Charles Walter Blackall (1876 - 1918) – British poet, writer, actor, soldier

Born in St. Albans , Hertfordshire, UK in 1876, Charles's parents were Major Robert Blackall, an Irish land-owner, and his wife Mary Emily, nee Gifford.  Charles had two brothers – Edward b. 1872 and Algernon b. 1880. The family lived in Elham, Folkestone, Kent in 1881.

Charles joined the Army - The Buffs Regiment - in 1900 (3^rd Battalion) and served during the Boer War.  In 1904, he war promoted to the rank of Captain.

In 1910, Charles married Alice Evelyn Feutrell Briscoe in Chelsea, London.  They lived in Bouverie Road, Folkestone, Kent and at Coolamber Manor, Co. Longford, Ireland and had two children. Charles retired from the Army in 1911. 

Charles and his wife were actors. They travelled to New York in September 1912, to perform 'The Whip' in the Manhattan Opera House.

Charles re-enlisted in 1914. He joined the First Battalion of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers on 4th December 1914, during a period when officers from several different regiments were posted in to make up for battle casualties.   Promoted to Lieutenant-Colonel in December 1915, Charles was sent to command the South Staffordshire Regiment on the Western Front.  Mentioned twice in Despatched, he was killed leading his men on 25^th March 1918.   He is commemorated on the Arras Memorial in France, Bay 2.

One of Charles’s poems was included in the WW1 Anthology “From the front:  trench poetry.” Edited by Lieutenant Clarence Edward Andrews and published in New York by Appleton in 1918 - 220 pages, the royalties of which were donated to the British Red Cross.

And his own WW1 collection “Songs from the trenches” was published by The Bodley Head, London in 1915.  (Catherine Reilly, p. 57).   This is available to read as a free down-load on Archive: http://www.archive.org/stream/songsfromtrenche00blacrich/songsfromtrenche00blacrich_djvu.txt

NOTE:  The British Army Regiment “The Buffs” were the infantry regiment The Royal East Kent Regiment, formed in 1572 and previously known as the 3^rd Regiment of Foot.  They recruited men from East Kent and were based at Canterbury.


“The Song of the Trench”  December, 1914 

This is the song of the blooming trench: 
It's sung by us and it's sung by the French ; 
It's probably sung by the German Huns ; 
But it isn't all beer, and skittles, and buns. 
It's a song of water, and mud and slime, 
And keeping your eyes skinned all the time. 
Though the putrid "bully" may kick up a stench, 
Remember, you've got to stick to your trench — 
Yes, stick like glue to your trench. 

You dig while it's dark, and you work while it's light, 
And then there's the "listening post" at night. 
Though you're soaked to the skin and chilled to the bone; 
Though your hands are like ice, and your feet like stone; 
Though your watch is long, and your rest is brief. 
And you pray like hell for the next relief; 
Though the wind may howl, and the rain may drench, 
Remember, you've got to stick to your trench- 
Yes, stick like mud to your trench. 

Perhaps a bullet may find its mark. 
And then there's a funeral after dark; 
And you say, as you lay him beneath the sod, 
A sportsman's soul has gone to his God. 
Behind the trench, in the open ground. 
There's a little cross and a little mound; 
And if at your heart-strings you feel a wrench, 
Remember, he died for his blooming trench — 
Yes, he died like a man for his trench. 

There's a rush and a dash, and they're at your wire. 
And you open the hell of a rapid fire; 
The Maxims rattle, the rifles flash, 
And the bombs explode with a sickening crash. 
You give them lead, and you give them steel. 
Till at last they waver, and turn, and reel. 
You've done your job — there was never a blench 
You've given them hell, and you've saved your trench ; 
By God, you've stuck to your trench ! 

The daylight breaks on the rain-soaked plain 
(For some it will never break again), 
And you thank your God, as you're "standing to," 
You'd your bayonet clean, and your bolt worked true. 
For your comrade's rifle had jammed and stuck. 
And he's lying there, with his brains in the muck. 
So love your gun — as you haven't a wench — 
And she'll save your life in the blooming trench — 
Yes, save your life in the trench. 


Capt. C. W. Blackall

Sources:

Find my Past;  Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) and

http://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GSln=Black&GSiman=1&GScid=2432218&GRid=124933682&

https://archive.org/stream/fromfronttrenchp00andr/fromfronttrenchp00andr_djvu.txt

http://www.stepshort.co.uk/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/Charles-Walter-Blackall-golf.pdf

and with thanks to Nick Locke of the Royal Welch Fusiliers Museum, who sent me information

written by R. J. M. Sinnett, 26 October 2007 - Biog of\Blackall CW

Additional Note: The Royal Welch Fusiliers (In Welsh: Ffiwsilwyr Brenhinol Cymreig) was a line infantry regiment of the British Army and part of the Prince of Wales' Division, founded in 1689 shortly after the Glorious Revolution. In 1702, it was designated a fusilier regiment and became The Welch Regiment of Fusiliers; the prefix "Royal" was added in 1713, then confirmed in 1714 when George I named it The Prince of Wales's Own Royal Regiment of Welsh Fusiliers. After the 1751 reforms that standardised the naming and numbering of regiments, it became the 23rd Foot (Royal Welsh Fuzileers).

The Regiment retained the archaic spelling of Welch, instead of Welsh, and Fuzileers for Fusiliers; these words were engraved on swords carried by regimental officers during the Napoleonic Wars. After the 1881 Childers Reforms, its official title was The Royal Welsh Fusiliers, but "Welch" continued to be used informally until restored in 1920 by Army Order No. 56.

From Jonathon Riley: http://generalship.org/military-history-articles/llewellyn-wyn-griffith.html

Maurice Bertrand (1881 - 1914) - French Poet, Playwright, Dramatist

With grateful thanks to Pierre Virey for sending me Maurice’s biography.

Maurice Bertrand was born in Paris on 30^th August 1881.  He began his literary career at the age of twenty at the “Revue mondaine”.  After military service, he married and went to live in penury in Brazil.  His wife left him and one of his daughters died at the age of seven.   Maurice wrote poetry which was published in “Dlrilège des Poètes du Verbe”.  When he returned to France, he sent his work to the monthly publication “L’Audace Littéraire” which later became “Comme il vous plaira”.  Maurice also used the pen-name Yves-le-Hâleur.

Maurice joined the 346^th Regiment of the French Army in September 1914 and fought in the Battles of the Ardennes and in Lorraine.  He was killed at Colincamps, Somme on 7^th October 1914 at the age of thirty-three.

Sources: “The Lost Voices of World War 1” compiled by Tim Cross and published by Bloomsbury, London in 1988 and "Anthologie des Ecrivains morts à la guerre 1914 - 1918" (Association des Ecrivains Combattants, Amiens, 1924 -26, 5 volumes), edited by Thierry Sandre.

Dimcho Debelyanov (1887 - 1916) - Bulgarian Poet

With thanks to Pierre Virey for bringing Dimcho to my attention and for translating one of his poems into French.

Bulgaria joined the First World War on 14th October 1915, aligning with the Central Powers of Germany, Austria-Hungary and the Ottoman Empire, declaring war on Serbia.

Dimcho was born on 28^th March 1887 in Koprivshtitsa in Bulgaria.  His parents were wealthy.  The family moved to Plovdiv then to Sofia.   Dimcho started submitting his poems to literary publications in 1906.   He tried his hand at several different jobs, working as a clerk and a freelance journalist before joining the Bulgarian Army in 1912.  He fought in the Balkan Wars.

On his discharge from the Army, Dimcho joined the Post Office but was not happy in his work and went back to the Army.   He was killed near Gorno Karadjovo on 2^nd October 1916, fighting against an Irish Regiment.   In 1931 his body was returned to Koprivshtitsa for re-burial in 1931.

Dimcho’s works were published in 365 publications in three languages.

 

“Foreboding”

 Behind me, the years run away from me one by one

And I run onwards, ever onwards, and up above
The sun burns the dismal desert my life has become
While I pursue the spectre of love

No crown of laurels encircles my brow

On my cheeks sweat mixes with blood now
My eyes mist over as with a fog of pain
While my soul seeks a happier terrain.

I am overcome with terror and fear:  the time is nigh

When I must grasp the edge of a bottomless pit
But my fingers have lost their strength and grip
And with a scream I am thrown back into the shadow-filled night.

Sources:  Wikipedia.  The statue of a grieving mother on Dimcho's grave is by the sculptor Ivan Lazarov (1890 - 1952).

Claude Quayle Lewis Penrose, MC and Bar (1894 - 1918) – British poet and artist

Claude Penrose was mentioned in Dispatches twice

Claude was born in Florida in America on 10th August 1893.  His parents were Henry Hugh “Harry” Penrose, a civil engineer and his wife, Mary Elizabeth, nee Lewis, who came from Kinsale in Ireland. Mary was a successful novelist who wrote under the name of Mrs. H.H. Penrose.  

The family went to live in England in 1897.   Claude was educated at the United Services College, a private school for the sons of military officers which was in Westward Ho! In Devon, before going on to the Royal Military Academy in Woolwich.

In 1911, the family lived at ‘Deepcut Bungalow’, Frimley Green, Surrey.  Claude was commissioned into the Royal Garrison Artillery as a 2^nd Lieutenant on 13^th July 1913.

Posted to the Western Front and slightly wounded during the first days of The Somme Offensive in July 1916, Claude wrote a poem about his impressions of the first day of the first Battle of the Somme.  In September 1916, he was awarded the Military Cross for actions during an attack on the village of Combles on 15th September 1916.

In October 1917, Claude was promoted to the rank of Major and given command of the 245th Siege Battery of the Royal Garrison Artillery.  During the Battle of Arras in March 1918, Claude won a Bar to his Military Cross.  He was mortally wounded on 31st July 1918 while rescuing his wounded Subaltern.   He died at the 2nd Canadian Casualty Clearing Station at 5.30 p.m. on 1st August 1918 and was buried in Esquelbecq Military Cemetery, Nord-Pas-de-Calais, France.  He is commemorated on the War Memorial – Heroes’ Column – at St. Fin Barre’s Cathedral, Cork, Ireland.

After his death, Claude’s mother had his poems and some of his art work published under the title “Poems; with a biographical preface” by Harrison in 1919 (274 pages). 

Sources:  Information kindly supplied by Claude’s relative and

http://digital.nls.uk/british-military-lists/pageturner.cfm?id=88179703

Catherine W. Reilly “English Poetry of the First World War A Bibliography” (St. Martin’s Press, New York, 1978) p. 251.

“On The Somme” by Claude Quayle Lewis Penrose, MC and Bar

Who heard the thunder of the great guns firing?

Who watched the line where the great shells roared?

Who drove the foemen back, and followed his retiring

When we threw him out of Pommiers, to the glory of the Lord?

Englishmen and Scotsmen, in the grey fog of morning

Watched the dim, black clouds that reeked, and strove to break the gloom;

And Irishmen that stood with them, impatient for the warning,

When the thundering around them would cease and give them room

Room to move forward as the grey mist lifted,

Quietly and swiftly – the white steel bare;

Happy, swift and quiet, as the fog still drifted,

They moved along the tortured slope and met the foemen there.

Stalwart men and wonderful, brave beyond believing –

Little time to mourn for friends that dropped without a word!

(Wait until the work is done, and then give way to grieving) –

So they hummed the latest rag-time to the glory of the Lord.

All across the No Man’s Land, and through the ruined wiring,

Each officer that led them, with a walking-cane for sword,

Cared not a button though the foeman went on firing

While they dribbled over footballs to the glory of the Lord.

And when the brought their captives back, hungry and downhearted,

They called him “Fritz” and slapped their backs, and, all with one accord

They shared with them what food they’d left from when the long day started

And gave them smokes and bully to the glory of the Lord.

NOTE: Pommiers is a town near Montaubon in the Somme, Picardie, France.

Bully Beef was a type of ‘corned beef’ introduced by the British Army during the Boer War. It was given in tins as rations to soldiers and could be made into a hot meal or eaten straight from the tin.

Edward Wyndham Tennant - 'Bim' - (1897 - 1916) - British - killed in action on 22nd September 1916

The Hon. Edward Wyndham Tennant (known to his family as 'Bim') was born on 1st July 1897 in Stockton House, near Warminster, Wiltshire, UK.  His father was Edward Priaux Tennant, Liberal Member of Parliament for Salisbury from 1906 (created Lord Glenconner in 1911) and his mother was Pamela Tennant, daughter of the Hon Percy Scawen Wyndham. His aunt, his father’s sister, was Margot Asquith, second wife of the Prime Minister, Herbert Asquith, father of Raymond Asquith.  Edward's younger brothers were Stephen Tennant, and David Tennant, the founder of the Gargoyle Club.  

Educated initially at West Downs School in Winchester, Edward began writing poetry at an early age.  He went on to study at Winchester College school and had planned a career in the British Diplomatic Service but instead joined the Grenadier Guards when WW1 broke out.

Edward was killed a week after his friend Raymond Asquith by a German sniper on 22nd September 1916.  He was buried in Guillemont Road Communal Cemetery near Raymond Asquith.

Edward's WW1 poems were published under the title "Worple Flit and other poems" in 1916.

After her son's death, Pamela Adelaide Genevieve Tennant, nee Wyndham, who was also a writer, published "Edward Tennant: a memoir" which is available to read free of charge on www.archive.org


“A Bas La Gloire!” October 1915 by Edward Tennant

The powers that be in solemn conclave sate
And dealt out honour from a large tureen,
And those unhonour’d said ’twas rather flat,
Not half so sparkling as it should have been.
Those honour’d silently pass’d round the hat,
Then let themselves be freely heard and seen.

And all this time there were a lot of men
Who were in France and couldn’t get away
To be awarded honours. Now and then
They died, so others came and had to stay
Till they died too, and every field and fen
Was heavy with the dead from day to day.

But there were other men who didn’t die
Although they were in France – these sat in cars,
And whizzed about with red-band caps, awry,
Exuding brandy and the best cigars.
With bands and tabs of red, they could defy
The many missiles of explosive Mars.

But one there was who used to serve in bars
And for his pretty wit much fame had god:
Though really not so fit to serve in wars,
They made him a staff-colonel on the spot,
And threw a knighthood in as well, because
He really had done such an awful lot.

Up fluttered eyebrows (incomes fluttered down)
His erstwhile yeomanry stood all aghast,
This Juggernaut, devourer of renown,
Was he their fellow-mug in days long past?
In France he went by train from town to town,
Men thought his zenith had been reached at last.

To this the Powers That Be replied, “Oh no!”
And they discovered (else my mem’ry fails)
That he had gone by train some months ago
From Paris with dispatches to Marseilles!
“See here,” they cried, “a well-earned D.S.O.
Because you did not drop them ‘neath the rails.”

So now from spur to plume he is a star,
Of all an Englishman should strive to be,
His one-time patrons hail him from afar
As “Peerless warrior,” “battle-scarred K.G.”
And murmur as he passes in his car,
“For this and thy mercies, glory be!”

But all this time the war goes on the same,
And good men go, we lose our friends and kith,
The men who sing knee-deep in boosted fame
Prove that “rewarded courage” is a myth:
I could sum up by mentioning a name:
A pseudonym will do, we’ll call him Smith.

American artist John Singer Sargent’s portrait of British WW1 soldier poet Edward Wyndham Tennant

Photographs of the grave of Leonard Comer Wall (1897 - 1917), Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery, Belgium

"We win or die who wear the rose
Of Lancaster."*

I am very grateful indeed to Willy de Brouwer (photo left) and to Daphne Vangelheluwe (photo below) for making a special journey to the  Lijssenthoek Military Cemetery in Belgium where Leonard Comer Wall is buried to take these photographs.

I am still trying to find a photograph of Leonard and also if he has any living relatives.

Leonard was born in West Kirby, Wirral, UK and attended Clifton Academy school in Bristol. 

In WW1 he joined the First West Lancashire Brigade of the Royal Field Artillery and was commissioned as an officer.  Deployed to the Western Front in September 1915, Leonard was killed at Ypres on 9th June 1917.

* Leonard's poem was first published in the Magazine of the 55th West Lancashire Division of the British Army in June 1918.

When Princes fought for England's crown
The house that won the most renown
And struck the sullen Yorkist down,
Was Lancaster.

And blood red emblem stricken sore,
Yet steeped her pallid foe in fore,
Still stands for England evermore,
And Lancaster.

Now England's blood like water flows
Full many a lusty German knows,
We win or die who wear the rose
Of Lancaster.

Leonard Comer Wall.

Sources: www.merseysiderollofhonour.co.uk  and www.findmypast.co.uk

Raymond Asquith (1878 – 1916) – British lawyer and poet

Raymond was born on 6^th November 1878, the eldest son and heir of Herbert H. Asquith, First Earl of Oxford and Asquith, and his first wife Helen Kelsall Asquith, nee Medland, who died in 1891. 

Raymond’s father was Liberal Prime Minister of the United Kingdom from 1908 until 1916.   Raymond’s younger brother, Herbert (1881 – 1947) was also a poet and he also served in the Army during WW1 with The Royal Artillery in France.

Educated at Winchester School and Balliol College, Oxford, Raymond was a member of ‘The Coterie’ group of Edwardian socialites, writers and poets.  He was also a member of the “Horrace Club” founded by his close friend John Buchan in 1898. Other members included H.T. Baker, A.C. Medd, Hilaire Belloc, Lucian Oldershaw and John Phillimore.

Called to the Bar in 1904, Raymond married Katharine Frances Horner on 25^th July 1907.  She was the daughter of Sir John Fortescue Horner of Mells, Somerset, said to have descended from Thomas Horner, ‘Little Jack Horner’ of British nursery rhyme fame.  Katharine’s mother, Lady Horner was a patron of the arts – in particular the Pre-Raphaelites and John Singer Sargent.  Raymond and Katharine had three children.

In December 1914, Raymond was commissioned as a 2^nd Lieutenant into the 16^th (County of London) Battalion, London Regiment.  Transferred to the 3^rd Battalion of the Grenadier Guards on 14^th August 1915, he was offered a Staff Officer post but requested a return to active duty.   Posted to the Western Front, Raymond was killed leading his men in an attack during the advance on “Les Boeufs” on 15^th September 1916, near Guinchy on the Western Front in the Battle of Flers-Courcelette.   Hit in the chest, Raymond is reported to have lit a cigarette to hide the fact that he had been seriously wounded from his men.  He died on the way to a Casualty Clearing Station and is buried in Guillemont Road Cemetery in France.

Raymond’s brother-in-law Edward Horner (1888 – 1916) was also killed during the battle and is buried in the same Cemetery as Raymond.   Katharine Asquith inherited the manor house at Mells, Somerset on the death of her brother Edward.

I have been searching for poems by Raymond and an article sent to me by Historian Debbie Cameron provides with a valuable clue - apparently Raymond did not publish his poems.   

From "The Westminster Gazette" 3rd November 1916

However, Raymond's Stepmother, Margot Asquit, included two of his poems in her Autobiography. Margot wrote. “It is a commonplace to say after a man is dead that he could have done anything he liked in life:  it is nearly always exaggerated; but of Raymond Asquith the phrase would have been true.

His death was the first great sorrow in my stepchildren’s lives and an anguish to his father and me.  The news of it came as a terrible shock to every one.  My husband’s natural pride and interest in him had always been intense and we were never tired of discussing him when we were alone:  his personal charm and wit, his little faults and above all the success which so certainly awaited him.  Henry’s grief darkened the waters in Downing Street at a time when, had they been clear, certain events could never have taken place."

Two of Raymond’s poems: 

 In praise of young girls

    Attend, my Muse, and, if you can, approve

    While I proclaim the “speeding up” of Love;

    For Love and Commerce hold a common creed —­

    The scale of business varies with the speed;

    For Queen of Beauty or for Sausage King

    The Customer is always on the wing —­

    Then praise the nymph who regularly earns

    Small profits (if you please) but quick returns. 

    Our modish Venus is a bustling minx,

    But who can spare the time to woo a Sphinx? 

    When Mona Lisa posed with rustic guile

    The stale enigma of her simple smile,

    Her leisure lovers raised a pious cheer

    While the slow mischief crept from ear to ear. 

    Poor listless Lombard, you would ne’er engage

    The brisker beaux of our mercurial age

    Whose lively mettle can as easy brook

    An epic poem as a lingering look —­

    Our modern maiden smears the twig with lime

    For twice as many hearts in half the time. 

    Long ere the circle of that staid grimace

    Has wheeled your weary dimples into place,

    Our little Chloe (mark the nimble fiend!)

    Has raised a laugh against her bosom friend,

    Melted a marquis, mollified a Jew,

    Kissed every member of the Eton crew,

    Ogled a Bishop, quizzed an aged peer,

    Has danced a Tango and has dropped a tear. 

    Fresh from the schoolroom, pink and plump and pert,

    Bedizened, bouncing, artful and alert,

    No victim she of vapours and of moods

    Though the sky falls she’s “ready with the goods”—­

    Will suit each client, tickle every taste

    Polite or gothic, libertine or chaste,

    Supply a waspish tongue, a waspish waist,

    Astarte’s breast or Atalanta’s leg,

    Love ready-made or glamour off the peg —­

    Do you prefer “a thing of dew and air”? 

    Or is your type Poppaea or Polaire? 

    The crystal casket of a maiden’s dreams,

    Or the last fancy in cosmetic creams? 

    The dark and tender or the fierce and bright,

    Youth’s rosy blush or Passion’s pearly bite? 

    You hardly know perhaps; but Chloe knows,

    And pours you out the necessary dose,

    Meticulously measuring to scale,

    The cup of Circe or the Holy Grail —­

    An actress she at home in every role,

    Can flout or flatter, bully or cajole,

    And on occasion by a stretch of art

    Can even speak the language of the heart,

    Can lisp and sigh and make confused replies,

    With baby lips and complicated eyes,

    Indifferently apt to weep or wink,

    Primly pursue, provocatively shrink,

    Brazen or bashful, as the case require,

    Coax the faint baron, curb the bold esquire,

    Deride restraint, but deprecate desire,

    Unbridled yet unloving, loose but limp,

    Voluptuary, virgin, prude and pimp.

Lines to A young viscount, who died at Oxford, on the morrow of A Bump supper (by the President of his College)

    Dear Viscount, in whose ancient blood

      The blueness of the bird of March,

      The vermeil of the tufted larch,

    Are fused in one magenta flood.

    Dear Viscount—­ah! to me how dear,

      Who even in thy frolic mood

      Discerned (or sometimes thought I could)

    The pure proud purpose of a peer!

    So on the last sad night of all

      Erect among the reeling rout

      You beat your tangled music out

    Lofty, aloof, viscontial.

    You struck a bootbath with a can,

      And with the can you struck the bath,

      There on the yellow gravel path,

    As gentleman to gentleman.

    We met, we stood, we faced, we talked

      While those of baser birth withdrew;

      I told you of an Earl I knew;

    You said you thought the wine was corked;

    And so we parted—­on my lips

      A light farewell, but in my soul

      The image of a perfect whole,

    A Viscount to the finger tips—­

    An image—­Yes; but thou art gone;

      For nature red in tooth and claw

      Subsumes under an equal law

    Viscount and Iguanodon.

    Yet we who know the Larger Love,

      Which separates the sheep and goats

      And segregates Scolecobrots, [1]

    Believing where we cannot prove,

    Deem that in His mysterious Day

      God puts the Peers upon His right,

      And hides the poor in endless night,

    For thou, my Lord, art more than they.

[Footnote 1:  A word from the Greek Testament meaning people who are eaten by worms.]

From Margot Asquith “Margot Asquith, an Autobiography”

Available to read on Project Gutenberg:  https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/4321/pg4321.html

http://www.bookrags.com/ebooks/4321/174.html#gsc.tab=0

With grateful thanks to Debbie Cameron for her help.  Debbie's Facebook - Page Remembering British Women WW1 - The Home Front and Overseas - can be found by following this link:  https://www.facebook.com/groups/1468972083412699/