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A Subaltern On The Somme In 1916
“The author of this memoir arrived on the Western Front to join 10th Bn. West Yorks in July 1916, shortly after the opening day of the Battle of the Somme in which his battalion had suffered the highest casualties of any battalion on that day - 710 of whom 306 were killed. His war ended in January 1917 when he was concussed by a shell exploding on the parapet in front of him.
Regarded as one of the classics the book gives a vivid description of life in the trenches - the routine, the boredom , the mud and the horror. His war ended in January 1917 when he was concussed by a shell exploding on the parapet in front of him. Well recommended.”-N&M Print Version
Regarded as one of the classics the book gives a vivid description of life in the trenches - the routine, the boredom , the mud and the horror. His war ended in January 1917 when he was concussed by a shell exploding on the parapet in front of him. Well recommended.”-N&M Print Version
193 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 1927
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April 4, 2023
A self-effacing memoire which speaks frankly about life in the trenches of the Somme once the initial push had failed and after so many were killed in the first few days.
It is clear that the men were poorly equipped at times, the battle got away from the generals and the stalemate was complete.
I liked the human thought that away from the guns pounding positions with impersonal fallout. But if the guns fell silent the troops would lose the inclination to pull their triggers, they lacked the will to kill, being tired and at their physical limit. Yet discipline under pins all the soldiers life, routine and orders must be followed.
All aspects of daily life, the tedium, the need for morale are touched upon. The desire to punish and a court-martial. The need for foot management, lice, mud, rum ration and awards/ribbons.
The disconnect with home but the desire for leave. The bodies lying around unburied, where they turn up and the troops superstitions around touching the dead.
The constant drilling of the men. the dangers moving even behind their lines, the courage of the stretcher-bearers and the simple working classes that filled the ranks. This is in stark contrast to the commissioned ranks that were middle class or products of public schools became the officer class with servants and privileges no-one questioned.
It is an honest account told with a degree of pain, few complaints and a honesty that reads well. It brings more pride to my remembrance of these simple acts. Brings clarity and depth to events that still make one angry and how little we have had to overcome as young people.
As a reader I don't feel manipulated or emotionally played. I was moved by a first hand account that sought to explain but not justify events. That educates without any patronising with no real point to
convey. It is a realisation some may not want to reflect upon but it is a real honour to gain such insights. In an age where few told of their experiences with understandable reserve, to catch a glimpse through a portal in time is not so much a pleasure as a reality check.
It is clear that the men were poorly equipped at times, the battle got away from the generals and the stalemate was complete.
I liked the human thought that away from the guns pounding positions with impersonal fallout. But if the guns fell silent the troops would lose the inclination to pull their triggers, they lacked the will to kill, being tired and at their physical limit. Yet discipline under pins all the soldiers life, routine and orders must be followed.
All aspects of daily life, the tedium, the need for morale are touched upon. The desire to punish and a court-martial. The need for foot management, lice, mud, rum ration and awards/ribbons.
The disconnect with home but the desire for leave. The bodies lying around unburied, where they turn up and the troops superstitions around touching the dead.
The constant drilling of the men. the dangers moving even behind their lines, the courage of the stretcher-bearers and the simple working classes that filled the ranks. This is in stark contrast to the commissioned ranks that were middle class or products of public schools became the officer class with servants and privileges no-one questioned.
It is an honest account told with a degree of pain, few complaints and a honesty that reads well. It brings more pride to my remembrance of these simple acts. Brings clarity and depth to events that still make one angry and how little we have had to overcome as young people.
As a reader I don't feel manipulated or emotionally played. I was moved by a first hand account that sought to explain but not justify events. That educates without any patronising with no real point to
convey. It is a realisation some may not want to reflect upon but it is a real honour to gain such insights. In an age where few told of their experiences with understandable reserve, to catch a glimpse through a portal in time is not so much a pleasure as a reality check.
February 15, 2020
Although not as well known as the memoirs of Sassoon, Blunden, and Graves, Max Plowman’s Subaltern on the Somme is a remarkable account of men at war, with vivid depictions of life in and out of the trenches, and astute observations of the psychological toll it took.
He served in the 10th battalion of the West Yorkshire regiment, although he never names it in this book, probably because some of the men he described would have been easily recognizable to those who knew them. This was one of the Kitchener battalions, initially made up of men who enlisted in the first months of the war, and who had trained together for almost two years. And then, like so many others, the battalion was mauled in the first days of the Battle of the Somme in July 1916.
Plowman arrived a few days after the slaughter as part of a draft of replacements. The losses of the previous days had been so great that even with the new men the battalion was only a shadow of its former self. The company to which he was assigned would have been at full strength the morning of July 1st, with over two hundred men, but now mustered only fifty-two. Those who remained from the original company were still numbed by the horrors they had seen and the replacements were slowly coming to realize that their fate, too, was to be cannon fodder. While marching at the head of his men, Plowman reflected that one month previously it had been a very different unit, led by a different officer.
Paul Fussell, in The Great War and Modern Memory, explains how the soldiers’ cultural and educational upbringing in Victorian and Edwardian England shaped how they understood and remembered the war. One way they did so was to reflect the pastoralist poetry they had been raised on, and for men who spent much of their time at the bottom of muddy, filthy trenches, in what Fussell called the Troglodyte War, the sky and landscape took on special emphasis. Plowman’s book is a good example of this, with comments such as, “Morning breaks shrouded in mist: pale pink veils in the sky above announce the coming of the sun,” and “for a few hundred yards, where the scrub is clear, poppies and cornflowers stud the ground about my feet and glow bright as jewels in the evening light. Behind the ruined spire of the cathedral, torn as if some beast had mauled its flanks, the sun goes down in a blaze.”
The book is at its best in with descriptions of the men Plowman served with and his experiences in and out of the line between July and November of 1916, when he was wounded by a shell burst.
For instance, there is the redoubtable Corporal Side:
Plowman sees through external appearances and social backgrounds, and recognizes the essential qualities that make or unmake a man under fire. For instance, “I find one grows to love and hate men here according as one feels that in crucial moments they will be on the spot or absent. Whatever happens I know that Hardy will be there, and this last quality of comradeship is worshipful: it seems to be the very basic test of manhood. I suppose it is because war makes that test so obviously that its old appeal has force. Courage is a social quality. Out here I see it means caring for your pals more than yourself.”
Also, “I do not know that this is the last time I shall see him: that he will go into hospital for a while with his foot: that (owing to his age, long service in the trenches, and sickness) he will be offered a job at the base which, though a newly married man, he will decline, saying ‘he knows the men so well now’; and that finally he, the best company-commander I ever met, will be killed in the trenches, dying without honours. But so it is to be.”
He also notes with contempt the ones who always managed to stay safely in the rear while better men carry the burden of combat, such as the battalion Adjutant. “Out on rest he glows like a star of the first magnitude, making woe betide those who are ignorant of ceremonial behaviour; but he seems to suffer the fate of waning by exact degrees according to our proximity to the Germans. So well is this declension calculated that the star is reputed to suffer regular and complete eclipse, under cover of ‘officer-in-charge of the rear party,’ whenever the battalion is actually in trenches.”
The book does a fine job describing the life of a soldier, in and out of the line, such as “We are still out ‘on rest,’ but it isn't quite so restful as it sounds. Last night, 8 to 11.30: - a night march on a compass bearing. To-day, 6.30 to 8: - adjutant's parade. 9.30 to 10.30: - close-order drill. 10.30 to 11: - walk out to brigade bayonet course. 11 to 2.30: - bayonet fighting and returning. 3.30 to 5: - assistant officer at pay of company. 7.30 to 9.30: - walk to Brigade H.Q. for lecture on Tanks and back again.”
There are also moments of the kind of absurdity which seem inseparable from military life in any age. “The adjutant comes round, going from shelter to shelter, inquiring if there is any officer there who can walk. I tell him I can. ‘Then you're for a sniping course,’ he replies. ‘You'll start to-morrow. Take your servant, and get to Pont Noyelles as best you can.’ Well, well! There are many ways of choosing a marksman: eyes, hand and nerve must be considered; but this is the first time I have ever heard of one being chosen for his feet.
The madness and horrors of the war are never far from the soldiers’ thoughts, and Plowman’s book includes some searing moments, such as, “Of all ghastly work, this digging of a sap through the ground covered in the attack of July 1st is the most horrible. Hill returned from it last night physically sick. There are men buried here four or five feet deep, their bodies often lying as they fell, with the limbs stretched in all directions. We dig among the bodies, and the difficulties that ensue when they lie deep, stretched transversely across the gap, must be imagined, for they will not be described.”
Moving into the trenches his company meets soldiers returning from the front line. “Returning troops face us, and we have to ‘form two-deep’ to let them go by. Good Lord! That captain's face was a sight! Grey-green, like the cheeks of the dead, and his eyes fixed and staring. The men following him are smothered in mud.”
Death is ever present, to the point where hundreds of men who were killed in the first hours of the Battle of the Somme are casually described. “The troops we are relieving are Scots whose kilts make a welcome spot of colour in the drab trench. They hand over in a leisurely manner that is very agreeable and show us just how they have held the line, telling us that this has been a quiet front since the 1st of July, when they buried half a battalion of men in a front-line trench that has been abandoned.”
Moving forward over ground captured at such great cost, Plowman reflects on the moonscape it has become. “Not a sign of life is anywhere to be seen, but instead there appear, in countless succession, stretching as far as the eye can pierce the gloom, shell-holes filled with water. The sense of desolation these innumerable, silent, circular pools produce is horrible, so vividly do they remind me of a certain illustration by Doré to Dante's Inferno, that I begin to wonder whether I have not stepped out of life and entered one of the circles of the damned; and as I look upon these evil pools I half expect to see a head appearing from each one.”
This is a vivid memoir of service in the Great War, providing one of the best depictions of infantry life in and out of the line. Plowman does not shy away from the horrors of the battlefield, but he also reminds the reader that much of a soldier’s life is made up of boredom, tedium, and pointless work in the name of “efficiency,” but also of friendship, humor, and absurdity. As the months pass the strain starts to tell on him, and some of his remarks reflect the declining mental state of men who have come to accept that their lives are going to be short and their deaths violent. This book is highly recommended for anyone with an interest in World War I.
He served in the 10th battalion of the West Yorkshire regiment, although he never names it in this book, probably because some of the men he described would have been easily recognizable to those who knew them. This was one of the Kitchener battalions, initially made up of men who enlisted in the first months of the war, and who had trained together for almost two years. And then, like so many others, the battalion was mauled in the first days of the Battle of the Somme in July 1916.
Plowman arrived a few days after the slaughter as part of a draft of replacements. The losses of the previous days had been so great that even with the new men the battalion was only a shadow of its former self. The company to which he was assigned would have been at full strength the morning of July 1st, with over two hundred men, but now mustered only fifty-two. Those who remained from the original company were still numbed by the horrors they had seen and the replacements were slowly coming to realize that their fate, too, was to be cannon fodder. While marching at the head of his men, Plowman reflected that one month previously it had been a very different unit, led by a different officer.
Paul Fussell, in The Great War and Modern Memory, explains how the soldiers’ cultural and educational upbringing in Victorian and Edwardian England shaped how they understood and remembered the war. One way they did so was to reflect the pastoralist poetry they had been raised on, and for men who spent much of their time at the bottom of muddy, filthy trenches, in what Fussell called the Troglodyte War, the sky and landscape took on special emphasis. Plowman’s book is a good example of this, with comments such as, “Morning breaks shrouded in mist: pale pink veils in the sky above announce the coming of the sun,” and “for a few hundred yards, where the scrub is clear, poppies and cornflowers stud the ground about my feet and glow bright as jewels in the evening light. Behind the ruined spire of the cathedral, torn as if some beast had mauled its flanks, the sun goes down in a blaze.”
The book is at its best in with descriptions of the men Plowman served with and his experiences in and out of the line between July and November of 1916, when he was wounded by a shell burst.
For instance, there is the redoubtable Corporal Side:
Side has lost his kit. A 5.9 dropped in his trench, while he was absent upon a business essential to health, and demolished the bay together with all Corporal Side's worldly effects in France. He is much aggrieved. I met him round a bend.
“I hear you’ve had a lucky escape”, I remarked.
“’The beggars ‘a got all my kit,’ he replied lugubriously.”
In civil life I believe he is a rag-picker, and the character of his profession adheres, as it will, to the man. He joined the battalion two years ago as a stretcher-bearer, and on the 1st of July carried stretchers under fire continuously for twenty-four hours. Anyone who knows the weight of a loaded stretcher and remembers the heat, the condition of the ground, and what the firing was like upon that day, will agree with me that the Victoria Cross would have expressed rather less than Side's deserts. However, he for his bravery was promoted to full corporal in the fighting-ranks.
Plowman sees through external appearances and social backgrounds, and recognizes the essential qualities that make or unmake a man under fire. For instance, “I find one grows to love and hate men here according as one feels that in crucial moments they will be on the spot or absent. Whatever happens I know that Hardy will be there, and this last quality of comradeship is worshipful: it seems to be the very basic test of manhood. I suppose it is because war makes that test so obviously that its old appeal has force. Courage is a social quality. Out here I see it means caring for your pals more than yourself.”
Also, “I do not know that this is the last time I shall see him: that he will go into hospital for a while with his foot: that (owing to his age, long service in the trenches, and sickness) he will be offered a job at the base which, though a newly married man, he will decline, saying ‘he knows the men so well now’; and that finally he, the best company-commander I ever met, will be killed in the trenches, dying without honours. But so it is to be.”
He also notes with contempt the ones who always managed to stay safely in the rear while better men carry the burden of combat, such as the battalion Adjutant. “Out on rest he glows like a star of the first magnitude, making woe betide those who are ignorant of ceremonial behaviour; but he seems to suffer the fate of waning by exact degrees according to our proximity to the Germans. So well is this declension calculated that the star is reputed to suffer regular and complete eclipse, under cover of ‘officer-in-charge of the rear party,’ whenever the battalion is actually in trenches.”
The book does a fine job describing the life of a soldier, in and out of the line, such as “We are still out ‘on rest,’ but it isn't quite so restful as it sounds. Last night, 8 to 11.30: - a night march on a compass bearing. To-day, 6.30 to 8: - adjutant's parade. 9.30 to 10.30: - close-order drill. 10.30 to 11: - walk out to brigade bayonet course. 11 to 2.30: - bayonet fighting and returning. 3.30 to 5: - assistant officer at pay of company. 7.30 to 9.30: - walk to Brigade H.Q. for lecture on Tanks and back again.”
There are also moments of the kind of absurdity which seem inseparable from military life in any age. “The adjutant comes round, going from shelter to shelter, inquiring if there is any officer there who can walk. I tell him I can. ‘Then you're for a sniping course,’ he replies. ‘You'll start to-morrow. Take your servant, and get to Pont Noyelles as best you can.’ Well, well! There are many ways of choosing a marksman: eyes, hand and nerve must be considered; but this is the first time I have ever heard of one being chosen for his feet.
The madness and horrors of the war are never far from the soldiers’ thoughts, and Plowman’s book includes some searing moments, such as, “Of all ghastly work, this digging of a sap through the ground covered in the attack of July 1st is the most horrible. Hill returned from it last night physically sick. There are men buried here four or five feet deep, their bodies often lying as they fell, with the limbs stretched in all directions. We dig among the bodies, and the difficulties that ensue when they lie deep, stretched transversely across the gap, must be imagined, for they will not be described.”
Moving into the trenches his company meets soldiers returning from the front line. “Returning troops face us, and we have to ‘form two-deep’ to let them go by. Good Lord! That captain's face was a sight! Grey-green, like the cheeks of the dead, and his eyes fixed and staring. The men following him are smothered in mud.”
Death is ever present, to the point where hundreds of men who were killed in the first hours of the Battle of the Somme are casually described. “The troops we are relieving are Scots whose kilts make a welcome spot of colour in the drab trench. They hand over in a leisurely manner that is very agreeable and show us just how they have held the line, telling us that this has been a quiet front since the 1st of July, when they buried half a battalion of men in a front-line trench that has been abandoned.”
Moving forward over ground captured at such great cost, Plowman reflects on the moonscape it has become. “Not a sign of life is anywhere to be seen, but instead there appear, in countless succession, stretching as far as the eye can pierce the gloom, shell-holes filled with water. The sense of desolation these innumerable, silent, circular pools produce is horrible, so vividly do they remind me of a certain illustration by Doré to Dante's Inferno, that I begin to wonder whether I have not stepped out of life and entered one of the circles of the damned; and as I look upon these evil pools I half expect to see a head appearing from each one.”
This is a vivid memoir of service in the Great War, providing one of the best depictions of infantry life in and out of the line. Plowman does not shy away from the horrors of the battlefield, but he also reminds the reader that much of a soldier’s life is made up of boredom, tedium, and pointless work in the name of “efficiency,” but also of friendship, humor, and absurdity. As the months pass the strain starts to tell on him, and some of his remarks reflect the declining mental state of men who have come to accept that their lives are going to be short and their deaths violent. This book is highly recommended for anyone with an interest in World War I.
January 6, 2023
A unique account of trench warfare in WW1
If you are expecting an account of 'over the top' and fighting across no man's land, as is the stereotypical image of the first world war, you will not find it in Subaltern on the Somme. Max Plowman arrives with his battalion after the carnage of 1st July 1916, the first day of the Somme. But what he experiences is no less horrific, harrowing or distressing. From the constant din of shell barages towards the enemy, the threat of 'whiz bangs' and other German shelling and the indiscriminate nature of death, the not knowing if this dawn, day, hour is your last and the quagmire of trench life, the rats, the stench of living among the dead, it is a vivid and unforgettable detailing.
But it is an account that focusses on the routine, almost humdrum life...attending courses, willing for leave, the rum ration, the constant battle to supply the soliders with rations, the weather, the high command who can not appreciate the life on the front line.
And it is too an account of Plowman's feeling towards warfare, man's inhumanity towards man, the unseen enemy, and the unanswerable question 'Why are we doing this?'
A very different, but important consideration of the lived experience in World War 1.
If you are expecting an account of 'over the top' and fighting across no man's land, as is the stereotypical image of the first world war, you will not find it in Subaltern on the Somme. Max Plowman arrives with his battalion after the carnage of 1st July 1916, the first day of the Somme. But what he experiences is no less horrific, harrowing or distressing. From the constant din of shell barages towards the enemy, the threat of 'whiz bangs' and other German shelling and the indiscriminate nature of death, the not knowing if this dawn, day, hour is your last and the quagmire of trench life, the rats, the stench of living among the dead, it is a vivid and unforgettable detailing.
But it is an account that focusses on the routine, almost humdrum life...attending courses, willing for leave, the rum ration, the constant battle to supply the soliders with rations, the weather, the high command who can not appreciate the life on the front line.
And it is too an account of Plowman's feeling towards warfare, man's inhumanity towards man, the unseen enemy, and the unanswerable question 'Why are we doing this?'
A very different, but important consideration of the lived experience in World War 1.
November 24, 2017
SUBALTERN ON THE SOMME, Max Plowman
Another reviewer commented that most of the tales in the book concerned the 'details' which they were set to perform in order to keep them active and the amount of front line fighting he experienced was relatively little. It was all a terrible muddle. He didn't write the book until almost ten years later which explains the good quality of the language and the neat proportions of the stories. There are some worthy descriptive passages : waiting at Victoria for the troop train and when he was sat on a horse for the first time since on the sands at Worthing with his nurse.
He became a conscientious objector sometime after his return to England but he does not display more than criticism of the futility of so much wasted effort when he was actually serving.
Another reviewer commented that most of the tales in the book concerned the 'details' which they were set to perform in order to keep them active and the amount of front line fighting he experienced was relatively little. It was all a terrible muddle. He didn't write the book until almost ten years later which explains the good quality of the language and the neat proportions of the stories. There are some worthy descriptive passages : waiting at Victoria for the troop train and when he was sat on a horse for the first time since on the sands at Worthing with his nurse.
He became a conscientious objector sometime after his return to England but he does not display more than criticism of the futility of so much wasted effort when he was actually serving.
August 13, 2020
The memoirs from the heaviest casualty period on the Somme . Despite the constant threat to life the men still have a routine , it seems their great fears are not death itself but to be wounded away from any help' and in the autumn muds drowning in a shell hole or collapsed trench are a real possibility. It is written simply and eloquently, from the heart wrenching goodbyes to loved ones at charing cross station to the practicalities of living in and fighting from the trenches , stirrings of questioning the futility of protracted brutality , to daily hardships of trench foot, lice and lack of sleep and endless longing for leave. This first hand account is endearing : the most surprising element is that those who survived became almost used to it . Modern writers of that period would do well to use this as a reference.
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
July 22, 2017
The edition I read was published under the pseudonym "Mark VII" in 1927. Very, very graceful and elegiac account of experiences from July 1916 to January 1917, when Plowman was wounded and sent back to England. Plowman was a poet, and it shows! Very hard to find this book (thank you, interlibrary loan)!
September 3, 2018
Tedious
To call this tedious is not to denigrate. The tale provides an insight of the experience of the stalemate of trench warfare. For much of the time, "housekeeping," tasks were a vital part of readiness for action an was tedious. Of course the experience viewed through the life of a subeltern was significantly different to that of Nick's English private soldiers.
To call this tedious is not to denigrate. The tale provides an insight of the experience of the stalemate of trench warfare. For much of the time, "housekeeping," tasks were a vital part of readiness for action an was tedious. Of course the experience viewed through the life of a subeltern was significantly different to that of Nick's English private soldiers.
November 27, 2018
Harrowing
An unusual account of a Junior Officer fighting in the mud of WW1 in 1916. You wouldn’t joke about mud in the trenches again. He set out as a pacifist and ended up fighting although he doesn’t really explain that. The text often feels very immediate and although written in 1928 retains that quality. The extraordinary waste of young lives is constantly confronting him.
An unusual account of a Junior Officer fighting in the mud of WW1 in 1916. You wouldn’t joke about mud in the trenches again. He set out as a pacifist and ended up fighting although he doesn’t really explain that. The text often feels very immediate and although written in 1928 retains that quality. The extraordinary waste of young lives is constantly confronting him.
March 22, 2022
Good read
The way he tells of his experiences was mind blowing couldn't believe the amount of marching they had to do. Them to have to stand in mud for hours getting shelled I don't think I could have done it.
The way he tells of his experiences was mind blowing couldn't believe the amount of marching they had to do. Them to have to stand in mud for hours getting shelled I don't think I could have done it.
June 14, 2017
Poignant Autobiography
Well written, poignant autobiography. Not a lot of "action" but good descriptions of the psychological effects of combat. Definitely would recommend.
Well written, poignant autobiography. Not a lot of "action" but good descriptions of the psychological effects of combat. Definitely would recommend.
January 5, 2020
A quite brilliant first-hand insight into life in the WW1 trenches. Poetic, humane, harrowing.
July 16, 2016
The author tells the story of his 6 month on the Western front when he is a replacement as a junior lieutenant to a unit that was severely mauled in the Battle of the Somme.
He is a very good writer, becoming a poet after WWI. He also becomes a pacifist after he returns to England courtesy of German artillery; refusing to return to military service. Nothing in his six month tour indicates his interest in conscientious objection, he comes across as a officer who would rather be elsewhere but is doing his duty, the best that he can, no different than tens of thousands of other citizen soldiers.
At any rate, his unit doesn't see a major action but spends months in and out of the the trenches enduring extremely adverse environmental conditions as well as German artillery and snipers. He does as good a job as any reflecting on leadership, command relationships, types of troops, quality of officers, why men fight and the dysfunction found in military bureaucracy. He could be writing of almost any modern war waged on an industrial basis, only the tactics and locations give away that it is the western front of WWI.
He is a very good writer, becoming a poet after WWI. He also becomes a pacifist after he returns to England courtesy of German artillery; refusing to return to military service. Nothing in his six month tour indicates his interest in conscientious objection, he comes across as a officer who would rather be elsewhere but is doing his duty, the best that he can, no different than tens of thousands of other citizen soldiers.
At any rate, his unit doesn't see a major action but spends months in and out of the the trenches enduring extremely adverse environmental conditions as well as German artillery and snipers. He does as good a job as any reflecting on leadership, command relationships, types of troops, quality of officers, why men fight and the dysfunction found in military bureaucracy. He could be writing of almost any modern war waged on an industrial basis, only the tactics and locations give away that it is the western front of WWI.
April 6, 2014
I think this is a good "view" from the trenches, the original diary is sporadic and quite random but conveys very well the disorganised minutiae of life in the army at that time. Without the wider context and taking one man's "ant's eye" perspective really shows the complete and utter futility of mechanised trench warfare. The internal conflict and thrill combined with helpless fear is well conveyed without any comment from historians "interpreting" battles or circumstance.
April 24, 2014
After a slow start, Plowman gets into the rhythm of it all. Plowman is rather priggish and this halts a more earthy relating of the horrors of the 1916 Battle of the Somme. There are better recounts of the Great Wa
November 23, 2014
I was prepared to really dislike this book, but read it anyway for my book club. I came away really liking it because it talks about the absurdities of war. Real interesting insights.
November 10, 2014
Just too lyrical and self obsessed for me. Didn't finish.
December 31, 2014
A true story that shows the folly of war and that it really doesn't solve anything. Should be read by those deciding to send people off to fight.
March 24, 2015
A great book by a junior officer. He does not hold back on criticism of the war machine of the BEF
July 1, 2016
Read
Not to bad I would readily read on a train bound for any were as some of this is a drudge
Not to bad I would readily read on a train bound for any were as some of this is a drudge
April 20, 2014
What was it like for Subalterns in WWI - interesting read.
April 23, 2017
A truly thought provoking, intelligent, introspective work of non-fiction, reminiscent of AQOTWF
Somewhat reminiscent of All Quiet on the Western Front, this is a truly thought provoking, intelligent, introspective work of non-fiction. If it went on forever (it doesn't, it's a shorter read) I would read it as a daily journal. If you prefer thoughtfulness over carnage and the smaller, everyday, consequential brutality of war over the battles...you'll find this engrossing.
Somewhat reminiscent of All Quiet on the Western Front, this is a truly thought provoking, intelligent, introspective work of non-fiction. If it went on forever (it doesn't, it's a shorter read) I would read it as a daily journal. If you prefer thoughtfulness over carnage and the smaller, everyday, consequential brutality of war over the battles...you'll find this engrossing.
May 3, 2017
This book held my attention. It showed what it was like for an ordinary guy to wind up in a hellish place. The reader, like the author, sees the utter futility and cruelty of it all. But they’d gone over there to kick the Germans out of France. It wasn’t as if they could up and walk away. I can understand railing against the war and your government if you are in someone else’s country trying to conquer it and take it over for yourselves (as the Germans were). This was a matter of men and women coming from all corners of the earth to help the French. The ending was sudden, although it did not disappoint me. It was different – just as he experienced it.
Displaying 1 - 22 of 22 reviews