OVERVIEW:
LIVING BAYONETS: A Record of the Last Push by Coningsby Dawson is a historical account written in the early 20th century. This book comprises personal letters from Dawson, offering a first-hand perspective on the experiences and insights of a soldier deployed during World War One. It focuses on themes of camaraderie, the harsh realities of war, and reflections on life, love, and duty. The opening of the text introduces the reader to Dawson’s time at the front lines in France, conveying his initial excitement over America's entry into the war and the relief that it brings. He shares intimate reflections on life as a soldier, drawing contrasts between his memories of home and the stark, dangerous conditions he endures in the trenches. Through vivid descriptions of his surroundings, the camaraderie among men, and the powerful emotional connections with loved ones, Dawson paints a picture of both the physical and psychological toll of warfare while illustrating the nobility and courage that can emerge in times of despair.
The following excerpt from LIVING BAYONETS is titled LXIV. FRANCE – July 23, 1918:
LXIV. FRANCE – July 23, 1918
I'm sitting in my “summer house” in the trench. One side is
unwalled and exposed to the weather; a curtain of camouflage stretches over the
front and disguises the fact that I am “in residence.” For the last twenty-four
hours, it's been raining like mad, blowing a hurricane and thundering as though
all the clouds had a sneezing fit at once. You can imagine the state of the
trenches and my own drowned condition when I returned to the battery this
morning from my tour of duty up front. It seems hardly credible that in so
short a time, mud could become so muddy. However, I usually manage to enjoy
myself. Yesterday while at the O.P. I read a ripping book by “Q.” [Arthur Quiller-Couch (1863-1944); prolific British novelist and
poet] was almost—not quite—the Thomas Hardy touch.
It was called The Ship of Stars,
and was published in 1899. Where it fails, when compared with Hardy, is in the
thinness of its story and unreality of its plot. It has all the characters for
a titanic drama, but having created them, “Q.” is afraid to let them be the
brutes they would have been. How many novelists have failed through their
determination to be quite gentlemanly, when merely to have been men would have
made them famous! If ever I have a chance again, I shall depict men as I have
seen them out here—animals, capable of animal lusts, who have angels living in
their hearts.
Today has the complete autumn touch; we begin to think of the
coming winter with its drenched and sullen melancholy—its days and nights of
chill and damp, telescoping one into another in a grey monotony of grimness.
Each summer, the troops have told themselves, “We have spent our last winter in
France,” but always and always there has been another.
Yet rain and mud and melancholy have their romance—they lend a
blurred appearance of timelessness to a landscape and to life itself. A few
nights ago, I was forward observing for a raid which we put on. The usual panic
of flares went up as the enemy became aware that our chaps were through his
wire. Then machine guns started ticking like ten thousand lunatic clocks and all
of a sudden, the S.O.S. barrage came down. One watched and waited, sending back
orders and messages, trying to judge by signs how affairs were going. Gradually
the clamor died away, and night became as silent and dark as ever. One waited
anxiously for definite word; had our chaps gained what they were after, or had
they walked into a baited trap?
Two hours elapsed. Then, through the loneliness one heard the
lagging tramp of tired men, which came nearer and drew level. You saw them
snowed on by the waning moon as they passed. You saw their rounded shoulders
and the fatness of their heads—you knew that they were German prisoners.
Limping in the rear, one arm flung about a comrade's neck, came our wounded. Toward
dawn, the dead went by, lying on their stretchers with an air of complete rest.
It was like a Greek procession, frescoed on the mournful streak of vagueness
which divides eternal darkness from the land of living men. Just so, patiently
and uncomplainingly, has the world since Adam followed its appointed fate into
the fold of the unknown. We climb the hill and are lost to sight in the dawn.
There's majesty in our departure after so much puny violence.
And God—He says nothing, though we all pray to Him. He alone among
monarchs has taken no sides in this war. I like to think that the Union Jack
waves above His palace and that His angels are dressed in khaki—which is quite
absurd. I think of the irresistible British Tommies who have “gone west,” as
whistling “Tipperary” in the streets of the New Jerusalem. They have haloes around
their steel helmets and they've thrown away their gas masks. But God gives me
no license for such imaginings, for He hasn't said a word since the first
cannon boomed. In some moods, one gets the idea that He's contemptuous; in
others, that He takes no sides because His children are on both sides of No
Man's Land. But in the darkest moments, we know beyond dispute that it is His
hands that make our hands strong and His heart that makes our hearts
compassionate to endure. I have tried to inflame my heart with hatred, but I
cannot. Hunnishness I would give my life to exterminate, but for the individual
German, I am sorry—sorry as for a murderer who has to be executed. I am
determined, however, that he shall be executed. They are all apologists for the
crimes that have been committed; the civilians, who have not actually murdered,
are guilty of thieving life to the extent of having received and applauded the
stolen goods.
We had a heated discussion today as to when the war would end; we
were all of the opinion, “Not soon. Not in less than two years, anyway. After
that, it will take another twelve months to ship us home.” I believe that, and
yet I hope. Along all the roads of France, in all the trenches, in every gun pit
you can hear one song being sung by poilus and Tommies. They sing it while they
load their guns, they whistle it as they march up the line, and they hum it
while they munch their bully beef and hardtack. You hear it on the regimental
bands and grinding out from gramophones in hidden dugouts:
Over there. Over there.
Send the word, send the word over there,
That the Yanks are coming—
Men repeat that ragtime promise as though it were a prayer, “The
Yanks are coming.” We could have won without the Yanks—we're sure of that.
Still, we're glad they're coming and we walk jauntily. We may die before the
promise is sufficiently fulfilled to tell. What does that matter? The Yanks are
coming. We shall not have died in vain. They will reap the peace for the world
which our blood has sown.
Tonight you are in that high mountain place. It's three in the
afternoon with you. I wish I could project myself across the world and stand
beside you. Life is running away and there is so much to do besides killing
people. But all those things, however splendid they were in achievement, would
be shameful in the attempting until the war has ended.
You can find the complete eBook edition of LIVING BAYONETS by Coningsby Dawson at: https://tinyurl.com/mr2cabwh
Complete World War One works of author Cotter Bass and Moonshadow Publishing: https://tinyurl.com/4v68wcy8
Next time: FLYING FOR FRANCE by James R. McConnell . . . . .
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