“When he could stand it no longer, he fired a revolver up through the roof of his mouth, but he made a mess of it.”
And so begins the first of thirteen vignettes, simplistic and simultaneously elegant recounts of war–The Great War, The War to End All Wars–and the events witnessed by a military nurse.
The memories, told bluntly and without apologetic snide, seem to flood into you as you read each account; the second more random than the first and the third more arbitrary than the second. All told with the same clinical monotone and the unpretentious grace of conviction, sharing only the destroyed foundation of war and its aftermath. Each one seeping into the crevices of your skin, bruising you and staining you like dried blood under the edges of your fingernails or crawling ever further into the curve of your cuticles; and yet, the accounts are ghastly, fogging your literary senses in a way that makes it feel like fiction, like fable, so clearly evident in the nearly comical and feigned detachment, articulated by strict precision of the our author, Ellen N. La Motte, “one of the most celebrated voices of the First World War...She was to demonstrate that lives could be saved as well as lost on the front-line and that courage was not solely confined to the soldiers of the savage conflict.”
It seems to be the core belief of the novel, or series of essays rather, that lives could be saved and that lives could be lost both on the front-lines of the war–each man fighting his way through suffocation of an oppression manifesting itself in only glimpses–and on the home-fronts too; the fear of a child being taken; the death of civilians mourned only momentarily by their loved ones. Through all the accounts of death and the maladies of the body told in semi-graphic detail, one message stood out to me in its pulsating passion and its captivating conviction, a message of the decay of mind and the absence of reason.
“Somewhere higher up, a handful of men had been able to impose upon thousands, a state of mind which was not in them, of themselves...Individual nobility was superfluous. All the Idealist demanded was physical endurance from the mass.”
There was a part early on in the book that I fixated on. It was in La Patrie Reconnaissante (translated as, “recovering the homeland”), when, in a field hospital a man lay dying, suffering through agony and fits delirium as he waited for his end. Somehow, this man's death seemed, to me, to epitomize the way we wage our wars–fast and quick after the brewing of tension, with blind spots in between the start and the end making up the moments in which we wonder if the possible triumph is truly worth the callouses and cuts on our hands, before being torn down with the jagged edges of bureaucracy, leaving fire in its wake. The pain we are able to cast. The pride we carry on our dying shoulders through this all.
It all seems so simple in the end, after the blood has been shed and the nations have been divided; just a chapter in a textbook or a hour on the discovery channel. After all of this, I still believe Motte said it better:
“And all that night he died, and all the next day he died, and all the following night he died,” until towards the nearing end it became evident that “his was a filthy death. He died after three days' cursing and raving. Before he died, that end of the ward smelled foully, and his foul words, shouted at the top of his delirious voice, echoed foully. Everyone was glad when it was over.”
As for the war, like the man, it seems once it approached “The end came suddenly,” and everyone was glad when it was over.