POET AND SOLDIER

Evening Post, Volume CVII, Issue 73, 30 March 1929, Page 17

POET AND SOLDIER

WORK OF EDMUND BLUNDEN

"Undertones of War," and "Retreat; New Sonnets and I'oems." By Edmund Blundon. London: ltieliard Cobdeu-Sajideison.

It is fourteen aud a ball" years since tlio Groat War begau; it is ten and a halt" years since the Armistice was signed. A now generation lias been raised. Uut for "cannon fodder"f Who can say? Tlic boy of iivo in 1014 who was eating his food with a spoon, a bib under his chin, is to-day a man. How does lie regard tho Great War? In this fortunate country he knew nothing of the horrors of war, nothing of the dread of air raids and "Zcps.," nothing of coast bombardments nor of strictly-rationed food and a shortage of sugar and fats. But many incidents in those dreadful years will never be effaced from, the memories of those who saw their loved ones for the last time when the transports cast off from the quay. As for those who survived the ordeal of active service iv the fields of France, in Flanders, on Gallipoli, and in Mesopotamia, and those who passed and repassed over the U-boat infested waters, they are generally reticent on any and everything relating to their experiences unless, indeed, they recount, some humorous incidents, so very few, so very far between, of life under active service conditions. It is therefore not easy to form a detached opinion of Mr. Blunden's "Undertones of the War," because, those who went through the war as soldiers seem to prefer to let sleeping memories lie, and those who were not actually on active service arc disinclined to revive the agony of tho, war years. To tlio rising generation, what can the. place-names thiepval, Ypres, Mcnin Road, Fcstubort, Vlamertinghcr, Passchendaele represent? Anzac connotes a day observed (or intended to be observed) as a Sunday in New Zealand; but to the elder people who remember, that word signifies far more than can be conveyed iv letters or speech.

Mr. Blunden was not quite twenty when ho joined up, and ho was by inclination a poet, but duty made a soldier of him. Until about eighteen months ago ho was professor of English in a Japanese University. To-day he is ehgaged in literary work; and the wonder is that he is alive to resume the writing of "New Sonnets and Poems." AVhen ho became a second lieutenant in the Royal' Sussex Regiment in 1916, and was ordered to France, he confesses that he was "not anxious to go.

. ... I could not dance, for there was something about France, despite all journalistic ' enchanters, that looked dangerous." So he began his real soldiering at Etaples, in the "Bull Ring" with the rest, and soon afterwards was sent into the .old British lino at Festubcrt for "trench education." Ho got it. Ho was in the Cambrin sector, near Loos, when a circular went its rounds, reading: "All ranks must know that the great offensive has begun." It begau, but was inconclusive, and Mr. Blunden learnt what was meant by a "war of attrition." His descriptions of modern warfare are terrible, unforgettable. Thiepval Wood and Hamel wero horrors that burned deeply into the memories of all who survived them. Terribly tragic, too, is the tone of his description of men doomed to die, and knowing they were doomed, and yet hoping that by a miracle —which did not happen—they might escape. Mr. Blundeu saw, and he records with evident relish, how a Highland unit, passing through Thiepval, managed to "lift" two jars of rum from a quartermaster famous for his shrewdness, and who never forgot nor forgave tho "Jocks" who outwitted him, notwithstanding his innate suspicion and profound knowledge of tho ways of men. •Here; too, are/vivid descriptions of things seen at the'taking of the Schwaben Redoubt, and recorded in print twelve to thirteen years later:— . . Climbing the dirty llttlo road over tho steep bank, ono immediately entered tho land of despair Bodies, bodies, and their useless gear heaped tho gross waste ground; tho slimy road was soon only a mud track which passed a whitish tumulus of rulu with lurking entrances, some spikes that had been pinetrees, a bricked cellar or two, and died out. The village poad, so blue on tho map, had completely disappeared. Tho Ligne do Pomnjiers had been grubbed up. Tho shell holes wero mostly email lakes of what was no doubt merely rusty water, but had a red and foul semblance of blood. Paths glistened weakly from tcuablo point to point. Of the dead, one was conspicuous. 110 was a Scottish soldier and was kneeling, facing east, so that ono could scarcely credit deatli in him; ho was seen at some llttlo distance from tho usual tracks, and no one had much time in Thiepval just then for sight-seeing, or burying. Death could not kneel so, I thought, and, approaching, I ascertained with a sudden- shrivelling of spirit that Death could and did.

It is time to return from theso abysmal peregrinations to the world up aloft, where still here and thero in outlying pits a niiucnwerfer (without its team) thrusts up f!s steel mouth towards the old Britisli line; where tho ration party uses the 'dry places' in the mud—those bemired carcasses which have not yet ceased to serve 'the great adventure' —and the passerby hates the plosh of tho whizzing fuse-top into the muck worse than the fierce darts of the shrapnel itself; where men howl out angry imprecation at officers whom they love; where our poor half-wit and battalion Joke, whom red tape will not let us send away, is running out above tho Schwaben half-naked, slobbering, and yet at times aware that ho is not in his perfect mind.

Mr. Blunden corroborates the statements made by many New Zealand soldiers of tho stupid devotion to pipe clay which characterised service in some battalions. He tells of men coming out of the front line into tho village of Hinges, on tho canal between Bethune and Air©, and writes: —

The men had hardly exchanged nods with sleep, next morning, when a training programme was put Into force. One of the few advantages which I had fancied we should have in coming to France was a relaxation from tho artificial parts of army life—"eye-wash," in tho term then universal. But there, after two or three weeks in the line, was a battalion undergoing the same old treatment, which uselessly reduced its chances of rest. . . .

These men were volunteers of the first months of tho war, most willing, but most intelligent, and tho only effect that petty militarism and worrying restlessness had on them was to set them grumbling.

As though they had not bonio enough and had enough to bear, they wero kept at it when they most needed recuperation and rest. In describing a lecture _ given by-a war: correspondent to troops behind the lines, Mr. Blunden tells of "a swarthy old colonel who rose and said: 'Tho other day I was obliged to take part in a battle. I afterwards read a war correspondent's account of tho battle, which proved to mo that I hadn't been there at all. Will the lecturer explain that, please I' "

AVere Mr. Blunden asked of what ho was most proud, his services as a soldier or his work as a poet, he would probably say of his output of verse. To "Undertones of tho War ho has ap-pended-"A Supplement of Poetical Interpretations and Variations." Theso are verses directly bearing on war experiences. They have not the ineisivcness of Siegfried Sassoon, but they aro every bit as graphic. In "Third Ypres" will be found these linos with tragedy in every word: —

. . . the slow moments shake their heavy heads And croak, "They're done, they'll none of them get through, They're done, they've all died iv the entanglements. The wire stood up like an unplashcd hedge and th'onied With giant spikes—and there they've paid tho bill.

Spaco for reference to Mr. Blundou's book of verso "Retreat" is running low, but, as in parts of "Undertones," it shows him to bo a constant lover of Kngland and never weary of singing of its rural beauties, its whispering rivers, its sliady lanes, the exhilaration of its downs, tli« beauties of its dells uurpotcd witli primroses and bluebells, its meadows bespangled witli cowslips and willow-weed in ilowcr on Iho banks of its streams. In "Retreat" too will bo found grim souvenirs of the war in the poem "An Infantryman"; but the verso in the main reveala the beauties

H.ncl friendliness of England's countryside, ;mc] the emotions they arouse. Mr, Rliiiidrn 's affection, for his native land is plainly evident iv tho poems, "Would You Return 1!" and "Nature .Displayed." His work is sincere, free .from tricks and ari ificcs, and generally sound in craftsmanship.