Only Remembered by Michael Morpurgo
An owl swooped on a rat on the glove of a corpse.
In a copse of trees behind the lines,
a lone bird sang.
A soldier-poet noted it down – a robin
holding his winter ground –
then silence spread and touched each man like a hand.
Somebody kissed the gold of his ring;
a few lit pipes;
most, in their greatcoats, huddled,
waiting for sleep.
The liquid mud had hardened at last in the freeze.
But it was Christmas Eve; believe; belief
thrilled the night air,
where glittering rime on unburied sons
treasured their stiff hair.
The sharp, clean, midwinter smell held memory.
On watch, a rifleman scoured the terrain –
no sign of life,
no shadows, shots from snipers,
nowt to note or report.
The frozen, foreign fields were acres of pain.
Then flickering flames from the other side
danced in his eyes,
as Christmas Trees in their dozens shone,
candlelit on the parapets,
and they started to sing, all down the German lines.
Men who would drown in mud, be gassed, or shot,
or vaporised
by falling shells, or live to tell,
heard for the first time then –
Stille Nacht. Heilige Nacht. Alles schläft, einsam wacht . . .
Cariad, the song was a sudden bridge
from man to man;
a gift to the heart from home,
or childhood, some place shared . . .
When it was done, the British soldiers cheered.
A Scotsman started to bawl The First Noel
and all joined in,
till the Germans stood, seeing
across the divide,
the sprawled, mute shapes of those who had died.
All night, along the Western Front, they sang,
the enemies –
carols, hymns, folk songs, anthems,
in German, English, French;
each battalion choired in its grim trench.
So Christmas dawned, wrapped in mist,
to open itself
and offer the day like a gift
for Harry, Hugo, Hermann, Henry, Heinz . . .
with whistles, waves, cheers, shouts, laughs.
Frohe Weihnachten, Tommy! Merry Christmas, Fritz!
A young Berliner,
brandishing schnapps,
was the first from his ditch to climb.
A Shropshire lad ran at him like a rhyme.
Then it was up and over, every man,
to shake the hand
of a foe as a friend,
or slap his back like a brother would;
exchanging gifts of biscuits, tea, Maconochie’s stew,
Tickler’s jam . . . for cognac, sausages, cigars,
beer, sauerkraut;
or chase six hares, who jumped
from a cabbage-patch, or find a ball
and make of a battleground a football pitch.
I showed him a picture of my wife.
Ich zeigte ihm
ein Foto meiner Frau.
Sie sei schön, sagte er.
He thought her beautiful, he said.
They buried the dead then, hacked spades
into hard earth
again and again, till a score of men
were at rest, identified, blessed.
Der Herr ist mein Hirt . . . my shepherd, I shall not want.
And all that marvellous, festive day and night,
they came and went,
the officers, the rank and file,
their fallen comrades side by side
beneath the makeshift crosses of midwinter graves . . .
. . . beneath the shivering, shy stars
and the pinned moon
and the yawn of History;
the high, bright bullets
which each man later only aimed at the sky.
Carol Ann Duffy
MICHAEL FOREMAN – Illustrator
Two brothers walked out of my grandfather’s little Suffolk cottage in 1914 and went to war. Their names are on the village war memorial. A third brother, my father, was too young to go with them.
At the same time, two other young men, my mother’s brothers, left Granny’s Norfolk pub and went to war. Their names are on another war memorial.
There are no photographs of these young men. They didn’t live long enough to have children. They left just four names amid a multitude. But they have always been part of our family, woven into the patchwork of memory and story.
When writing my childhood memories in War Boy, I was conscious of this lost generation, and wrote War Game as a tribute to them.
Turn to here to see Michael’s choice.
The order was given to counter-attack, to try to take the German trenches before they could reorganize themselves. Will and the rest of the British soldiers scrambled over the parapet.
Freddie still had the football! He drop-kicked it far into the mist of No Man’s Land.
‘That’ll give someone a surprise,’ he said.
‘Why are goalies always daft?’ thought Will.
They were on the attack. Running in a line, Will in a centre forward position, Lacey to his left, young Billy on the wing.
From the corner of his eye Will saw Freddie dive full-length, then curl up as if clutching a ball in the best goalkeeping tradition.
‘Daft as a brush,’ Will thought.
Suddenly they all seemed to be tackled at once. The whole line went down. Earth and sky turned over, and Will found himself in a shell hole staring at the sky. Then everything went black.
Slowly the blackness cleared and Will could see the hazy sky once more. Bits of him felt hot and other bits felt very cold. He couldn’t move his legs. He heard a slight movement. There was someone else in the shell hole.
Will dimly recognized the gleam of a fixed bayonet and the outline of a German.
‘Wasser. Wasser,’ the German said.
It was about the only German word Will knew. He fumbled for his water bottle and managed to push it towards the German with the butt of his rifle. The German drank deeply. He didn’t have the strength to return the bottle.
‘Kinder?’ he said. Will shook his head. The German held up three fingers. Will tried to shake his head again to show that he did not understand, but the blackness returned.
Later he saw a pale ball of gold in the misty sky.
‘There’s a ball in Heaven,’ he thought. ‘Thank God. We’ll all have a game when this nightmare’s over.’
At home when he had a bad dream he knew that if he opened his eyes, the bad dream would end. But here, his eyes were already open.
Perhaps if he closed them, the nightmare would end.
He closed his eyes.
Michael Foreman
AT HOME
Keep the Home Fires Burning
They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardships
As the soldiers march along,
And although your heart is breaking,
Make it sing this cheery song.
Keep the home fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning.
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out.
Till the boys come home.
FROM PRIVATE PEACEFUL
As I came round the corner I saw them. Behind the band there must have been a couple of dozen soldiers, splendid in their scarlet uniforms. They marched past me, arms swinging in perfect time, but
tons and boots shining, the sun glinting on their bayonets. They were singing along with the band: It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go. And I remember thinking it was a good thing Big Joe wasn’t there, because he’d have been bound to join in with his Oranges and Lemons. Children were stomping alongside them, some in paper hats, some with wooden sticks over their shoulders. And there were women throwing flowers, roses mostly, that were falling at the soldiers’ feet. But one of them landed on a soldier’s tunic and somehow stuck there. I saw him smile at that.
Like everyone else, I followed them round the town and up into the square. The band played God Save the King and then, with the Union Jack fluttering behind him, the first sergeant major I’d ever set eyes on got up on to the steps of the cross, slipped his stick smartly under his arm, and spoke to us, his voice unlike any voice I’d heard before: rasping, commanding.
‘I shan’t beat about the bush, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I shan’t tell you it’s all tickety-boo out there in France – there’s been too much of that nonsense already in my view. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it for myself. So I’ll tell you straight. It’s no picnic. It’s hard slog, that’s what it is, hard slog. Only one question to ask yourself about this war. Who would you rather see marching through your streets? Us lot or the Hun? Make up your minds. Because, mark my words, ladies and gentlemen, if we don’t stop them out in France the Germans will be here, right here in Hatherleigh, right here on your doorstep.’
I could feel the silence all around.
‘They’ll come marching through here burning your houses, killing your children, and yes, violating your women. They’ve beaten brave little Belgium, swallowed her up in one gulp. And now they’ve taken a fair slice of France too. I’m here to tell you that unless we beat them at their own game, they’ll gobble us up as well.’ His eyes raked over us. ‘Well? Do you want the Hun here? Do you?’
‘No!’ came the shout, and I was shouting along with them.
‘Shall we knock the stuffing out of them then?’
‘Yes!’ we roared in unison.
The sergeant major nodded. ‘Good. Very good. Then we shall need you.’ He was pointing his stick now into the crowd, picking out the men. ‘You, and you and you.’ He was looking straight at me now, into my eyes. ‘And you too, my lad!’
Until that very moment it had honestly never occurred to me that what he was saying had anything to do with me. I had been an onlooker. No longer.
‘Your king needs you. Your country needs you. And all the brave lads out in France need you too.’ His face broke into a smile as he fingered his immaculate moustache. ‘And remember one thing, lads – and I can vouch for this – all the girls love a soldier.’
The ladies in the crowd all laughed and giggled at that. Then the sergeant major returned the stick under his arm. ‘So, who’ll be the first brave lad to come up and take the king’s shilling?’
No one moved. No one spoke up. ‘Who’ll lead the way? Come along now. Don’t let me down, lads. I’m looking for boys with hearts of oak, lads who love their King and their country, brave boys who hate the lousy Hun.’
That was the moment the first one stepped forward, flourishing his hat as he pushed his way through the cheering crowd. I knew him at once from school. It was big Jimmy Parsons. I hadn’t seen him for a while, not since his family had moved away from the village. He was even bigger than I remembered, fuller in the face and neck, and redder too. He was showing off now just like he always had done in the school yard. Egged on by the crowd, others soon followed.
Suddenly someone prodded me hard in the small of my back. It was a toothless old lady pointing at me with her crooked finger. ‘Go on, son,’ she croaked. ‘You go and fight. It’s every man’s duty to fight when his country calls, that’s what I say. Go on. Y’ain’t a coward, are you?’
Everyone seemed to be looking at me then, urging me on, their eyes accusing me as I hesitated. The toothless old lady jabbed me again, and then she was pushing me forward. ‘Y’ain’t a coward, are you? Y’ain’t a coward?’ I didn’t run, not at first. I sidled away from her slowly, and then backed out of the crowd hoping no one would notice me. But she did. ‘Chicken!’ she screamed after me. ‘Chicken!’ Then I did run. I ran helter-skelter down the deserted High Street, her words still ringing in my ears.
Michael Morpurgo
JAMES PATTERSON – Author
Of course, the horror of war wasn’t felt only on the battlefield but at home too, in the impact it had on the lives of those left behind: the parents, the wives and the children.
In Lord of the Nutcracker Men, ten-year-old Johnny loves to play with the army of nutcracker soldiers his father makes for him. But when Johnny’s father enlists to fight, the letters he writes home, although cheerful at first, soon begin to tell his son too much about the ugly truth of war, and Johnny must come to terms with the fact that war is no longer just a game. Lord of the Nutcracker Men is included on the required reading lists of many American schools, and rightly so.
FROM LORD OF THE NUTCRACKER MEN
Iain Lawrence
DAME JACQUELINE WILSON – Author
My favourite author when I was a child was Noel Streatfeild. I read Ballet Shoes so often I practically knew it by heart (and for years I gambolled about our flat in my pink bedroom slippers, pretending they were proper ballet shoes).
I bought her autobiography, A Vicarage Family, and read it with enormous interest. Noel writes about her parents and brother and sisters – and her cousin, John. He’s an intellectual, sensitive boy, who hates sport and wants to be an actor. As a schoolboy he says, ‘Dad says I’m not manly – I’m not, anything disgusting makes me ill, when a boy was sick in chapel I fainted.’
It’s therefore a particularly dreadful ordeal for John when he has to go and fight in France in 1914. Noel Streatfeild writes about what happens to him in just three pages at the end of her book. They’re simple and understated, but it shows children the full horror of the First World War in an indelible way.
FROM A VICARAGE FAMILY
There was to be no acting for John. That summer on the 4th of August war was declared against Germany. And John, already a partly trained territorial, after a few months of more intensive training, was sent to France.
The ordinary English man and woman knew nothing about war. That it would all be over soon was the first reaction. It was not in any case expected to affect the lives of the ordinary citizen. Wars were fought by soldiers and sailors, who came on leave and were made a fuss of.
But it soon became apparent this war was not like that. People became nervous. ‘I don’t like the Vicar to be away even for a night,’ a woman said. ‘For what would we do if those Germans landed?’
That first winter fuel was either scarce or expensive – the girls did not know which, but before school Victoria and Louise had to saw logs.
‘I haven’t done this,’ said Victoria, ‘since I had to do it as a punishment for that awful report.’
Food grew scarce. They kept hens in the field where it had been planned Isobel should have a studio. Isobel put an ostrich egg they had been given as a curio in the hen house and painted a Union Jack over it, writing under it: ‘A German hen laid this, now see what you can do.’
Then came the casualties. House after house opened as a hospital. Isobel, when she was well enough, worked in one as a ward maid. But somehow for the girls the war remained remote. Life went on more or less the same, except that there were no dances for Isobel, indeed, no parties for any of them.
Then John came on leave. The moment the news got round that he was coming presents of food arrived, among them a large rabbit.
‘Would you lend me that for a day, Mrs Strangeway, ma’am?’ the butcher said when he was asked to clean it. ‘I’ll hang it in my window. It encourages people just to see food about.’
Victoria was at school when John came home. It was June and lovely weather.
‘He’s in the garden,’ h
er mother said to her when she came in. ‘I think he looks peaky.’
John was in that part of the garden the children had christened The Wood. He was in uniform with the star of a second lieutenant on his shoulder. He looked more than peaky: he looked thin, and his face was green. But he sounded in a way the old John.
‘Hullo, Vicky! How’s things?’
Victoria felt as if a cold hand had squeezed her heart.
‘You look pretty awful.’
John managed a smile.
‘I’ve just been sick under the bushes there. It’s nothing.’
‘Why were you sick? Have you eaten something bad?’
‘Don’t talk about it to the family but I’m sick rather a lot.’
She stared up at him. Then, why she did not know, she put a hand on his arm.
‘Tell me.’
It was then the dreadful thing happened. John, the self-contained, the poised, broke down. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
‘Oh, Vicky. You’ll never know how awful it is.’
Suddenly she felt old.
‘Tell me. Tell me every single thing.’
So he told her. Of the squelching mud. The unburied bodies. The dying, screaming on barbed wire. The filth. The lice. The smells. Then, retching as he remembered, he whispered:
‘And oh, Vicky, I have to go back.’
Somehow between them she and John managed to keep to themselves that there was anything wrong with him other than fatigue. Victoria sent a pink note to Miss French:
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I must miss school while John’s on leave. We’ve always done things together. You do see, don’t you.’
Miss French must have seen, for all she said was:
‘Get your things on, dear. I will send a note to your parents.’
So with Spot, John and Victoria went for long walks over the downs; and though distant thuds sounded from the guns across the Channel, the air was fresh and clear, and after the exercise even John was able to enjoy a meal at a cottage table.
In a copse of trees behind the lines,
a lone bird sang.
A soldier-poet noted it down – a robin
holding his winter ground –
then silence spread and touched each man like a hand.
Somebody kissed the gold of his ring;
a few lit pipes;
most, in their greatcoats, huddled,
waiting for sleep.
The liquid mud had hardened at last in the freeze.
But it was Christmas Eve; believe; belief
thrilled the night air,
where glittering rime on unburied sons
treasured their stiff hair.
The sharp, clean, midwinter smell held memory.
On watch, a rifleman scoured the terrain –
no sign of life,
no shadows, shots from snipers,
nowt to note or report.
The frozen, foreign fields were acres of pain.
Then flickering flames from the other side
danced in his eyes,
as Christmas Trees in their dozens shone,
candlelit on the parapets,
and they started to sing, all down the German lines.
Men who would drown in mud, be gassed, or shot,
or vaporised
by falling shells, or live to tell,
heard for the first time then –
Stille Nacht. Heilige Nacht. Alles schläft, einsam wacht . . .
Cariad, the song was a sudden bridge
from man to man;
a gift to the heart from home,
or childhood, some place shared . . .
When it was done, the British soldiers cheered.
A Scotsman started to bawl The First Noel
and all joined in,
till the Germans stood, seeing
across the divide,
the sprawled, mute shapes of those who had died.
All night, along the Western Front, they sang,
the enemies –
carols, hymns, folk songs, anthems,
in German, English, French;
each battalion choired in its grim trench.
So Christmas dawned, wrapped in mist,
to open itself
and offer the day like a gift
for Harry, Hugo, Hermann, Henry, Heinz . . .
with whistles, waves, cheers, shouts, laughs.
Frohe Weihnachten, Tommy! Merry Christmas, Fritz!
A young Berliner,
brandishing schnapps,
was the first from his ditch to climb.
A Shropshire lad ran at him like a rhyme.
Then it was up and over, every man,
to shake the hand
of a foe as a friend,
or slap his back like a brother would;
exchanging gifts of biscuits, tea, Maconochie’s stew,
Tickler’s jam . . . for cognac, sausages, cigars,
beer, sauerkraut;
or chase six hares, who jumped
from a cabbage-patch, or find a ball
and make of a battleground a football pitch.
I showed him a picture of my wife.
Ich zeigte ihm
ein Foto meiner Frau.
Sie sei schön, sagte er.
He thought her beautiful, he said.
They buried the dead then, hacked spades
into hard earth
again and again, till a score of men
were at rest, identified, blessed.
Der Herr ist mein Hirt . . . my shepherd, I shall not want.
And all that marvellous, festive day and night,
they came and went,
the officers, the rank and file,
their fallen comrades side by side
beneath the makeshift crosses of midwinter graves . . .
. . . beneath the shivering, shy stars
and the pinned moon
and the yawn of History;
the high, bright bullets
which each man later only aimed at the sky.
Carol Ann Duffy
MICHAEL FOREMAN – Illustrator
Two brothers walked out of my grandfather’s little Suffolk cottage in 1914 and went to war. Their names are on the village war memorial. A third brother, my father, was too young to go with them.
At the same time, two other young men, my mother’s brothers, left Granny’s Norfolk pub and went to war. Their names are on another war memorial.
There are no photographs of these young men. They didn’t live long enough to have children. They left just four names amid a multitude. But they have always been part of our family, woven into the patchwork of memory and story.
When writing my childhood memories in War Boy, I was conscious of this lost generation, and wrote War Game as a tribute to them.
Turn to here to see Michael’s choice.
The order was given to counter-attack, to try to take the German trenches before they could reorganize themselves. Will and the rest of the British soldiers scrambled over the parapet.
Freddie still had the football! He drop-kicked it far into the mist of No Man’s Land.
‘That’ll give someone a surprise,’ he said.
‘Why are goalies always daft?’ thought Will.
They were on the attack. Running in a line, Will in a centre forward position, Lacey to his left, young Billy on the wing.
From the corner of his eye Will saw Freddie dive full-length, then curl up as if clutching a ball in the best goalkeeping tradition.
‘Daft as a brush,’ Will thought.
Suddenly they all seemed to be tackled at once. The whole line went down. Earth and sky turned over, and Will found himself in a shell hole staring at the sky. Then everything went black.
Slowly the blackness cleared and Will could see the hazy sky once more. Bits of him felt hot and other bits felt very cold. He couldn’t move his legs. He heard a slight movement. There was someone else in the shell hole.
Will dimly recognized the gleam of a fixed bayonet and the outline of a German.
‘Wasser. Wasser,’ the German said.
It was about the only German word Will knew. He fumbled for his water bottle and managed to push it towards the German with the butt of his rifle. The German drank deeply. He didn’t have the strength to return the bottle.
‘Kinder?’ he said. Will shook his head. The German held up three fingers. Will tried to shake his head again to show that he did not understand, but the blackness returned.
Later he saw a pale ball of gold in the misty sky.
‘There’s a ball in Heaven,’ he thought. ‘Thank God. We’ll all have a game when this nightmare’s over.’
At home when he had a bad dream he knew that if he opened his eyes, the bad dream would end. But here, his eyes were already open.
Perhaps if he closed them, the nightmare would end.
He closed his eyes.
Michael Foreman
AT HOME
Keep the Home Fires Burning
They were summoned from the hillside,
They were called in from the glen,
And the country found them ready
At the stirring call for men.
Let no tears add to their hardships
As the soldiers march along,
And although your heart is breaking,
Make it sing this cheery song.
Keep the home fires burning,
While your hearts are yearning.
Though the lads are far away,
They dream of home.
There’s a silver lining
Through the dark clouds shining,
Turn the dark cloud inside out.
Till the boys come home.
FROM PRIVATE PEACEFUL
As I came round the corner I saw them. Behind the band there must have been a couple of dozen soldiers, splendid in their scarlet uniforms. They marched past me, arms swinging in perfect time, but
Like everyone else, I followed them round the town and up into the square. The band played God Save the King and then, with the Union Jack fluttering behind him, the first sergeant major I’d ever set eyes on got up on to the steps of the cross, slipped his stick smartly under his arm, and spoke to us, his voice unlike any voice I’d heard before: rasping, commanding.
‘I shan’t beat about the bush, ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘I shan’t tell you it’s all tickety-boo out there in France – there’s been too much of that nonsense already in my view. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it for myself. So I’ll tell you straight. It’s no picnic. It’s hard slog, that’s what it is, hard slog. Only one question to ask yourself about this war. Who would you rather see marching through your streets? Us lot or the Hun? Make up your minds. Because, mark my words, ladies and gentlemen, if we don’t stop them out in France the Germans will be here, right here in Hatherleigh, right here on your doorstep.’
I could feel the silence all around.
‘They’ll come marching through here burning your houses, killing your children, and yes, violating your women. They’ve beaten brave little Belgium, swallowed her up in one gulp. And now they’ve taken a fair slice of France too. I’m here to tell you that unless we beat them at their own game, they’ll gobble us up as well.’ His eyes raked over us. ‘Well? Do you want the Hun here? Do you?’
‘No!’ came the shout, and I was shouting along with them.
‘Shall we knock the stuffing out of them then?’
‘Yes!’ we roared in unison.
The sergeant major nodded. ‘Good. Very good. Then we shall need you.’ He was pointing his stick now into the crowd, picking out the men. ‘You, and you and you.’ He was looking straight at me now, into my eyes. ‘And you too, my lad!’
Until that very moment it had honestly never occurred to me that what he was saying had anything to do with me. I had been an onlooker. No longer.
‘Your king needs you. Your country needs you. And all the brave lads out in France need you too.’ His face broke into a smile as he fingered his immaculate moustache. ‘And remember one thing, lads – and I can vouch for this – all the girls love a soldier.’
The ladies in the crowd all laughed and giggled at that. Then the sergeant major returned the stick under his arm. ‘So, who’ll be the first brave lad to come up and take the king’s shilling?’
No one moved. No one spoke up. ‘Who’ll lead the way? Come along now. Don’t let me down, lads. I’m looking for boys with hearts of oak, lads who love their King and their country, brave boys who hate the lousy Hun.’
That was the moment the first one stepped forward, flourishing his hat as he pushed his way through the cheering crowd. I knew him at once from school. It was big Jimmy Parsons. I hadn’t seen him for a while, not since his family had moved away from the village. He was even bigger than I remembered, fuller in the face and neck, and redder too. He was showing off now just like he always had done in the school yard. Egged on by the crowd, others soon followed.
Suddenly someone prodded me hard in the small of my back. It was a toothless old lady pointing at me with her crooked finger. ‘Go on, son,’ she croaked. ‘You go and fight. It’s every man’s duty to fight when his country calls, that’s what I say. Go on. Y’ain’t a coward, are you?’
Everyone seemed to be looking at me then, urging me on, their eyes accusing me as I hesitated. The toothless old lady jabbed me again, and then she was pushing me forward. ‘Y’ain’t a coward, are you? Y’ain’t a coward?’ I didn’t run, not at first. I sidled away from her slowly, and then backed out of the crowd hoping no one would notice me. But she did. ‘Chicken!’ she screamed after me. ‘Chicken!’ Then I did run. I ran helter-skelter down the deserted High Street, her words still ringing in my ears.
Michael Morpurgo
JAMES PATTERSON – Author
Of course, the horror of war wasn’t felt only on the battlefield but at home too, in the impact it had on the lives of those left behind: the parents, the wives and the children.
In Lord of the Nutcracker Men, ten-year-old Johnny loves to play with the army of nutcracker soldiers his father makes for him. But when Johnny’s father enlists to fight, the letters he writes home, although cheerful at first, soon begin to tell his son too much about the ugly truth of war, and Johnny must come to terms with the fact that war is no longer just a game. Lord of the Nutcracker Men is included on the required reading lists of many American schools, and rightly so.
FROM LORD OF THE NUTCRACKER MEN
Iain Lawrence
DAME JACQUELINE WILSON – Author
My favourite author when I was a child was Noel Streatfeild. I read Ballet Shoes so often I practically knew it by heart (and for years I gambolled about our flat in my pink bedroom slippers, pretending they were proper ballet shoes).
I bought her autobiography, A Vicarage Family, and read it with enormous interest. Noel writes about her parents and brother and sisters – and her cousin, John. He’s an intellectual, sensitive boy, who hates sport and wants to be an actor. As a schoolboy he says, ‘Dad says I’m not manly – I’m not, anything disgusting makes me ill, when a boy was sick in chapel I fainted.’
It’s therefore a particularly dreadful ordeal for John when he has to go and fight in France in 1914. Noel Streatfeild writes about what happens to him in just three pages at the end of her book. They’re simple and understated, but it shows children the full horror of the First World War in an indelible way.
FROM A VICARAGE FAMILY
There was to be no acting for John. That summer on the 4th of August war was declared against Germany. And John, already a partly trained territorial, after a few months of more intensive training, was sent to France.
The ordinary English man and woman knew nothing about war. That it would all be over soon was the first reaction. It was not in any case expected to affect the lives of the ordinary citizen. Wars were fought by soldiers and sailors, who came on leave and were made a fuss of.
But it soon became apparent this war was not like that. People became nervous. ‘I don’t like the Vicar to be away even for a night,’ a woman said. ‘For what would we do if those Germans landed?’
That first winter fuel was either scarce or expensive – the girls did not know which, but before school Victoria and Louise had to saw logs.
‘I haven’t done this,’ said Victoria, ‘since I had to do it as a punishment for that awful report.’
Food grew scarce. They kept hens in the field where it had been planned Isobel should have a studio. Isobel put an ostrich egg they had been given as a curio in the hen house and painted a Union Jack over it, writing under it: ‘A German hen laid this, now see what you can do.’
Then came the casualties. House after house opened as a hospital. Isobel, when she was well enough, worked in one as a ward maid. But somehow for the girls the war remained remote. Life went on more or less the same, except that there were no dances for Isobel, indeed, no parties for any of them.
Then John came on leave. The moment the news got round that he was coming presents of food arrived, among them a large rabbit.
‘Would you lend me that for a day, Mrs Strangeway, ma’am?’ the butcher said when he was asked to clean it. ‘I’ll hang it in my window. It encourages people just to see food about.’
Victoria was at school when John came home. It was June and lovely weather.
‘He’s in the garden,’ h
John was in that part of the garden the children had christened The Wood. He was in uniform with the star of a second lieutenant on his shoulder. He looked more than peaky: he looked thin, and his face was green. But he sounded in a way the old John.
‘Hullo, Vicky! How’s things?’
Victoria felt as if a cold hand had squeezed her heart.
‘You look pretty awful.’
John managed a smile.
‘I’ve just been sick under the bushes there. It’s nothing.’
‘Why were you sick? Have you eaten something bad?’
‘Don’t talk about it to the family but I’m sick rather a lot.’
She stared up at him. Then, why she did not know, she put a hand on his arm.
‘Tell me.’
It was then the dreadful thing happened. John, the self-contained, the poised, broke down. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
‘Oh, Vicky. You’ll never know how awful it is.’
Suddenly she felt old.
‘Tell me. Tell me every single thing.’
So he told her. Of the squelching mud. The unburied bodies. The dying, screaming on barbed wire. The filth. The lice. The smells. Then, retching as he remembered, he whispered:
‘And oh, Vicky, I have to go back.’
Somehow between them she and John managed to keep to themselves that there was anything wrong with him other than fatigue. Victoria sent a pink note to Miss French:
‘Please,’ she said, ‘I must miss school while John’s on leave. We’ve always done things together. You do see, don’t you.’
Miss French must have seen, for all she said was:
‘Get your things on, dear. I will send a note to your parents.’
So with Spot, John and Victoria went for long walks over the downs; and though distant thuds sounded from the guns across the Channel, the air was fresh and clear, and after the exercise even John was able to enjoy a meal at a cottage table.