Lyn Macdonald got a lot of mileage out of her approach to popular history, and that’s a good thing. Although she wrote about a dozen books, including two on French cooking, five of her major works focus each on one year of the Great War:
1914, published in 1987
1915, published in 1993
The Somme (1916), published in 1983
They Called it Passchendaele (1917), published 1978
The Last Man (spring 1918), published 1998.
It was probably wise of her to spread out her publishing schedule over twenty years, although I suspect that she was under a great deal of pressure to get most of her interviews with veterans completed during the 1970s, by which time their numbers were no doubt in free-fall. After all, she could always supplement the interviews by reading diaries and memories at a more leisurely pace. In any case, she did the world a great service.
This book, 1915, I found valuable for providing a chronological structure to the major battles of the year; Neuve Chappelle, 2nd Ypres (first use of poison gas, a gift of the Teutonic mind…), Gallipoli (a gift of the British mind), Loos. She doesn’t get too deeply into the controversies of the day—I’d like to know more, for example, how labor problems and scandalous shell shortages were actually resolved—although she clearly has opinions and positions regarding which of the idiots in charge was responsible for which disasters, as well as an appreciation of the limits and difficulties with which those idiots had to contend. Communications would top my list. I suspect that the quintessentially British concept of “muddle through” must have its origins in WW1. Tragic, that.
One thing that struck me about the interviews and the memories of participants is that, despite how unutterably horrible it all was, one somehow gets the sense that the survivors ‘wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’ (See Gnr. JA Watson, p 530). Time heals all wounds. It certainly dulls the jagged edges of horrific memory. War must be kind of like childbirth…
And what old man wouldn’t warm up to being the center of attention, the object of a sympathetic and uncritical scripteur who offers a sort of immortality?
I’m always a bit skeptical about the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves, which is the central weakness of this form of popular history. At the same time, it does confirm one of Voltaire’s observations, to wit, “you were bored if there was no danger.” (Trpr W Clarke, p 576.)
One of the things I found quite enjoyable, impossible when her books were first published, was to access (on my iPhone) the Commonwealth War Graves Commission database (cwgc.org) to look up soldiers who’d died during the war to see if they really existed. I’m pleased to say that, although I only researched a handful, I found all but one of them (see p 393). Maybe someone can use the idea for a bit of post-graduate research.
In any case, my all time favorite ‘take-away’ from this book is found on p162.
“Vesper adest, juvenes. Consurgite!”
Find out what it means by reading this fine book.