British Mark 1 Tank |
“Never
since the dawn of time had there been such a perversion of knowledge to
criminal purposes; never had science contributed such a deadly toll to the
fanatic and criminal intentions of a war-crazed class.”
--Francis March, History of the World War, 1919
On September 15,
1916, the British Army recorded the first use in battle of a newly developed
weapon: the tank. Originally known as a
land battleship, the term tank was adopted
to preserve secrecy during the development of the armored vehicles (factory
workers had noted their resemblance to steel water tanks).
Writing shortly
after the war’s end in 1919, American historian Francis March explained, “Originally this was a caterpillar tractor
invented in America and adopted in England.
At first these were of two varieties, the male, carrying heavy guns
only, and the females, equipped with machine guns…. All the tanks were heavily
armored and had as their motto the significant words “Treat ‘Em Rough” (217).
With the introduction
of poison gas, gas masks, and heavy artillery shells that obliterated forests
and churned the earth, the Western Front had already assumed the appearance of
a nightmare. Tanks added another surreal beast to the landscape. While serving with the French army at the
Somme, Anglo-American nurse Mary Borden described the new “regiment of monsters.”
The Hill
From the top of the hill I looked down on
the beautiful, the gorgeous, the super-human and monstrous landscape of the
superb exulting war.
There were no trees anywhere, nor any
grasses or green thickets, nor any birds singing, nor any whisper or flutter of
any little busy creatures.
There was no shelter for field mice or
rabbits, squirrels or men.
The earth was naked and on its naked body
crawled things of iron.
It was evening. The long valley was
bathed in blue shadow and through the shadow, as if swimming, I saw the iron
armies moving.
And iron rivers poured through the
wilderness that was peopled with a phantom iron host.
Lights gleamed down there, a thousand
machine eyes winked.
The sun was setting, gilding the smooth
crests of the surging hills. The red tents clustering on their naked yellow
sides were like scarlet flowers burning in a shining desert of hills.
Against the sunset, along the sharp edge
of a hill, a strange regiment was moving in single file, a regiment of
monsters.
They moved slowly along on their
stomachs,
Dragging themselves forward by their
ears.
Their great encircling ears moved round
and round like wheels.
They were big and very heavy and heavily
armoured.
Obscene crabs, armoured toads, big as
houses,
They moved slowly forward, crushing under
their bellies whatever stood in their way.
A flock of aeroplanes was flying home, a
flight of wild ducks with iron wings.
They passed over the monstrous regiment
with a roar and disappeared.
I looked down, searching for a familiar
thing, a leaf, a tuft of grass, a caterpillar; but the ground dropped away in
darkness before my feet, that were planted on a heap of stones.
A path, the old deserted way of cattle,
showed below beyond the gaping caverns of abandoned dug-outs, where men had
once lived underground. And along the
path a German prisoner was stumbling, driven by a black man on a horse.
The black man wore a turban, and he drove
the prisoner before him as one drives an animal to market.
These three—the prisoner, the black man
and the horse—seemed to have wandered into the landscape by mistake. They were
the only creatures of their kind anywhere.
Where had they come from and where were
they going in that wilderness of iron with night falling?
The German stumbled on heavily beneath the nose of his captor’s horse. I could see the pallid disc of his face thrust forward, and the exhausted lurching of his clumsy body.
The German stumbled on heavily beneath the nose of his captor’s horse. I could see the pallid disc of his face thrust forward, and the exhausted lurching of his clumsy body.
He did not look to the right or left, but
watching him I saw him trip over a battered iron helmet and an old boot that
lay in his way.
Two wooden crosses showed just ahead of
him, sticking out of the rough ground.
The three passed in silence.
They passed like ghosts into the
deepening shadow of the valley, where the panorama of invisible phantom armies
moved, as if swimming.
And as I watched I heard the faint music
of bagpipes, and thought that I heard the sound of invisible men marching.
The crests of the naked hills were still
touched with gold.
Above the winking eyes of the prodigious
war the fragile crescent of the moon floated serene in the perfect sky.
--Mary Borden
The scene Borden
describes resembles one of the terrifying medieval visions painted by Hieronymus Bosch. In Borden's poem, across the naked body of the earth crawl
“things of iron.” The armored tanks are unnatural creatures that lurch forward
like “obscene crabs” or “armoured toads, big as houses,” and they mercilessly
crush “under their bellies” whatever stands in their path.
Hieronymous Bosch, Hell from "The Garden of Earthly Delights |
The machines appear more alive than the three living creatures, “the
prisoner, the black man, and the horse,” who seem to have unwittingly stumbled
into this unimaginable landscape of war. This solitary group passes “like
ghosts” into the darkening twilight and joins the “invisible phantom armies,”
the hosts of men who are marching forward to face death or who are returning from the front-line trenches numb and exhausted by the horrors they have
witnessed.
Men are reduced to phantoms and natural life has disappeared: not a leaf,
tuft of grass, or caterpillar remains on the battlefield, only heaps of stones
and wooden crosses that mark the graves of the dead.
The industrialized war has taken on a mechanized life of its own, its
terrors worse than anything science fiction could imagine. It is a “superb, exulting war” in which
airplanes soar like “wild ducks with iron wings,” and “a thousand machine eyes" wink as the tanks blankly rumble forward, emotionless and cruel.
Mary Borden |
Mary Borden’s
poem “The Hill” appeared in her book of sketches and poems The Forbidden Zone. In the
preface to the book Borden wrote, “The
sketches and poems were written between 1914 and 1918, during four years of
hospital work with the French Army….I have dared
to dedicate these pages to the Poilus who passed through our hands during the
war, because I believe they would recognize the dimmed reality reflected in
these pictures. But the book is not
meant for them. They know, not only
everything that is contained in it, but all the rest that can never be written.”
What an amazing vision.
ReplyDeleteThanks for reading and responding, Tom. I think Borden is perhaps the most under-appreciated poet of the war.
DeleteSo glad you included Mary Borden. I have read her book twice now and reread passages several times. It is beautifully written and a favorite of mine.
ReplyDeleteI agree; I think Borden is one of the most under-appreciated writers of the war. Thanks again for reading and commenting.
ReplyDeleteAgree Borden should be much better known - my co-author Andrew Palmer and myself highlight her work in our recent book The Remembered Dead: Poetry, Memory and the First World War from CUP.
ReplyDeleteAlthough perhaps the essence of industrial warfare , the WW1 tanks were rather ineffective in strategic terms. But I suppose the magazine fed modern rifle or the belt fed machine gun wouldn't so easily lend themselves to poetry - rifles rapid rattle etc notwithstanding
ReplyDeleteAnd now you've set me on a hunt for machine gun poetry, Ian! ;)
DeleteI came across Mary Borden for the first time in the In Flanders Museum, Ypres. I was amazed that I hadn't heard of her before. Thanks for this post, Connie, and for bringing her work to a wider audience.
ReplyDeleteThanks for reading and responding, Jane.
ReplyDelete