I enjoyed this book, and would recommend it for its detailed description of a tour of duty in the trenches, but I was never convinced by the author’s assertions that despite all the dangers and hardships the average British soldier remained cheerful, optimistic, and firmly convinced that the war was a just and noble cause.
Many of the classic Great War memoirs were published between 1928 and 1930, including All Quiet on the Western Front, Undertones of War, Good-Bye to All That, and Memoirs of an Infantry Officer. They depicted the war as incompetently led pointless slaughter, and while they had respect for the soldiers who stoically endured the filth, misery, and terrors of the trenches, they dismissed as lying propaganda, fit only for home front consumption, the claims that they were embarked on a great and noble crusade.
A backlash ensued, led by politicians and ex-soldiers offended by the notion that the suffering and death had been for nothing. Most of the books these men wrote are now long forgotten, and some have a desperate tone that reads like a demented refusal to confront their own memories. Twelve Days on the Somme has escaped that fate, both because it is better written and because it focuses on the day to day lives of soldiers in the line. For that twelve day period the author kept an almost hour by hour record of events, showing the rhythms and routines of the soldiers’ lives.
They were kept busy day and night cleaning their gear, carrying supplies, and standing sentry duty, and when not working they tried to rest in the often waterlogged trenches. All this happened with the ever present knowledge that death could find them at any moment. Artillery was the big killer in World War I, and the sound of shells whistling overheard or crashing nearby was a constant part of their lives. Many of the trenches by that time had started as just connected shell holes, so a great deal of time was spent deepening and improving them, or fixing damage from rain or shellfire. Working parties went out almost every night to repair or strengthen the wire, and reconnaissance was made to inspect German defenses or try to capture a prisoner.
Food is always important to soldiers, and is one of the things they remember most clearly. The author’s descriptions of meals seemed improbable to me, a far cry from what one reads in many Great War memoirs, of subsisting on a monotonous diet of Maconochie stew, plum pudding, and weak tea brewed from bad water. According to him his soldiers ate very well in the trenches (certainly better than I ate when I served on Navy ships decades later). They always seemed to have plenty of bacon, toast, and jam as part of full hot meals served several times a day.
The author does not fail to mention the hardships of trench life, such as bitter cold, soaking rains, and ever present mud, but he maintains that the soldiers were cheerful, resolute, and committed to their country’s war aims. That description does not square with what comes across in many books, which depict them as resigned to their fate, certain that their only escape from the madness of the war would be through death or disfiguring wounds. They all hoped for a Blighty, a minor, non life-threatening wound that would nevertheless send them home, but they had seen too much violent death to expect a happy ending for themselves.
Siegfried Sassoon, in Memoirs of an Infantry Officer, wrote that officers and men were used up after six months, no longer fit for front line service. John Keegan, in The Face of Battle, said that courage under fire is a non-renewable resource, and the longer men are in combat the more their performance degrades, as their mental attitude changes from a) it won’t happen to me, to b) it could happen to me, so I better keep my head down, to c) it will happen to me; it happens to everyone and it’s just a matter of time until my number is up.
So why were the men in Sidney Rogerson’s battalion so cheerful? It could be that he was just projecting his personal sentiments on them, or that in the years since the war his memories had faded or been repressed, but it could also have been because many of them had not been at the front long enough to understand what awaited them. According to the British army, during the war an average of 7000 men per day were lost to all causes. And that was just the overall average; during battles the daily toll would have been horrific. The British took 450,000 casualties on the Somme between July and November 1916, and the events in this book took place in the last weeks of that battle, so it is possible that Rogerson’s battalion had been depleted and reinforced, and the chipper soldiers he met were replacements who did not yet understand the meat grinder they were in.
The book’s strengths are in its depictions of the day to day lives of soldiers at the front, and for that reason it is worth reading. An even better book, with a longer term look at the life of a battalion over the course of the entire war, is J.C. Dunn’s The War the Infantry Knew, 1914-1919. If Rogerson hoped to counter the perception of the war as murderous futility, he failed, because it is the remembrances of Remarque, Sassoon, and Graves, and the poetry of Wilfred Owen which have formed modern perceptions of the Great War. As such, this book occupies an odd corner of the memoir genre: worth reading for its details, but suspect in its overall viewpoint.