Vera and the Lost Generation

Violets from Plug Street Wood,

Sweet, I send you oversea.

(It is strange they should be blue,

Blue, when his soaked blood was red,

For they grew around his head;

It is strange they should be blue.)

Violets from Plug Street Wood -

Think what they have meant to me -

Life and Hope and Love and You

(And you did not see them grow

Where his mangled body lay

Hiding horror from the day;

Sweetest it was better so.)

Violets from oversea,

To your dear, far forgetting land

These I send in memory,

Knowing you will understand.

Roland Leighton penned these lines to his sweetheart Vera Brittain several months before he died in agony on the Front. He was a young man in love with life, but disillusioned by the bloody struggle he was engaged in. Life, and Love, and Hope, and blood flowing from a mangled body. Such are the thoughts of the Great War poets. It is the historians who write what happened, but it is the poets who record every look, every thought, every feeling. It is the poets who help us to remember.

Since it is a Friday evening and I am alone I watched Testament of Youth, based on the novel by Vera Brittain. It is a movie I have been looking forward to watching ever since I heard about it this summer, and it lived up to my expectations. It recounts Vera's experiences during the war both as a civilian and as a nurse. I often cry during movies, and this was no exception, but it was more than just a sad movie. It is the best movie I have seen in a long time. It is stark and tragic, and achingly beautiful. It is a very real testament to the youth that was crushed during that war. It haunts me as I write this, so many scenes etched in my mind. Of course, no movie can come close to its original book, but this time the movie brought the book to life.

I have long been fascinated with the poetry of the Great War, stemming from a report I gave in college on the topic. I am also fascinated with that period of history. At the beginning of the war, the attitude of the people of England, which is mostly the view we get from the poets, started out in a positive way. In the earlier poems we see these ideas presented: intense  patriotism, struggle  in a righteous cause, the chivalric and heroic aspect of military service, St. George versus the dragon of Central Powers. Vera Brittain and her "Three Musketeers" (her brother Edward and his two friends Victor and Roladn) believe strongly in the war. Vera even convinces her father to let Edward sign up.

But by 1916, and the Battle of the Somme, there was no way anyone could pretend the Great War was a glorious struggle against tyranny. With the casualty lists growing to undreamed-of heights (one striking scene in the movie shows Vera picking up a newspaper and turning page after page of casualties), the lingering remnants of chivalry were wiped out. In the poetry written after the Battle of the Somme, there is a sense of disillusionment brought on by involvement in a senseless war. We see the shattering cost of modern warfare in human terms, the desolation and emptiness of the modern battlefield. Another striking scene from the movie shows Vera walking through the hospital camp just after a new batch of wounded soldiers has been brought in. She sees only a few at first, coming off the trucks, but then she rounds the corner of a building, and far before her stretches a field of wounded men. She stands still, stunned by what she sees, and you can feel her horror and dismay.

Many, Vera Brittain included, were highly disillusioned by the war. Vera went on to be one of the most notable peace protesters of the 20th century. The poet Siegfried Sassoon refused to fight again after being wounded, and was sent to an insane hospital. The few young men left, who should have been enjoying life and love were instead picking up the shards of their lives. A whole generation wiped out. So much talent, so many promising lives wiped out. Roland Leighton wanted to be a writer. Edward Brittain was a musician and a composer. And for what?

They say we record history so that we will not make the same mistake twice. Oh, but we are foolish human beings and we cannot learn from our mistakes. The Great War poets exhort us not to forget the dark years of the war, and what it did to the world and mankind. Siegfried Sassoon writes,"Have you forgotten yet?...Look up and swear by the green of the spring that you'll never forget." Vera Brittain exhorts us not to forget: "They'll want to forget you. They'll want me to forget. But I can't. I won't. This is my promise to you now, all of you."

When We Were Nine...

Today my youngest brother turns nine. Nine! How time does fly. It seems like just yesterday he was a tiny 6 lb. baby coming home from the hospital. Now he's almost to double digits. I don't want that to happen. I don't want him to become a surly teenager. If only I could freeze time and he would stay little forever. But right now he's still my cute (don't tell him I said that) baby brother who tells me not to be afraid of the rooster and still likes to snuggle and give me kisses and tells me he loves me. He's also my Godson, so he's more than just my cute baby brother.

When he was a baby I wrote a poem about his nap time, or, rather, the travails of keeping a baby asleep in a large family. In honor of Hansie's ninth birthday, here it is.

A Hansie never shuts his eyes

Until the sun is in the skies.

And even then he does not sleep

For long; you see, we cannot keep

Our noisy little Ephrem still.

(Sweet Ephrem is a little pill.)

And, of course, it does not help

When Adelaide gives a loud yelp,

For Mechi’s come and sat beside

The house she’s made, where she must hide

From Nazi’s which do not exsist –

‘Tis long before, she will insist.

Then Mechi sings and runs about,

While Dietrich sorts his legos out

With lots of noise, to make a boat

Or some such thing that will not float.

So Cloe yells, “Be quiet, all!

“Hans can hear you through the wall.”

Now Augustin plays some modern piece

Upon the piano, and will not cease.

So Hansie wakes and starts to cry,

And Cloe heaves a heavy sigh.

It’s hard to keep a baby quiet

In a house that’s full of riot.

Ah, the days. I wish Hansie a very happy birthday and many more years to come. May he never lose his weirdness. And in closing, I quote the birthday boy:

"If we ever are out in the wild and it started to rain and I had a raincoat and you didn't, I'd be willing to give you my raincoat. It probably wouldn't fit you, but you could hold it over your head."