought active service but because of physical limitations or other reasons were denied the privilege of joining the combatant forces of the United States.

“Limited Service Only”

I am not one of those the gods' decision

Has chosen for that highest gift of all –

The sacrifice, the splendor, and the vision –

To fight, and nobly fall:

And yet I know – what though it be but dreaming!

Should the day hang on some last desperate hope,

I – I – could lead one reckless column streaming

Down some shell-tortured slope.

To face the shadow-hell of Death's own Valley

With eyes unclouded and unlowered head –

Know, for an instant, one ecstatic rally

And then be cleanly dead.

Sources:  Wikipedia and 

https://ww1sacrifice.files.wordpress.com/2017/06/memorial-bell-tower-rededication-programme.pdf

Colwyn Erasmus Arnold Philipps MC, MiD (1888 - 1915) - British poet and professional soldier

Portrait from his
book of verses

Colwyn Erasmus Arnold Philipps was born on 11th December 1888.  His parents were the Rt. Hon. the 1st Viscount St. Davids, Privy Councillor (P.C.), and his wife, Leonora, nee Gerstenberg .  Colwyn's younger brother, The Hon. Roland Erasmus Philipps, was also killed in WW1.

His father described Colwyn thus:

“A born soldier, from the moment he decided whilst still at Eton to make the army his profession he was keen to do his work well and master every branch of it.”

Colwyn attended The Royal Military College, Sandhurst and was commissioned into the Royal Horse Guards Regiment on 6th October 1908.  Promoted to the rank of Lieutenant on 30th July 1909, in June 1911, Captain Philipps led the Escort for the return of King George V and Queen Mary from Windsor, the week after the Coronation.

Colwyn Philipps arrived in France on 1 November 1914 and was at the front three days later, where he immediately had his first taste of battle. 

He wrote about the experience:

“We did no good at all, never fired, but were simply a target for the German big guns; we were very lucky in having only half a dozen casualties. I expected to be frightened, or thrilled, or flurried; as a matter of fact I was bored to tears. The only interesting thing was to watch the German shells burning a large farm a hundred yards behind us. We sat in the trenches for forty-eight hours.” 

Colwyn was promoted to the rank of Temporary Captain in February 1915 and  volunteered to be attached to the Foot Guards at the front (his transfer came through the day after his death).

Colwyn Philipps was killed during the Second Battle of Ypres at the Battle of Frezenberg, near Ypres on 13th May 1915.   His body was never found but he is commemorated on the Menin Gate Memorial, Ypres on Panel 3.

illustration by William Barnes Wollen RI ROI
(6 October 1857–28 March 1936) 

The Second Battle of Ypres was fought from 22nd April – 25th May 1915 for control of the tactically important high ground to the east and south of the Flemish town of Ypres in western Belgium. The First Battle of Ypres was fought the previous autumn. The Second Battle of Ypres saw the first mass use by Germany of poison gas on the Western Front.

Like Julian Grenfell, Colwyn was a professional soldier who also wrote poetry. When his kit was sent home to his parents, the verse entitled “Release” was found in his notebook. An anthology of his poetry was published posthumously by his family.

“I Love” by Colwyn Philipps

I love thee as I love the holiest things,

Like perfect poetry and angels’ wings,

And cleanliness, and sacred motherhood,

And all things simple, sweetly pure, and good.

I love thee as I love a little child,

And calves and kittens, and all things soft and mild:

Things that I want to cuddle and to kiss,

And stroke and play with: dear, I love like this.

And, best of all, I love thee as a friend,

O fellow seeker of a mutual end!

“Release”

THERE is a healing magic in the night, 

The breeze blows cleaner than it did by day, 

Forgot the fever of the fuller light, 

And sorrow sinks insensibly away 

As if some saint a cool white hand did lay 

Upon the brow, and calm the restless brain. 

The moon looks down with pale unpassioned ray 

Sufficient for the hour is its pain. 

Be still and feel the night that hides away earth's stain. 

Be still and loose the sense of God in you, 

Be still and send your soul into the all, 

The vasty distance where the stars shine blue, 

No longer antlike on the earth to crawl. 

Released from time and sense of great or small, 

Float on the pinions of the Night-Queen's wings ; 

Soar till the swift inevitable fall 

Will drag you back into all the world's small things ; 

Yet for an hour be one with all escaped things. 

COLWYN PHILIPPS.* 

*Found in his note-book when his kit came home.

Sources: Find my Past, Wikipedia and

https://archive.org/stream/museinarmscollec00osbouoft/museinarmscollec00osbouoft_djvu.txt

https://warpoets.org.uk/worldwar1/poets-and-poetry/colwyn-erasmus-arnold-philipps/

Verses by Philipps, Colwyn Erasmus Arnold, 1888-1915 (Smith Elder & Co., London, 1915)

https://archive.org/details/versesphil00philiala

https://archive.org/details/versesphil00philiala/page/x/mode/2up

https://archive.org/details/versesphil00philiala/page/88

https://archive.org/details/versesphil00philiala/page/vi

John Hoexter - previously spelt Höxter (1884 – 1938) – German poet and artist

With thanks to AC Benus for finding this poet for us and translating the poem

Hoexter by L. Meidner,
1913

John Höxter was born on 2nd January 1884 in Hanover – his father was a merchant.   John studied art at the Berlin School of Applied Arts - his teacher was the artist Leon von König.  John began writing in 1908 with a review written for a German theatrical newspaper and went on to illustrate books, write poetry and design book covers.  He also wrote poems inspired by some of his paintings, which he called "word copies".

John served in the German Army during the First World War but was invalided out due to Tuberculosis. 

In November 1919 he launched the satirical journal “Der blutige Ernst”, which was taken over by Carl Einstein and George Grosz from the third issue.    John died on 15th November 1938 in Potsdam. 

 

AC Benus tells us that the poet Robert Jentzsch dedicated a collection of poetry ("Romantic Portraits") to John Höxter -  “Portrait of Hoexter” by Ludwig Meidner (1884–1966)

A poem by John Höxter kindly found for us by AC Benus and translated by him:

 “Berliner Winter”  

Erbssuppenhimmel, der zu Boden fließt –

Die Erde patscht.

Spreenebel und Schlotauswurf drücken

Der nackten, nassen Teerpappbauten Rücken.

Wie Scheuerlappen hingeklatscht

Schneeflächen, rußgefleckte, her und hin;

Des Großstadtwinters Bettelhermelin.

An fensterlosen, steilen Häusermauern,

Auf Schuppen, die umzäunt im Kehricht kauern,

Frieren erlosch’ne Farben der Reklamen,

Die einst Glutrosen, strahlende Cyklamen,

Goldgelbe Primeln, lilasüßer Flieder,

Einklangen in der Sonne Sommerlieder

Und die mich jetzt durch grelles Lärmen stören,

Mißtönend zu den grauen Dämmerchören,

Drin, hinter blätterlosem Baumgerippe

Flußbögen blinken und des Todes Hippe.

"Berlin Winter" 

A pea-soup fog, flows down from heaven – 

Splattering the earth. 

Spree river-mist and smokestack ejections press

Against the naked backs of wet tarpaper buildings. 

Scouring-pad patches of snow cling,

Soot-speckled, here and there;

A big-city winter beggar’s ermine.

On windowless, close-set house walls,

Above crouching sheds, fenced in by garbage,

Freeze the creased ruts of those billboards

That were once glowing roses, fulgent cyclamen,       

Saffron-gold primula, purple-sweet lilacs,

Lost in the sun of summer melodies,

But which now upset me through dissonance,

Mismatching these gray twilight choruses 

Where, amongst, the leafless skeletons of trees

The river bends flash with death's pruning knife.

NOTE The River Spree flows through Berlin. It is approximately 400 kilometres (250 mi) long and is the main tributary of the River Havel. The Spree is the main river of Berlin, Brandenburg, Lusatia, and the settlement area of the Sorbs, who call the River Sprjewja. The Sorbs are an indigenous West Slavic ethnic group predominantly inhabiting the parts of Lusatia located in the German states of Saxony and Brandenburg.

German artist Ludwig Meidner (1884–1966) - portrait of Hoexter, 1913

Writer, poet and translator AC Benus is the author of a book about German WW1 poet Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele : “The Thousandth Regiment: A Translation of and Commentary on Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele’s War Poems” by AC Benus (AC Benus, San Francisco, 2020). Along with Hans's story, the book includes original poems as well as translations.    ISBN: 978-1657220584

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583

https://www.amazon.com/dp/1657220583

Sir Herbert Edward Read, DSO, MC, Mentioned in Despatches (1893 – 1968) – British soldier poet, artist, art historian, literary critic and philosopher.

Herbert in WW1

Herbert Edward Read was born in Kirbymoorside, North Riding of Yorkshire, UK on 4th December 1893.  His parents were Herbert Edward Read, a farmer, and his wife, Eliza, nee Strickland. 

Herbert was studying at the University of Leeds when the First World War began. He was commissioned in January 1915 into the Green Howards Regiment and was awarded the Military Cross in 1917 and the Distinguished Service Order in 1918.  His final rank was Captain.

During the First World War, Herbert served in France.  He also founded the magazine “Arts & Letters” with Frank Rutter.

Knighted in 1953 "for services to literature", Herbert died on 12th June 1968

On 11th November 1985, Herbert Read was among 16 of the Great War poets commemorated on a slate stone unveiled in Westminster Abbey in London, UK.  The area is known as Poet's Corner.

The Green Howards (Alexandra, Princess of Wales's Own Yorkshire Regiment), frequently known as the Yorkshire Regiment, was a line infantry regiment of the British Army in the King's Division. Raised in 1688, it served under various titles until it was amalgamated with the Prince of Wales's Own Regiment of Yorkshire and the Duke of Wellington's Regiment (West Riding), all Yorkshire-based regiments in the King's Division, to form the Yorkshire Regiment (14th/15th, 19th and 33rd/76th Foot) on 6 June 2006.

Green Howards Cap Badge

Herbert's WW1 Poetry Collections were:

“Songs of Chaos”, 1915

“Naked Warriors”, (Art & Letters, 1919) 

And his poems were included in seven WW1 poetry anthologies.

Although not a poem written during WW1, I feel this poem by Herbert Read is nevertheless relevant:

"To A Conscript Of 1940" by Herbert Read

A soldier passed me in the freshly fallen snow,

His footsteps muffled, his face unearthly grey:

And my heart gave a sudden leap

As I gazed on a ghost of five-and-twenty years ago.

I shouted Halt! and my voice had the old accustom'd ring

And he obeyed it as it was obeyed

In the shrouded days when I too was one

Into the unknown. He turned towards me and I said:

`I am one of those who went before you

Five-and-twenty years ago: one of the many who never returned,

Of the many who returned and yet were dead.

We went where you are going, into the rain and the mud:

We fought as you will fight

With death and darkness and despair;

We gave what you will give-our brains and our blood.

We think we gave in vain. The world was not renewed.

There was hope in the homestead and anger in the streets,

But the old world was restored and we returned

To the dreary field and workshop, and the immemorial feud

Of rich and poor. Our victory was our defeat.

Power was retained where power had been misused

And youth was left to sweep away

The ashes that the fires had strewn beneath our feet.

But one thing we learned: there is no glory in the dead

Until the soldier wears a badge of tarnish'd braid;

There are heroes who have heard the rally and have seen

The glitter of garland round their head.

Theirs is the hollow victory. They are deceived.

But you my brother and my ghost, if you can go

Knowing that there is no reward, no certain use

In all your sacrifice, then honour is reprieved.

To fight without hope is to fight with grace,

The self reconstructed, the false heart repaired.'

Then I turned with a smile, and he answered my salute

As he stood against the fretted hedge, which was like white lace.

Sources:

Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) p. 261

http://authorscalendar.info/hread.htm

https://allpoetry.com/To-A-Conscript-Of-1940

The Green Howards Museum

Jack Anderson (1849 – 1931) – Folkestone Kent Town Crier

 The following was sent to Christine Warren, by Chris Long.  Christine, who runs the Folkestone Then & Now website 

https://www.warrenpress.net/FolkestoneThenNow/FolkestoneThen_Now.html  

 has very kindly given me permission to post this on my Forgotten Poets weblog

Chris Long says :

"This was given to my father Horace by his father Alfred after the Great War, He told me it was given to all the Folkestone lads who served in the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 4th or 5th Folkestone Battalion at the end of the war in 1918 by the Folkestone Council.  I don’t know why, or indeed if it was ever sung.”

Here are the words to the song - kindly typed out for us by Christine Warren:

“The Gallant Little Buffs” by Folkestone Town Crier Jack Anderson 

To the Tune of "Marching to Georgia”

Lord Kitchener's appeal has been nobly responded to

By our brave Folkestone lads who've rallied round the Red

and Blue.

Father, Mother, proud are you

Whose sons enlisted in the Buffs for Egypt.

CHORUS.

Hurrah! Hurrah ! for the gallant little Buffs

Hurrah ! Hurrah ! each man is true and tough

And they'll give the Germans quite enough

before they arrive in Egypt.

Good luck, Good luck to all our Folkestone boys.

Shout out, Shout out, and make a joyful noise.

For they'll take the German Kaiser by surprise,

Before they arrive in Egypt,

CHORUS.

There's brave Captain Atkinson and Commander Gosling

They've left their homes to fight for Country and their King

And their praises let us sing

As they lead the gallant Buffs to Egypt.

God save the King.

Lyrics composed by Jack Anderson, Town Crier, Folkestone.

According to my research, Jack (known as Chopper) Anderson was born in Ireland in 1849.  

Jack was Folkestone’sTown Crier from c. 1910 until he died in 1931.

Evidence of that is on the 1911 Census in which Jack, listed as John Anderson, described himself as "Town crier - born in Westport Maye Ireland" His wife was Sarah Anderson, nee Philpott, born in Saltwood, Kent in around 1860.  

The couple were living in Myrtle Road Folkestone, Folkestone, Kent, England and had two children - Jessie and William.

Jack died on 17th September 1931 and was buried in Cherton Road Cemetery, Folkestone. 

The Buffs were The Royal Kent Regiment

The Buffs were one of the first infantry regiments in the British Army. With origins dating back to 1572 when Queen Elizabeth I supplied military aid to Protestant rebels in the Netherlands against King Phillip II of Spain. Until the 1751 reforms, regimental units were commonly named after their current Colonel. The Buffs reverted to this practice when Prince George of Denmark died in 1708, although it was also referred to as the 'Holland Regiment' or "Buffs" after its coat facings. Stationed in Canterbury at the outbreak of war, The Buffs then moved to Dover where they remained. 

Buffs Boer War Memorial
Canterbury, Kent, UK

The Regiment took part in many campaigns in the years that followed. In 1961, after nearly 400 years of distinguished service, the Regiment became part of The Queen's Own Buffs, The Royal Kent Regiment.

Sources:  Find my Past, Free BMD,

https://www.warrenpress.net/FolkestoneThenNow/FolkestonePeople.html 

https://www.warrenpress.net/FolkestoneThenNow/FolkestoneMilitary&Wartime.html

http://www.machadoink.com/Military2.htm

https://www.nam.ac.uk/explore/buffs-royal-east-kent-regiment 

A poem written by Private Charles Davies from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, who served during the First World War in the 12 Canadian Field Ambulance

 While researching for republishing a volume of poetry written by a Canadian soldier poet in WW1, I noticed a mention of Shorncliffe Camp in Kent, England.  As my Grandfather, who was a professional soldier with the British Royal Field Artillery, was stationed at Shorncliffe Camp for a while in 1913, I had to find out more.  I discovered a marvellous website that features a WW1 poem and contacted the website administrator - Christine Warren - who very kindly sent me this information, with permission to share the poem with you.

Private Charles Davies (1893 - ?) from Winnipeg, Manitoba, Canada, who served during the First World War in the 12th Canadian Field Ambulance, wrote the following lines which were published in a Canadian newspaper in 1919.  Christine Warren found the poem in the book “Coast of Conflict” by Michael & Martin George. Christine typed it out and added it to the Military page of her Folkestone Then & Now website  https://www.warrenpress.net/FolkestoneThenNow/FolkestoneThen_Now.html

“SHORNCLIFFE CAMP” by Private Charles Davies

Folkestone, though Queen of the Southern Coast,

I'm loath to leave your grassy warren;

Those steep white cliffs that beacon like a genial host

Receding from my eyes night dim with tears.

What soothing hours and happy days so dear does memory recall;

The walk along the Leas, the leafy undercliff, and Oh, that changing sea,

When the rich red sunset sparkles on thy face,

Such are my thoughts of thee picture of grace.

Garden of England! Men of Kent!

Think of your heritage; the flowers sweet scent,

That wooded glade at Seabrook, primrose clad;

The glimpse of moving picture shore to make you glad.

Those verdant meads of Shorncliffe Plain,

Bright green as emeralds after rain.

Deep down in mist of blue lies sleeping Sandgate town,

Whose twinkling lights shine like some fairy's crown.

St. Martin's spire, neath which brave Plimsol sleeps,

Whose noble work the British sailor reaps;

The bugle blasts and all war's grim array,

Much as it did in Moore's fair distant day.

Not even the mists of Passchendaele and its blood strewn duckboard track

Can blot from out my memory the charm of Radnor Park,

Who would not fight for thee, dear land,

For every flower and Kentish maid's fair hand.

Who cares for the muddy trenches and the shrapnel's piercing scream,

The waves of poison and all the ghastly scene?

There are those away in the Golden West dearer than Nelson's name-

Mothers and wives and sisters; it's for them we play the game.

Shorncliffe Camp

Shorncliffe Army Camp is a large military camp near Cheriton in Kent, UK. Established in 1794, it later served as a staging post for troops destined for the Western Front during the First World War.  In April 1915 a Canadian Training Division was formed at Shorncliffe Camp. The Canadian Army Medical Corps had general hospitals based at Shorncliffe from September 1917 to December 1918. The camp at that time was composed of five unit lines known as Moore Barracks, Napier Barracks, Risborough Barracks, Ross Barracks and Somerset Barracks. On three occasions there were German air raids which killed soldiers in the camp.

Additional information from:

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shorncliffe_Army_Camp

https://torontopostcardclub.com/tag/shorncliffe-camp/

https://www.frittendenarmistice.co.uk/Armistice_1918/file/early.php

Richard Gibbs Mansfield II (1898 – 1918) – American poet who died in WW1

With thanks to Chris Dubbs for his help in find out more about Richard, to AC Benus for his help in finding some of Richar’s poems and to Dr Connie Ruzich for the post on her weblog that led me to discover the Carnegie Tech poets and more. 

Richard Gibbs Mansfield II was born in 1898. His father was Richard Mansfield (24 May 1857 – 30 August 1907) was a famous English actor-manager and his mother, an American actress, was Beatrice Mansfield, nee Cameron (1868 – 1940).  They were married in 1892. Richard was their only child. Richard was also an actor and played the part of Prince Karl in his Father's play "Old Heidelberg". The picture of him left is from from “The Kansas City Times” 8 September 1916 - Newspapers.com - found by Chris Dubbs.

Richard Mansfield II attended Carnegie Institute of Technology – known as “Carnegie Tech”.  

He volunteered as an ambulance driver in France early on in The First World War, though officially underage - albeit with his mother's permission.  When America entered the war, he joined the U.S. Army and went to Texas to be part of an aviation unit. While there, he contracted meningitis and died in 1918.

While the list is known to be incomplete, approximately 900 Carnegie Tech students, alumni, and faculty served during The First World War. At least 44 students died in service. The first was Walter Crellin, a design student, who was on the Tuscania when it was torpedoed by a U-boat off the northern coast of Ireland on 5th February 1918. The last known death was Arthur H. McGill, a science student, who died of pneumonia in France on 2nd February 1919.

Here is one of Richard’s poems:

“For King and Country” 

The king he sits in his chamber high^ 

With a hundred faithful courtiers by . . , 

What matter it if the soldiers die? 

         Tis all for King and Country! 

Outside is heard the bugler's blare; 

The band is playing a lively air. 

See how the burghers stop to stare . . . 

       'Tis all for King and Country! 

What matters it if far away, 

In the trenches, they're dying every day? 

While they're dying, hear them say: 

       'Tis all for King and Country! 

Over the wires comes the news, 

That this is a battle our enemies lose — 

But our men they die in the bloody ooze,   

       'Tis all for King and Country! 

The king, he smiles that the news is good; 

His men are dying for the lack of food — 

But it doesn't matter — ^when understood 

       Tis all for King and Country! 

But for the mothers who weep, and for the babes who cry 

And for the girls who wait, and for men who die, 

Led to their death by a noble lie, 

There'll be a reckoning by and by! 

       To be met by King and Country! 

Richard Mansfield^ II

From “Carnegie Tech War Verse” (Carnegie Institute of Technology, Carnegie, Pittsburgh, PA, USA, 1918), p. 27

“Carnegie Tech War Verse” is a two-book set printed in 1918 entitled “The Soldier’s Progress and Carnegie Tech War Verse”. The books were edited by English professor Haniel Long of the Carnegie Institute of Technology (present-day Carnegie Mellon University)

Sources:

https://www.cmu.edu/news/stories/archives/2018/november/camp-carnegie.html

Press cutting from “The Kansas City Times” 8 September 1916 - Newspapers.com

https://behindtheirlines.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-little-folk

NOTES;

Author Chris Dubbs has written and edited books about WW1, such as

Historian, Writer, Translator and Poet AC Benus is the author of of a book about German WW1 poet Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele : “The Thousandth Regiment: A Translation of and Commentary on Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele’s War Poems” by AC Benus (AC Benus, San Francisco, 2020). Along with Hans's story, the book includes original poems as well as translations.    ISBN: 978-1657220584

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583

Dr. Connie Ruzich, a former Fulbright Scholar in the UK, is now a University Professor at Robert Morris University Sewickley, Pennsylvania, USA.  She has edited a WW1 Anthology entitled “International Poetry of the First World War: An Anthology of Lost Voices” Editor Constance M. Ruzich (Bloomsbury Academic, 2020) and also has the WW1 poetry website Behind their Lines

https://behindtheirlines.blogspot.com/

Jack Morris Wright (1898 - 1918) – American aviator poet

 With thanks to AC Benus who found me the WW1 poems of Carnegie Tech that led to the discovery of this poet

Jack Morris Wright was born in New York City, USA. He was taken to France when he was a little boy and remained there mostly until the start of the First World War. He was educated in France and America and French was his mother tongue. Jack graduated with special honours from l’École Alsacienne in Paris and also attended Andover College, Massachusetts in America, before entering Harvard University. 

On The Andover College Memorial website, we learn that: 

“Jack Morris Wright, Class of 1917, left school before graduation to sail for France with the Andover Ambulance Unit. After arriving, members of the unit were told there was little need for additional ambulance drivers but a great need for men to drive ammunition trucks for the French Army — the Camion Corps. Like most members of the unit, Wright volunteered. It was necessary but dull work, and (again, like many others) Wright soon wangled his way into aviation, first in the French Army, then with the U.S. Army Air Servie of the American Expeditionary Force.”

Jack was killed flying on the Western Front on 24th January 1918.   After the War, his mother had his letters published Jack’s letters with the title  “A Poet Of The Air; Letters Of Jack Morris Wright: First Lieutenant Of The American Aviation In France, April, 1917-January, 1918”

When she wrote to Jack telling him of her intention, he agreed to her suggestion and penned a bellicose foreword for the book in December 1917. It began:

“These letters are taken directly out of the hurried office of Mars; 

they are notes on the exact shell-holes your man will crouch in, 

on the precious stars and mighty heavens he will look up to; 

on War’s fight, toil, and divinity; 

on War’s romance and War’s exile; 

on War’s New World and the new life it spreads each passing day, 

to every human proud to have a soul across the Atlantic firmament 

in the first grasping streaks of dawn.”

In a letter to his Grandmother, dated 19th May 1917, Jack said: 

"After a week in Paris where I awaited my ambulance, I was suddenly sent with a transport section that carries munitions up to the line, so that I should make sketches to be sent to America.

Within three months, though, I will be back to a Ford ambulance unless something else turns up or unless I prefer to remain here.

Twenty boys and two Profs of my school have come with me, so I feel quite at home. But of course I am at home anyway since France means so very much to me. I have always been in Paradise here. I have often been in Hell in America. Then the war is a sight that only a fool or a prisoner would miss."

On 5th September 1917, Jack wrote to his mother:

"You want to know something of my aviation program? I have told you much already. I can't tell you very much more on account of the censor, but here is a general idea of it which is public and permissible to tell: --

I go to training camp in the most beautiful country of France, this autumn. After three months' training --- proportional to weather conditions, I will know all about aeroplanes, motors and tactics and fighting. I will have passed semi-final and final exams and will be a full-fledged aviator pilot. with the grade of a First Lieutenant of the U.S. Army in whose service I will be.

I am enlisted now as a private for the duration of the war and will not get my stripes for some three months, when I am sent to the front to fly.

“A Poet Of The Air; Letters Of Jack Morris Wright: First Lieutenant Of The American Aviation In France, April, 1917-January, 1918” is available to read on the Internet http://www.gwpda.org/memoir/Wright/Jack3.htm

Here is a poem written by one of Jack's friends - Richard Gibbs Mansfield II - dedicated to Jack:

“Memories”

Written upon hearing of the death of his friend, who had served as an ambulance driver in France with Richard before joining the American Air Service - Lieutenant Jack Wright  Although only 18 years old, Jack Morris Wright who was also a poet, was commissioned as a First Lieutenant Pilot-Aviator of the American Aviation and was killed in France on 24th January 1918. 

It's a face in a crowd as you're passing by; 

It's the turn of a head that will catch your eye; 

It's a gay refrain that will make you sigh. 

Memories — memories — we all must die. 

The hotel lobby is gold and red. 

And you catch yourself thinking of things he said. 

And a girl comes near, with a turn of her head; — 

He'd have liked her, too, — but he's dead. 

So the flowers will grow by his grave some day. 

And the world goes on with its work and play; 

But I catch myself humming a song that's gay. 

It's how he would like to have died — that way! 

By Richard Mansfield II 

From “Carnegie Tech War Verse” (Carnegie Institute of Technology, Carnegie, Pittsburgh, PA, USA, 1918), p. 13

AC Benus is the author of a book about German WW1 poet Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele : “The Thousandth Regiment: A Translation of and Commentary on Hans Ehrenbaum-Degele’s War Poems” by AC Benus (AC Benus, San Francisco, 2020). Along with Hans's story, the book includes original poems as well as translations.    ISBN: 978-1657220584

https://www.amazon.co.uk/dp/1657220583

Francis Fowler Hogan (1896 - 1918) – American soldier poet

With thanks to Dr. Connie Ruzich via Twitter @wherrypilgrim for helping to discover so many other WW1 poets.

Francis Fowler Hogan was born in Pittsburgh, PC, USA on November 13, 1896, to Thomas and Emma Hogan, who once lived in the East Liberty neighborhood of Pittsburgh. Thomas Hogan was a tea and coffee dealer in Pittsburgh and died in Saint Francis Hospital of pneumonia the day before his son, Francis’s eleventh birthday.

Francis was educated at Peabody High School where he was a member of the debate team, drama club, and the literary society. In May 1916, he took part in an Oscar Wilde play produced by the class - “The Importance Of Being Earnest.”   A classmate commented : “Mr. Hogan as Algernon Moncrieff was his own charming self to the delight of his audience.” While at the school, Francis also edited the student’s newspaper, “The Melting Pot”. He graduatedl in 1916 with honours. Following his graduation, Francis entered the newly formed School of Drama at the Carnegie Institute of Technology - "Carnegie Tech" - which is now the Carnegie Mellon University.

When America joined the First World War, Francis enlisted in the National Army.  He was sent to Camp Colt in Gettysburg PA for initial training, then to Camp Greene, NC, and finally to Camp Stuart, VA, a troop clearinghouse during WW1. 

Francis was assigned to Company M, 4th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Division, travelled to the Western Front and took part in three major military operations: Aisne-Marne, Saint-Mihiel, and the Meuse-Argonne.  He was killed during the fighting on 17th October 1918 at Bois de Forêt and Clairs Chênes woods.  Several of his poems were included in Carnegie Tech War Verse (1918). 

This is believed to have been last poem written by Francis.  It was included in a letter written to his mother who sent it to the “Pittsburgh Dispatch” in November 1918.

“The Adventure”

I have found a cave.

Dark and very deep;

Who may know what wonders

In the cannon sleep?

Maybe there are gems

And a heap of gold;

Maybe sacred volumes

Stored there of old.

Maybe there are poppies

Which the gnomes hoard;

Bits of dragon skin,

Or a broken sword.

Or a queen enchanted

Whom we may free;

Maybe only death –

Come, let us see.

Francis Fowler Hogan

Francis's friend William Hervey Allen Jr (1889 – 1949) – American poet, writer and educator wrote a poem dedicated to him.

Sources:

Former Fulbright Scholar Dr. Connie Ruzich's website entitled Behind their Lines.  (Connie’s approach is rather more academic than mine:..)

https://behindtheirlines.blogspot.com/2018/10/the-little-folk.html 

“Carnegie Tech War Verse” (Carnegie Institute of Technology, Pittsburgh, PA, 1918)

https://archive.org/details/carnegietechwar00techgoog

https://greatwarpittsburgh.com/?p=516

John Allan Wyeth (1894 – 1981) was an American World War I veteran, war poet, and artist.

John in WW1

John Allan Wyeth was born on 24th October 1894 in New York City, USA. His parents were John Allan Wyeth, a war veteran and surgeon, and his wife, Florence Nightingale Wyeth, nee Sims. He had a brother, Marion Sims Wyeth, who designed houses in Florida.

Educated at the Lawrenceville School, a boarding school in New Jersey, John graduated from Princeton University in 1915, where he was a member of the Princeton Charter Club. He became a French teacher in a high school in Mesa, Arizona for a year, then went to graduate school at Princeton to study to become a professor of Romance languages.  

During the First World War, John served with the 33rd Division of the American Expeditionary Force as a translator/interpreter and then with the Army of Occupation in Germany. His WW1 collection was“This Man’s Army: A War in Fifty-Odd Sonnets” published in 1928 by Harold Vinal, Maine.

The Road to Bayonvillers

A German gun, Bayonvillers, 1918

The sidecar skimmed low down like a flying sled

over the straight road with its double screen

of wire—the blue profile of Amiens sank

below the plain—near by, a hidden blast

of gunfire by the roadside—just ahead,

a white cloud bursting out of a slope of green.

Then low swift open land and the wasted flank

of a leprous hillside—over the ridge and past

the blackened stumps of Bois Vert, bleak and dead.

Our sidecar jolted and rocked, twisting between

craters, lunging at every rack and wrench.

Through Bayonvillers—her dusty wreckage stank

of rotten flesh, a dead street overcast

with a half-sweet, fetid, cloying fog of stench.

On To Paris

Map of Paris subway WW1

Light enough now to watch the trees go by--

a sleep like sickness in the rattling train.

Men's bodies joggle on the opposite seat

and tired greasy faces half awake

stir restlessly and breathe a stagnant sigh.

The stale air thickens on the grimy pane

reeking of musty smoke and woolly feet.

Versailles—a bridge of shadow on a lake

dawn-blue and pale, the color of the sky.

Paris at last!--and a great joy like pain

in my heart. We scuffle down the corridor.

"Lieutenant."

                          "Sir."

                                       "In half an hour we meet

at another station — your orders are to take

these men by subway to the Gare du Nord."

"French Countryside" a
painting by John Allan Wyeth

Sources:

https://allpoetry.com/John-Allan-Wyeth

http://johnallanwyeth.blogspot.com/2012/03/why-blog-about-unknown-wwi-poet-and.html

https://www.mutualart.com/Artwork/FRENCH-COUNTRYSIDE/41B04544749A69D8F471185778947DC7

https://fr.usembassy.gov/world-war-i-centennial-series-getting-around-paris/

https://www.awm.gov.au/collection/E02936

Gerhard Moerner (1894-1917) – German WW1 poet

With grateful thanks to my friend Timo Gälzer for finding Gerhard’s resting place and to Timo and to my friend Dani Stöpselfor their help in translating the poem included here

Born Gerhard Klaus Müller-Rastatt, he used the pen-name Gerhard Moerner.  Gerhard was killed on 15th April 1917 and was buried in Vladslo Cemetery, Block 3 Grave 2587 

Albert Ehrenstein dedicated his poem "War Country" to Gerhard. 

Here is a poem by Gerhard:

"Nacht im Schützengraben"

Tief will sich der Himmel neigen,

Schwer von seiner Sternenlast.

Runde Leuchtraketen steigen

Auf zu seinem Blaudamast.

Rückwärts ist mein Kopf geglitten

Auf den Sand der Schulterwehr

Und mir ist, als wär ich mitten

In dem weißen Silbermeer.

Schüsse fallen, Rufe kommen,

Meine Hand kühlt kühlen Wind,

Und ich weiß kaum, traumbenommen,

Noch, was Stern, was Augen sind.

aus: „Aus dem Felde“. Gedichte. Kugelverlag, Hamburg 1917.

German troops in a trench WW1

“A Night in the Trenches”

 The sky wants to bend low,

Heavy with the burden of the stars

Round flares rise up

Onto the sky’s damask blue.

My head slips back

Onto the sand of the trench parapet

And I feel as if I'm in the middle

Of the silvery-white sea.

Shots are fired, shouts are heard,

My hand cools in the chill wind,

And I hardly know, I feel so dreamy,

Neither what stars, nor what eyes are.

from: "From the Field" - poems. Kugelverlag, Hamburg, 1917.

e.e. cummings (1894 – 1962) – American playwright, poet, artist and writer

Born in Cambridge, Massachusetts, USA on 14th October 1894, Edward Estlin Cummings attended Harvard University and graduated with a B.A.. in 1915 and an M.A. in 1916.  He served as a volunteer ambulance driver in France with the Norton-Harjes Ambulance Corps, American Red Cross, during The First World War. Edward was imprisoned for three months in a French detention centre, having been mistaken as a spy. He went on to serve in the United States Army (1918-1919), then studied art in Paris (1920-1924).

Edward published his book “The Enormous Room” (1922) as a recollection of his imprisonment in France. The book explains in late August 1917, his friend and colleague, William Slater Brown (known in the book only as B.), was arrested by French authorities as a result of anti-war sentiments  expressed in letters. When questioned, Cummings stood by his friend and was also arrested and the pair were imprisoned for over four months in La Ferté-Macé, France.

With his ambulance in France, WW1

He then had several collections of his poems published, experimenting with punctuation, line division, and capitalization, possibly influenced by the style of French poet Apollinaire. In a letter to young poets published in a high school newspaper, Cummings said, "[N]othing is quite so easy as using words like somebody else. We all of us do exactly this nearly all the time, and whenever we do it, we're not poets."

“The Enormous Room” by e.e. cummings is available as a download on Gutenberg  http://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/8446/pg8446-images.html

e.e. cummings is how Edward preferred his name to be written.   

By French poet Apollinaire
an example of his word play

XXX

i sing of Olaf glad and big

whose warmest heart recoiled at war:

a conscientious object-or

his wellbelovéd colonel(trig

westpointer most succinctly bred)

took erring Olaf soon in hand;

but--though an host of overjoyed

noncoms(first knocking on the head

him)do through icy waters roll

that helplessness which others stroke

with brushes recently employed

anent this muddy toiletbowl,

while kindred intellects evoke

allegiance per blunt instruments--

Olaf(being to all intents

a corpse and wanting any rag

upon what God unto him gave)

responds,without getting annoyed

"I will not kiss your fucking flag"

straightway the silver bird looked grave

(departing hurriedly to shave)

but--though all kinds of officers

(a yearning nation's blueeyed pride)

their passive prey did kick and curse

until for wear their clarion

voices and boots were much the worse,

and egged the firstclassprivates on

his rectum wickedly to tease

by means of skilfully applied

bayonets roasted hot with heat--

Olaf(upon what were once knees)

does almost ceaselessly repeat

"there is some shit I will not eat"

our president,being of which

assertions duly notified

threw the yellowsonofabitch

into a dungeon,where he died

Christ(of His mercy infinite)

i pray to see;and Olaf,too

preponderatingly because

unless statistics lie he was

more brave than me:more blond than you.

https://poets.org/poem/i-sing-olaf-glad-and-big

George Willis – British poet

 

With thanks to  Eric Edwards via Twitter  @ebd_edwards

for finding this poem.

I have not been able to find anything out about George Willis.  If anyone can help, please get in touch.

In her Bibliography, Catherine W. Reilly lists the WW1 poetry collections by George Willis as:

“Any soldier to his son, (and other poems)” by George Willis and C.R.W. Nevinson (Allen & Unwin, London 1919).  45 p

“A Ballad of four brothers, (and other poems)” (Allen & Unwin, London 1921).

Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War: A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) p. 338 

Any Soldier To His Son

What did I do, sonny, in the Great World War?

Well, I learned to peel potatoes and to scrub the barrack floor.

I learned to push a barrow and I learned to swing a pick,

I learned to turn my toes out, and to make my eyeballs click.

I learned the road to Folkestone, and I watched the English shore,

Go down behind the skyline, as I thought, for evermore.

And the Blighty boats went by us and the harbour hove in sight,

And they landed us and sorted us and marched us "by the right".

"Quick march!" across the cobbles, by the kids who ran along

Singing "Appoo?" "Spearmant" "Shokolah?" through dingy old Boulogne;

By the widows and the nurses and the niggers and Chinese,

And the gangs of smiling Fritzes, as saucy as you please.

I learned to ride as soldiers ride from Etaps to the Line,

For days and nights in cattle trucks, packed in like droves of swine.

I learned to curl and kip it on a foot of muddy floor,

And to envy cows and horses that have beds of beaucoup straw.

I learned to wash in shell holes and to shave myself in tea,

While the fragments of a mirror did a balance on my knee.

I learned to dodge the whizz-bangs and the flying lumps of lead,

And to keep a foot of earth between the sniper and my head.

I learned to keep my haversack well filled with buckshee food,

To take the Army issue and to pinch what else I could.

I learned to cook Maconochie* with candle-ends and string,

With "four-by-two" and sardine-oil and any God-dam thing.

I learned to use my bayonet according as you please

For a breadknife or a chopper or a prong for toasting cheese.

I learned "a first field dressing" to serve my mate and me

As a dish-rag and a face-rag and a strainer for our tea.

I learned to gather souvenirs that home I hoped to send,

And hump them round for months and months and dump them in the end.

I learned to hunt for vermin in the lining of my shirt,

To crack them with my finger-nail and feel the beggars spirt;

I learned to catch and crack them by the dozen and the score

And to hunt my shirt tomorrow and to find as many more.

I learned to sleep by snatches on the firestep of a trench,

And to eat my breakfast mixed with mud and Fritz's heavy stench.

I learned to pray for Blighty ones and lie and squirm with fear,

When Jerry started strafing and the Blighty ones were near.

I learned to write home cheerful with my heart a lump of lead

With the thought of you and mother, when she heard that I was dead.

And the only thing like pleasure over there I ever knew,

Was to hear my pal come shouting, "There's a parcel, mate, for you."

So much for what I did do - now for what I have not done:

Well, I never kissed a French girl and I never killed a Hun,

I never missed an issue of tobacco, pay, or rum,

I never made a friend and yet I never lacked a chum.

I never borrowed money, and I never lent - but once

(I can learn some sorts of lessons though I may be borne a dunce).

I never used to grumble after breakfast in the Line

That the eggs were cooked too lightly or the bacon cut too fine.

I never told a sergeant just exactly what I thought,

I never did a pack-drill, for I never quite got caught.

I never punched a Red-Cap's nose (be prudent like your Dad),

But I'd like as many sovereigns as the times I've wished I had.

I never stopped a whizz-bang, though I've stopped a lot of mud,

But the one that Fritz sent over with my name on was a dud.

I never played the hero or walked about on top,

I kept inside my funk hole when the shells began to drop.

Well, Tommy Jones's father must be made of different stuff:

I never asked for trouble - the issue was enough.

So I learned to live and lump it in the lovely land of war,

Where the face of nature seems a monstrous septic sore,

Where the bowels of earth of earth hang open, like the guts of something slain,

And the rot and wreck of everything are churned and churned again;

Where all is done in darkness and where all is still in day,

Where living men are buried and the dead unburied lay;

Where men inhabit holes like rats, and only rats live there;

Where cottage stood and castle once in days before La Guerre;

Where endless files of soldiers thread the everlasting way,

By endless miles of duckboards, through endless walls of clay;

Where life is one hard labour, and a soldiers gets his rest

When they leave him in the daisies with a puncture in his chest;

Where still the lark in summer pours her warble from the skies,

And underneath, unheeding, lie the blank upstaring eyes.

And I read the Blighty papers, where the warriors of the pen

Tell of "Christmas in the trenches" and "The Spirit of our men";

And I saved the choicest morsels and I read them to my chum,

And he muttered, as he cracked a louse and wiped it off his thumb:

"May a thousand chats from Belgium crawl under their fingers as they write;

May they dream they're not exempted till they faint with mortal fright;

May the fattest rats in Dickebusch race over them in bed;

May the lies they've written choke them like a gas cloud till they're dead;

May the horror and the torture and the things they never tell

(For they only write to order) be reserved for them in Hell!"

You'd like to be a soldier and go to France some day?

By all the dead in Delville Wood, by all the nights I lay

Between our lines and Fritz's before they brought me in;

By this old wood-and-leather stump, that once was flesh and skin;

By all the lads who crossed with me but never crossed again,

By all the prayers their mothers and their sweethearts prayed in vain,

Before the things that were that day should ever more befall

May God in common pity destroy us one and all!

https://allpoetry.com/Any-Soldier-To-His-Son

According to the link found by Eric Edwarads: A section of the poem was  published in a 1939 magazine called ‘The Great War…I Was There: Undying memories of 1914-1918.‘  - attributed to Anon. The magazine noted the poem was ‘found by an officer ‘somewhere in France’‘

https://greatwarfiction.wordpress.com/2022/10/09/new-army-education/

*Maconochie was a stew of sliced turnips, carrots, potatoes, onions, haricot beans and beef in a thin broth, named after the Aberdeen Maconochie Company that produced it. It was a widely used food ration for British soldiers in the field during the Boer War and in front-line trenches during the First World War.

Hermann Karl Hesse (1877 – 1962) – German born writer poet and artist who became a Swiss Citizen in 1923

Portrait of Hermann,
1905

Hermann Karl Hesse was born on 2nd July 1877 in Calw in Württemberg, in the Black Forest area of Germany.   His parents were Johannes Hesse, and his wife, Marie, nee Gundert. The Hesse family moved to Calw in 1873, where  

Johannes worked for the Calwer Verlagsverein, a publishing firm. Marie's father, Hermann Gundert, managed the publishing house until Johannes Hesse took over from him in 1893.

During the First World War, Herman volunteered with the Imperial army, saying that he “could not sit inactively by a warm fireplace while other young authors were dying on the front”.  However, he was found not fit enough to be a front line soldier and was assigned to service in charge of prisoners of war. 

Critical of the conflict, he wrote: "That love is greater than hate, understanding greater than ire, peace nobler than war, this exactly is what this unholy World War should burn into our memories, more so than ever felt before."  Hermann found himself in the middle of a serious political debate.  He was attacked by the German press, received hate mail and was distanced from old friends. However, he did receive support from his friend Theodor Heuss, and the French writer Romain Rolland, who visited Hermann in August 1915. In 1917, Hesse wrote to Rolland, "The attempt ... to apply love to matters political has failed."

Hermann’s father died on 8th May 1916 and his son, Martin, became seriously ill.  In addition, his wife suffered from schizophrenia. He was, therefore, forced to leave his military service and begin receiving psychotherapy. Thus began a preoccupation with psychoanalysis, through which Hermann got to know Carl Jung personally. During September and October 1917, Hermann wrote his novel “Demian” published after the Armistice in 1919 under the pen-name Emil Sinclair.  Hermann was granted Swiss citizenship in 1923.

Among the best-known works of Hermann Hesse are "Demian", "Steppenwolf", "Siddhartha" and "The Glass Bead Game", which explore an individual's search for authenticity, self-knowledge and spirituality. In 1946, he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature.  

Hermann died on 9th August 1962 and was buried in the cemetery of Sant’Abbondio in Gentilino, where his friend and biographer Hugo Ball and another German personality, the conductor Bruno Walter, are also buried.

Poetry collections by Hermann Hesse:

(1898) "Romantische Lieder" (Romantic Songs)

(1900) "Hinterlassene Schriften und Gedichte von Hermann Lauscher" (The Posthumous Writings and Poems of Hermann Lauscher)—with prose

(1970) "Poems" (21 poems written between 1899 and 1921)

(1975) "Crisis: Pages from a Diary"

(1979) "Hours in the Garden and Other Poems" (written during the same period as The Glass Bead Game)

Here is a WW1 poem by Hermann Hesse:

Denken an den Freund bei Nacht (September 1914)

Früh kommt in diesembösen Jahr der Herbst.

Ich geh bei Nacht im Feld, den kalten Wind am Hut,

Der Regen klirrt. Und du? Und du, mein Freund?

...

Du stehst - vielleicht -und siehst den Sichelmond.

Im kleinen Bogen über Wäldern gehen

Und Biwakfeuer rot im schwarzen Tal.

Du liegst - vielleicht - im Feld auf Stroh und schläfst,

Und über Stirn und Waffenrock fällt leicht der Tau.

Kann sein, du bist zu Pferde diese Nacht,

Vorpfosten, spähend unterwegs, Revolver in der Faust,

Flüsternd und kosend mit dem müden Gaul.

Vielleicht - ich denk’ mir’s so - bist du die Nacht

in einem fremden Schloß und Park zur Nacht

Und schreibst bei Kerzenlicht an einem Brief,

Und tippst am Flügel im Vorübergehn

An klingende Tasten -

- Und vielleicht

bist du schon still und tot. Und deinen lieben

ernsthaften Augen scheint der Tag nicht mehr,

Und deine liebe brauen Hand hängt welk,

Und deine weiße Stirne klafft. - O hätt ich,

hätt ich dir einmal noch am letzten Tage

dir etwas noch gezeigt, gesagt

von meiner Liebe, die zu schüchtern war!

Du kennst mich ja, du weißt ... und lächelnd nickst

du in die Nacht vor deinem fremden Schloß,

und nickst auf deinem Pferd im nassen Wald,

und nickst im Schlaf auf deiner harten Streu,

und denkst an mich und lächelst.

Und vielleicht

vielleicht kommst du einmal vom Krieg zurück

und eines Abends trittst du bei mir ein,

man spricht von Lüttich, Longwy, Dammerkirch,

und lächelst ernst, und alles ist wie einst,

und keiner sagt ein Wort von seiner Angst,

von seiner Liebe. Und mit einem Witz

Wirfst du die Angst, den Krieg, die bangen Nächte,

Das Wetterleuchten scheuer Männerfreundschaft

Ins kühle Nichtgewesensein zurück.

Thinking Of A Friend At Night (September 1914)

In this evil year, autumn comes early…

I walk by night in the field, alone, the rain clatters,

The wind on my hat…And you? And you, my friend?

You are standing—maybe—and seeing the sickle moon

Move in a small arc over the forests

And bivouac fire, red in the black valley.

You are lying—maybe—in a straw field and sleeping

And dew falls cold on your forehead and battle jacket.

It's possible tonight you're on horseback,

The farthest outpost, peering along, with a gun in your fist,

Smiling, whispering, to your exhausted horse.

Maybe—I keep imagining—you are spending the night

As a guest in a strange castle with a park

And writing a letter by candlelight, and tapping

On the piano keys by the window,

Groping for a sound…

—And maybe

You are already silent, already dead, and the day

Will shine no longer into your beloved

Serious eyes, and your beloved brown hand hangs wilted,

And your white forehead split open—Oh, if only,

If only, just once, that last day, I had shown you, told you

Something of my love, that was too timid to speak!

But you know me, you know…and, smiling, you nod

Tonight in front of your strange castle,

And you nod to your horse in the drenched forest,

And you nod to your sleep to your harsh clutter of straw,

And think about me, and smile.

And maybe,

Maybe some day you will come back from the war,

and take a walk with me some evening,

And somebody will talk about Longwy, Luttich, Dammerkirch,

And smile gravely, and everything will be as before,

And no one will speak a word of his worry,

Of his worry and tenderness by night in the field,

Of his love. And with a single joke

You will frighten away the worry, the war, the uneasy nights,

The summer lightning of shy human friendship,

Into the cool past that will never come back.

Translated by James Wright

From “Hermann Hesse poems: Selected and translated by James Wright”  (Jonathan Cape, London, 1977 ) – pp 64 – 66.  Original German from “Die Gedichte in Gesammelte Schriften” by Hermann Hesse (Suhrkamp Verlag, Berlin, 1953).   With many thanks to writer, historian, translator and poet AC Benus for finding the original collection of that volume of Herman Hesse’s poems:

https://archive.org/details/bub_gb_Ev5KAAAAMAAJ/page/n7/mode/2up

Sources:

https://www.thivien.net/Hermann-Hesse/Ngh%C4%A9-v%E1%BB%81-b%E1%BA%A1n-trong-%C4%91%C3%AAm/poem-KOuHEO5KJHJKBIgQBENfbw

https://allpoetry.com/Thinking-Of-A-Friend-At-Night

https://www.gutenberg.org/files/41907/41907-h/41907-h.htm

The 1905 portrait of Hermann Hesse was painted by Ernst Würtenberger (1868–1934)

Hermann Hesse was also an artist.  For more of his artwork see https://www.themarginalian.org/2022/06/08/hesse-trees/

Cortivallo, 1927
by Hermann Hesse

 

A poem printed on the front page of the Nationalist newspaper, Ireland, 12th February 1916 written by an anonymous poet using the pen-name A Drangan Boy

With thanks to Ciarán Conlan who found this poem for us - it was posted by MaryAnne Maher on the Facebook page 18th Regiment of Foot Royal Irish Regiment(& South Irish Horse)Association™

“AN IRISH SOLDIER ‘NEATH’ SLIEVENAMON”

Slievenamon or Slievenaman Mountain

Old hill! You’ve looked on many scenes of Ireland’s chequered story,

You’ve seen the “wild geese” fly to France and revelled in their glory;

You’ve heard the edict oft proclaimed – “To Hell or Connaught fly” –

And bent your head in sorrow as the victim’s pass’d you by.

But now, my grand old sentinel, another sun appears,

Dispelling past the clouds long cast in gloomy blood and tears.

No more the patriot outlaw seeks the shelter of your side,

To learn the soldier’s gallant trade, no more he needs to hide.

Amongst the rocky caverns, which dot your slopes, old hill,

And steal forth in the gloaming to join the moonlight drill,

For freedom’s sun is gleaming, and as “wild geese” never more

But as the gallant Irish soldiers we seek the Gaullic shore.

Unlike the days of Sarsfield, ‘tis no rotten Stuart cause,

Which calls is now to battle, and no tyrant alien laws,

Are there to make our King regret our loss to his own Crown,

Forgotten now is Fontenoy, but not our old renown,

Because on many bloody fields as in the days of yore,

The shamrock green in triumph’s seen for freedom evermore.

The savage Hun is weary, but we’re not conquered yet,

His deeds of blood at Ypres we’ll teach him to regret;

He trampled o’er our Irish dames, and there to us displayed,

What he had in store for Ireland if he won the game he played;

He little thought his mad assaults on priests and nuns also,

Would fiercely dart each Irish heart to deal him blow for blow.

The modern Attila now has grown sickly worn and grey,

His well-laid schemes of ruin and crime have sorely “ganged agley”

Our Munster boys and Connaught lands and Dublin Fusiliers,

And our Royal Irish heroes too of him have had no fears;

When we are marching home again lamenting comrades gone,

We’ll dry our tears in welcome cheers beneath old Slievenamon.

By A Drangan Boy

The Nationalist is a newspaper based in Clonmel in County Tipperary, Ireland. Established in 1890, it is a broadsheet newspaper published weekly, covering news, events, and sport in both Clonmel town and south Tipperary. It was formed to represent the views of the Irish nationalist community in County Tipperary, which led to the first editor been jailed under a Coercion Act on charges that he had intimidated a cattle dealer for taking a farm from which tenants had been evicted. It supported the Anglo-Irish Treaty, which led to the paper being shut down by Séumas Robinson during the Irish Civil War.  The newspaper is currently owned by Iconic Newspapers, which acquired Johnston Press's titles in the Republic of Ireland in 2014.

Slievenamon or Slievenaman (Tr. "mountain of the women") is a mountain with a height of 721 metres (2,365 ft) in County Tipperary, Ireland. It rises from a plain that includes the towns of Fethard, Clonmel and Carrick-on-Suir. The mountain is steeped in folklore and is associated with Fionn mac Cumhaill. On its summit are the remains of ancient burial cairns, which were seen as portals to the Otherworld. Much of its lower slopes are wooded, and formerly most of the mountain was covered in woodland. A low hill attached to Slievenamon, Carrigmaclear, was the site of a battle during the Irish Rebellion of 1798.

Patrick Sarsfield, (born, Lucan, County Dublin, Ireland;  died August 1693, Huy, Austrian Netherlands) - a Jacobite soldier who played a leading role in the Irish Roman Catholic resistance (1689–91) to England’s King William III. Sarsfield remains a favourite hero of the Irish national tradition.

Sarsfield

The Battle of Fontenoy was a major engagement of the War of the Austrian Succession, fought on 11 May 1745 near Tournai in modern Belgium. A French army of 50,000 under Marshal Saxe defeated a Pragmatic Army of roughly the same size, led by the Duke of Cumberland.

The Term 'Hun' was a derogatory nickname used primarily by the British and Americans - officers rather than men - during the First World War to describe the German Army, e.g. "the Huns attacked at dawn". The origin of the term dated back to the Boxer Rebellion (1899-1900).  When despatching his troops to China, Kaiser Wilhelm II instructed them in a speech he made to behave like the Huns of old and to wreak vengeance ("let the Germans strike fear into the hearts, so he'll be feared like the Hun").  According to W.A. Tucker in his memoir of his WW1 service “The Lousier War”, ordinary soldiers referred to the German troops as “Fritz”. 

Attila the Hun

Attila the Hun, was the ruler of the Huns from 434 until his death in March 453. He was also the leader of a tribal empire consisting of Huns, Ostrogoths, Alans and Bulgars, among others, in Central and Eastern Europe. He is also considered one of the most powerful rulers in world history.

Drangan is a village, census town and civil parish in County Tipperary, Ireland. It is in the historical barony of Middlethird.

https://www.facebook.com/groups/official18thregoffootroyalirishregassociation

“The Lousier War” by W.A.Tucker (The New English Library, London, 1974)

Battle of Fontenoy, 1745 by
Pierre L'Enfant (1704 - 1987)