The Beauty and the Sorrow (14 page)

SUNDAY
, 17
JANUARY
1915
Richard Stumpf is scrubbing the deck of SMS
Helgoland
off Heligoland

A cold, leaden sea. Excited anticipation has subsided into a yawn. Not once have they gone into battle, not once have they seen the enemy. During the naval Battle of Heligoland Bight at the end of August they
heard
the thunder of the guns in the distance but never got the chance to join in. Stumpf describes that as “a black day” for him and the rest of the crew. The closest they have come to combat was when they
heard
the sound of British airships on Christmas Day. Since SMS
Helgoland
was shrouded in fog they were never actually attacked but, further away, one of the airships dropped bombs on a cruiser and a cargo ship and succeeded in starting a fire on one of them. Stumpf’s ship had, however, opened fire at the sound—admittedly, blindly, which made it seem all the more impressive.

It is not that SMS
Helgoland
and the other vessels of the German High Seas Fleet have been keeping out of the way. German naval strategy rests on carefully choosing its encounters with the numerically superior British navy. It is the U-boats that are expected to perform the more everyday function of cutting off supplies to the British Isles and gradually weakening the enemy.
^*
But there have been no big, impressive naval battles, the admirals on both sides being acutely aware that it would be possible for
them to lose this war in an afternoon. In Germany, however, the lack of success at sea had to be padded out with other stories. At the start of the war there were various German light naval squadrons scattered here and there across the oceans of the world, often attached to one or the other of the German colonies. These evasive freebooters very quickly started a sensational game of cat and mouse with the British fleet as it patrolled the seas.
^†
But the High Seas Fleet has so far restricted itself to patrolling its own waters in order to protect the homeland from enemy landings, and just occasionally it has harassed the English North Sea coast with pinprick attacks.
^‡

Every other day since Christmas SMS
Helgoland
has been out on patrol, a wearisome job that usually means the crew gets little sleep. It is also extremely monotonous. Stumpf notes in his journal: “There is nothing happening worth mentioning. If I were to list my activities every day, they would always be the same things.”

This particular day is also filled with routine tasks.

First of all Stumpf and the other sailors scrub the decks, then they polish all the brass fittings until they gleam. Finally, there comes a pedantic check of their uniforms. This last enrages Stumpf. He writes in his journal:

In spite of the fact that because of the general shortage of wool we have been unable to exchange worn-out pieces of kit in the ship’s stores for ages, the divisional officer inspects every wrinkle and every stain on our uniforms.
^§
He dismisses every attempt at explanation with a standard answer: “Poor excuse!” Lord above, this sort of behaviour makes me so sick of the navy. Most of them aren’t bothered any longer. We’re glad that not all officers are like this.

Stumpf keeps his mouth shut during the “odious inspection” but silently wishes that an enemy plane might appear and “drop a bomb on
the fellow’s head.” He comforts himself with the fact that they have the afternoon off.

Then an order arrives: SMS
Helgoland
should make her way back to Wilhelmshaven and go into dry dock. “Bloody Hell!” he writes, “another Sunday ruined.” The war continues to fail to live up to Stumpf’s expectations. The afternoon is wasted with problems in the locks. As dusk falls they give up trying to go any further and tie up for the night.

Sarah Macnaughtan has left her soup kitchen in Belgium and returned to London via Calais. Once there, she has a nervous breakdown. On this day she writes in her diary:

It was difficult, I found, to accommodate myself to small things, and one was amazed to find people still driving serenely in closed broughams. It was like going back to live on earth again after being in rather a horrible other world. I went to my own house and enjoyed the very smell of the place. My little library and an hour or two spent there made my happiest time. Different people asked me to [attend] things, but I wasn’t up to going out, and the weather was amazingly bad.

FRIDAY
, 22
JANUARY
1915
Elfriede Kuhr is visited by a baker’s apprentice in Schneidemühl

It is late. The doorbell rings and Elfriede opens the door. Outside in the frosty winter darkness stands the baker’s apprentice, wearing clogs on his feet and dressed in his white working clothes, which are covered with flour. He holds out a covered basket, which contains freshly baked rolls, still warm from the oven. They usually have fresh bread delivered every morning, so why now? It’s nighttime, isn’t it? The baker’s boy laughs: “No, not any longer, Miss.” He tells her that because of new state restrictions on the use of flour they are no longer allowed to bake at night. Which he is not in the least sad about—now he can sleep at night like a normal human being. He rushes off, shouting back to her: “It’s because of the war!”

Her grandmother thinks this is all for the good—Germans eat too much bread anyway. The newspapers are publishing strict warnings against using grain as animal fodder: “Any individual using corn as animal fodder is committing a sin against the Fatherland and may be punished.” The nutritional pattern of the German people was about to undergo radical transformation: instead of consuming calories via the circuitous route of eating meat, more of them were to be taken in their original, vegetable state. (Eating corn provides four times as many calories as when that corn has to be converted to meat first.) Vegetables, not meat, were to dominate the German dinner table from now on. Three-quarters of the population in this district work on the land, which does not, however, mean that they all live under the same conditions. Small farmers and farm workers have already begun to feel the worsening conditions, whereas the big farmers are doing very well indeed. Elfriede has heard of big farmers who are still feeding corn to their horses and cows in spite of all the bans—you can tell from the plump bodies and bright, shiny coats their animals have.

No, the big farmers and estate owners certainly have not felt the war yet:

For breakfast every morning they eat that wonderful wheaten bread, sometimes with raisins and almonds in it, and on top of that eggs, sausage, cheese, smoked ham, smoked goose, various kinds of preserves and I don’t know what. They can all drink fresh milk whenever they want, they can all have coffee or tea. They even put whole spoonfuls of fruit jelly in their tea.

On this occasion, however, Elfriede’s agitation and envy of the way of life of big farmers contains a touch of bad conscience. She too, in a certain sense, is sinning against the Fatherland: she has a very soft spot for horses and sometimes when she meets one she secretly gives the animal the bread or apple she is supposed to be eating herself. But you do not see as many horses as before the war: all those not directly needed for agriculture have been taken over by the army.

WEDNESDAY
, 3
FEBRUARY
1915
Michel Corday meets a hero in Paris

Yet another lunch. The most illustrious member of the company is undoubtedly Pierre Loti,
^‖
famous author, adventurer, traveller, and member of the Academy; the oddest is a Lieutenant Simon, in civilian life a teacher of French in England and a translator. Translator? Well, Simon has translated
one
book from English to French: it has not exactly achieved any great popularity but, then, it does deal with a German (Goethe). In spite of his weak literary credentials the lieutenant has, however, earned his place in this company. He is a veteran of the Battle of the Marne, where he lost an eye and was wounded in one arm. Outside the window lies a bitterly cold Paris.

A special aura hangs over the Battle of the Marne. Part of the reason is self-evident: this is the point at which the apparently unstoppable German armies were stopped, Paris was saved and the defeat that threatened was averted. (Besides which, the triumph of the Marne also served to veil a truly great disappointment—the failure of the notably costly French offensive into German Lothringen in the opening phase of the war.) But there is another reason. The battlefield is quite simply accessible. War zones are usually hermetically sealed areas to which civilians do not have access and where special permission is needed just to make a telephone call. (Even high-ranking politicians are faced with problems when they want to visit the front, which they are very keen to do since it looks good and gives them the opportunity to dress in peculiar, individual creations in the style of uniforms. On one occasion when Briand visited the front someone took him for the group’s chauffeur.) The places where the Battle of the Marne was fought are, however, open to anyone and are situated within easy reach of Paris. They have consequently become popular destinations for excursions. People go there and pick over the debris of battle that still clutters the battlefield. They collect pickelhaubes, caps, buttons, cartridge cases, shell splinters and shrapnel and take them home as souvenirs. And for those who cannot make the little day-trip for themselves, or cannot be bothered to, there is authentic memorabilia for sale at certain markets—by the basket, freshly picked.

Lieutenant Simon begins to describe his experiences during the battle and to say how he came to be wounded. To his dismay Corday notices that the rest of the people round the table become preoccupied with other things and almost cease listening—the market in heroes and dramatic war stories is already inflationary. He is reminded of an officer who had both his legs amputated and who said, “Yes, at the moment I’m a hero but in a year’s time I’ll be just another cripple.”

It is still impossible to say you desire peace. Anyone who hears a remark of that kind invariably responds with cries of shame: “Disgraceful!” The restaurants are once again full of people.
^a

SATURDAY
, 6
FEBRUARY
1915
William Henry Dawkins is sitting by the Pyramids, writing to his mother

“My dear Mother,” he begins, “unfortunately we have received no mails this week owing to the lack of mailboats.” The post to the Australian troops in Egypt
is
erratic. Three weeks ago he and the others received the letters they had been waiting for since November—176 sacks of them arrived. Before that, nothing; then, too much—some people hardly had time to answer everything; now, again nothing.

Dawkins, however, has received news about how things are at home. He knows they are all well, that his mum has taken the twin girls to the dentist, that the flowers he tried to send to a girl he knows unfortunately did not arrive, that prices have gone up in Australia. As for himself, he is keeping pretty well. But he has begun to be bored by the situation and by Egypt: the interminable exercises are continuing and they have been hit by the first sandstorm of the year. They still do not know what is to happen next, whether they are to stay here in Egypt or to go on to Europe.

The war has slowly crept closer but is still not within sight or hearing. Just a week ago British spotter planes discovered Ottoman units moving through the Sinai desert towards the Suez Canal, and the long-awaited attack took place three days ago. Two battalions of Australian infantry were sent to Ismailia—the place most threatened—as reinforcements and the attack was soon beaten back.
^b
Dawkins and many of his companions are slightly envious of those who marched off to the canal and we can sense a touch of jealous disparagement in his comments to his mother:

There has been a little scrapping down on the canal but you will no doubt get all the news at home and a good bit more too. Thursday was a notable day for us, our first instalments for the defence of the canal left, consisting of the 7th and 8th battalions. William Hamilton
^c
is in the 7th, and also Major McNicholl my old C.O. They were envied very much but I doubt if they are having a very enjoyable time down there as it is fairly monotonous waiting for Turks who apparently are not very good fighting material.

He himself has spent most of his time building, ripping down and transporting pontoon bridges.
^d
Today, however, has been a day off and he and a fellow officer have ridden to the ruins of the ancient city of Memphis. What impresses him most are the two gigantic statues of Rameses II. He writes in his letter: “They were splendidly carved and must have taken many years to complete.” But now it is evening and he is sitting in his tent:

You will have got over the heat of the summer by the time you receive this letter. Things will be getting a little cheaper in
the flour and wheat line after the harvest I should hope. I am feeling fairly tired so will close with Love to all. From Will xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx to the girls.

FRIDAY
, 12
FEBRUARY
1915
Florence Farmborough goes through her travelling wardrobe in Moscow