World War I

As Vera Brittain recalls in her World War I memoir, Testament of Youth, in May 1915 she had been seeking comfort from constant anxiety over the safety of her brother, Edward, and her future fiance, Roland, both soldiers at the front. Daily war news of such events as the sinking of the Lusitania and the German recapture of Hill 60 kept her in a perpetual state of dread (151). “There was no escape from these stormy preoccupations,” Brittain writes, “except in the small successive events of everyday life” (151)—events such as the annual “Te Deum Patrem colimus” from Magdalen tower and the pleasurable diversion of tennis (152). But these proved to offer only temporary escape. In the beauty of the Te Deum, she found also the absence of Roland and Edward; in the lighthearted pleasure of tennis, she found the guilt of inaction—like “Nero fiddling away while Rome was burning” (152).

It was in this state that Brittain turned to literature for comfort—to “the volume of Wordsworth” (152-53) in which she had previously found pleasure. But instead of comfort, she found only the same recurring dread. As Annie mentions in her post, Wordsworth’s “Surprised by joy” seemed to Brittain as a prophesy of death. It was only in the “haunting beauty” (153) of church services that she was able to find comfort—because the melodies allowed her to confront her sorrow directly. Diversions only lead to the “sharp shock of recollection” (153).

In 1828, fellow advocate of women’s rights John Stuart Mill had also turned to that same 1815 volume of Wordsworth’s collected poetry in a time of need. In his Autobiography, Mill relates that, having been raised in the Utilitarianism of Jeremy Bentham, and of Mill’s father, James Mill, he had developed such a strong habit of analyzing the world that everyday emotions were left without meaning (1117). By 1828, in a state of depression, unable to find meaning or pleasure in anything in life, he tried reading poetry (1121). Byron was no help (“The poet’s state of mind was too like my own” [1121]), but Wordsworth’s verse was exactly what he needed. With his ability to not only describe the beauty of nature but, in Mill’s estimation, to also evoke the “states of feeling ... [that underlie] the excitement of beauty” (1122), Wordsworth was for Mill a means of arousing meaningful emotion where before there had been none.

And perhaps this is exactly why Brittain was unable to find comfort in Wordsworth in 1915. She had gone to Wordsworth not as to church, but as to tennis. She sought in literature, at that moment, not a direct confrontation with emotion, but rather a diversion from emotion—from the anxious dread of loss brought by the war. She was surprised by the “sharp shock” (153) literature can induce when we forget its power.

WORKS CITED

Brittain, Vera. Testament of Youth. 1933. Introd. Mark Bostridge. New York: Penguin, 2005. Print.

Mill, John Stuart. Autobiography. The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Ed. Stephen Greenblatt and Julia Reidhead. 9th ed. New York: Norton, 2012. 1115-22. Print.

“’It is quite impossible to understand,’ I commented afterwards, ‘how we can be such strong individualists, so insistent on the rights and claims of every human soul, and yet at the same time countenance (and if we are English, even take quite calmly) this wholesale murder, which if it were applied to animals or birds or indeed anything except men would fill us with a sickness and repulsion greater than we could endure.” –Vera Brittain, Testament of Youth, 175

While reading through selections of Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth, I was particularly struck by her frequent references to The Times. In the hope of gaining more context for what kinds of things Brittain must have been reading, I did some research in The Times archives.

Although it has proven more difficult than I expected to find a lot of the exact clippings she mentions, I did unearth several really interesting pieces. First, I looked into the "History of the War" that Brittain recalls reading with her brother, Edward (175—the quoted passage above recounts her reaction to reading this History’s estimate of European war casualties: already 5 million dead and 7 million wounded around the first anniversary of the War). Apparently, The Times printed a running series of stories, innovations, and illustrations of the war as it developed, then sold it in weekly installments (and quarterly special-bound issues). Although I wasn't able to dig up the actual "History" itself, I did locate a good example of the kinds of promotions they printed from the June 28th, 1915 issue (right after Brittain started her nursing service); recall the truce she mentions on 167.

The way that the newspaper managed to capitalize on nearly every aspect of the War raises a lot of complicated questions about the ethics of keeping the public “informed”—perhaps not unlike today’s ever-scrolling news marquee or constantly updating Yahoo headlines. I can recall, for example, buying a special issue of Time Magazine or something after the death of Saddam Hussein, thinking at thirteen that it would be a precious commodity some day. Is a balance of preservation and discretion preferable, or even possible? I can’t help but wonder about the deep psychological effects of such incessant reminders of the War’s total pervasiveness, and Brittain’s poignant comments certainly give readers a valuable perspective in this regard.

To get a better glimpse of everyday news at the time, the June 17, 1915 issue—the day she took exams at Oxford (160) in preparation to “[round] off a phase of life” (163) and become a nurse—is worth perusing.

For example, in addition to updating a daily list of various births, marriages, and deaths (life can still proceed as normal in wartime), near the bottom of a column listing those who were "Killed in Action" or "Died of Wounds" is an ad for Hospital Nurses (see left).

Much more interesting to me, though, is page 4 of this particular "Late War Edition"—because, next to four long, tiny-print columns detailing the "Roll of Honour" of casualties and war deaths (including 102 officers and 2,107 men) run three seemingly harmless advertisements. The first is for a tonic called Wincarnis, which—among other things—promises that "New health—glorious, vigorous health—is yours to command" if you use their product. The ad makes a point to underline "new" seven times throughout the various claims it makes about this "life-giving" tonic, insisting that it "creates new strength--and at the same time new vitality—and at the same time new blood—and at the same time new nerve force." If that doesn't make me want to try it, I don't know what will. (See "Wincarnis" for full ad)

Next is a simple, albeit effective, "maxim":

The final ad in this oddly juxtaposed column is, in my opinion, the most unusual. After Cockle's Pills draws in readers with the headline, "You are pleasanter than others think...but so are they," six little paragraphs quickly explain that "merely 'resolving' to be pleasant...will not do"; instead, anyone hoping to be "alive to the joy of living" must "go to the root of the 'gloom-poisons' and wastes that are accumulating in your blood-stream" and "giv[e] your liver the gentle, strengthening help of Cockle's Pills" (see "Cockle's Pills" for full ad).

With all that talk of blood and cheerfulness in the face of seemingly endless death, I'd be feeling pretty disillusioned by the world around me too, and would probably feel the same “anxiety to ‘do something’” (154) that plagued Brittain and her friends in the early days of war.

Throughout Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth, Brittain fixates on prophecy—the idea that one can, somewhat spiritually, know the future. Roland, facing the front and the prospect of death, tries to predict and make guesses at whether or not he will survive the war (178). Young Vera too assigns prophetic meaning to her dreams (168) or lines of poetry read at just the right moment (153). Roland and Vera do not make their predictions lightly, however. Brittain characterizes their visions of the future as premonitions carrying supernatural importance. Roland and Vera appear as if they’ve been let in on some cosmic secret, or at least, wish desperately to believe that they have been included in that special knowledge. In believing in the power of prophecy, Roland and Vera reveal how the war has intruded into their lives not only physically, emotionally, and mentally, but spiritually as well. In indulging in these prophetic wishes, Vera and her fiancé admit that the war holds spiritual power over their lives.
    
War operates in Brittain’s memoir as an unkind and uncaring cosmic force, almost like a god who destroys the lives of his followers without thought or consideration. By focusing on prophecy as a possible way of knowing, Brittain reveals a desire to spiritually matter to the unforgiving god of war. Thus, prophecy acts as a way to enter into conversation with “War” and leave the conversation unscathed. Young Vera tells Roland of a prophetic experience, “Half waking one morning, I seemed to hear an inner voice saying quite audibly: ‘Why do you worry about him? You know he will be all right.’” Roland responds to this story with optimism, “All along I have felt I shan’t be killed. In fact, I almost say I know it. I quite think I shall be wounded, but that is all” (178). Roland believes he has seen behind the curtain and has been given supernatural knowledge as to his future; this knowledge brings him comfort and power, even though the message—with its footnote that the war will leave him wounded—is not entirely happy.

Elsewhere, we see young Vera also believing in her ability to know the future by hanging onto the importance of a dream. She writes, “another shadowy individual came up to the table and said: ‘He is dead; he has died of wounds in France.’ Somehow I realized the people in the room were speaking of Roland...I managed to ask my informant: ‘How do you know?’ ‘It’s written down...the name is here’...‘Donald Neale.’” Vera awakens to this dream and tells herself “in a kind of ecstasy” that it “wasn’t [Roland’s] name” (168). She wants desperately to believe in the supernatural importance of this “prophetic” dream and clings to its message as truth. Here and elsewhere, prophecy emerges as a way to put oneself on the same playing field as the unkind, unknown “god” of war.  Prophecy operates, ultimately, as a connection to hope and a way to believe that the war will not leave total destitution in its wake.

It has long been accepted that the rise of women in the workforce during World War II corresponded with an increased acceptance of women who worked.  The desperate need for workers, common sense suggests, required an allowance for a female workforce.  However, Vera Brittain's Testament of Youth complicates this view by showing a major conflict in British society's need to expand their medical workforce while simultaneously maintaining traditional female gender roles.
 
There have always been women who worked for their living, especially by necessity among the lower classes.  However, the prolonged conflict that came to be known as The Great War exacerbated the needs of particular business sectors, particularly that of medicine.  Many women, who were barred en masse from joining the armed forces decided, like Brittain, to do the next best thing:  become a medical professional to help treat the wounded.
 
Those who were the first to make this decision were met with very little opposition.  When Brittain told her principal about her intention to leave Sommerfield College to join the Red Cross, the woman encouraged her to do so, saying "that in the end [Brittain's] work would benefit greatly from this experience of the deeper and more serious side of life" (154).  Because much of Britain was still under the illusion that the war would only be very temporary, the idea of leaving a women's college to serve in the war effort was accepted as an enrichment experience rather than an extended leave from a traditionally accepted path for women.  Although the path to becoming a nurse was littered with bureaucracy-created hurdles (169), there were no major obstacles to those who chose to volunteer their efforts.
 
As the war dragged on, the need for medical workers became increasingly more desperate.  However, once it became apparent that this war would last far longer than originally expected, positions regarding a woman's entrance into the medical field became much more averse to that notion.  The author Brittain, who is writing this memoir from hindsight, reveals to the reader that while her younger self lamented over the shortage of doctors, a group of medical women who wished to offer their services were told by the British War Office that "all that was required of women was to go home and keep quiet" (195).  When one of her students left Sommerfield to join the WAAC, the same principal who approved of Brittain's leave of absence in 1915 held "a Sunday-night address...on the duty of remaining at college" (154) in 1918.  Now that becoming a medical worker was not a temporary adventure for young women, the British public became concerned that the traditional role of middle- and upper-class women as the homemaker was in jeopardy.  Although there was a desperate need for more workers in the positions these women wished to fill, gender expectations caused them to be turned away against the nation's best interests.
 

In Testament of Youth, Vera Brittain dedicates the better part of 100 pages to etching a panoramic image of her upbringing among Edwardian England’s “provincial middle-classes” (30). It is an important historical climate—and socioeconomic viewpoint—to consider when approaching WWI literature and art. Though most of her generation would spend the coming decades distancing themselves, both artistically and politically, from the sunny, nine-year reign of King Edward, Edwardian and Georgian influences remain central to a discussion of early war narratives and the public’s initial perception of the conflict. As Brittain explains, while older generations believed the Edwardian period was merely a “breathing space” between the long Victorian age and the beginning of WWI, for her peers “it was much more than that, for in those nine years we grew from children into adolescents or adults” (23).

Her generation’s maturation took place in a decade of ostentatious leisure, garden parties, and picnics. We find this almost fantasy world portrayed in Brittain’s idyllic description of her early years: “Here, in the small garden and field belonging to our house, and in the smooth, pretty Cheshire lanes with their kindly hedges and benign wild flowers, I and my brother Edward…passed through a childhood which was, to all appearances, as serene and uneventful as any childhood could be" (21). In this same section of Testament of Youth, Brittain mentions her home’s décor, which with its “hunting pictures and Marcus Stone engravings, its plush curtains, its mahogany furniture and its scarcity of books…represented all that was essentially middle-class in that Edwardian decade” (23). I have included an example of a Marcus Stone engraving, called "Miss Wyldwyl was sketching." It is easy to identify in his engravings the element of human leisure amid a benevolent natural world that so typified Edwardian art and poetry. For more images, check out http://www.victorianweb.org/art/illustration/mstone/.

Surrounded by these childhood images, is it then very surprising that the initial reaction of many British youth to the outbreak of the war was one of pulsing jingoism and heroic idealism? An aged Brittain looks back in pity when she describes “how abysmally ignorant, how romantically idealistic and how utterly unsophiscated my more sensitive contemporaries and I were at that time” (43). Edwardian and Geogrian poetry reflects this idealism; patriotism and nature converge. Poet Rupert Brooke, mentioned by Brittain several times, embodies the Georgian use of pastoral imagery paired with nationalistic sentiment. In his famous poem “The Soldier,” Brooke daydreams about his legacy as a fallen soldier of an Edenic England, claiming in patriotic fervor that when his body is buried in “some corner of a foreign field” (line 2), that corner will be claimed as “forever England” (2). Lines inviting readers to imagine the cool sensation of being “washed by the rivers” flowing peacefully in the English countryside and to feel the warmth of being “blest by suns of home” feel incongruent with trench warfare’s grim realities (line 8). Similar pastoral jingoism comes through in Roland’s early letters and poems about WWI where he calls war “a very fascinating thing—something, if often horrible, yet very ennobling and very beautiful, something whose elemental reality raises it above the reach of all cold theorizing” (104) and writes that his only reason for going is “heroism in the abstract” (129). On his departure for France, Roland wistfully comments on how “all our sweet songs are sung, / Our red rose-garlands withered” (172). Soon, however, we find his opinion on the war shifting with the rest of his generation. He later writes Brittain, “I used to talk of the Beauty of War; but it is only War in the abstract that is beautiful” (172). Rupert Brooke died just 8 months before Roland. It’s worth considering how their initially Edwardian poetic verse—both in form and content—would have evolved should either have survived until the armistice.

           After doing a little bit of research it seems that one popular topic of discussion when considering writings from and surrounding the “Great War” concerns the comparison of men and women’s experiences during the war. As men were the ones actually on the front and in the trenches facing imminent death while the women served as nurses in more relative “safety” or stayed at home, criticism of the literature and writings that come from this period of history seems to have privileged the experience and point of view of the male soldiers than that of the women who also documented their experiences through poetry, literature, and autobiography. In light of this discourse, Brittain’s Testament of Youth seems a vital example of how important and poignant a woman’s experience can be, however, viewed only in this light leads to a danger of oversimplification, for her writings, her influence, and her perspectives offer her readers so much more.                        

            Vera Brittain, an incredibly intelligent, perceptive and deep-feeling person, carefully documents her own experiences of and leading up to the war and, as Dayne points out, adeptly uses her own diaries, letters, and historical facts to supplement her narrative. Her keenness to help the war effort is not by nature superficial, as she describes some of the efforts of society ladies to be earlier in her narrative, but built on the same drive that “made masochists of us all” for both the soldiers and the nurses (154). In one passage, describing Vera and Roland’s first fight, Roland writes to Vera with a bitterness for her “world of long wards and silent-footed nurses and bitter, clean smells and the appalling whiteness of everything” (216). While I think that most people would align with the belief that “one cannot be angry with people at the front” Vera is brave and honest enough to call Roland out and remind him of himself, his humanity, and the things that, outside of the war, are in fact valued by both of them. While Vera spends a considerable time thinking about the front and the soldiers that are stationed there (whether in treating wounded soldiers, reflecting on the war as a whole, or thinking of Roland, Edward, and particular soldiers he knows), here she boldly claims the validity of her own experience and prompts Roland to consider it as well. She doesn’t claim that her experience is “worse” nor does she diminish the experience of her fiancé, obviously a constant concern throughout her narrative so far, but enables (in this passage and throughout her autobiography) the reader to see the bigger picture, to hold valid multiple war perspectives, (through her own accounts and her inclusion of the accounts/letters of Roland and Edward), and to reflect on them equally as her experiences and ponderings unfold. 

When reading Vera Brittain’s Testament of Youth, I think perhaps the most interesting element we see is the amount of psychological depth that she displays as a writer.  The book describes her time during WWI, but it was actually written years after the events happened.  Brittain corroborates her own story with a wealth of quotes from her own collection of letters (specifically, ones from and to her fiancé) and her own diary which, in my opinion, make her writings much more grounded and believable.  For a long time, I have wondered just how honest autobiographies can really be, given that we tend to tell our past experiences in somewhat self-favoring ways. 

Additionally, Brittain’s writing pulls off something quite incredible that we don’t see in a lot of the literature that comes out of WWI: we see how and what people thought while the war was going on.  We read great works of literature like The Waste Land, The Sun Also Rises, and others, and as we read them, we get a great view of the terrible psychological aftermath of the war.  However, we don’t get as strong a sense about what people thought during the actual war itself.  I also think, as scholars of the arts, that it is lucky that we got this great autobiography from a perspective of a fellow studier of the arts.  Vera Brittain studied literature, her fiancé was an aspiring poet whose family had been around the literary scene of London, and her brother was an amateur composer. 

Some specific sections that I would like to call attention to are scenes like page 158 where Roland discusses his fear of the war never ending: “‘It would be just part of the irony of life if I don’t come back, because I’m such a lover of peace,’ he declared, ‘but I can never imagine the end of the War or what it’ll be like; I believe now it’ll last for years and I’ve no notion what I would do if it were ended.’”  In this section, we see the despair of a soldier who has already realized that the war won’t “be over by Christmas.”  Throughout the reading, we see how both Brittain and Roland change due to the harsh nature of the war.  Vera gets sick for a few months while working exhausting hours in the hospital, and Roland begins to change in the trenches.  Brittain’s discussion of these changes shows us how a mere month or two can radically affect a person’s psyche.  On page 215, she displays her fears that Roland will quit caring about her due to his time on the front: “Was it, I wondered, because Roland had lost interest in me that this anguish of drifting apart had begun—or was the explanation to be found in that terrible barrier of knowledge by which War cut off the men who possessed it from the women who, in spite of the love that they give and received, remained in ignorance?  It is one of the many things that I shall never know.”  It is in these sections that we get the moment-by-moment thoughts of those who were living during the war, rather than just seeing the trauma after it. 

Since the images of the "WWI explained as a bar fight" joke that I posted last March do not show up, here is a textual version of it.

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Germany, Austria and Italy are standing together in the middle of a pub when Serbia bumps into Austria and spills Austria's pint. Austria demands Serbia buy it a complete new suit because there are splashes on its trouser leg. Germany expresses its support for Austria's point of view. Britain recommends that everyone calm down a bit.

Serbia points out that it can't afford a whole suit, but offers to pay for the cleaning of Austria's trousers. Russia and Serbia look at Austria. Austria asks Serbia who it's looking at. Russia suggests that Austria should leave its little brother alone. Austria inquires as to whose army will assist Russia in compelling it to do so. Germany appeals to Britain that France has been looking at it, and that this is sufficiently out of order that Britain should not intervene. Britain replies that France can look at who it wants to, that Britain is looking at Germany too, and what is Germany going to do about it?

Germany tells Russia to stop looking at Austria, or Germany will render Russia incapable of such action. Britain and France ask Germany whether it's looking at Belgium. Turkey and Germany go off into a corner and whisper.

When they come back, Turkey makes a show of not looking at anyone. Germany rolls up its sleeves, looks at France, and punches Belgium. France and Britain punch Germany. Austria punches Russia. Germany punches Britain and France with one hand and Russia with the other. Russia throws a punch at Germany, but misses and nearly falls over. Japan calls over from the other side of the room that it's on Britain's side, but stays there. Italy surprises everyone by punching Austria.

Australia punches Turkey, and gets punched back. There are no hard feelings because Britain made Australia do it. France gets thrown through a plate glass window, but gets back up and carries on fighting. Russia gets thrown through another one, gets knocked out, suffers brain damage, and wakes up with a complete personality change. Italy throws a punch at Austria and misses, but Austria falls over anyway.

Italy raises both fists in the air and runs round the room chanting. America waits till Germany is about to fall over from sustained punching from Britain and France, then walks over and smashes it with a barstool, then pretends it won the fight all by itself. By now all the chairs are broken and the big mirror over the bar is shattered. Britain, France and America agree that Germany threw the first punch, so the whole thing is Germany's fault. While Germany is still unconscious, they go through its pockets, steal its wallet, and buy drinks for all their friends.
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The Atlantic recently published an excellent introduction to the causes and conduct of WWI, with an excellent array of photos depicting the machinery and humanity of the conflict. It's a potent reminder of trench conditions as well as the mutual respect shown by the combatants. See picture # 23, depicting a German motorcycle messenger reading a grave marker that says "Hier ruhen tapfere franzosische Krieger," which translates as "Here rest brave French warriors."

http://www.theatlantic.com/static/infocus/wwi/introduction/

Here are a few more interesting photos, showing airplanes in formation as seen from one of them and Indian troops in a gas mask drill.

The Telegraph has announced that BBC 2 will air this Friday (March 14) previously unseen interviews with WWI veterans that were conducted back in the 1960s. Former soldiers from several countries including Britain, Germany, and Austria described their experiences and the conditions of trench warfare. The interviews are rare because WWI veterans usually did not talk about what they saw or did. According to the article:

The show also includes interview with German and Austrian soldiers, including Stefan Westmann, a German who served in the 29th Infantry Division, who recalled bayonetting a French corporal to death. “I was quicker than he was. I thrust his rifle away and I ran my bayonet through his chest,” he said.

“I nearly vomited. My knees were shaking and I was quite frankly ashamed of myself.

He went on: “How I would have liked him to have raised his hand. I would have shaken his hand and we would have been the best of friends.”

He added: “What was it that we soldiers stabbed each other, strangled each other, went for each other like mad dogs? What was it that we who had nothing against them personally fought with them to the very end in death. We were civilised people after all.”

Westmann gives a thorough account of his movements and experiences here.

The BBC will also be airing the original series for which the interviews were conducted.