“Now comes the news of battle”: July 1, 1916 – the Somme

  • Author: Michael Foight
  • Published: July 1, 2016

 

While primarily considered a British offensive, the Battle of the Somme,  which started on July 1, 1916,  one hundred years ago this week, involved troops of many nationalities.  This bloodiest battle of the Great War which would kill over a million soldiers and which serves to this day as the icon for the war’s futility, was also the source of patriotic pride and sacrifice for  for Irish soldiers under arms for king and county.

The Ulster Division’s sacrifice on July 1, 1916 is clearly depicted in the rare unit history: With the Ulster division in France : a story of the 11th Battalion Royal Irish Rifles (South Antrim Volunteers).   Available in digital reproduction from Villanova University’s Digital Library this work was published in Belfast from the manuscript of Arthur Purefoy Irwin Samuels killed in action in 1916, and created for veterans by veterans.  With photographs, maps, and a roster of the Battalion, this unit history of the 11th Battalion R.I.R. (S.A.V.)  reaches greatest poignancy when one notes the penciled in status on the unit roster showing “Killed” next to the names of the dead by the book’s former owner – one of the survivors.  These faces still gaze out of the page with hope and resignation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The poem, The Red Hand of Ulster: Somme – July 1st, 1916  starts on page 57.  This literary work gives immediate voice to the emotions of sacrifice shared by the closest of companions.  From stanza 4:

Now comes the news of battle-

The long awaited roll

Of our great Western rampant-

A wall of thews, and soul-

And Ulster’s sons are writing

Their names upon a scroll.

 

 



Translation, La Passion de Notre Frère le Poilu = The Passion of Our Brother the Poilu

  • Author: Michael Foight
  • Published: August 21, 2015

The recently digitized French work, La Passion de Notre Frère le Poilu, makes a compelling visual and poetic statement on the war from the French point of view. Published in 1918 Paris, this distinctly French poem on the conflict shows regional conflicts in France between the city and the rural populace. Newly translated into English by Barbara Quintiliano, Instructional Services Librarian Team Leader for Nursing/Life Sciences, Villanova University, now this work can reach a broader, non-francophone, audience. Reproduced below are medium size images of the highly illustrated pages followed by the English translation; high resolution images are available for closer inspection as well.

[ii], recto, Title page.

[ii], recto

La Passion de Notre Frère le Poilu = The Passion of Our Brother the Poilu

Translator: Barbara Quintiliano
June 9, 2015

Translator’s notes:

The original text is a poem featuring couplets and alternate rhyme. In addition, the author has used a distinctive orthography to approximate the sound and flavor of the regional speech of the people of Anjou. No attempt has been made in this translation to render either the rhyme scheme or the Angevin patois.

poilu = popular term for a French WW I combatant

[Title page, recto]

Marc Leclerc

The Passion of Our Brother the Poilu

Color Illustrations
by
Léon Lebègue

Paris
Librairie des Amateurs
A. Ferroud – F. Ferroud. Successor
127, Boulevard Saint-German, 127
1918

Gatefold, closed

Gatefold, closed

Gatefold, open

Gatefold, open

[1]

[1]

[1]
To all my comrades
the officers, subofficers, corporals and soldiers
of the Territorial Regiments of Anjou
who fell in battle
for our country

[2]

[2]

[3]

[3]

[3]
When the war is over
–As is bound to happen someday—
Here’s something
You city folk and working folk
Must never forget:
If you owed your lives to the peasants before the War
You owe them even more now:

For it was, of course, their resistance
For months on end, that succeeded in saving
The Country we share, this Land of France
That they tilled with such great effort;
And they didn’t abandon this Land
In time of war, either,
The peasants in the trenches…

[4]

[4]

[4]
And they were the ones, the real Poilus,
Men of the Territory, Soldiers of the Land…
“The Fearsome Regionals“ as they were called,
Although people had no idea
Just how fearsome they really were!

So I’m telling you city folk,
They deserve a tip of your hat:
For nestled in the blue folds of their peasant shirts
A bit of the Flag waves in their heart.
(At the front, February 1917).

5

5

[5]
A poor devil of a Poilu,
Who went off to fight…
Though, of course, he would have liked
To be anywhere else than in the thick of the battle;
But when the time came for him to go,
Well, off he went,
Knowing full well that there was no
Getting out of it,
And that the boys who till the land,
Have a duty to defend it too,
Exhausted farmers though they may be…

6

6

[6]
It’s not hard to understand
That everyone isn’t sent to fight:
Some are workman or notaries,
Still everyone does their duty, on the front lines or in the rear!
…Of course, it’s more dangerous on the front lines:
It’s the poor common soldiers
That get hit with Jerry’s shells…
As for our artillerymen,
They have a kinder heart, so it’s said!…

The Poilu, with his comrades,
Went off on grenade duty:
It was real miserable weather,
In the black of night with snow and frost:
And with every step they fell on their face
Tumbling into shell craters,
Huge ones they were too!
The farther they walked, the more there were…
Craters just seemed to be falling with the rain!

7

7

[7]
Then suddenly a huge shell
Explodes twenty-five meters away..
The Poilu cries: “I’ve been hit, my God…”
And his knees buckle under him,
And he falls backward,
His poor side torn open,
And his blood spilling onto the ground…

He said to the corporal, “Pierre, my boy,
You have to let my wife know back home:
Tell her at first that I’m wounded…
So she doesn’t have to take in the news all at once…
In my purse…there’s a bit of change…
Give it… to our squadron… buddies…
You… take my… grenade sack…”
Then, having dictated his will,
He quietly breathed his last.

[8]

[8]

9

9

[9]
So in the night his soul flies away:
Finding its way to heaven without a compass,
And promptly reaching Paradise:
Saint Peter was standing on the doorstep,
Busy beating some rugs,
And he cries in a loud voice:
“Wipe your feet before you go in,
And take the corridor on the right…
Way the end will be the Judgment Hall…

10

10

[10]
You can sit on a bench there and wait!”…
The Poilu makes his way, trembling all over:
In the distance there’s a pure white angel,
Who asks him his name, rank and
Serial number!
The poor guy just stands there stunned,
In the middle of the vestibule;
But before too long
The Angel says, “They’ll see you now!”

There he is in a sort of church
Like none he’d ever seen before:
All gold and vermillion…
And way in the distance he can see
The Lord, seated on a sun throne
Between Christ and the Blessed Virgin,
And, on each side, six bundles of candles;
And multitudes of Saints, and a little bit farther off…

11

11

[11]
There were the soldier saints,
In their helmets and armor;
Saint George, Saint Hubert, Saint Michael
Bending over the grimacing demon,
Saint Leonard and Saint Marcel,
Saint Charlemagne with his beard,
Saint Martin, Saint Suplicius, Saint Barbara,
Maneuvering her little cannon,
Saint Maurice and his companions,
And Joan of Arc with her banner…
Seeing all these military personalities,
The Poilu says to himself: “It’s the War Council!…
Looks like I’m really in for it!”
But there was no escape:
His interrogation began tout de suite.

12

12

[12]
“So, tell me your story!”
Says the Lord to the poor Poilu—
“What did you do before the war?”
“–Well, Lord, I farmed the land…
It’s a job that doesn’t make you wealthy,
And I wasn’t rich either;
But you get by with hard work;
I say, I managed to make a living:
I had a pair of cattle, a horse,
A cow, a wife and some chickens,
And a pig, with all due respect…”
–“Ah!” says Saint Anthony, “I know something about that,
Pigs! …Bless you, my brother!”
But the Lord gave him a scowl.
And Saint Anthony, he made himself scarce…
“And since you’ve been a soldier,
Have you often sinned?”
–“Well, Lord, now and then,
To tell you the truth:
I’ve gotten drunk at times,
But after all, I’m Angevin,

13

13

[13]
“And then, it was such lousy wine
That my sin can’t be very great!”
…Then Father Noah, the Patriarch,
Exclaimed: “It’s not a very grave sin…
Far from forbidding it,
I’d say now and then: “Ark, full speed ahead!”
–“Another time I was thrown in jail,
But I really think that I was in the right:
I had a rip in my pants…
To make a patch,
So my sorry ass wouldn’t show,
I cut a few scraps from my coat…
So the captain threw me in jail
For damaging
Government property!”
Saint Martin said, “Indeed,
I did no worse
The day I cut my cape in half
To clothe a cripple,
And I got canonized for it!”
– “Me, said the Poilu, I got screwed…

14

14

[14]
But all I did was cover myself:
You’d think the rules would be different!

Another time I was so covered with lice
That I just couldn’t kill them all.”
“—I kept my lice,” said good Saint Labre;
You should have followed my example and scratched yourself
To cultivate some humility!”
(But Saint Michael, disgusted,
Beat him off with the flat of his sword.)

15

15

[15]
“Finally, Lord, if I’ve sinned,
I’ve also had great hardships
And borne my share of troubles;
I’ve suffered terribly from
Hunger, cold, and heat:
I’ve had sleepless nights;
I’ve often dragged my battered feet
Over long trails,
Marching for so long
That my sweat fell in big drops
Under the weight of my heavy pack!…
There were even times when
I carried other guys’ packs
To give them a break,
Though I was exhausted myself!…”
And Saint Simon said very softly:
“Like us, Lord, at Golgotha!”

16

16

[16]
“So here I stand before you now:
I’m a soul without a body or a home;
Lord, Lord, if I’ve sinned,
Haven’t I made amends?…
I’m bled dry, I’m pale as a ghost…
See at the gash in my side!…”

Saint Thomas said, “Truly,
Lord Jesus, it was just like that!”

And as the Lord said nothing,
The Poilu pointed to
The Virgin Mother’s blue mantle,
God the Father’s great white beard,
And Our Lord’s red robe,
And said, “These are my three colors!”

17

17

[17]
These are the three colors of France,
And all my suffering has been for their sake;
These are the colors of my Flag,
The three colors of my Country
For whose sake my flesh has been ripped open;
For their sake I’ve lost my life,
And it’s for their sake I’m here before you,
Eternal Father, on my knees!”

18

18

[18]
And then God smiled,
And behind him Heaven opened…

And the Poilu saw that among the Angels
There were others interspersed
Seated in their midst
Were multitudes of joyful Poilus,
All smart
In their azure blue coats
And on their heads gold helmets;
Each one had a great pair of wings
So he could fly about effortlessly,
Without getting his boots wet,
And travel 36 miles and more
Without getting blisters on his feet.

19

19

[19]
And the Poilu sat down in the midst of the crowd
Singing with them with all his heart:
“Glory to God in highest Heaven!”
While the angels, bathed in light,
Responded all around:
“And peace on Earth
To men of good will!”

Verdun, March, 1916

[20]

[20]

[21]

[21]

[21]
Printed
15 June 1918
By
Frazier-Soye
Paris.



Photographic Album of Beatrice Mae Correia, 1917-1918

  • Author: Michael Foight
  • Published: May 21, 2015

Posted for Marjorie L. Haines, Spring Digital Library Intern, Villanova University:

Beatrice Mae Correia’s WWI scrapbook, now a feature of Villanova University’s Special Collections, displays graphic and often disturbing images from the Great War. Many war-themed scrapbooks tend to portray personal or familial involvement, such as the scrapbook of Einer Smestad, WWI US Infantryman, or Captain James Archbald’s scrapbook of the Mexican Revolution Border War. Correia’s collection, on the other hand, exhibits the gruesome death and destruction of WWI. A number of the photographs appear to be acquired from retail sources, as duplicates are found in other WWI special collections. Photography of war corpses developed into a popular practice, particularly during the American Civil War, and Correia represents the consumer market for this distinctive product.

Photos of war corpses wash away the clean, sanitary picture of war and bring to light the ghastly consequences. Yet today’s surplus publication of gore and death, as seen in movies, YouTube, and other media sources, seems to dampen the sobering effect. Reality and imagination tend to merge, predominantly with the former morphing into the latter. The people viewed in this scrapbook existed. They were someone’s child, sibling, parent, friend, and confidant. They had dreams and aspirations. Where would you draw the line of respect and remembrance in regards to these immortalizations of others’ suffering and death?

Deadmans hill

“Deadman’s hill. Verdun 1916.”

The first page of Correia’s scrapbook contains an image of Deadman’s Hill commonly found on the face of postcards. This photo depicts dead Germans at Morte-Homme – Deadman’s Hill – in France after the Battle of Verdun. In 1916 the Germans sacrificed a significant amount of men and arms in an attack that was intended to acquire a swift and decisive victory; this anticipated success was to come at a time when Germany needed to reaffirm her superiority in the face of internal dissention and external skepticism. The resulting German ‘defeat’ led to Verdun’s nickname as “The Slaughter-House of Germany.” (The Battle of Verdun (1914-1918), p. 29, 1919, Michelin & Cie: Clermont-Ferrand, France) The photo acutely conveys the horror of the aftermath, notably with a bare leg bone protruding from a disfigured boot in a fashion worthy of Hollywood carnage scenes.

Refugees Fleeing

“Refugees Fleeing Before German Adfance Near Chateau Thirry”

It is estimated that WWI generated a minimum of 10 million refugees, almost a fifth of which were internally displaced French persons. (Refugees, 2014, Gatrell, Peter, International Encyclopedia of the First World War) Imagine your own life as a WWI refugee. Fleeing meant leaving your home with the understanding that it will likely be uninhabitable when – if – you return. You could only take what you could carry. You would lose contact with almost everyone you know. Your livelihood would depend on the goodwill of strangers, who may eventually tire of the influx of refugees. You may try to stay near your home, hoping to return soon, only to be pushed farther and farther away along with additional refugees.

Mine Explosion

“Mine Explosion. Chevoncourt.”

This image, on record in two other locations (WorldWar, Durham Museum), likely shows the German mine explosion in French-occupied Chauvoncourt, France on November 18, 1914. (The New York Times Current History: The European War, Volume 2, p. 1011, 1917, New York Times Company) Where would you prefer to be in the Great War: on the surface with poisonous gas, bullets, and explosives, or below the ground with poisonous gas, potential tunnel collapse, and explosives?

After the marne

“After the Marne fighting 1914. 1916.”

Countless skulls, long bones, and ribs, all piled together in an indistinguishable mix. Is it easier to objectify these corpses, as they no longer resemble a single, complete human form, with no human identifiers such as clothing? Does it matter if these are allies or enemy? This grisly pile of human bones represents only a sampling of the death accumulated, on both sides, during the Great War.





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Last Modified: May 21, 2015