Despite my misgivings about the first part of the BBC adaptation of Sebastian Faulks’s Birdsong, I still had fairly high hopes for the second half. Okay, there was a lot to cram in to one episode, but at least it would mainly focus around Stephen Wraysford, his comrades and their reactions, rather than the slightly drippy and far-too-young Isabelle – or at least that was what I hoped. However, I was once again disappointed. Not only did Isabelle feature far too much, but enormous (and very relevant) chunks of the story had been chopped out, in favour of dewey-eyed stares into the distance.

What happened, for example, to Isabelle’s affair with Max, the German soldier and why did she have to die during the war, rather than afterwards? Why was there not more chemistry between Stephen and Jeanne: he does go on to marry her, after all! Where, oh where was the friendship between Wraysford and Weir, which seems to have disappeared completely, with Weir’s character being cast as a closet homosexual, due to the totally unnecessary discovery of the nude male photographs after his death? This shows a frustrating lack of understanding on the part of the screenwriter as to the relationships forged by men in war. Many loved each other in a purely platonic manner with a strength of emotion unmatched in any civilian relationships. Weir’s friendship with Wraysford in the novel is based upon the former’s hero worship of the latter and his need for Stephen’s support. It is only after Weir’s death that Wraysford begins to appreciate that he too has lost something of great significance. Through Weir and, later Firebrace, the cold-hearted Wraysford learns to appreciate love.

Nonetheless, according to this adaptation, it is Isabelle (and her willowy stares), who will always haunt Stephen. However, what the drama failed to capture is that it is Jeanne who really saves him. This failed to come across because Stephen is portrayed as an independent and capable character who doesn’t really need saving, whereas in the novel he is shown to be emotionally destroyed and completely lost.

Personally, I would have preferred to see six, one hour dramas with the story properly told, than this three hour attempt to capitalise on a popular and frequently studied novel. Producers of works which are on the mainstream syllabus have a duty of care to tell the story properly because there will be students who may now consider it unnecessary to read the novel, when they can simply watch three hours of attractive drama. All I can say is, please don’t be tempted into such folly: the television show may be pretty, but the novel will reward you with so much more.

Born on January 23rd 1861 at Whitehall Dairy Farm in Clondalkin, County Dublin, Katharine Tynan was the seventh child of Andrew Cullen Tynan and his wife Elizabeth (née O’Reilly). A Catholic family, which eventually numbered twelve children, the Tynans were dairy farmers, although Andrew Tynan was also an entrepreneur.

Following her education at the Dominican Convent of St Catherine of Siena in Drogheda, Katharine immediately turned to writing, having her first poem published in 1878. She was plagued, however, by eye ulcers, which would eventually lead to extreme short-sightedness. In 1884, Katharine fell in love with Oxford graduate and fellow poet, Charles Fagan who, unfortunately died the following year. The poetry which Katharine wrote at the time gives us a clue as to her heartfelt loss.

Katharine became a prominent member of the Celtic Revival movement, which sought to reinstate traditional Irish values in literature and the arts. She met William Butler Yeats and Charles Stuart Parnell, but shocked her family in 1893 by marrying a Protestant barrister named Henry Albert Hinkson. So outraged were some members of the Tynan family that Katharine was estranged from them and moved to England, where she began writing novels and newspaper articles.

Katharine and Henry had three children: Theobald, Giles and Pamela, before returning to County Mayo in 1911, where Henry was appointed Resident Magistrate. During the First World War, Theobald served with the Royal Irish Regiment, while Giles fought in the Royal Dublin Fusiliers and the publication of Katharine’s poetry led her into correspondence with many other anxious and bereaved families. Despite her fears, Katharine was lucky and both of her sons returned safely from the war. However, tragedy struck just a few months later, when Henry died in January 1919 at the age of 53. Although initially distraught, Katharine eventually rallied and she and Pamela began to travel on the Continent. She continued to write poetry and novels until her death on April 2nd 1931.

PLEASE NOTE: This article contains spoilers because it is based not just on the BBC adaptation, but on the story as a whole.

I began watching the BBC’s adaptation of Birdsong as not the world’s greatest fan of this novel, or its author, but with fairly high hopes, based on the trailers that have been running since Christmas, that here might be a visual feast of an adaptation which surpassed the original and which might help students who are studying this text.

Within ten minutes, I was already disappointed. Certainly the sets were sumptuous and reasonably accurate, but the constant flitting between 1910 and 1916 was too distracting for words. By all means, the story can be told in a series of flashbacks – that is, essentially, how the book is written – but couldn’t we at least remain in one time zone for long enough to acclimatise to it? It is really important to the creation and understanding of Stephen’s character, that we see his relationship with Isabelle as a whole. Only by building the intensity between them and then seeing the destruction caused to him, do we comprehend his aloof nature in the trenches. Given the style of telling the story in this adaptation, we fail to see this, because we don’t yet know that Isabelle will leave Stephen and that this will change his outlook and personality significantly. Stephen isn’t someone who is changed by war: he is changed by his perception of love. Without properly developing Stephen and Isabelle’s relationship before showing us his character in the trenches, his different personality doesn’t really make sense.

One of my biggest disappointments with the adaptation was the things that were left unsaid or undone. Where were all the intimate conversations between Stephen and Isabelle? Where was Stephen’s uncontrollable lust, so great that he even contemplated rape? This helps us to understand his lack of true understanding of “love”, as opposed to “desire” at this stage of his life. Why was not more made of the underground scenes, especially the fight in which Wraysford was injured, which is so graphically described in the novel?

The introduction of Jeanne so early on and her warning to Stephen were, frankly, infuriating. Her character in the novel would never have done this: her loyalty to Isabelle is absolute and at this stage Jeanne is no more than her sister’s confidante. This effectively “dumbs down” the piece, showing the viewer – very obviously – that Isabelle cannot necessarily be trusted and that Stephen is risking his heart by becoming involved with her. In the novel, the reader is well aware of this, purely by Isabelle’s reactions, without needing another character to actually explain it.

I am also left wondering why the modern section of the novel was completely omitted. Elizabeth’s story helps to complete the circle, telling the story itself and providing some contrasts with situations and characters.

With another episode to go (and an awful lot of story still to cram in) my one ray of hope throughout the programme was the performance of Joseph Mawle as Jack Firebrace, who I felt most closely captured the character from the novel. Whenever he was on the screen, all others paled into insignificance.

At 10.30, however, I was left with a sense of concern that there will be some students who will now decide that it is acceptable to simply watch three hours of television, rather than read a 500 page novel. Well, it isn’t. This adaptation fails to capture the extraordinary and intense atmosphere of passion, war and love that Faulks conveys in his novel. So, I have to say that 10.30 on Sunday 22nd January also saw me with a new-found respect for Sebastian Faulks, who achieved all of this through words alone. If you don’t believe me; read the book.

The Kaiser’s Yanks
by Gary C Warne
Publisher: Publishing Success Online (Part of Richardson Publishing Inc.)
Available on Amazon in UK at £9.50

As the centenary of the First World War approaches, that topic and its participants seem to be providing a rich source of material for authors and writers alike (not to mention dramatists, screenwriters, film-makers etc). I was, therefore, not surprised to receive a request from Gary Warne, the author of The Kaiser’s Yanks, to review his novel, and its arrival in the post from Florida was certainly greeted with excitement, as the cover tells of wondrous deeds of heroism in the skies over the battlefields of the Great War.

Written as a “what if” novel, the surmise here is that a group of young Americans choose to service with the German Air Force during the First World War, eventually being formed into their own squadron, namely Jasta von Steuben. The story, tells of their exploits, from leaving their homes to journeying across the Atlantic and making their way across Europe into the enthusiasm of the early days of war. I will not spoil the story for those who wish to read The Kaiser’s Yanks, by revealing any of the plot, suffice to say there’s plenty to keep the air enthusiast entertained. The novel was probably not written for the UK market, given its stance that all of the Allies were pompous, arrogant and uncaring, while the American heroes of the book and the Germans with whom they fought were nothing short of boys’ own heroes! This is hardly a balanced perspective, and not at all accurate of most air force personnel during the conflict.

Gary Warne has, for the best part, done his homework as regards the technical details included within the novel. However, this is a story, not a text book and it does fall very short on characterisation, which in depth and background are sadly lacking. There are many characters involved within the plot, but I didn’t really feel that I knew them any better at the end of the story than I did at the beginning. Additionally, some of the set pieces and “famous” character inclusions are a little obvious or contrived, which makes the whole novel rather more slow-paced than I had expected. For me, however, the greatest disappointment was the lack of emotion portrayed within the novel. There are many scenes of aerial combat, several crashes and a few deaths, but at no point did I really understand how the characters actually felt about what they were doing and in my experience of Great War literature, this is one of the most fundamental aspects.

Nonetheless, I cannot say I didn’t enjoy The Kaiser’s Yanks and it certainly had its moments. It’s not unreasonable to suppose that first and second generation German-Americans would choose to fight for the country where their parents were born. It’s also not unreasonable to expect the author to spell the name of one of his central characters in the same way throughout. It is very frustrating, therefore, that on the same page, the name “Josef” changes to “Joseph” on more than one occasion.

This is evidently a self-published book, which in terms of spelling and grammar (even allowing for the American-English) would need to undergo a major edit before being mainstream published.

Born on 30th November, John McCrae was the second son of Ontario-based Lieutenant-General David McCrae and his wife Janet Simpson Eckford. John’s early education took place at the Central Public School and then at Guelph Collegiate Institute, where he took his first steps into the military, joining the Highland Cadet Corps at the age of fourteen. Academically, John was a high achiever and was the first student from the town of Guelph to be awarded a scholarship to the University of Toronto.

In 1892, ill-health forced McCrae to take a whole year out of university and this recurring asthma would plague him intermittently for the remainder of his life. During this year, he met and formed a close attachment to the 18-year old sister of one of his friends, but she tragically died before the relationship could really develop. When McCrae returned to Toronto in 1893, he was relieved to leave this troubled time behind and resume his studies. McCrae completed a BA in Natural Sciences, before commencing his medical training, qualifying as a doctor in 1898, at the age of twenty-six, when he graduated at the top of his class. Within a year, McCrae had joined his older brother, Thomas, working at the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore.

In 1899, McCrae was awarded a fellowship in Pathology at McGill University in Montreal, but postponed this in order to enlist in the Army and participate in the Boer War. He joined D Battery of the Royal Canadian Artillery, sailing for South Africa on January 20th 1900. Once arrived, McCrae was caught up in some fierce fighting, but also visited a military hospital, where he found the conditions to be quite appalling. In 1901, McCrae was promoted to Captain and his unit returned to Canada, where he was praised for his conduct. In 1902, he was again promoted, to the rank of Major, finally resigning his commission two years later.

Once back in Canada, McCrae had resumed his position at McGill University and also undertook a year of study in Britain before gaining his qualifications from the Royal College of Physicians, enabling him to set up his own practice in Montreal in 1905. Years of professional success and recognition followed, but this was not mirrored in McCrae’s personal life and despite several romances, this eligible bachelor never married.

McCrae made several visits to Europe during this time and was on board a ship bound for England when the First World War was declared. Canada swiftly followed Great Britain in declaring war on Germany and McCrae sent home a telegram offering his services to the Canadian Forces, either as a doctor, or an artillery officer. Arriving back in Canada in September 1914, he was appointed Brigade Surgeon with his old rank of Major.

McCrae set sail for England again on October 3rd 1914, taking with him a horse named Bonfire. Upon arrival, he spent several months in training before embarking for France in February 1915, where he took part in the Battle of Neuve Chapelle. Then in April 1915, McCrae’s unit was moved to the Ypres Salient, where the Germans first employed chlorine gas. In the Second Battle of Ypres, over 60% of the Canadian troops who participated were either killed or wounded.

On May 2nd, one of McCrae’s close friends, Lieutenant Alex Helmer was killed by shellfire. McCrae took charge of a hastily convened funeral service that saw Helmer buried in a make-shift grave just behind the lines, where wild poppies were beginning to flower between the growing number of wooden crosses. This scene, coupled with his feelings, inspired McCrae to write his poem In Flanders Fields, which was reputedly composed the following day.

As the fighting continued through the summer, McCrae was transferred to the Canadian Army Medical Corps and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant-Colonel. He was made Chief of Medical Services at No 3 Canadian General Hospital near Boulogne.

In Flanders Fields was published anonymously in Punch Magazine on 8th December 1915 and was an instant success, touching the hearts of millions. However, such a long period of service in France was beginning to take its toll on McCrae’s health. After the Battle of the Somme, he was hospitalised at Wimereux, suffering from severe asthma attacks. He had a short period of leave in England, but was back in France in time to treat the wounded from the Battle of Vimy Ridge in April 1917.

There followed a summer of very heavy fighting at Passchendaele and, once again, McCrae’s health faltered, until in January 1918 he diagnosed himself as suffering from pneumonia, whereupon he was hospitalised at the Number 14 British General Hospital for Officers. On January 24th it was announced that McCrae had been awarded the position of Consulting Physician to the First British Army, but unfortunately his health continued to deteriorate and four days later, on January 28th 1918, John McCrae died.

He was buried with full military honours at Wimereux Cemetery, with his funeral attended by an impressive list of senior officers, including General Sir Arthur William Currie, the Commander of Canadian Forces, as well as his fellow surgeons and over seventy-five nurses.

In addition to being a skilled and efficient medical man, McCrae was also a wonderful observer who captured a moment in time and, through his words, gave us the enduring symbol by which we still remember.

Isaac Rosenberg was born in Bristol on 25th November 1890, the oldest son and second child of Jewish-Lithuanian immigrants, Dovber and Hacha Rosenberg. Isaac’s twin brother died at birth, making his mother rather protective of him, especially given his poor health and diminutive stature. Dovber and Hacha changed their christian names to Barnet and Anne; the former working as a drapery dealer, although theirs was an impoverished life and the couple had a hostile relationship. This, however, did not prevent the births of four more children by 1899.

In 1897, the family moved to Stepney in London’s East End, where they joined a close Jewish community. Isaac’s artistic nature soon became apparent and his parents did everything they could to assist and encourage their son. He initially attended local Board Schools, but also took additional art classes at the Stepney Green Art School.

At fourteen, Rosenberg left school and was apprenticed as an engraver to Carl Hentschel’s in Fleet Street. This was not really what Rosenberg wanted to do, and he quickly became demoralised, although he kept this position until 1911, realising that his parents needed him to make a financial contribution to the household. In the meantime, to satisfy his craving for literature, Rosenberg joined The Whitechapel Group, which was an assembly of aspiring writers. He also enrolled at the Birkbeck Institute, where he met Paul Nash and concentrated mainly on life drawings, which greatly impressed his tutors.

Having left Hentschel’s in 1911, Rosenberg intended pursuing a career as an artist, but soon found that talent and ambition were not sufficient qualities to guarantee fee paying work. However, his luck changed later that year when three wealthy Jewish benefactors decided to sponsor his tuition at the Slade School of Art.

Although Rosenberg enjoyed his time at the Slade, he found it difficult to make friends and sought solace in poetry, some of which he sent to Laurence Binyon, who gave him enthusiastic encouragement. In 1913, Rosenberg was also introduced to Edward Marsh, who promoted several young poets and the two men would correspond regularly for the remainder of Rosenberg’s life.

When Rosenberg left the Slade in 1914, his health had deteriorated significantly, so he decided to visit his newly married sister, Minnie, in South Africa, where he remained until May 1915. Upon his return to England, Rosenberg still felt no burning urgency to enlist and, in fact only really did so in October 1915, because there was more financial stability to be gained in the army. He initially tried to enlist in the Royal Army Medical Corps, but his health and general physique were considered too poor, so he was sent to a regiment of “Bantams”, formed specifically for men under 5’3″ tall. He served at first with the 12th Suffolk Regiment, until January 1916, when he was transferred to the 12th South Lancs. After this, he was sent to complete his training with the 11th Battalion, Kings Own Royal Lancasters.

As in other establishments in the past, Rosenberg found it difficult to make friends in the army: he was over-sensitive, clumsy and absent-minded, being dubbed as “completely hopeless” by his captain. Despite this, he was sent out to France in June 1916, and went into the trenches near Béthune. Being a private, rather than an officer, it wasn’t easy for Rosenberg to write poetry – even acquiring paper was difficult, but in the autumn of 1916, he still managed to produce what is arguably his most famous poem, Break of Day in the Trenches.

In March 1917, Rosenberg was transferred behind the lines to work on repairing roads and railways and after and uneventful summer, he was finally granted some leave. Like many soldiers, however, although he appreciated the respite from the war, he also found it difficult to adjust to life on the home front. Back in France, the Bantams saw action at Bourlon Wood, where they suffered devastating casualties, although Rosenberg escaped this slaughter, as he was hospitalised in October, suffering from influenza.

March 21st 1918, saw the beginning of the German Spring Offensive and Rosenberg soon found himself in the front lines. On the night of March 31st, he went out on a routine patrol and was killed in the early hours of April 1st. Initially Rosenberg’s body was buried on the battlefield, together with nine of his comrades. Much later, in 1926, the grave was discovered and the bodies removed to Bailleul Road Cemetery. None of the bodies was identifiable, but the Imperial War Graves Commission decided that each should have his own headstone. The following year, the Rosenberg family asked to have the words “Artist and Poet” added to their son’s grave marker.

Charlotte Mary Mew was born on London on 15th November 1869, the third child of architect Frederick Mew and his wife Anna Maria Marden (née Kendall). Charlotte’s mother firmly believed that she had married beneath her and throughout her marriage, despite having seven children, she did very little around the home. The children, Henry, Frederick, Charlotte, Richard, Caroline (known as Anne), Daniel (known as Christopher) and Freda, were cared for by their nurse, Elizabeth Goodman.

Charlotte’s childhood and young adult years were ones of great tragedy and upheaval. In 1876, Christopher, then only four months old, died from “convulsions” and later the same year, Richard, aged five, succumbed to scarlet fever. Henry, the oldest of the children, was committed to a lunatic asylum in 1888, followed by the youngest child, Freda in 1897.

Throughout these unhappy times, Charlotte was educated at The Gower Street School, which was run by Lucy Harrison and in 1894, published her first story, named Passed in The Yellow Book – An Illustrated Quarterly.

In 1898, Charlotte’s father died from stomach cancer and, having always been an extravagant man, he left no capital to the surviving members of his family. Anne had become an artist, so she turned her hand to restoring paintings and antique furniture, while Charlotte continued to write: her stories and poems being published in various magazines and periodicals.

Charlotte’s oldest brother, Henry, died in the Peckham House Lunatic Asylum in 1901 and, unsurprisingly, this series of unhappy events began to take their toll. Charlotte experienced deep feelings of sorrow, helped only by Anne – always the more optimistic of the two sisters – who was her constant companion. Charlotte occasionally travelled alone, leaving Anne to care for their domineering and demanding mother. In 1902, she went to Paris to visit fellow writer, Ella D’Arcy, with whom Charlotte was in love. Ella, however, did not reciprocate these feelings and Charlotte returned to London disappointed and dejected.

Few of Charlotte and Anne’s 20th century friends knew of their earlier tragedies and by 1909, Charlotte’s work was becoming more well known. She gave poetry readings and was more widely published, gaining critical acclaim for her work. However, in 1913, Charlotte suffered a further personal unhappiness when she met fellow writer May Sinclair. The two became close friends, but when Charlotte made romantic advances, May rejected her and, to make matters worse, it is alleged that May publicly humiliated Charlotte over her actions.

Luckily, many of Charlotte’s true friends ignored the potential scandal and embarrassment caused by this episode and continued to support her work. Harold Monro of the Poetry Bookshop was one such champion and through him, Charlotte was introduced to Sydney Cockrell, Thomas Hardy and Siegfried Sassoon, who often cited Charlotte as his favourite female poet. When Sassoon first met Charlotte in June 1919, he realised that the two sisters had little money and an elderly mother to support, so he offered Charlotte paid work, writing reviews for the Daily Herald, of which he was the Literary Editor.

In December 1922, Charlotte’s mother died, leaving the two sisters, now in their 50s, to themselves. They lived quietly, their financial hardship eased by the award of a Civil List Pension to Charlotte. This award was achieved after Thomas Hardy, John Masefield and Walter de la Mare had lobbied the relevant authorities to recognise the quality of Charlotte’s work.

Finally, in June 1927, there came a tragedy from which Charlotte could not recover: Anne died from cancer. Grief overwhelmed Charlotte: she rarely slept and she became convinced that Anne had been buried alive. Seven difficult months later, she was admitted to a nursing home where it was hoped that her nervous disorder could be treated. On 24th March 1928, Charlotte took her own life by drinking half a bottle of disinfectant. At the inquest into her death, the doctor said that, following Anne’s death, Charlotte had become convinced that she was surrounded by germs and she believed that these had killed her sister.

Described in one obituary as a “poet of rare quality”, Charlotte Mew never really appreciated her talents, having a low opinion of her own abilities. The literary world, however, mourned her loss, hoping that, perhaps in death she had found peace and had escaped from her disillusionment and loneliness.

Further to yesterday’s BBC Radio 4 Today programme broadcast, I have now read an article in this morning’s Telegraph online entitled “Unpublished poems shed light on Siegfried Sassoon” in which Dr Jean Moorcroft Wilson, described as “Sassoon’s biographer” (she’s actually one of several and not necessarily the most eminent, or recent) expresses her surprise that “after angry war poems” Sassoon had written “poems full of the glory of war and the idea that war is an heroic venture”. These words are taken from the BBC interview, but the re-airing of them in the Telegraph article demonstrates and reiterates a worrying lack of understanding about the poet which surprises me.

Sassoon himself dated his first “outspoken” war poem as being In the Pink which was written on 10th February 1916. So, it seems to me that anything written prior to this could be open to the interpretation that he was still coming to terms with the war and his experiences and, quite probably, hadn’t yet made his mind up as to how he wished to write about it. The fact that these unpublished works under discussion, which show an attitude that is not necessarily “typical” of Sassoon, were discovered in the January 1916 diaries is, therefore, no surprise to me.

The article in the Telegraph and the BBC interview quote Sassoon’s November 1915 poem The Redeemer (not simply “Redeemer” as stated in the article) which Sassoon ends with the the phrase “Oh Christ Almighty, now I’m stuck!”. The point of this quote appears to be to show that Sassoon had written an “angry poem” in November 1915, and then in January 1916, had written these unpublished, yet more glorifying pieces. However, The Redeemer was, according notes written by Sassoon himself, (provided in Rupert Hart-Davis’s edition of Sassoon’s War Poems (Faber and Faber 1983)), “revised and rewritten March 1916″. Therefore, its classification as a November 1915 poem is a little dubious.

Another point to note is that really The Redeemer can’t be judged as being anti-war, or “angry”, despite its final line, which is actually a description of a soldier who, having dropped a “load of planks” “in the muck” of a darkened trench, finds himself struggling, quite literally through the mud and is “stuck” – hence his declaration. The poem, as a whole, is a description of Sassoon’s perception of the fine work of the men who trudge along the trenches in the dark, carrying supplies and the ending of the third verse, in fact, reads:
“But to the end, unjudging, he’ll endure
Horror and pain, not uncontent to die
That Lancaster and Lune may stand secure.”
In light of quotes such as this, and reading the poem as whole, The Redeemer can hardly be deemed to be a piece that falls into Sassoon’s typical bitter or satirical later verses. In fact it appears to be quite supportive of the war and, more especially, the work of those involved.

If a poem praising the “nobility of the fight” had been found after, say, February or March 1916, that would, indeed, have been newsworthy. As it is, this just shows a lamentable lack of knowledge and understanding of the man as a person and a poet. One expects – perhaps a little too hopefully – a greater degree of integrity.

In light of this morning’s broadcast on BBC Radio 4′s Today programme it seems necessary to make some comment regarding the way in which the literature of the First World War is deemed by some to overshadow the military significance of the conflict.

The broadcast itself was incredibly brief (perhaps not surprising, given current world events) and featured Professor Gary Sheffield and Dr Jean Moorcroft Wilson who could have been given the opportunity to discuss this valid point. However, it was somewhat overshadowed by the revelation of the “discovery” of several unpublished Siegfried Sassoon poems, made by Dr Moorcroft Wilson, which took up most of the time allocated to this interview. According to his Twitter, this morning, Dr Sheffield was unaware of the nature of this discussion and, I must say, was given scant time by the BBC to put his point.

Firstly I would like to deal, briefly, with these “discoveries” of Sassoon’s works. These were found to be in his 1916 trench diaries at Cambridge. These diaries were, presumably, the same ones that were edited by Rupert Hart-Davis in the early 1980s prior to the publication of Siegfried Sassoon’s Diaries (1915-1918). We have to assume, therefore, that the unpublished poems were viewed at the time by Mr Hart-Davis and were, for some unknown reason, edited out of the diaries prior to publication. That the poems, therefore, are unpublished, is true: that they are “discoveries”, is debatable.

Secondly, the purpose of Dr Moorcroft Wilson’s presence seemed to be to promote her lecture at the Imperial War Museum on Saturday 12th November, to the point where she refused to read more than a few lines from one of the poems on the basis that if anyone wished to hear more, they would have to attend her lecture. As a member of the Siegfried Sassoon Fellowship I have received information relating to this lecture (although I am unable to attend) and can confirm that while the tickets themselves are relatively inexpensive at £10 per head, once one has taken into consideration travel into London, this could prove a costly expedition for many and a lengthy and impractical one for anyone living beyond a reasonable distance of the capital.

The debate as to the influence of First World War poetry in how we view the Great War today – the “literary” versus “history” argument – was glossed over and, in my opinion, Dr Moorcroft Wilson’s earlier attitude regarding her lecture certainly did the literary argument no favours at all.

It seems a great shame to me that neither side really got the opportunity to discuss the point in hand. Generally speaking, the “literary” argument is that the poetry and literature of the time (and of subsequent decades) demonstrates the futility and horrors of the war as the “reality”, and that the contemporary nature of much of this writing and the experiences of its authors lends it much credence. The historical argument, on the other hand, is that we must acknowledge that the number of men (and women) who wrote about their experiences is minuscule compared to the number of people who actually participated. That does not mean to say that their opinion is not valid: simply that it does not necessarily make it typical, or even accurate. It is, after all, just one person’s opinion, or perspective. I’m making somewhat sweeping, generalised statements here to keep the arguments succinct.

There are rights and wrongs on both sides and, although my viewpoint ought to be clear (the company’s not called Great War Literature for nothing), I firmly believe that the two elements should be studied – and therefore taught – collaboratively. It is not really possible to understand the context of the poetry as a whole (rather than the individual poems), without appreciating the facts of the war itself, whether military, political or social. Unfortunately, most students today come at the First World War through the eyes of its poetry and literature and this tends to be studied (for the best part) in isolation, or with only a rudimentary glance at the historical elements involved. Therefore, a great many people are gaining only one perspective of the conflict, which creates a skewed perspective.

At this time of year especially, we have a tendency to look back to the First World War, to remember the cost to this nation and many others around the world. While the literature of the war is vital in shaping our perspective and understanding of the culture of the time, the feelings of society and some of the participants in the conflict, we must also remember that the military perspective gives a no less important viewpoint of the war, without which none of the rest really makes any sense.

To download a printable version of this poem as an A4 Poster, please click on the link below.