One-hundred years ago, in April of 1915, Patrick Shaw-Stewart sailed with Rupert Brooke for Gallipoli. After Brooke's death from blood poisoning, Shaw-Stewart was one of the fellow officers who buried Brooke on the island of Skyros, taking charge of the graveside gun salute (Elizabeth Vandiver in A Companion to Classical Receptions, 456).
Before Brooke's death, anticipating the fight at Gallipoli, Shaw-Stewart wrote, "It is the luckiest thing and the most romantic. Think of fighting in the Chersonese [the classical name for Gallipoli]... or alternatively, if it's the Asiatic side they want us on, on the plains of Troy itself! I am going to take my Herodotus as a guide-book." Patrick Shaw-Stewart also took with him a small book of poems, AE Housman's A Shropshire Lad, and on a blank page of that book, he wrote this poem:
I
Saw a Man This Morning
I saw a man this morning
Who did not wish to die:
I ask, and cannot answer,
If otherwise wish I.
Fair broke the day this morning
Upon the Dardanelles;
The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks
Were cold as cold sea-shells.
But other shells are waiting
Across the Aegean sea,
Shrapnel and high explosive,
Shells and hells for me.
Oh hell of ships and cities,
Hell of men like me,
Fatal second Helen,
Why must I follow thee?
Achilles came to Troyland
And I to Chersonese:
He turned from wrath to battle,
And I from three days’ peace.
Was it so hard, Achilles,
So very hard to die?
Thou knowest and I know not—
So much the happier I.
I will go back this morning
From Imbros over the sea;
Stand in the trench, Achilles,
Flame-capped, and shout for me.
If otherwise wish I.
Fair broke the day this morning
Upon the Dardanelles;
The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks
Were cold as cold sea-shells.
But other shells are waiting
Across the Aegean sea,
Shrapnel and high explosive,
Shells and hells for me.
Oh hell of ships and cities,
Hell of men like me,
Fatal second Helen,
Why must I follow thee?
Achilles came to Troyland
And I to Chersonese:
He turned from wrath to battle,
And I from three days’ peace.
Was it so hard, Achilles,
So very hard to die?
Thou knowest and I know not—
So much the happier I.
I will go back this morning
From Imbros over the sea;
Stand in the trench, Achilles,
Flame-capped, and shout for me.
—Patrick Shaw-Stewart
The
poem is prompted by the sight of a fellow soldier "Who did not wish to
die." Written while on leave that
was abruptly ended when his company was called back into action, Shaw-Stewart's
poem circles around one central question: am I ready and willing to die in
battle?
 |
| From UK Huffington Post, April 14, 2015 |
Throughout
the poem, we can almost feel the visceral tension pulling this man between two
imaginary wars: the noble heroism of ancient battle it appears in the Greek
myth The Iliad -- and the anticipated
test of the looming fight at Gallipoli.
Neither is fully real to this soldier.
He has read the ancient stories, and he can anticipate his own headlong
rush into battle, but neither are fully real.
What is real is what he knows he must leave behind: a peaceful morning overlooking the
Dardenelles, the narrow body of water that joins the Mediterranean and Black
Sea. Although he is soon to return to
the war, the speaker pauses to notice the soft breezes and the "cold sea
shells" of early dawn near the lapping waves of the shore.
Yet
even the sight of the sea shells draws his mind inexorably to what awaits him
in just a few days' time: "Shrapnel
and high explosives,/Shells and hell for me." The present moment is touched by both the
promise of glorious war and the threat of blood and death.
Like
the Greek epic and tragic story it references, the poem and its speaker seem
obsessed with a lack of control: fated to follow the "Fatal second
Helen," the men approaching battle feel as if they,
too, have no real choice in the matter.
The country expects it of them, their friends are all joining up, it
would be cowardly not to enlist – the reasons for fighting seem to change very
little from the wars of ancient Greece to modern conflicts.
In
many ways, this is a poem of second guessing – was it right to enlist? Am I ready to die? Looking around him at the other young men who
have signed up and are attempting to appear brave, gallant, and soldierly, the
speaker of the poem most likely knows that answers won't be found within the
ranks, and so instead, he turns to the ultimate warrior of his school studies,
the Marvel super hero of the day – the ancient Greek warrior Achilles, who is
driven by his thirst for glory.
And
what does he ask? "Was it so hard,
Achilles,/ So very hard to die?" The
soldier wants to be sure that he will have the strength not to fight – but to
die. He needs to know that he can endure
any anguish that the looming conflict might bring. The poem lays bare the heart of a soldier who
is soul-searching, examining himself to see if he is strong enough to relinquish
not only his life, but all his future hopes and dreams, leaving them on the
desolate shore of the Turkish coast.
The question
is asked, but no answer is given.
Achilles remains silent, but asking the question allows this soldier to
move forward and to go back to the war, with a last request: "Stand in the trench,
Achilles,/Flame-capped, and shout for me."
As he prepares to face the enemy and looks ahead to his own hour of
testing, he asks that Achilles stand in the trench with him,
shoulder-to-shoulder, as a comrade-in-arms, crowned in flames as when the
mighty warrior showed himself to the enemy troops, protesting the death of his
friend Patroclus in Book 18 of The Iliad.
Hell,
shells, shrapnel, and death: all can be
borne with the spirit of Achilles as a companion, a spirit that cannot help but
inspire other soldiers like Achilles to "stand in the trench" and
protest each man's death.
Shaw-Stewart's
poem reassures fighting men with the knowledge that they are not numbers, but
known to one another. The poem cries out
to the ancient Greek warrior, and in doing so, to every man who stands on the fire
step ready to go over the top. The
protest is not against war, but against death and against the senseless
loss of each man who meant something to someone, who was dear, who was loved,
and who is lost.
 |
| Patrick Shaw-Stewart |
Although
he survived the battle of Gallipoli, Shaw-Stewart was killed by an artillery shell on
December 30, 1917 in fighting on the Western Front near Cambrai. Writing of his death, an artillery officer
reported, "It was early morning, about dawn; he was going round his line;
the Germans put up a barrage….He was hit by shrapnel, the lobe of his ear was
cut off and his face spattered so that the blood ran down from his forehead and
blinded him for a bit. The gunner tried
to make him go back to Battalion H.Q. to be dressed, but he refused, and
insisted on completing his round. Very
soon afterwards, a shell burst on the parapet, and a fragment hit him upwards
through the mouth and killed him instantaneously."
One
can imagine the flame-capped Achilles' sorrow at the death of yet another
soldier and the shouts echoing in the trench as Shaw-Stewart fell.
I have often wondered when reading poems like this what it must have been like to go off to war with a head full of Homer. Did it prove a defense at first? If so, did that lead to greater disillusionment, as Owen's "Dulce et Decorum est" suggests it did for him? And this poem of Shaw-Stewart, asking Achilles a question he does not answer, makes me think of the words of Achilles in "The Odyssey", where his ghost says that he would rather be the slave of the lowest man on earth than king of all the dead.
ReplyDeleteIn "Surprised by Joy" Lewis wrote:
'One imaginative moment seems now to matter more than the realities that followed. It was the first bullet I heard—so far from
me that it "whined" like a journalist's or a peacetime poet's bullet. At that moment there was something not exactly like
fear, much less like indifference: a little quavering signal that said, "This is War. This is what Homer wrote about."'
It's the 'quavering' that the whole moment turns upon, as between fear and indifference it all becomes real to him.
"Head full of Homer" -- surely there's a book in that? :) Thanks very much for your comment, Tom and for sharing the excerpt from "Surprised by Joy." Lewis's account of the "one imaginative moment" is particularly powerful. And I'm so glad you called my attention to the word 'quavering' - yes yes yes. "The whole moment turns upon" -- a lovely way to read and think deeply about the impact of the war on the imagination and the man.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Connie. I suppose the place to start would be with the book I just discovered by Elizabeth Vandiver, "Stand in the Trench, Achilles," which is of course perfectly apropos.
ReplyDeleteI've heard her speak and she's wonderful -- you're in for a treat!
DeleteHeads full of Homer,indeed! Another Homeric poem written by a young poet later killed in action is the following by Charles Hamilton Sorley:
ReplyDelete"I have not brought my Odyssey" [XXXVI]
Charles Hamilton Sorley - 1895-1915
I have not brought my Odyssey
With me here across the sea;
But you’ll remember, when I say
How, when they went down Sparta way,
To sandy Sparta, long ere dawn
Horses were harnessed, rations drawn,
Equipment polished sparkling bright,
And breakfasts swallowed (as the white
Of Eastern heavens turned to gold)—
The dogs barked, swift farewells were told.
The sun springs up, the horses neigh,
Crackles the whip thrice—then away!
From sun-go-up to sun-go-down
The gallant horses galloped, till
The wind across the downs more chill
Blew, the sun sank and all the road
Was darkened, that it only showed
Right at the end the town’s red light
And twilight glimmering into night.
The horses never slackened till
They reached the doorway and stood still.
Then came the knock, the unlading; then
The honey-sweet converse of men,
The splendid bath, the change of dress,
Then—O the grandeur of their Mess,
The henchmen, the prim stewardess!
And O the breaking of old ground,
The tales, after the port went round!
(The wondrous wiles of the Old Odysseus,
Old Agamemnon and his misuse
Of his command, and that young chit
Paris—who didn’t care a bit
For Helen—only to annoy her
He did it really, κ.τ.λ.)
But soon they led amidst the din
The honey-sweet άοιδϛ in,
Whose eyes were blind, whose soul had sight,
Who knew the fame of men in fight—
Bard of white hair and trembling foot,
Who sang whatever God might put
Into his heart.
And there he sung,
Those war-worn veterans among,
Tales of great war and strong hearts wrung,
Of clash of arms, of council’s brawl,
Of beauty that must early fall,
Of battle hate and battle joy
By the old windy walls of Troy.
They felt that they were unreal then,
Visions and shadow-forms, not men.
But those the Bard did sing and say
(Some were their comrades, some were they)
Took shape and loomed and strengthened more
Greatly than they had guessed of yore.
And now the fight begins again
The old war-joy, the old war-pain.
Sons of one school across the sea
We have no fear to fight—
* * * * * *
And soon, O soon, I do not doubt it,
With the body or without it,
We shall all come tumbling down
To our old wrinkled red-capped town.
Perhaps the road up Ilsley way,
The old ridge-track, will be my way.
High up among the sheep and sky,
Look down on Wantage, passing by,
And see the smoke from Sindon town;
And then full left at Liddington,
Where the four winds of heaven meet
The earth-blest traveler to greet.
And then my face is toward the south,
There is a singing on my mouth:
Away to rightward I descry
My Barbury ensconced in sky,
Far underneath the Ogbourne twins,
And at my feet the thyme and whins,
The grasses with their little crowns
Of gold, the lovely Aldbourne downs,
And that old signpost (well I knew
That crazy signpost, arms askew,
Old mother of the four grass ways).
And then my mouth is dumb with praise,
For, past the wood and chalkpit tiny,
A glimps of Malborough έρατεινή!
So I descend beneath the rail
To warmth and welcome and wassail.
* * * * * *
This from the battered trenches—rough,
Jingling and tedious enough.
And so I sign myself to you:
One, who some crooked pathways knew
Round Bedwyn: who could scarcely leave
The Downs on a December eve:
Was at his happiest in shorts,
And got—not many good reports!
Small skill of rhyming in his hand—
But you’ll forgive—you’ll understand.
"So I descend beneath the rail
DeleteTo warmth and welcome and wassail."
I'd forgotten this gem! What a lovely poem to reread just as the old year ends and the new one begins. Thanks for sharing!