I finally managed to push myself to read up on World War I, which has so far been a fuzzy area in history for me (apart from the Russian Revolution). I still can't say that I know the events well enough, but at least now I get the difference between this and the Second World War.
The Finnish translation wasn't that impressive, but what made reading this even more difficult were all the listings of the troop movements. A huge amount of dates and places is not my idea of engaging war history (especially since I'm not that enthusiastic about it in the first place), but makes it mind-numbing and faceless. So my expectations didn't meet with what I got, because I wanted to know more about the things visible in the photos, like new weapons and other battle related things (the text mentions mustard gas, but only briefly), the reality of what it was like at the front (maybe even told by the soldiers themselves), and general practical things of the war. The collection of photographs, however, was excellent. Even though there were some repetitiveness with all the similar ships and weapons, I would still recommend having a look at them.
I did manage to gather some interesting pieces of information, though, and I'm most certainly going to be reading more about them, when I can find some in depth descriptions (preferably cultural history).
This did leave me wondering, who the photographers were and what they felt about working in the battle fields. Were they hired specifically for this job? In any case, some of the expressions on the men's faces are eerie, and not just because most of them never saw their home again but died in the middle of rotting corpses.
A Canadian military doctor John McCrae wrote this poem on May 2 1915, when his friend was found dead on a field in the midst of millions of poppies. A touching inclusion to the book.
In Flanders Fields
In Flanders Fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
scare heard amid the guns below
We are the dead, short days ago
we lived, felt dawn. Saw sunset glow,
loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields
Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you from failing hands we throw
the torch. Be yours to hold it high
If ye break faith with us who die
we shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders Field.