A well curated Penguin Classics collection of 25 short stories linked to the British experience of the First World War. It ranges from Machen's overrated romantic supernatural account of the Angel of Mons to late twentieth century works by Muriel Spark, Robert Grossmith and Julian Barnes.
Roughly a third of the stories are by the big guns of English literature, not always their best work in some cases, although each adds something, but the bulk are by contemporary writers or writers 'processing' the experience in the decade or so following it.
Literature is not reality. A lot of guff can be spoken or written about art expressing some higher truth when what it often does is create a barrier between us and reality especially when it is a reality which we can never hope to experience.
Most of the stories are, therefore, not always very useful in describing the actual lived experience of war for most but they are effective in taking facets of the whole bringing them into focus as part of a cultural experience that helped to define 'Britishness/Englishness' to subsequent generations.
One of the dissonances between 'culture' as it unfolded after 1918 and the war itself is that the war became a set of negatives that obscured the enthusiasm for war and victory at the time and only one story reminds us that for most of the war for most men it was actually quite dull.
Literature is not interested in the dull. It concentrates on incident (like news bulletins), amplifies them, mythologises them and then spreads them further as interpretations that then become the received ideas of a society. So this book is about culture and not history.
Having noted that (and so long as we do not confuse interwar culture or the culture of the baby boomers with the reality of events between 1914 and 1918), then this is an excellent compendium of artistic reflections on the human and specifically British experience of war.
The most obviously authentic are those from men and women who experienced the conflict directly. Secondarily from those who observed the effects on their own generation after the war. The least, self-evidently, are those who merely imagine the past.
In the first case, you have Aldington, Borden, Graves, Holtby, Somerset Maugham (as a spy), Montague, Sapper and Walpole. In all of these, except Holtby who embeds her story in a later period, stories are grounded in some military experience even when detached from reality.
Somerset Maugham stands out, of course. Graves looks back in 1962 to have an old soldier backing the nuclear deterrent as a means to peace. Borden captures something of the exhausted adrenalin high of dealing with death and destruction as a nurse albeit in a mannered modernist idiom.
The others all add something to the picture but the most interesting from a psychological point of view (though perhaps not from a literary point of view) is Hugh Walpole's attempt to describe the loss of the self in some of those who came back from the trenches.
Walpole's attempt is not as successful in portraying disassociation in 'Nobody' as perhaps we might have liked but at least he was making a serious effort at describing something extremely hard to express in the conformist society of the interwar upper middle classes.
The second category includes older literary lions trying to come to terms with the scale of the tragedy and its moral complications (Kipling, Conrad, Galsworthy, Buchan) or maintain a propaganda line from duty (Machen, Conan Doyle).
Kipling is as masterful as you would expect. Conrad raises an uncomfortable moral choice, albeit in a somewhat stilted way, that showed how traditional morality might come under pressure in a total economic war but the most moving, because understated, entry is from Galsworthy.
His simple tale simply told, from the point of view of a school teacher, of a young farmworker who lies about his age to fight, 'marries' his local love and then deserts the trenches when he finds out she is pregnant. When he is found out, he is, of course, shot.
The boy is placed into the machine of war in part because the schoolteacher failed to blow the whistle on his underage status before the kid was ready to make serious judgments and that war machine had no choice but to shoot him once he was in its grip.
Galsworthy was one of the patriots but changed his attitude to the war over time. This 1927 story may express some of his own guilt at not acting with more circumspection at the time.
Buchan too has a nice story about discovering that his character's 'loathly opposite' in the German intelligence system was far from what he expected when they met. A repeated theme (Buchan, Graves, Aumonier, A. W Wells) is that the 'other side' were not in fact monsters but like us.
DH Lawrence provides one of the odder but excellent stories in the collection 'Tickets, Please' (1919) which is very much about the liberation of women from social constraints because of the war effort. From a male perspective, he delivers a fascinatingly castrating sexual horror story.
The role of women is rightly not neglected. A third or so of the stories are primarily about women or where women play a significant role and not one of these stories is some politically correct makeweight. Every single one has its purpose in the whole.
Slightly less than a third are by women and not all the women want to write about women. One who does is unsurprisingly Radclyffe Hall. Her story is, in fact, somewhat ridiculous in the round but, as with Walpole, the literary failure hides a psychological success about war and lesbian aspiration.
The effect on many women of the First World War is now well understood but stories like those by Mary Borden, Radclyffe Hall and Winifred Holtby all express the degree to which the end of the war was experienced as a loss. The war was a defining moment for women as much as men.
As to the women who can write about men, Katherine Mansfield (the only writer to get two entries) produces one of the few examples (surprisingly) in the book of intense grief expressed in a very small and hopeless and perhaps repressedly cruel and angry way.
Grief is, of course, present elsewhere but, being English, so much of it is expressed elliptically, drawn out and unassuaged,with a reluctance to share it. If there is one national characteristic discreetly present throughout, it is the national preference for Stoic silence.
The only example in the book of outright cynical humour - and brutally sharp it is too - is the playwright Brighouse's 'Once a Hero' which is a satire on the cultural appropriation of war heroes by 'society'. Maybe Sapper's 'Captain Meyrick - Company Idiot' might fall into the same category.
Stacy Aumonier is one of the wider group of lesser known writers who helped shape our cultural responses to the war and he provides what I think is the best story in the collection 'Them Others'. What is remarkable about it is that it was published as early as 1917.
Burning with a fundamental humanity and an authentic feeling for working class life and sentiment, it has a simple soul of a mother coming to terms with not only the war but the fact that on the other side other mothers had sons in as dangerous a position as her own.
The central fact is that this working class family had had pre-war German neighbours who had become friends and so could feel a common sympathy with them as fellow human beings - it is why I made a point of not abandoning my Russian friends as we sank into a Russophobic swamp.
This leaves us with the post-Second World War responses to the First World War. Authenticity is replaced with literariness. One feels a touch of grief at the arrival of men and women who are telling tales as part of a mythology already established rather that being at its creation.
The one dreadful, almost embarrassing, story is Muriel Spark's 1975 story 'The First Year of My Life' which, no surprise, appeared in the 'New Yorker'. It is snide, too-too-clever, obvious and rather stupid and best passed over in silence.
The remaining three stories include two genre tales (a mystery story set in the trenches and ghost story) by Anne Perry and Robert Grossmith which both earn their place by being well written and indicative of how the war enters modern genre fiction today.
The final entry is Julian Barnes' 1995 tale of an elderly woman obsessively 'remembering' (as we are told we must do) yet aware that some day the remembering may end. A well crafted tale, it has its point but one soon wants to get out from under the mythos and go back to the original.
I suppose I am suspicious of 'literature' distant from its time and place unless it presents itself as genre fiction (the honest historical romance in one direction and the science fiction space opera in the other). This collection helps to confirm that prejudice but with caveats.
First of all, all testimonies and memories are flawed. This is just part of the human condition. Second, literature (the artistic interpretation of the world through language) may be invention but it can reach into processes and situations hidden during the ordinary business of living.
While things are happening, these processes and situations tend to be reduced to 'stories', tools for immediate ends, and when things are no longer in the memory of anyone, they become mythologised and detached from the truth of that time they represent.
There is an intermediate period during which 'writers' are able to process their past experiences and convey some aspect of them that will resonate with others and which can be passed down the generations.
There are exceptions - Kipling, Lawrence and Aumonier spring to mind and Walpole and Mansfield still strike while the iron is hot in 1921/1922 - but the best and most authentic literary expressions of a traumatic event seem to come within ten or perhaps twelve years of its ending.
Thus, in this collection, the most interesting material tends to come from people 'processing' after the events they experienced, but not so long after that literary invention starts to take over and the formation of the mythos is replaced by a framework of expectations that define the mythos.
Anything written after about 1928/1930 starts to look consciously literary, either moving well away from events during the war (sometimes to good effect in the stories by Holtby and Barnes) or using an established mythos as backdrop to a 'story' without the actual experience of, say, Sapper.
There is a useful, sensible and mercifully short and unacademic introduction and, curiously, detailed maps of the Western Front and glossaries as well as good notes to the stories and biographical summaries of the authors. Discovering Aumonier alone made the reading worthwhile.