Man's thirst for dominance and space

Man’s thirst for dominance and space

The date was 4th August 1914 a warm, dry and sunny day. Nature was asleep under the summer sun, the farmers’ animals throughout the countryside like the human population were enjoying a lazy day. Then came the news that the British prime minister had declared a state of war with Germany. It seemed as though that precious isle set in a silver sea was covered by an electric storm that propelled the population into the unknown with such violence that took the peoples’ breath away.

Two days later I called three of my best friends for a game of tennis and a discussion about the situation. We were all university students having just completed our degrees and taking the summer off to spend a leisurely time looking for a job. In my case the choice was made as I hoped to become a recognised concert pianist. I was born in a musical family with my father being the first violin in the London symphony orchestra. My mother sang comic opera, accompanied by my older sister. As I listened to all forms of music and singing before I could speak it was only natural I had a deep understanding of the power and pleasure in musical expression.

My friends had various other aspirations and dreams. Harry, probably my closest friend, was destined to be an architect. Boris was in the process of interviewing merchant banks in the city. Simon was to take over this family farm as his father had cancer and had been given only a few months to live. There we were on my family’s grass tennis court dressed in whites playing a robust and hard fought game of tennis. For any onlooker it would have seemed there was no news or black and dangerous clouds posed to disturbed our sporting endeavor. Harry and I won after an exciting three set match. As we sat relaxing after the game our conversation immediately turned to the declaration of war.

Harry opened the discussion.“This might be the last game of tennis for a while, providing we all come back from the war sound in body.. In two days I am signing up for the air force. Since childhood I have always wanted to fly. But I never imagined I might be flying in times of war. How about you?”

Simon was the next to speak. “I would love to sign up for the army but I have been told farmers are required on the land as the nation and troops need to be fed.”

As Boris' parents lived by the sea and he regularly sailed during his university years it was only natural he was signing up for navy.

I told them I was signing up for my local county's army regiment, but as I said it I could not suppress my deep feeling about the declaration of war. I looked at my friends, they had long saddened faces after their commitment to sign up. They knew like I did that it was doubtful that not all of us would return. It was indeed probable it was the last game of tennis we would play together. As the light began to fade we all embraced each other with extended hugs of outpouring love.

Four days later I signed up. The army equipped me for an officers training camp. After an emotional fair-well kiss with my parents I was off to the wilds of Devon for a months training. There we were taught weapons proficiency, basic drill orders, physical fitness, military tactics and command structure. The beds were uncomfortable, the food very mediocre, the lecturers were conducted by fierce dedicated army professionals without a trace of humor. As one of my colleagues noted we were being subjected to what was to come. My whole time there I felt outside my comfort zone and consoled myself with occasionally playing on an out of tune piano that was in the mess room. At the leaving ceremony my parents and sister came to say a final farewell as our orders were to be shipped out to France’s western front.

I step on the boat to Calais as a young fresh faced second lieutenant responsible for twenty five men. As we left the shores of England I had many mixed feelings. The sound and brutality of wars have over course of history so often shown its ugly and devastating head whether they be territorial, religious or political. Over the years man’s imagination and inventive talents have produced weapons that had increasing destructive powers. I dreaded thinking about what awaited us. I looked at my men, very few had the sparkle of enthusiasm in their eyes, they were there to do their duty for the country and the king. To defend the rights of a democratic nation. I thought about my family, their love for music, for entertaining people, and bringing the precious gift of pleasure that takes you out of a dull life that most people suffer from. I thought about my future and whether I would survive this war. My thoughts then turned to the men under my command. They came from various walks of life. Some were factory workers, miners, bakers, restaurant employees. bus and train drivers. The large majority were leaving their families waiting daily for news.

It took us two days to cross Northern France to the western front. We were transported, with other soldiers, in a train for part of the way and then as we neared our destination transferred, by regiment, to lorries. In the early part of the trip it was a pleasure to see the well kept fields of France with livestock scattered throughout the countryside. As winter was approaching one could see the birds busy preparing for the oncoming cold weather. On this trip there were many rumors about the conditions on the front. The majority of my men came to me seeking clarity and comfort. It gave me the time to get to know about their home life, their fears and their jobs back home. They were good men totally unprepared for what lay ahead. The majority were poorly equipped. The British industrial base was still slowly preparing for war. I could not help thinking that war is so alien to what we are taught as children. In the western world classrooms the underlying message was the glorification of God and country, the pursuit of happiness and respect for your fellow men.

As lorries transport us within five miles of the trenches I could feel the countryside was clothed in an eerie silence. The birds have left, the fields were devoid of animals, the earth gave the impression of being lifeless. In the background we could hear the spine shaking sounds of guns. We stayed two days in the base camp, which gave us time to get accustomed to life within striking distance from the battlefield. On the third day I received orders to move my men up to the trenches.

On arriving at the trenches the first thing that struck me was the smell. The human body odor from months of not being washed, rotting food, the pungent smell of open lavatories, and the sour smell of left after ammunition has been fired. Your first encounter with these smells made you feel sick, two months later they were barely noticeable. The next distressing observation was that the trenches were relatively tight corridors with the wet and muddy floor. There was very little sleeping room for the rank and file. Officers were allotted a slightly larger space. Within minutes of arriving I saw large rats scurrying down the trenches. The whole scene reeked of boredom and death. I never imagined in my wildest dreams a scene of such desolation. We had only been there ten minutes before the Germans guns started firing. The noise and occasional human screams as somebody was hit sent a chilling shock down my spine. I asked myself if I was capable of fore-filling and being an example to my men.

The days passed, boredom set in, your feet were always wet, sleeping became difficult and the food rationing was just enough to keep you alive. I received one letter from my parents. It was full of soothing words and memories. I was for a few minutes carried into a world of music and make believe. Over the weeks I sent letters to my tennis friend but never received a reply.

Some of the men started suffering from dysentery, cholera and typhoid. Minimum medical assistance was available. After two weeks the men were ordered to remove their mustaches and the offices to grow one so that amongst all the filth an officer could be distinguished from the men. In the four weeks I received orders I was to prepare my men for a night attack across no man’s land. There was an enemy guns site to the left of our trench that needed destroying. At midnight on the appointed day I led the charge into no man’s land and with rifles firing and fixed bayonets we ran towards the German’s position. Their soldiers seemed so young and inexperienced I had a moment of symphony for their fate as I lunged my bayonet into them. We returned from a successful mission with five of my men dead and four injured. My unit was congratulated, under my breath I asked myself for what? I remember the day after I looked at my hands, dirty and full of hard calluses from handling weapons. I wondered if I would ever play the piano again. In a fleeting moment of weakness a teardrop from my right eye.

Within a week our successful sortie brought us another assignment. My unit was moved a mile down the trenches. The unit was re-enforce by a few soldiers to replace the men we lost. The mission was again an enemy gun post directly across on man’s land from our new position. I readied my men and waited for the order. There was a distinctive strong smell of body odor from the men generated by fear. At the appointed time we started by silently crawling forward across no man’s land. At the last two hundred yards we ran. The surprise attack worked to perfection, within ten minutes there were twenty dead enemies with their machine guns destroyed. As I was leading the men back there was a terrific explosion to the left of me. My world disappeared into a dark tunnel surrounded by complete silence.

I was slowly coming out of my dark tunnel when I heard a voice.

“You are lucky to be alive, young man. I am sorry I had to amputate your left leg just before your knee cap. It was completely shattered. Your left arm received a serious wound but in time, with the correct treatment, it will recover to its normal functionality. Your face wounds will heal leaving, I am afraid, slight scares. We are planning to ship you back to England in a few days to a rehab center. We need your bed.”

“Whoever you are please tell me where I am?”“I am an army surgeon and you are in the temporary medical unit positioned about 5 miles from the front line trenches. You were brought in two days ago.”

“Doctor, how are my me?”

“Tell me your unit number.” As I did so he examined some papers he held. clipped to a board he was holding.”“I see ... .here it says. Successful sortie ,enemy destroyed, but on the return the unit leader was seriously injured along with eight men, ten men died in no man’s land. No dead bodies have been recovered.

He finished by saying I am sorry. This is turning out to be a disastrous conflict we are in, and like the Germans, are paying a heavy price.”

“Thank you.” I turned over and fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke I lay there in unaccustomed surroundings. The smell of body odors, open toilets ,tobacco smoke, ammunition fumes and rotting food was replaced by antiseptic smells of medicine and cleaning materials. The sound of the guns seemed far away but the sound of men suffering or in the clutches of dying was ever present. Surely man was capable of finding a way to stop all this suffering. I felt I had failed my men by not bringing them all back alive. I experienced a flash across my mind that the command center knew in advance that to achieve my unit's objective would result in the loss of a number of men. My only consolation was that our mission was a success. At what cost?

As planned I was shipped back to England six days later. I spent two months in a re-educational facility and was fitted with a prosthesis for my left leg; by the time I left I had learnt to walk satisfactorily with a slight limp. The family came to see me anxious to hear all the details of my service to the country. I disappointed them with a few simple words….. “It was horrendous. I have no words capable of describing the trenches and my thoughts.”

Towards the end of my period of recuperation I wrote to my regiment and told them I wished to continue my war effort either as an instructor or some administrative post. The commander replied and told me I would be welcomed at the company’s base as an instructor. A week later I was back on the regiment’s base. A few days later I was called into the commander’s office. He told me that in ten days he was planning a reunion for all the family members related to the men of my unit who were severely wounded or died on the western front. Was I up to giving a speech? Before I agreed I took a few minutes to stare out of his office’s window and collect my thoughts. This was a period of my life I was desperately trying to forget. For the last few months these memories had been a constant nightmare. The only relief I found was losing myself in playing the piano. I turned back and faced the commander. “Yes.”

The appointed day arrived. The mess room was packed with wives, lovers, children, friends and grandparents. I stepped up to the microphone. Before me I saw a sea of sad faces, Faces of people expecting by some miracle that I was capable of connecting them with their loved one.

“My name is first lieutenant Paul Hodges. I had the privilege to command unit 412, now disbanded, on the western front. I use the word privilege as I was surrounded by men of extraordinary bravery and a sense of duty.” My voice at this point started to falter from deep internal emotions. “In front of a brutal enemy to the last man they showed a fighting spirit and courage worthy of the regiments reputation.” At this point my emotions were completely out of control. I tried to continue my speech. No sound came from my voice. With tears in my eyes I walked over to the piano and started playing land of hope and glory.

My four friends of the past never played tennis again. They never came back.

David Nutt February 2024