Snow covered ruins on the Western Front, WFC Holden 1919 © IWM ART 17281 |
The men are
practically without rest. They are wet through much of the time. They are
shelled and trench-mortared. They may not be hit, but they are kept in a
perpetual state of unrest and strain. They work all night and every night, and
a good part of each day, digging and filling sandbags, and repairing the
breaches in the breastworks;— that is when they are not on sentry. The
temperature is icy. They have not even a blanket. The last two days it has been
snowing. They cannot move more than a few feet from their posts: therefore,
except when they are actually digging, they cannot keep themselves warm by
exercise; and, when they try to sleep, they freeze. At present, they are
getting a tablespoon of rum to console them, once in three days.*
Soldier and poet Edgell Rickword also wrote of the merciless
conditions in his poem “Winter Warfare.”
Winter Warfare
Colonel Cold strode up the Line
(Tabs of rime and spurs of ice),
Stiffened all where he did glare,
Horses, men, and lice.
Visited a forward post,
Left them burning, ear to foot;
Fingers stuck to biting steel,
Toes to frozen boot.
Stalked on into No Man’s Land,
Turned the wire to fleecy wool,
Iron stakes to sugar sticks
Snapping at a pull.
Those who watched with hoary eyes
Saw two figures gleaming there;
Hauptmann Kälte, Colonel Cold,
Gaunt, in the grey air.
Stiffly, tinkling spurs they moved
Glassy eyed, with glinting heel
Stabbing those who lingered there
Torn by screaming steel.
As men huddle in their trenches, desperate to find warmth in
the bone-chilling night, two gleaming figures are seen brazenly marching up the
line. They harry the forward observation posts, stalk boldly into No Man’s
Land, and menace the men at the front with stabbing knives of frost and ice. The
mythic figures of Colonel Cold and Hauptmann Kalte (literally, “Captain Cold”
in German) heartlessly torture men on both sides of the Front.
They appear as nightmarish visions of death, gaunt and
skeletal, and their glassy eyes betray no human feeling. No one is spared,
neither horses, lice, nor men, as the icy commanders leave in their wake toes blackened with frostbite and the searing pain of fingers painfully fused
to rifle barrels. While there may be a stern beauty in barbed wire that is frosted
like fleecy wool or iron stakes that glisten like sugar sticks, it is a cruel
and brittle splendor.
This is a severe world that is inhospitable to warmth and
tender emotions, for in addition to enduring the cold, as the last verse
reveals, the men must helplessly watch their comrades who lie wounded between
the lines, “torn by screaming steel,” slowly freeze to death. German and
British soldiers are united in this: their most implacable enemy is
the cold.
Rickword wasn’t assigned to the Western Front until January
of 1918; the men who were at the front in the early months of 1917 endured one
of the harshest winters of the war. The ground was frozen solid; men slept in
their clothing with their boots on under frozen blankets, falling victim
to frostbite and trench foot. British soldier Clifford Lane remembers, “The winter was so cold that I felt like
crying. In fact, the only time. I didn’t actually cry, but I’d never felt like
it before, not even under shell fire.”**
In the midst of these
agonizing conditions, one thing that stands out is the courage and endurance of
the men who managed to survive. In
another poem, Rickword praised that tenacious spirit that could jest in the
midst of war:
In sodden trenches
I have heard men speak,
Though numb and
wretched, wise and witty things;
And loved them for
the stubbornness that clings
Longest to laughter
when Death’s pulleys creak...
*Rowland Feilding, letter dated 14 December 1916 from War Letters to a Wife.
**From Podcast 25:
Winter 1916-1917, Imperial War Museum’s Voices
of the First World War.
I enjoyed this piece very much thank you. Nicely constructed article if I might say. last night a colleague quoted some verses from Winter Warfare over a Scotch (or two) and I was intrigued enough to educate myself on Rickword and happenstanced upon your marvelous blog.
ReplyDeleteI see Rickword was with the Artists Rifles along with the likes of Wilfred Owen and Edward Thomas. The latter is one of my favorites but never understood why is he is considered a war poet given that very few of his poems deal directly with his war experiences.
Keep up the excellent work
Thanks so much for reading and for commenting -- it's always lovely to hear about poetry enjoyed over a Scotch (or two)!
ReplyDeleteRickward was a gallant officer who won the M.C. Always thought that fighting the conditions worse than fighting men in WW1
ReplyDeleteSuffocating mud, collapsing trenches, living outside in extreme weather -- brutal foes indeed. Thanks for the insights, Ian.
ReplyDelete