British munitions factory, Chilwell |
It is easy to forget the sheer scale of the Great War. The numbers tell the
tale: over 32 million artillery shells were fired during the battle of Verdun;
over 3,000 artillery guns were used by the Allies during the Third Battle of
Ypres; during the battle of High Wood on August 24, 1916, it is estimated that
10 British machine guns fired over 1 million rounds in 12 hours. The human toll was also staggering: over 35
million were killed or wounded, and on average, 230 soldiers died each hour of
every day during a conflict that lasted over four years.*
Men were dwarfed
by the scale of a war such as the world had never seen before. Gilbert
Frankau’s poem “Ammunition Column” considers one man’s place in a modern,
industrial war.
Ammunition Column
I am only a cog
in a giant machine, a link of an endless chain:
And the rounds are drawn, and the rounds are fired, and the empties return again;
Railroad, lorry, and limber; battery, column, and park;
To the shelf where the set fuse waits the breech, from the quay where the shells embark.
We have watered and fed, and eaten our beef; the long dull day drags by.
As I sit here watching our “Archibalds”** strafing an empty sky;
Puff and flash on the far-off blue round the speck one guesses the plane—
Smoke and spark of the gun-machine that is fed by the endless chain.
And the rounds are drawn, and the rounds are fired, and the empties return again;
Railroad, lorry, and limber; battery, column, and park;
To the shelf where the set fuse waits the breech, from the quay where the shells embark.
We have watered and fed, and eaten our beef; the long dull day drags by.
As I sit here watching our “Archibalds”** strafing an empty sky;
Puff and flash on the far-off blue round the speck one guesses the plane—
Smoke and spark of the gun-machine that is fed by the endless chain.
The Great Black Cloud (detail), by Kerr Eby |
I am only a cog in a giant machine, a little link of the chain,
Waiting a word from the wagon-lines that the guns are hungry again:—
Column-wagon to battery-wagon, and battery-wagon to gun;
To the loader kneeling 'twixt trail and wheel from the shops where the steam-lathes run.
There's a lone mule braying against the line where the mud cakes fetlock-deep'
There's a lone soul humming a hint of a song in the barn where the drivers sleep;
And I hear the pash of the orderly's horse as he canters him down the lane—
Another cog in the gun-machine, a link in the self-same chain.
I am only a cog in a giant machine, but a vital link of the chain;
And the Captain has sent from the wagon-line to fill his wagons again:—
From wagon-limber to gunpit dump; from loader's forearm at breech,
To the working-party that melts away when the shrapnel bullets screech.
So the restless section pulls out once more, in column of route from the right,
At the tail of a blood-red afternoon; so the flux of another night
Bears back the wagons we fill at dawn to the sleeping column again . . .
Cog on cog in the gun-machine, link on link in the chain!
In Frankau’s
poem, the war has taken on a monstrous life of its own: the guns are insatiably
hungry and must be fed. The poem’s regular meter sounds like a drumbeat, signaling the inevitability of the conflict’s relentless advance.
Men are reduced
to machine parts as they work to satisfy the appetite of the war and its endless
demand for ammunition. Everything and everyone appears small and subservient to
the Great War. The mule, the horse, the
lone soul humming song: all are merely links and cogs in the chain of mechanized
killing. The grim irony is that in
stoking the engines of war and prolonging its life, the men ensure that the
killing will continue. War feeds on
human lives.
Gilbert Frankau joined
the British Army shortly after the war began in 1914 and was transferred to the
Royal Field artillery in early 1915. He fought
at Loos, Ypres, and the Somme, but left the army “on account of ill-health
contracted on active service” in February of 1918.†
Frankau is
sometimes omitted from collections of war poetry for being “politically
dubious.” WWI scholar Tim Kendall notes that the writer “hated the Germans with
an intensity matched only by his master, Rudyard Kipling.”†† And yet Ferenc Békássy, a Hungarian soldier
fighting for Germany’s ally, shared Frankau’s sense of the way in which the
war was making all men into replaceable parts. In his poem “1914,” Békássy also
protested “that he was not a unit, a pawn whose place can be filled.”
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*Scott
Addington, The Great War 100, The
History Press, 2014.
**Anti-aircraft
fire. This
link explains that the term likely originated from a music hall song.
†London Gazette, 19
February 1918.
††Tim Kendall, “Gilbert
Frankau” on the blog War Poetry.
This world has seen and known far too many Cities of Fear. These days Aleppo and Mosul are all over the place (and our hearts). One hundred years ago Frankau's City of Fear was our beloved and deplored Ypres, my home from home.
ReplyDeleteA remarkable almost mechanised meter to this poem. Be great to hear it read properly as it adds to the sentiments. But it is true that all involved are replaceable parts, sadly, as so may died and others filled their place.
ReplyDeleteReading poetry aloud can often unlock deeper meanings and resonances. Thanks for this, WJohnM.
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