Editorial: Atrocious Argument. (1917)

Editorial from the August 1917 issue of the Socialist Standard

Those German atrocities ! The last raid on London gave opportunity for an almost unprecedented flood of feeling, mostly cant. It is not the agony of the parents who have lost little ones, the wives who have lost husbands, the husbands whose mates have been cruelly butchered, the mutilated remnants moaning in the hospitals, that finds expression in the horrified Press. No. They are horrified to order, and with a set purpose, and that purpose is not to deter the Ge­rmans from making such raids, but simply to inflame popular feeling against the “enemy.”

Those who want the war, and shout for it, and shove other people into it, and exhibit so much aptitude for bloodshed in the smashing up of pacifist meetings as one would hardly expect to find outside the trenches or the House of Commons, try to blind themselves to the true facts of the case. War is a serious business—a much more serious business than one would imagine from a perusal of the report of the Mesopotamia muddle. People wilfully entering upon war, in order to take that calm view of it that is essential to its prosecution to the “last man and the last shilling,” should themselves be above military age, or at least sure of a staff job, well behind the firing line, and not too adjacent to the miseries of the trenches—and they mostly are. But having embarked on war; having consented to this most serious business in life, having adventured thousands, and perhaps millions, of human lives in the trial by brute strength, it is folly to talk of putting any limit on the appeal to brute strength. Such talk is usually mere cant and humbug, and where it is not it arises from a boss-eyed sort of view of things.

Much has been made of the fact that women and children have been numbered among the victims of the German air raids. But it is no worse to kill a woman or a child than it is to kill a man, notwithstanding all the sloppy nonsense that has been written on the subject. As a matter of fact the mental torture of a man dying in consciousness is probably far greater than that of a child similarly placed, while as for women, the fact that they find themselves brought within the range of actual hostilities may help them to realise their responsibility for the war—and it is not a little.

A harsh judgment this may seem to be, but then every phase of war must be judged by harsh standards, and the only ones who have any grounds for complaint are those who are opposed to the conflict, or at all events are no consenting parties to it.

It is stated that the Germans can have no military object in these raids, but this is sheer rubbish. They may have several perfectly legitimate military objects. In the first place there is the popular clamour for protection. This, of course, cannot be ignored, but it admittedly can only be satisfied by weakening the striking forces on the British front. Those living a few miles out on the Eastern side of the metropolis may from their own observation gather some idea of the effectiveness of the raids in this particular.

It is also common knowledge that there are in and about London numerous munition works even the temporary disturbance of which, to say nothing of a lucky hit with a bomb or two, is a distinct advantage to the Germans, while it was openly stated in the Press a few days back that the wrecking of the War Office might be a bigger disaster to the Allied cause than the loss of an army corps. And finally, if only the Hun airmen could find the House of Commons with a fat bomb, dropped plump through one of the ventilators onto the table while Lloyd George stood there with his mouth open ! Ah, if only they could !

Good Thinking, Ma'am (1976)

From the June 1976 issue of the Socialist Standard

A new twist on the dangers of TV horror shows :

Mrs Mary Whitehouse's latest allegation against TV is that its coverage of modern warfare, “showing burning homes, dying soldiers and mutilated children”, could be sapping the national will to safeguard freedom. She has come up with this thought:

“We would now do well to ponder whether it will ever again be possible to fight a war, however just, in a democracy which has uncensored television, and colour television at that, in almost every home”.

Daily Mirror 8th April 1976 

R.B.Gill

She wouldn't censor war — only shows about it!

Fifty Years Before The Atom Bomb (1956)

From the May 1956 issue of the Socialist Standard

“I have no doubt," said Mons. Danyaz, “that a kilogramme of radium would be sufficient to destroy the population of Paris, granting that they came within its influence. Men and women would be killed just as easily as mice. They would feel nothing during their exposure to the radium, nor realise that they were in any danger, and weeks would pass after their exposure before anything would happen. Then gradually the skin would begin to peel off and their bodies would become one great sore. Then they would become blind. Then they would die from paralysis and congestion of the spinal cord." 

(Quoted by The Morning Leader, Monday, 11th January, 1904, in the Report from Paris of the discovery of Radium by Marie Curie from the Strand Magazine, January, 1904.)

All Quiet on the Western Front (1951)

Film Review from the April 1951 issue of the Socialist Standard

Any work of art which presents the truth about modern war is a rarity, and therefore Socialists should view the film “All Quiet on the Western Front” with particular interest. Made in 1930, directed by Lewis Milestone, it is based on Remarque’s famous novel of the 1914-1918 war as seen through the eyes of the ordinary German soldier.

The film opens in 1914, amid the patriotic fervour of the first days of the war. Whilst a military band blares outside a school, we see a group of youths inside all eagerly clamouring to join the army. Only one of their number tries to make a stand against them, but afraid of being called a coward, he reluctantly joins them, bewildered and terrified.

A brilliant sequence follows of the training of these volunteers, and here Milestone shows us how each individual is gradually converted into an automaton in uniform. This is one of the key points of the film, and is developed later in the battle scenes.

After a period in the trenches, where they get their first shattering experience of modern war, these youngsters retire behind the lines for a rest. Here the film becomes most interesting and outspoken. Whilst the soldiers are wolfing their rough food, they discuss the war and its causes. Some of the men think they are fighting because of the natural wickedness of the enemy, whilst others do not know why they are at war at all. One by one they speak, and we realize that all these men have been led blindly into a holocaust they do not understand. Eventually one of them says that the politicians and financiers are to blame, and that they should be the ones to do the fighting. This whole scene is most movingly and truthfully presented.

The greatest sequence of the film follows—the famous “Charge Across the Trenches.” The French attack, and move in hordes across No Mans Land, mown down by the German gunfire. The camera moves along the German trench, looking out on the advancing infantry, and with superb cutting and camera movement, Milestone shows us the ghastly carnage. We are made to feel that all these figures, the oncoming French, the Germans, the machine-gunners, the soldiers in the terrible fight with bayonets and bare fists, are not individuals, but a mass of men converted into brute animals, acting as animals do. A French soldier runs up to the barbed wire and places his hands on it, preparatory to leaping over. A shell bursts, and when the smoke clears, we see just a pair of hands dangling on the wire. The Germans are pushed back, but counter-attack. Now we are in the French trenches, and the camera moves along in the. opposite direction, showing the slaughter of the German troops. In this way is shown the link between the German and French soldiers, that they are really brothers.

The rest of the film is devoted to the deepening horror felt by the German troops, in particular the principal character (played by Lew Ayres). He is at first shown as an idealistic boy, but at the end he becomes an embittered man, revolted by his experience.

The film naturally suffers from the inexperience of the actors, unskilled in the then new sound-film technique. This is especially true of Lew Ayres, noticeably in the tragic scene with his mother, and also when he is trapped in a shell hole with a dying French soldier.

Despite these faults, “All Quiet on the Western Front” is a good film, and its recent general release is doubly welcome. It should remind any workers who may have doubts, what war means to them.

Derek R. Bowen

British Red and Prussian Blue. (1917)

From the November 1917 issue of the Socialist Standard

One of the finest of modern novelists and writers on Art —Mr. George Moore—speaks in one of his books of the "colour" of the mind of a certain celebrated artist. He means that which tinges his mental vision and steeps his habitual outlook in a certain definite and personal hue: liras producing characteristic “colour schemes.’’ This peculiarity of mental colouration is not limited to artists, however, nor to colour schemes done. Everyone’s outlook on Life is personal and self-coloured, and that of the capitalist class is entirely different from that of the workers: in fact, in complete opposition in interest and purpose. Further, the British capitalists, when they are Imperialistically minded, think in terms of Empire—the one and only British Empire!— "on which the sun never sets."

Hence has arisen that phrase expressive of bombastic Imperialism: “The All-Red Route." This was, as some may know, coined to denote the trail of British capitalist enterprise: “Our Possessions” as the school-books have it.

It is a long, long trail, too, and engirdles the Earth! It is invariably coloured “Red" on the map, and this colouration is grimly and ironically appropriate. For the capitalist class of Britain in their insatiable greed for wealth and dominance in the world-markets have steeped these territories and lands in many cases in the red blood of British soldiers and workers of this and the captured lands. Listen to this!—

  If there be a God then what he would like me to do is to paint as much of the map of Africa British Red as possible; and to do that I am elsewhere to promote the unit? and extend the influence of the British Race.—Cecil Rhodes. (See “Review of Reviews," April, 1902.)

Look into the average school geography book and see there what is owned and controlled by the British capitalist class, and what they have coloured “British Red" on the map. The robbery with violence of the rights of the people of other nations, the crushing of “small nationalities” under their ruthless heel, has culminated in a long chain of “possessions" and “dependencies." According to the facts, served up in the schools to engender a pride in “ Our" Empire, some of these portions of the globe have been “occupied" by us, others “annexed" or “acquired." Some have “capitulated," been “taken possession of” or “settled." What a lot do words sometimes signify! “Annexed”! “Settled”! Sometimes the heights of perfect candour are reached, and then we read that a certain place or colony was “captured” or “conquered.” We are told in McDougall’s “The Colonies and India," that these territories have been won by the sword, by settlement, by treaty,. and by purchase. In the introduction we read: 

  But after the battle of Plassy in 1757 the power of the French was destroyed in Bengal, and from that time the British power advanced rapidly! "Leagues of native princes against the British m the south only led to a further extension of British dominion."

Later, re South Africa, we read : “After wars with native Kaffirs, Zulus and Raautos, British territory was greatly enlarged! And so on, ad nauseam.

Our capitalists have, for many years, been “thinking Imperially.” They have been planning and scheming to colour the map with as much “British Red” as possible. The pride of Empire sheds its glow over many of their own wage slaves. These latter, lacking class-consciousness and political knowledge, think that they also should be proud of these “achievements" of the “Empire-builders." Ye gods! Is there anything to be proud of that men of their own nationality should have “subjugated" the men of another—and by means of brute force, cunning, diplomatic twisting and intrigue ?

What profits it the worker, who is a wage-slave in his “own" country, that the wage-slavery of which he is the victim at the hands of the British ruling class should be extended to workers of other lands ? If it were not so tragically ironic it would be a matter for Homeric laughter!

So matters have continued. The British Empire, like an octopus, has spread its tentacles to greedily clutch whatever it can, and enlarge its domain for capitalist exploitation. Other nations look enviously on and wish to emulate their rivals’ achievements. “We also must colonise, must expand somehow—no matter what the cost," they think. Germany desires “World-conquest," and to colour the map Prussian Blue. It would delight the Teutonic capitalists. The sight of great colonies coloured “British Red" is like a red rag to a bull: an incitement and an offence. The greed of gain dominates their thoughts to the exclusion of all other interests. Flaunting Imperialism induces similar desires; desires lead to action, and they in turn lead to “colonisation. ’

Now we were told earlier in the “Great War,” by that notorious political twister, Lloyd George, of the dire results to the British worker if our present capitalist made enemies won the war. “God help Labour if Germany wins!” so said the wily Welshman. We who are Socialists, know the frothy folly of such a remark. What is more, Lloyd George himself must know that the workers will not and cannot be worse off economically and otherwise under capitalists of the Hun kind than of the Brit-Hun type. They will still he wage-slaves, selling their labour-power of hand and brain for their daily bread. The same precariousness of livelihood, menace of unemployment and want, would threaten them. Their wages would continue, on the average, to only just suffice to keep them efficient. What matters, then, the nationality of their exploiters? Brazen lies of politicians flow as frenzy from their lips as do their innumerable pledges. Listen to Lloyd George:

   There is no section of the community that has such an interest in the victory of the Allies as the workers of the world  . . .  It is this federation of free nations (the British Empire) that has presented such a formidable obstacle to the collective aims of German Militarism.—“Daily Chronicle,” 16.8.17.

And now finally:

  He [Lloyd George] had always believed in telling the truth, the whole truth, to his fellow countrymen, because he knew that was the way to get the best out of them.—The “Star,” 7.9.17.

There is nothing like truth: it is so refreshing! Had the politicians, diplomats and capitalists of Europe on the eve of war declared the truth, and told why they contemplated letting hell loose by declaring war, then in verity there would have been no war. The whole cunning, despicable and sordid business is clothed in lies: lies of foreign offices and shameless falsehoods of parliaments, pulpits, and the prostitute Press of capitalism! Ana the workers, who in the past have largely ignored Socialism and lapped up the lies their masters feed them with, thought it was their war! What interest have they in capitalist wars? Their portion is to be riddled by the machine gun as they go “over the top " to bayonet their capitalist-made foes, or blown to pieces in a “big push.” You pick up the paper and read that yesterday over 1,000 men were killed amongst the English alone, and in the same edition we read in reference to that day’s warfare, “ Haig states there is nothing to report"! Capitalism in warfare or in days of much-vaunted “Peace" is the same, and the same barbaric ruthlessness is displayed by the master class the world over.

Germany in her dream of world-conquest wants to colonise, but she is face to face with the fact that her rivals have “got there first," and established “ the Empire." Hear what Sir A. Stanley, speaking recently, said :

  Had the system of peaceful penetration carried on by the Germans before the War continued for a few years more it would have meant the industrial destruction of this country. Neither this nor any other Government would ever tolerate a continuation of that policy. —“Daily Telegraph,” 21.7.17.

So it appears they thought the time was ripe, and their rivals also. Shortly after—thanks to capitalism—the curtain was raised and revealed the beginning of the most tragic drama and orgy of militarism the world has seen! Of course it is all put down to the Kaiser in this country! In Berlin they say: “England is alone the enemy.” So we see the real cause is purposely obscured, but not to the Socialists!

Perhaps the quotation herewith will prove illuminating and show how frank are some who aid and abet. Mr. Harold Fraser Wyatt, of the Imperial Maritime League, writing in the “Nineteenth Century and After," (Sept., 1914), says:

  Efficiency for war is God’s test of the nation's soul. Victory it the result of efficiency, and that efficiency is the result of a spiritual quality . . . And the efficiency or inefficiency of its armaments is the determining factor in a nation's success, or of a nation’s failure at that culminating moment of long processes of commercial and diplomatic rivalry —the moment of War.

Comment is needless. Again :

  The problem of the British Empire is—How is the British Empire to triumph over the world.— Colonel Charles Ross, D.S.O. (“ Representative Government and War," p. 361.)

Finally:

  The British Empire stands face to face with the world; and if she is to exist her armaments must be increased to such an extent as will enable her to contend if necessary with the whole world.—Ibid, P- 375.

The present war is obviously a thieves quarrel of the most sordid, mercenary, and disastrous kind that has ever afflicted the long-suffering and exploited workers. It is the outcome of our masters in this and other lands "thinking Imperially," the fruit of their efforts in Empire-building, struggling for world markets, and of their vaunted “diplomacy" and “commercial integrity.”

But Lloyd-George is optimistic as ever. Recently he spake thus:

  Our footprints may be stained with blood, but we will reach the height, and in front of us see the rich fields and plaint of the new world we have sacrificed so much to reach."—The “Star," 7.9.17.

One thinks, as one reads the last portion of the above, of two names and all they connote— names written large in “British Red”—“Gallipoli" and “Mesopotamia"; and again one thinks!

German Lloyd Georges make similar speeches, throw out the same sops to aid the prosecution of the war to a “victorious conclusion." But the time is coming, aye, and soon! when no rhetoric will stay the disillusionment of the masses, when the Socialist Party will be completely vindicated. Not once have this party confused the issue. All along they have pointed out the capitalist nature of the present European struggle, maintaining that abundant proofs are to land of the real object for which it is being waged.

Workers, it matters not to you under whose rule you are, nor whether Empires rise or fall. Dynasties may topple and “Democracies” arise, yet if wage-slavery continues, these changes leave your position absolutely unaltered as a class!

To abolish poverty and unemployment, wage-slavery and war, and the thousand evils of the capitalist system, is within your power. It is you alone who can effect your emancipation. Organise to capture the powers of government and completely control the destiny of your class - the wealth-producers of the world. Your only enemy is the international capitalist class. You alone can achieve the greatest purpose the mind of man has evolved—International Socialism!

Under that system alone can come about the brotherhood of man, liberty, comfort, and peace for all. Hail the “Socialist Commonwealth of the World."

G.

Exhibition Review: Wyndham Lewis - Life, Art, War (2017)

Exhibition Review from the November 2017 issue of the Socialist Standard

Vorticism is sometimes seen as Britain’s only avant-garde art movement. It was founded in 1914 by Wyndham Lewis (1882–1957), who is now the subject of a sizeable retrospective at the Imperial War Museum North in Salford Quays, on until the end of the year.

The First World War inevitably limited the spread and impact of Vorticism, and Lewis himself fought in an artillery regiment before becoming an official war artist. After the war he produced a variety of art works, together with a series of books (novels, criticism, polemics), most long out of print. He seems to have been a contrarian with a rather prickly personality, and he disliked privileged cliques such as the Bloomsbury Set. He was vehemently against Bolshevism, and his experiences in WW1 made him very much opposed to war. Unfortunately, these considerations led him to some sympathies for Nazi Germany and to describing Hitler as ‘a man of peace’. He changed his mind on these matters after visiting Germany in 1937, but by that time he had already made himself rather unpopular in many cultural circles.

Many of Lewis’s paintings from WW1, however, contain significant and perceptive comments on the fighting. Drawings from 1918 show violence and death, with soldiers reduced to the status of machines. His 1919 picture ‘A Battery Shelled’ is an impressive work which depicts dehumanised figures running for cover as the shells rain down, while three more realistically-depicted men watch or simply ignore what is going on. This was considered too controversial to be an appropriate memorial painting, and it was passed from the Imperial War Museum to the Tate.

A Battery Shelled (1919)

‘The Surrender of Barcelona’ (1936) refers to the city being captured by Spanish forces in the fifteenth century, but surely relates to the Spanish Civil War as well. ‘Inferno’, dating from 1937, is a pessimistic presentation of corpses and the flames of hell, as Lewis combines his hatred of war with an expectation that another large conflagration is approaching.

The IWM publicity describes Lewis as ‘Britain’s original rebel artist’, and he did set up the short-lived Rebel Art Centre. Despite his  – to say the least – dubious political views, many of his paintings undermine the role of official war artist and reveal both the boredom and the horror of war.           

Paul Bennett

"The Glories of War" by a soldier in the trenches. (1917)

From the April 1917 issue of the Socialist Standard

We are indebted to the Editors of "The Ploughshare" for permission to reprint the following sketches, which appeared in the March issue of the Quaker Magazine of Social Reconstruction.— Ed. Com. Socialist Standard.

We guarantee the genuineness of the two sketches which follow. They are written by. a soldier known to us, one who expresses himself as grateful for the work we are doing. Shame on us to accept thanks for this when so much more could be done!

I. GOING INTO ACTION.

The glories of war! How this great illusion has been kept up in former days! What volumes of romance have been written about it! But now war is stripped of all its glory and romance; it stands bare and hideous in the sight of thinking men, and to the soldiers it is an indescribable horror, breaking the mind and body and eating into the soul.

“Going into action" has always been a favourite theme with romantic writers; it lends itself to vivid word-painting about courage, determination, and sacrifice. Yet going into action to-day spells terror and despair to the men engaged. They know that in the awfulness of modern warfare few survive. Let me, therefore, give a brief description of an engagement as it occurs at the Front to-day.

The regiment has been at rest in billets a few miles behind the firing lines. Here we clean up, recoup, and receive fresh drafts to replace former casualties. A fairly easy time is passed until one morning the Colonel announces on parade that we are going up to the trenches again that night. Now all is activity and excitement; rifles are inspected and ammunition served out. New gas helmets replace the old ones, and “tear-shell" goggles are distributed; some of the men receive trench dubs— “daggers" ; the bombers have the latest instructions read to them. We fill our water-bottles and get the iron rations of bully beef and “dog-biscuits.”

As the day wears on, some of the men become reserved and quiet. The more thoughtful begin to ponder on what is in store for them. Some already feel they are beneath the ground. Poor wretches! perhaps the gods are kind in not giving us a glimpse of the future! But all contemplation soon ceases, for presently the bugles sound the “fall in.” We hastily put on our full equipment, line up in the ranks, and await the Colonel's instructions.

Along he comes, attended by the adjutant and officers. He looks pale and anxious. “Men," he says, “we are going up to the trenches now. I hope you will all give a good account of yourselves, and may God have us in his care.“ The band plays “Eternal Father, strong to save," and as we sing it some cry like children. Tears are in the eyes of all. We think of our dear ones at home, and many a silent prayer is offered up. Some ask themselves in thought: “Is there really a good God to allow this awful suffering and carnage?" The chaplain reads a prayer which seems like the burial service. Then the bugles sound again, hoarse orders are shouted, and away we march as night is quickly falling.

On, on we tramp, staggering beneath the heavy load of equipment, slipping in mud and slush, stumbling in holes. “How much farther is it, chum ? ” I ask the man next to me. He cannot reply, he is crying bitterly. Now we approach the danger zone. The artillery is blazing away and the noise makes talking impossible. We break step, put out our fags, and begin to march in “extended order.” Suddenly there is a roar and a crash—a shell has fallen just behind us! Happily no one is hurt. Then I see a man in front of me fall, caught by a spent bullet. He shrieks in agony, and the stretcher bearers come to his rescue.

Now we march along in silence, absolute silence, dumb men driven to the slaughter. We are nearing the communication trench. The sky is lit up with the flashes of thousands of guns, and the star shells shed a lurid glow over the field of battle. Shells are bursting near us, for the enemy is shelling the roads. Several men fall, hit by shrapnel. We quicken our pace to get the cover of the trenches. The wounded are being brought from a field dressing station and quickly put in Red Cross vans. As the stretchers pass us, the poor wretches groan in agony.

We are now in the assembly trench; it is knee-deep in mud ; we slip and stumble about, advancing in single file towards the front. My company is to be stationed in a rear trench, but the others advance to the front. We are allotted our positions by the Captain, and we stand there all night asking : “Will the dawn never come ? "

All next day we stand there; some have gone into dug-outs to try to get a few hours sleep, but this is almost impossible, for the earth shakes from the vibrations of the artillery. The lice crawl all over the body, driving one nearly frantic, and the rats are in swarms and run over us. But there are some corpses lying out on the top, with plenty of rats around them, so they won't go hungry!

The next day we are told an attack is to be made at dawn. On this I notice a weird change comes over the men; they become strangely religious as the fear of death comes near. The Catholics are telling their beads, the others reading their Testaments and Bibles. Some are crying, and all are silent—petrified with cold and horror.

As the hour for attack draws near, the officers become pale and anxious. They keep looking at their watches. They try to smile as they shake hands with the sergeants, whispering “Good-bye." in case the worst happens.

The noise of the artillery is now awful; every gun, from a trench mortar to a big naval gun, is blazing away, smashing down barbed wire entanglements and parapets. The world seems to have gone raving mad. In an hour it will be dawn, and then—?

The men in the front trench have now fixed their bayonets, and thrown off unnecessary equipment. They dare not look at each other; steel helmets are firmly fixed as they await the word. Suddenly a young officer pushes his way to a place prepared in the parapet for jumping over. In his hand he holds a whistle. He gives a shrill blast, and is over the top, the others scrambling after him, and at this moment the artillery ceases.

Through the periscopes we watch the progress. Some are falling and throw up their arms and spin round as the bullets strike them. Some are dashing madly on. The machine-guns of the enemy are spitting forth thousands of fiery bullets. The men still unhurt have passed through the German entanglements and are on their parapets. The bombs and bayonets are busy. Strong men are falling like corn before the sickle. Now the fighting is in the enemy's trenches. Both explosions and revolver shots are heard. Our men have captured the trench and are consolidating it. In “ No-man’s-land ” the stretcher-bearers are busy, dragging in the dead and wounded. The doctors in the trench dressing station are hastily bandaging wounds and injecting “anti-lockjaw” serum. The sight is indescribable. Groans and cries rend the air as the dead and wounded lie together in the dressing-station. An ashy pallor is on their faces.

And now the enemy observers see that we occupy the trench and immediately signal to their artillery. Hundreds of shells now pour upon our comrades, smashing up the position they have occupied and burying them beneath the debris. And thus the hideous game goes on and many brave lives are sacrificed. The hidden artillery has robbed them of victory; for in this trench warfare neither side conquers.

In the rear trench we shiver through the long days and night ; some of us have lost our brothers and comrades ; we curse the war and the folly of the men who make it. “Why were we born ?’’ I have heard men say.

Some get “trench feet” : others contract “trench fever’’ and scabies; some begin to develop pneumonia and consumption. We lean against the side of the trench, our teeth a-chatter, and try to sleep, when suddenly a gong rings, for a gas attack has been launched. We hastily don our gas helmets and “stand to" .

'The enemy trench mortars are throwing devilish bombs. We reply, dealing death and destruction to the unseen foe. . . .

At last we are going to be relieved, and another regiment is to take our place We begin slowly to thread our way through the communication trench. A sergeant reads the roll: to many names there is no reply. The remnants reach the road behind the trenches. It is pitch dark and the rain is falling in torrents. Most of us are limping, and some have taken off their boots. We are caked in mud from head to foot. There is no music now, no “glory of war,” no cheering crowds. We are but the human fuel that feeds the engine of Armageddon. On, on we stagger back to camp. Some relieve their emotions by weeping. The man next to me is kissing the image of Christ on his rosary, the officers are silent ; too weak and worn even to give orders. . . .

There are no cheers now when we pass other regiments going up to the trenches, as there were in the early days of the war. We look at each other and say, “Poor devils! God help them.’’

As day advances we reach the camp. Worn out and aching with rheumatism, we stagger to the tents and fall asleep. And in that sleep there are some who dream of a wiser age to come, when man will have learnt the truth about the “glory of war.”

We who are the victims of this carnage know that this “glory” does not exist. Would to God that the warring nations could know the same! — say I. Yes, the poor soldier is the victim all the time. There is no animosity between the fighting men. Wounded British, Germans, and French fraternise with each other, exchange cigarettes, and sympathise with the others’ wounds and pains. I have seen German prisoners walking arm-in-arm with our soldiers.

“Going into action”! Yes, let us go into action, but not to slay and torture, but to build up a happier and brighter world redeemed from the folly and brutality of war.

II. THE CASUALTY STATION.

We sat in our dug-out reading a fragment of an old newspaper; it contained a vivid description of a casualty station written by a well-known newspaper owner. In glowing phrases it told of the cheerfulness of the wounded and the laughter and happiness which prevailed in the “wards.” In short, from the description, one would really believe that men loved being torn and maimed, and that they were in a place of amusement instead of a human shamble-house which baffles description.

My chum tossed the paper to me and said: “Ye gods! that people should believe that! To think that those at home are so gulled! If they could only see a dressing or ambulance station for half an hour, such a demand for peace would be made that no Government could stop it.”

My chum was right. I will now try to describe a casualty station, but no words of mine can suffice; only a Zola or a Dickens could give even a faint description of the horrors which one sees —horrors that eat into the soul and make one wonder whether it is a hideous scene from Inferno or a reality.

Imagine a large field with about twenty marquees erected for the reception of the wounded. The bitter wind blows through the canvas, and a solemn air of death and suffering pervades the whole. (When I was there, nurses and doctors were nearly knee-deep in mud.) The never-ending stream of Red Cross motors is coming and going. The R.A.M.C. men swiftly and gently lift the stretchers from the care and take them to the reception marquee. Many of the wounded are groaning, and some are already dead. They are smothered with mud, while fear and pain are written on their pale faces. A doctor makes a hurried examination, then each case is taken to the “ward ” allotted to that class of injury. Here the wounded are stripped, their clothes thrown aside or sent to the destructor. Now the ward- doctor makes a minute examination.

The surgeons are busy in the operating tent; as case after case comes and goes, shattered legs and arms are quickly amputated. The bucket outside contains hands and feet, pieces of jaw, and the rest. I see an orderly hurrying along carrying a big white leg to the destructor, thinking nothing of this, for it is an hourly occurrence.

Have you ever seen a butcher after a day’s killing? Well, that is how the surgeons appear. They work day and night, clever, self sacrificing men, appalled at the awfulness of their duties. The nurses appear somewhat hysterical, the result of doing hours of arduous duty and bloody work. Their aprons are saturated with gore. In the wards are the mangled and the dying. Many cases are too awful for operation, and nothing can be done to relieve them, so the orderly injects morphia and the poor wretches pass quietly away.

A priest is in attendance; sometimes his words console the one passing hence; but I, who have seen many men die, say unhesitatingly that, instead of dying gladly (as the corrupt Press declares), they do so with appalling regret, feeling inwardly that cruel war is wrong, and that they ought not to die so young.

But the ambulance train has arrived to take the sufferers to England. The most dangerous cases are placed on the train first. What a sigh of relief is given as they know that they are going to “Blighty”—away from the infernal scenes of carnage and slaughter! Now the train is nearly full of “lying cases,” and the sitting cases come next An orderly is leading some men—they are blind; and here are some men apparently unharmed—what is the matter with them? They are deaf and dumb from shellshock. Next come the insane—they are strongly guarded and locked up in a special compartment. Some are shouting and raving—it is nothing, only war!

A blast from the whistle and the train is off. Doctors and nurses give a sigh of relief, but it is of short duration, for'“gas cases” are arriving in the hospital. The poor wretches are propped up in the open air; they are struggling and gasping for breath. Some are already turning blue as the muceous fluid slowly rises in the lungs and chokes them. Some are dead and fall over with faces distorted and hands clenched in their awful struggle. . . .

In a field at the back the dead are lying; they, are clad in their shirts with a blanket thrown over them. Let us pull aside the blanket and look! The first has no face—a big blob of wadding hides the mangled features. The next is white as marble—he has bled to death. 'The next has been shot through the brain; it took him three days to die, poor chap, and he was conscious to the end. How tenacious some are of life!

The “sanitary men” are busy tying up the corpses, whose shroud is a blanket and a bit of string. A few handfuls of chloride of lime are thrown over the naked bodies, and sometimes in the mouths. The sanitary men work in silence, they are so horrified and appalled: see! that young man’s hair is going white, and there is a strange look in his eyes.

The corpses are pulled about as the slaughter-man pulls his dead sheep. There are post-mortem examinations on some of them, and for this purpose intestines and pieces of lung are in a bucket outside a tent, so that the young surgeons may get good practice.

The dead are now ready for burying. Four old French peasants are digging graves. There is not time to dig them very deep, and they fill with water at once. Quickly the corpses are dropped in the water as the parson reads a few words from the Burial Service and the wet earth is thrown in.

As we go back to the hospital the night is made hideous with the groans and shrieks of men in agony. Sleep is often impossible, and sometimes I have been awake all night hearing the awful cries of these poor men. Many are passing away, and as dawn begins to break a silence reigns from which we know that these mud-stained, weary warriors have passed into the Great Beyond.

And so it goes on, day after day, week after week, the never-ending stream of maimed and mangled bodies. Strong, happy, smiling men are knocked into bundles of bloody rags!

Yes, the Press and politicians may talk of the “glory of war,” but the casualty stations tell the true tale. And when that wealthy newspaper owner writes about the wounded, let him tell the real truth, and not deceive the public with cruel lies, which help to lengthen the war and thus bring death and indescribable suffering to thousands.

This is what we in the trenches think!

The Legacy of 1914-18 (1964)

From the August 1964 issue of the Socialist Standard

When the first world war was declared amid scenes of hysterical enthusiasm from crowds of workers on both sides, few thought that it would drag on for four dreadful years. Nor did many envisage the weapons that would be produced and developed in that period of carnage.

Much of what has been written recently has touched on these weapons, and criticism has centred on the failure of the high-ups to see their possibilities and exploit them to the full. A few months ago, The Sunday Times Magazine had this to say about air power, for instance: -

For much of the war pilots were more concerned about painted duels than with the destruction of men and material. The hero worship such individuals gained was great for the home front, but didn’t do a lot for the man in the mud . . . real ground strafing did not begin until Messines and Cambrai (1917). Only in the final weeks was the aeroplane fully used as a striking weapon!

Be that as it may, it is not our intention to join the largely futile arguments about who was right and who was wrong, who was far-sighted and who not. Perhaps from the viewpoint of some contemporary historians, the perfect war effort would be one which organised its resources up to the hilt and exploited every weapon to the limits of its potential. Thank goodness there is no such thing as perfection, for had it been achieved, the ghastly story of it all would have been that much ghastlier.

The great lesson is that the war-like nature of capitalism continues, whether or not hostilities are actually in progress. Once a weapon has arrived on the scene, it will be developed, refined and used until changes in the conduct and techniques of warfare make it out of date. Perhaps the brasshats will be slow to grasp when a particular weapon has had its day and there will be the usual controversy among the war councils.

Let us consider one or two examples. In 1916 the first tanks appeared on the western front, much to the annoyance of the cavalry men. The tank was an early sign that warfare was to become much more mobile.. It was the answer to the machine gun nests which had prevailed until then, although some of the Allied chiefs were slow to realise its possibilities. Who, then, would have foreseen the day over twenty years later, when tank warfare would grow to the extent that it did, and Panzer divisions overrun France in a few weeks? But even the tanks of early 1940 were as babies compared with the sixty-ton monsters which smashed their way through Germany from all directions only five years later.

When the first world war broke out, the aeroplane was in its infancy, but at the end it was being used more extensively, and a fleet of four-engined bombers was being prepared to raid Berlin. Here, perhaps, is one of the most apt examples of our point, for the inter-war years saw rapid changes in the design of fighting aircraft. The Spitfire and Hurricane, and their German opposite numbers, could fly at well over three hundred miles per hour, and by 1939 the day of the bomber had really dawned. It is as well to remember, incidentally, that only just before this, the Spanish civil war had provided a testing ground for some of the new ’planes. Even in the midst of “peace” we are in war.

The growth of air power during 1939- 45, and its use against soldier and civilian alike, had its roots in the events of twenty-odd years before. During the first war, the allies had produced incendiary and high explosive bombs which were dropped on enemy airfields with devastating effect. Practically the whole of Baron von Richthofen’s Flying Circus was destroyed on the ground in one such raid. German Zeppelins bombed London and other parts until around 1916. But if civilians found the Zeppelin raids terrifying, a glimpse into the future would certainly have widened their eyes still further in horror. For there they would have seen the firestorms of Rotterdam, Hamburg and Dresden, the flying bombs and rockets on London, and the atomic destruction of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

The casualty lists of 1914 shocked many of those who had been so enthusiastic for a fight, and the relief when it was all over was matched only by a “never again” feeling. Post-war conferences of the big powers outlawed dumdum bullets and poison gas, and supply us with a fitting example of the futility of such a piecemeal approach to the problem of war. For even by then, developments had rendered these weapons obsolete and far more efficient means of killing were to be our lot. Yet it is one of the tragedies that this attitude has persisted until the present time. Even the anti-war movements of the inter war years never got down to an examination of causes.

They have been succeeded by that prime futility of the fifties—the Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament. This body has canalised the fright which many understandably felt when Hiroshima and Nagasaki hit the head-lines, but like its predecessors, CND has based its policy on the false assumption that the way to abolish war is to begin by outlawing its worst weapons and then work backwards through the list. “There is no war but nuclear war” was the remark made by one of their young supporters to an S.P.G.B. speaker a few years ago, and it seems a fair summary of at least their earlier attitude.

Last summer saw the signing of the test ban treaty, and this went to their heads a bit, having the effect of diverting their attention somewhat to other sources of capitalism. The words of Bertrand Russell illustrate to some extent their current feelings. At the end of January this year, he said;

  Owing to changes in government opinion, it seems more possible than it did to avert nuclear war . . . friends of peace should look for compromise solutions possibly acceptable to both sides. It should also be part of our work to expose punishments inflicted by governments which are unjustifiable and exacerbate international hostility. (Guardian, 29.1.64.)

It has been left to the SPGB to point out that the danger of war is just as great as ever and that the test ban treaty was only a sign of the changing balance of power between the major capitalist countries. It will be the same sort of story as long as capitalism is with us.

The horror of war weapons past, present and future, cannot be divorced from the social system which produces them. Let us correct the words of the young C.N.D.'er:--There is no war but a capitalist war.

Eddie Critchfield

The descent of man (1977)

From the December 1977 issue of the Socialist Standard

Two items of news appeared in the press this week that are worthy of note, if only to show you, the workers, how much the capitalist class and their flunkeys value your miserable lives.

Under the caption "N-Bomb for People" (Herald 7.6.77) we learn that the Americans are about to begin production of a nuclear warhead that can kill people without destroying property.

The new warhead cuts down on blast and heat and this total destruction leaving buildings and tanks standing. But the great quantities of neutrons it releases kill people.

Not much doubt here where capitalism's priorities lay—People or Property. You, the people, are expendable, your lives not worth consideration when it comes to war. You can die in the most horrific way that these diabolical weapon-producers can dream up but save the property, that costs money!

The second item, published in the Auckland Star (13.6.77) under the heading "Monkey's perish to Produce Death Ray", reads almost like a horror story, the author of which, if in fiction, would have to have the imagination of a sadistic monster. But this is not fiction, but cold hard fact. Even if the reader was not an animal lover he would still feel disgusted and ashamed that he is a member of the human race. 

Highly trained monkeys are killed by high energy radiation and burns in experiments carried out by the United States Navy. These deaths were quoted as "appallingly painful".

And what are these dreadful experiments in aid of. Just to find out how long you can continue to be of use to the war machine after exposure. How long can you continue to drive a tank, fire a gun, or push buttons.

Their desire to get the last ounce of use from your body, even though it might be in the throes of an agonizing death, really shows what lengths these monsters will go to in order to perpetuate their system.

Monkeys today—you tomorrow.

(Reprinted from Socialist Viewpoint, New Zealand)

'The Naked and the Dead' (1950)

Book Review from the July 1950 issue of the Socialist Standard

It was not for several years after the cessation of actual hostilities that the various "classics: of the first world war, such as "Journey's End," "A Farewell to Arms" and "All Quiet on the Western Front" came before the public eye. By the time they did, the so called glory had faded from victory and the sting from defeat, and writers could view the situation far more accurately. World War Two is now bearing fruit of a similar flavour.

So far most of this work has come from Italy and America, the Italians dealing with the home conditions of defeat, and the Americans with the problems of a victorious army. It is announced that Hemingway is attempting to emulate his own post-1918 success. He has been beaten at the post by John Horne Burns with the "Gallery" (which in many ways reminds one of the Italian film "Paisa") and Norman Mailer with "The Naked and the Dead."

If some of the provincial ladies who gather at the vicar's sewing circle to make comforts for the troops and talk glibly of the glories of war, dared read this book they would be most highly offended. Yet the author purports it to be no more than a portrait of an average American brigade in action in the Pacific during the years between 1941 and 1945.

There is neither grandeur nor glory, pomp nor fulfillment. Instead there is ugliness and cruelty, pettiness and frustration.

The peculiar circumstances in which these men find themselves, in a strange climate, living for months on end in an all male society, waiting to kill or be killed, brings out in them everything that is vicious. Between the men and those dressed in the brief authority of "stripes: petty grievances are magnified into major issues; and the same antagonism exists between the N.C.O.'s and officers, to such a degree that a sergeant wittingly sends an interfering officer to his death. And even among themselves, the officers, N.C.O.'s and men are constantly seeking an excuse to release their high strung tempers. The two Jews and other minorities are the first to suffer.

Behind the lines their conversation is centred almost entirely upon sex in its crudest terms. It is reminiscent of the two soldiers who, at the opening of 'All Quiet on the Western Front," muse upon the use of silk underwear in the officers' brothels. The unnatural monastic order of their existence magnifies this function so much out of proportion that it looses all semblance of normality. Each man tries to outdo the other in the lurid tales with which they pass their time.

It is only a minor battle and they win. The Japanese are driven from the atoll and one prisoner is brutally baited and shot. Searching for souvenirs, the Americans find wallets containing photographs of wives and families in Japan, similar to those which they carry themselves.

Where is the victory? In a piece of jungle land? The dead Japanese may well have been dead Americans. As it is they must fight on, land on another island, fight another battle and continue to degenerate till the conflict ends.

That is the story. Well could it have been the story of a battle at the time of Napoleon, of the Spanish Armada, of Alexander the Great. Throughout the history of property-society wars have been accompanied by horrors beyond description. In the name of freedom, right or justice men have been fed to the Spanish Inquisition, Boers and Indians cast into British concentration camps, Jews and recalcitrants into gas chambers. Women have been raped and children slaughtered. It is impossible to train men to murder, cast them into pools of blood and expect them to retain a sense of proportion. Such conditions as these must breed the inhumanity we witness.

Neither this book nor the others mentioned point to a solution. That is not the task of the novelist. Nevertheless they are useful as pictures of what war is really like—pictures which may inspire the reader to ask himself, "Why should these things be?"

Ronald.

Shot at dawn (1985)

Book Review from the December 1985 issue of the Socialist Standard

For the Sake of Example, Anthony Babington (Paladin £3.95)

A festival of glory greeted the First World War. All over Europe young men scrambled and wheedled to enlist in the armies and young women to give them a rousing send off. It did not take long for the dream to die—in the mud, the shellfire, the machine guns raking the wire, the indescribable deaths. It was, to be sure, more than human bodies and minds could bear; those who did stick it out managed through some trick of stoicism or more murderous frenzy called courage. A few did not have the knack and tried to opt out of the carnage. Which could be very serious for them; if they were caught they were liable under military law to execution, as happened to 346 British soldiers.

Their "crime: was, in the vast majority of cases, "desertion", with other offences such as "cowardice" much less common. Some of these men were reservists who had been recalled to the Army in 1914. Others were enthusiastic volunteers in Kitchener's New Army, which was all but liquidated on the Somme in 1916. Some were described by their commanding officer as "worthless" because of their consistent inability to strait-jacket themselves into military routine. One or two had been vagrant before joining the army, for them, at least, the outdoor life presumably held no problems but the repressive disciple did.

In many case, however, the executed men could not, even by British military standards (which in 1914/18 were particularly fierce, compared to those of other countries and to those imposed as recently as the Boer War) be described as cowards or slackers. They had endured years of trench warfare without cracking, until an especially horrible experience like being buried alive or having a companion's brains shell-splattered over their face. But the concept of shell shock was not popular. Medical examinations of the "offenders" were not an automatic part of the proceedings and in any case they could be contemptuously cursory: "There's a fellow here who ran away from the trenches. They are going to shoot him and they want me to say of he's responsible. I shan't be long" was how one doctor put it.

The field courts martial were hurried and incomplete affairs, for the defendant rarely had any adequate representation, such as might have been allowed in any magistrates court, and it was not unusual for no defence at all to be offered. A particularly inhuman procedure prevented the court announcing a guilty verdict straight away; instead it was passed up through the various layers of command, each one making  a recommendation even though they might have no direct experience or knowledge of the man. The final decision rested with the commander-in-chief who very often sent the soldier to execution, not on the circumstances of the case, but on his perceived need for a deterrent example.

Anthony Babington is a circuit judge; during the last war he was twice wounded and obviously sees no reason for fundamentally questioning a social system which requires workers to fight and kill each other to settle a dispute concerning the interests of their ruling class. What worries Babington are the peripheral issues, such as the long-distance bellicosity of those staff officers and the bigotry of doctors who ignored their Hippocratic oath in the interests of the war machine.

Babington's reasoning is flawed by the fact that war is not humane. By no rational process does a person attack and kill someone they have no contact with nor knowledge of. The discipline of a military life is designed to stamp out rationality under the boots on the parade ground, the uniforms, the saluting, the "regimental traditions". To deviate from that can be a threat to the whole grisly edifice, in the past often leading to the firing squad. Nowadays it is more likely to bring down a barrage of mental conditioning into an acceptance of the inhuman demands of capitalism.

For the Sake of Example is an unrelievedly gruesome illustration of the inherent madness of 1914/18, which should not persuade anyone to think that the subsequent wars have been any more sane or acceptable. Perhaps one of the unhappiest aspects of it is that all people at such times are under orders to behave as they do. They are—and what, under capitalism, could be more absolving?—only doing their job.

Ivan

The Salient (1985)

From the April 1985 issue of the Socialist Standard

As the bus from Roulers draws near to Ypres it runs along a wide street of rather expensive houses. Strung along the top of a low ridge, it is a village, but like so many others in this motorcar age it has become a detached suburb of Ypres. A quiet ordinary scene; children cycle home to lunch, people stand at bus stops or potter in front gardens while the usual mid-day traffic passes through. Away to the right the land drops downhill, revealing green fields and woods, with the spire of Ypres in the distance. A scene that would look just right on the cover of a glossy magazine. Hazy autumn sunshine completes the picture. So it is with a shock that one reads the road sign—Passchendaele. This was the village pounded by heavy shells to the point that it could no longer be called rubble but dust. This was the prize for which tens of thousands of men died. This was the place that was to give its name to one of the most squalid bouts of butchery in the history of warfare. In those pleasant fields for four months men were shot, gassed, blown to pieces or drowned in water-filled shell holes. This is the edge of the Ypres salient. It is ringed by huge cemeteries, but that whole area is one great graveyard. Under those fields lie the remains of at least 40,000 people. The full casualties are not known but even today the ploughs and ditching machines still bring up bones and skulls.

As it proceeds the bus comes to the main road, where once to stand up straight meant instant death. Then through the terrible Menin Gate, a huge building that runs the width of the ramparts. Juggernaut lorries pass through it with ease. It is faced with white stone, and every inch has a name, 55,000 in all. These are men whose bodies disappeared in the Ypres salient in the period up to June 1917; near Passchendaele there is another memorial with 34,000 names of men who disappeared from June 1917 onwards. These are only British Empire troops and do not include French, Belgian or German. Then on to the end of the ride in the main square of Ypres.

Ypres (today usually called by its Flemish name of Ieper) is a bustling town dominated by its great Cloth Hall and Cathedral. The impression is of an ancient town, somewhat heavily restored; but this is all a reconstruction for the town was painstakingly rebuilt in the early 1920s. Again, a pleasant scene. Buses and coaches stand in the main square disgorging their tourists while the shops and bars are full. People fish in the moat or go off to play some game or other. It is only when you visit the Salient Exhibition under the Cloth Hall that you realise what a shambles Ypres was.

Ypres was the greatest of the medieval Cloth Towns and dominated the Flemish Plain. Once more important even than Bruges or Ghent, it slowly lost its prominence and sank into obscurity. Pre-1914 photographs show it as somewhat run down. The war was to give it a grim immortality.

The war on the Western Front opened with the German invasion of Belgium and Luxembourg as well as France. Militarily and economically the invasion of Belgium was beneficial to Germany because it gave its army greater room to manoeuvre and placed the coal mines and factories of Belgium at their disposal. But politically it had the disadvantage of bringing Britain into the war. It was touch and go as to whether Britain should enter the war on the side of the Allies or stay in a state of armed neutrality. The British ruling class had for a century largely kept out of European conflicts, preferring to use diplomacy to maintain the Balance of Power—in other words to keep their rivals divided. Thus they had supported Prussian aggression, being in favour of a united Germany. They had sympathised with Prussia in the Franco-Prussian war and applauded the formation of the German Empire.

It was not until the end of the last century that British capitalists began to wake up to the fact that Germany was developing into their major rival—flooding world markets with cheap, mass produced goods and beginning to muscle in on the colonial scene in Africa and elsewhere. The German programme of naval expansion was also seen as a threat to British naval supremacy. France had always been the traditional enemy; the Entente Cordiale had been signed only in 1904. Throughout the Edwardian period large sections of British public opinion remained anti-French, anti-Russian and pro-German. The invasion of Belgium tipped the balance. Much was made of Britain's obligations under the Treaty of Neutrality and Germany's violation of it, but the real cause for concern was control of the Channel ports. It had long been a cornerstone of British foreign policy that the Channel ports facing London should not be controlled by a great power. This was seen as a major threat to the Port of London, and, of course, "gallant little Belgium" made an excellent propaganda ploy.

So Britain was in the war and soon British troops, alongside French and Belgians, found themselves in headlong retreat. Germany opened the war on the Western Front with a massive attack aimed at encircling Paris and knocking France out of the war. The Germans had massed 12 armies—about a million and a half men—on their frontiers. When they attacked the sheer weight of numbers, aided by French miscalculations, brought them to the outskirts of Paris, where they were held in the battle of the Marne. Unable to break through in France, the German army began a push through Flanders with the intention of outflanking their opponents and seizing the Channel Ports of Dunkirk and Calais. In this they were nearly successful but were held in the vicinity of Ypres; the Belgians had managed to flood low-lying land between the city and the sea. This stopped the German advance to the North of Ypres, and there ensued a period of heavy confused fighting that lasted from 12 October until 11 November. This had been called the first battle of Ypres, although battle is hardly an appropriate description of what was in fact a campaign lasting a month. It was the last time that any kid of movement or manoeuvring was possible on the Western Front. In November the Germans dug in on the ridges that surrounded Ypres. The line of trenches extended from Switzerland to the sea but there was a bulge at Ypres, with the city in its midst, only a few miles deep and a few miles wide. This was the Ypres salient, the most exposed and dangerous patch of land in the world. For four years the fighting never stopped. It was the worst killing ground of all.

The second battle of Ypres opened on 22 April 1915. It began with the bombardment of the city which sent the civilian population streaming out along the roads. In the late afternoon a new horror was added to the scene—chlorine gas. "A strange green vapour" was seen drifting down onto the Algerian troops who were holding this part of the line. This was the first time that this foul weapon had been used, but the next four years were to see even nastier forms unleashed. Everybody is familiar with photographs of blinded men queuing up for treatment; 60,000 men died in the second Ypres. At the end the Allies withdrew to a mere two miles from the ramparts of Ypres. The salient was now small, and for the next two years was pounded by shells almost without interruption. The sane thing for the British to have done would have been to withdraw behind Ypres and straighten the line, but this was no longer just a military matter. The workers at home had been fed a never-ending stream of propaganda about the importance of the Ypres salient and its "glory", so that to have abandoned it would have hit morale. In the popular press this was Britain's own battlefield, ignoring the fact that thousands of Belgians and Frenchmen had also died there. It was to break out of this death-trap that the Third Battle of Ypres was launched. This was its official title, but the world knows it as Passchendaele.

This century has been called "a century of horror", and there has been no shortage of it: Hiroshima, Dresden, Viet Nam, and now Ethiopia to name just a few of the worst, but even among these Passchendaele can still shock. Even by the cruel standards of warfare, in which the loss of human life is acceptable and human beings are measured against territorial gain, it was inexcusable. The declared aim of the offensive, which the British Commander in Chief Haig and the High Command used to convince the government that the plan was reasonable, was to punch a hole in the German defences, pour through into the land beyond and capture Ostend and Zeebrugge to stop the U boat attacks in Allied shipping, and to capture Roulers, the great railway junction through which men and materials passed to the line. This was a complete pipedream because, even if they had succeeded in making a complete breakthrough—something that nobody had managed to do in more than two years—Ostend and Roulers were 40 miles apart. A more realistic aim was to capture the ridges that surrounded Ypres and extend the salient.

The prelude to the attack was the capture of the Messines ridge on the southern rim of the salient. It began by the explosion of 19 mines under the German positions, followed by a barrage of 2266 guns and howitzers and an attack by 80,000 troops. This was a "success" as "only" 1,700 men were killed and the attack achieved its aim. This was one of the factors that bolstered up the illusions of the High Command in the months to come.

In the continuous saga of mindless slaughter that ran from 1914 to 1918, three highlights stand out: the Somme, Verdun and Passchendaele. But of these the one that arouses the revulsion—because of the massive loss of life and the unbelievable conditions under which it was fought—was Passchendaele. The area had been reclaimed from marshlands over many generations. Most of it was too wet for cultivation and was used as pasture. Farmers were required by law to keep their ditches clear. This delicate balance was shattered by the unprecedented bombardment in which nearly 4,000 guns pounded the German lines for ten days. Four and a quarter million shells, or 4¾ tons to every yard of the front, were fired. This resulted in the complete destruction of the drainage system. The attack began on the 31 July in torrential rain, and it poured with rain during most of the following three months. On 4 November Canadian troops captured the mass of shell holes that had been the village of Passchendaele. The line had been extended by five miles. The cost? Nobody really knows but the most often quoted figure is 300,000 Allied casualties and 200,000 German.

However, it is the conditions that the armies endured which made this campaign so horrific. A vast area of foul-smelling mud that sucked everything down into it, and water-filled shell holes in which not only men and horses but guns and even tanks sank. Every new shell threw up rotting corpses that had sunk, only to sink again. Overall drifted a new weapon being tried for the first time—mustard gas. Six months later, in April 1918, the big German spring offensive recaptured all the ground which had been gained. In Britain war weariness was spreading. Gone was the wild enthusiasm of 1914; the never ending casualty lists, the ever receding hopes of victory were taking their toll. The old regular army was destroyed in the first few months of the war. Kitchener's Army, the volunteers who had flocked to the recruiting offices in the early days of the war. had been destroyed on the Somme. The British army was scraping the bottom of the barrel, the very, the old and the unfit were dragged in.

The final collapse of Germany in 1918 rolled back the battle lines from the salient. It left behind a scene of utter destruction, a land in which everything was unrecognisable; a place where every landmark had been wiped out. Shattered tree stumps began to throw out leaves again, and the ground was covered with the poppies that became the trade mark of the new "Remembrance" industry. The poppy is a plant that flourishes wherever soil is disturbed, so it would naturally take root in such a place. Incredible as it may seem, within a few months of the Armistice, Ypres became a tourist centre. While the town was still in ruins and teams were still searching for bodies in the area, trains were bringing visitors to the battlefields and tours were being organised in Britain.

Nearly seventy years have passed since the end of that war, and there are few people remaining who took part in it. The landscape has been restored, the trees and hedges have grown again and the fields have been out back. Apart from the cemeteries, one could walk through this place and not know what had happened. But in those seventy years other landscapes have been shattered and millions more have died. Only twenty years after peace came to this area, another, even bloodier, war broke out and in forty years of "peace", so-called local wars like Viet Nam and Cambodia have claimed yet more lives.

Les Dale