3,500,000 GERMAN CASUALTIES

The German casualties, exclusive of corrections, reported but not necessarily incurred, are:

	Sept.	Total since Aug. 1914
Killed and died of wounds	30,306	817,560
Died, sickness	1,976	52,622
Prisoners	1,839	178,862
Missing	30,420	249,967
Severely wounded	25,786	478,854
Wounded	6,482	280,880
Slightly wounded	69,804	1,318,834
Wounded remaining with units	13,271	178,439
	179,884	3,556,018

The above figures are not an estimate by British authorities, but the casualties announced in German official lists.

Missing

Oh, who can measure the lonely nights or the long and dreary days,

The weary wait, and the hope deferred that the sight of that word conveys,

How eager you read each printed page, and list for Postie’s ring,

For something to ease the aching heart, in tidings that he may bring.

Perhaps he is lying too ill to write, or letters have gone astray,

There are so many things can happen now; your reason from day to day.

What words can comfort the lonely heart as the days and weeks go by,

And life is dark with a nameless dread and courage and hope must die.

Oh the lonely ones who sit and wait for the tidings that never come,

Though the tearful eyes the sorrows speak, yet the trembling lips are dumb.

And each one must their burden bear while the river of life doth flow,

But the aching void in a broken heart there’s no one but God can know.

Beth

Not Long Ago

Good-bye!—and off he strides, six foot of straight

Young English manhood!  Passing thru the gate,

Looks back; then with a smile and a salute,

He’s gone—and we stand watching.  And we see

A little figure in a sailor suit

With fat bare knee and shy little smile,

The “Little Laddie” of so short a while

Ago, twisting the elastic of his wide straw hat

(The one with the blue ribbons, you remember?)

With a hairy cardboard donkey, now pressed flat

Under his arm, his best-beloved toy.

Broken and worn, but never out of sight,

Played with by day and hugged in bed at night—

This is the little fellow who has grown

And gone—not now to school to play

His schoolboy games, and fight

In schoolboy fights—but gone today

To join in the terrific game the nations play—

This little fellow of not so long ago.

            - V. M. Doudney

Lad of My Heart

Lad of my Heart—for you I am lonely,

And drear are the hills tho they say they are green.

‘Tis a sad lass I am with loving you only,

Will you never come back to your Irish colleen?

Lad of my Heart—that day I remember,

When out of the town with the soldiers away,

You marched to the war in the early September,

And left me to fight, while I left you to pray.

Lad of my Heart—do you hear my love calling?

You that’s been gone this many a day.

Lad of my love—do you see my tears falling?

Waiting for you in the dusk of the May.

Lad of my Heart—I have your last letter,

Ever I’ll keep it held close to my breast;

For the pain deep within it seems to make better,

And the stain that’s upon it my lips oft have pressed.

Lad of my Heart—I still hear you speaking,

“Molly Aroon, shure now try to be brave.”

And fondly, with love, your lips mine were seeking,

Lad of my Heart, Oh where is your grave?

Somewhere in France—lad of mine, you are lying

And never again will we tryst on the sod;

But we’ll meet in the dawn, where there’s no more of sighing,

Lad of my Heart, for I know you’re with God.

-       T. A. Browne[1]

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[1] Born in London in 1826, Thomas Alexander Browne was raised in Sydney, Australia. His father, an East India Company ship captain, settled his family there after delivering a load of convicts. Thomas attended Sydney College, traveled, and became a gentleman. He spent 25 years as a squatter, and about the same amount of time as a government official—including police magistrate, goldfields commissioner, and justice of the peace—but during all this time he also wrote. His mother, he maintained, was his first and most influential critic. Thomas often used the pen-name Rolf Boldrewood. In 1888 he produced his most popular work, the novel Robbery under Arms. He died in 1915, so the above poem, obviously dealing with the Great War, may have been one of his last.  (Source: Wikipedia)

With the Allies to Berlin

(These verses have been sent from the firing line by Sergt. Woollard,[1] of the 10^th Essex Regiment[2].)

On the road in stricken Flanders 

There’s a place that’s vacant still;

There’s a rifle lying silent,

There’s a uniform to fill.

Those at home will hate to lose you,

But the march will soon begin—

On the roads through stricken Belgium

With “The Essex” to Berlin.

In your home securely resting,

Are you there content to stay

While the others guard your honor,

While the Germans toast “The Day”!

For your King and Country need you,

And we want to count you in—

On the roads through stricken Belgium

With the Allies to Berlin.

In the lonely wayside graveyards

Sleep the boys whose day is done;

Don’t you hear their voices calling,

To complete the work begun?

There are ghostly fingers beckoning,

There are victories yet to win—

On the roads through stricken Belgium

With the Allies to Berlin.

When from Mons they fought each footstep,

When their lips with pain were dumb,

‘Twas their hope which held the trenches,

Always thinking you would come;

Thro’ the frozen hell of winter,

Thro’ the shrapnel’s racking din—

They have waited, never doubting

That you’d join them to Berlin.

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[1] Flight Sergeant T. J. Woollard, from Blackmore, Essex, England was an aviator.  He survived the war, and won the British Distinguished Service Medal.  (Source: Blackmore Area Local History - blackmorehistory.blogspot.com)

[2] The 10^th Essex never did make it to Berlin, but it did serve valiantly “on the roads of stricken Belgium” and in France.  The group distinguished itself in the battles of the Somme (1916 & 1918); Arras (’17 & ’18); Cambrai (’17 & ’18); and Ypres (’17).  (Source: History of the Essex Regiment - ancestry.com/)

Dark Days

Yes, I know the sun is shining

Far behind the clouds so grey,

But I cannot see a corner

To let out a single ray.

How can you expect contentment

From us mortals here below,

If we’re living in the shadows

When we need the sunlight so?

If you had a dearly loved one

Living far across the main,

And your heart was always aching

Just to see them once again.

Would it ease the weary longing

Would your heart be satisfied;

If between you and your dearest,

Rolled a never ending tide.

Or if you of thirst were dying

Out upon a desert drear,

And you thought you heard the music

Of a brooklet singing near.

Would it ease the dreadful longing

Would it help your thirst allay,

If the brook so sweetly singing

Were a thousand miles away.

Yes, a pessimist you’ll call me,

And I don’t deny you’re right,

But I cannot bask in sunshine

When it’s hidden out of sight

Beth

Requiem

[The writer of these striking lines is a girl of fifteen, who has recently lost her father and brother at the front.]

Bugle, wind out they solemn note of warning,

Salute the glorious dead, returned to clay and dust.

Bells, echo back the woeful sound of mourning,

Wail the last requiem on the wintry gust.

Wind, waft the story of their gallant fight

Back to the land they’ll never visit more

And in the gentle stillness of the night

Comfort the stricken hearts who wait upon the shore.

Rain, wash away the bloodstains from the brave,

Sink thru the soil, and make it fresh and sweet.

Sun, let thy beams chase shadows from their grave.

Guide them to heaven, their just reward to meet.

Flowers, sow thy seeds amid the blades of grass,

Bear on the breeze the herald scent of spring;

Moon, strive thine earlier beauty to surpass;

Birds, cheer their last long rest with your glad caroling.

Earth, receive them in thy last embrace,

For all thy children must return to thee.

They are the noblest of our island race;

In thy protecting arms their rest must be!

God, Who didst make them, bring them to their home,

Where no grim battle mars Thy perfect peace.

Grant them for ever in that peace to roam,

Where from all turmoil they may find release.

E. J. P.

The Vision

A little lane ‘twixt sun and shade

Where dancing shadows “catch me” play;

A little primrose-covered glade,

A little seat beside the way;

A little hand laid soft in mine

Through silence far too sweet for words

A little sigh of peace divine,

And tender songs of mating birds.

A little lull ‘mid shell and steel,

A memory of love and pain.

My heart that clinging hand can feel,

My feet run down that little lane.

-       Ella E. Walters[1]

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[1] Little can be found about Ellen E. Walters. In addition to the above, she wrote the lyrics for the song Three Angels, published in England in 1925, with music by Mabel Down.  (Source: Music Australia - musicaustralia.org) 

Our Prayer

God save our men at arms.

Shield them ‘mid war’s alarms.

God save our men.

Strong may they stand in Thee

Valiant for Liberty

Crown them with Victory,

God save our men.

One Sabbath Evening

The sun is slowly sinking

In the rosy tinted west,

And a quiet peace is stealing

On the blessed day of rest.

I hear the church bells ringing

Their music fills the air,

And footsteps slowly wending

To the holy place of prayer

And my truant thoughts go wandering

To a scene across the sea

Where there are no church bells ringing,

And no time to bend the knee,

There amid the awful carnage

See the hated foe advance,

Where our boys are nobly fighting

Far away somewhere in France.

Does a thought of quiet Sabbath

O’er them cast a magic spell?

Can they hear the church bells ringing

‘Mid the scream of shot and shell?

Ah, no sound like that can reach them

On that plain so far away

But they have this thought to cheer them

We at home will work and pray.

-       Beth

Just as the Sun Went Down

(A Different Version)

Noting the words of the Boer War song of this title which appeared in a recent issue, a western reader forwards another version of the song, reading as below.  The same mail brought an enquiry for this very version from a correspondent in Bermuda:

After the din of the battle’s roar,

Just at the close of day,

Wounded and bleeding upon the field

Two dying soldiers lay.

One held a ringlet of thin grey hair

One held a lock of brown,

Bidding each other a last farewell,

Just as the sun went down.

Chorus

One thought of mother at home alone,

Feeble and old and grey,

One of a sweetheart he had left in town,

Happy and young and gay;

One kissed the ringlet of thin grey hair,

One kissed the lock of brown

Bidding farewell to the dear old flag,

Just as the sun went down.

One knew the joy of a mother’s love,

One of a sweetheart fair;

Thinking of home they lay side by side,

Breathing a farewell prayer—

One for his mother so old and grey,

One for the love in town;

They closed their eyes to the earth and skies,

Just as the sun went down.

Chorus

These were the words from a comrade’s lips,

One who survived the fight,

Sweetheart and mother were listening there—

Oh, what a pitiful sight!

Two hearts nigh broken, two noble lives lost,

Fighting defending the Crown,

Yet they were proud of the heroes who died

Just as the sun went down.

Chorus

Get Beyond the War

When thinking of the war, if we simply think of the horror, bloodshed, and the loss of relatives we shall naturally become depressed.  We have got to get beyond the war and see what is behind it.  I believe with my whole heart that a victory, unless we are faithless, is absolutely certain, because I believe in the eternity of God and His resources.

-       The Bishop of London[1]

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[1] Arthur Foley Winnington Ingram (1858-1946), English divine, was born in Worcestershire, and educated at Marlborough College and Keble College, Oxford. His first curacy was at St. Mary’s, Shrewsbury, in 1884; in 1885 he became private chaplain to the Bishop of Lichfield and in 1889 head of the Oxford House, Bethnal Green, where he gained much popularity owing to his devoted work among the East End poor. In 1897 he was appointed suffragan bishop of Stepney, which carried with it a canonry in St. Paul’s.

In 1901, after the death of Dr. Mandell Creighton, Arthur was nominated by the Crown to the see of London. The appointment, which had hitherto been reserved for ecclesiastics of marked ability as scholars or administrators, excited much comment; but it was undoubtedly popular, and this popularity was confirmed when it was realized that the bishop intended to carry on in his new sphere the democratic traditions of his East End activities. As a preacher he proved very successful with simple people, and during the World War he threw himself into the work of providing religious instruction for the fighting men, visiting both the French front and the Grand Fleet.

Early in the War, particularly in the wake of Germany’s wanton destruction of Belgium, the Bishop delivered sermons calling for the annihilation of Germany and its people.  Church leadership felt he was too extreme, and apparently counseled with him. In June 1917 he presided over a funeral for 16 infants killed in a German bombing raid. His comments were much more reserved: “We must be careful that indignation drives us to right action,” and that he did not believe that the mourners would wish that 16 German babies should lie dead to avenge their loss. The above words on “getting beyond the war” seem to spring from the changed attitude he exhibited in 1917. This may be a hint regarding the timeline of Clare’s book. Perhaps by now, she was 15 years old.

Aftermath

(By Harold Begble,[1] in the Observer, London.)

...unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.

The hand of God is holden,

The lips of God are still;

Freely His creature chooses

To cherish or to kill;

And you laugh as the altar crashes,

And the wine of the cup is spilt,

And you shout that your sword shall answer

To a pagan god for your guilt;

But when this night is ended,

But when new days begin,

Bitterly shall your children

Pay for their fathers’ sin.

The wrath of many nations

Shall drive you to your place,

Man’s soul is risen against you,

Man’s judgment you shall face—

When the blood has dried in the valley,

And the guns come down from the hill,

And the armies melt in the vineyards,

And the harvest goes to the mill,

Then, when the men are sowing,

Then, when the women spin,

Bitterly shall your children

Pay for their fathers’ sin.

The gates of life shall open,

The feast of love be spread,

Joy shall come in with music,

Bringing earth’s wine and bread;

And the nations shall draw together,

And the peoples shall be as one,

But you shall come in unwelcomed

And you shall sit down by none.

Slowly man’s heart shall open

His doors to let you in;

Bitterly shall your children

Pay for their fathers’ sin.

The eyes of all shall mark you,

Lips as you pass be dumb,

Into the path you follow

No other guest shall come;

You shall sit at the feast unfriended,

You shall go from the house unstayed,

You shall be on the earth a stranger

Till the debt that you owe is paid.

Hardly to man’s forgiveness

Shall Belgium’s slayer win,

Bitterly shall your children

Curse for their fathers’ sin.

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[1] Edward Harold Begbie (the above selection misspells his surname) lived from 1871 to 1929.  He was an English author and journalist who published nearly 50 books, poems and contributed to periodicals. At first Begbie took up farming, but later moved to London and joined the Daily Chronicle and later the Globe. He wrote books of popular verse, and much literature for children. At the outbreak of World War I he wrote a number of recruiting poems and visited America on behalf of his paper. Some of the articles he wrote there were used as propaganda.

By 1916, dismayed by the attacks being made on Lord Haldane by L.J. Maxse in the National Review, he began to question the Government’s domestic policy. In 1917, he publicly defended the rights of Pacifists and Conscientious Objectors to oppose the War. He later wrote his best known work under the pseudonym of “A Gentleman with a Duster,” in which various anomalies and injustices were exposed. Among his other works, the best known were Broken Earthware, Other Sheep, In the Hands of the Potter, and his Life of General Booth.  (Source: The Modern World Encyclopedia, 1935)

Soldiers Immortal

(By Daphne de Waal[1], in ‘Notes on the War,’ Harrow.)

These are not dead, though they have seen Death’s eyes,

And seen them unafraid.  These are not dead,

Although they wear no more the earthly guise,

Although they walk no more beneath the skies,

And their last words are said.

Their lives would be imperiled if they went,

Their honor was imperiled if they stayed!

For every hour in idle pleasure spent

Was one more weapon to the foeman lent,

One onward march delayed.

They took their lives then in both hands, and gave

Gladly, without regretting, without dread;

They faced war, agony—even the grave—

With quiet, making no attempt to save

Life, or the blood they shed.

They, young and honorable, ‘played the game,’

Following calmly where their leaders led.

Those who stay now have lost all sense of shame

If they can hear unmoved the honored name

That these abroad have spread.

They are not dead.  Their memories will tell

Throughout all time, wherever men shall tread,

That bravery finds fear intolerable—

That they live on for ever who die well!

These died, yet are not dead.

            The Cape, South Africa

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[1] Daphne de Waal was apparently a South African poet, but history has left little information about her.  In 1917 she published a 63-page collection titled Soldiers Immortal and Other Poems in South Africa.  This helps us with the timeline of Clare’s book; she must be at least 15 at this point.

The Service Flag

Little flag in the window there,

Hung with a tear and a woman’s prayer,

Telling of men who have gone to the war,

O what a wonderful flag you are!

Blue is your leaf on its field of white,

Dipped in the red which was born to fight,

Born or the blood that our forbears shed

To raise the Ensign, the flag o’erhead.

And now you have come to this frenzied day

To speak from a window, to speak and say;

“I am the voice of a soldier son,

Gone to be gone till the victory’s won.

“I am the flag of service, Sir.

The flag of his mother—I speak for her

Who stands by my window and waits and fears,

But hides from others her unwept tears.

Little flag in the window there,

Hung with a tear and a woman’s prayer,

Telling of men who have gone to the wars,

O, what a wonderful flag you are![1]

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[1] The “Sons in Service” flag was used in the United States during World War I and World War II. Each family was entitled to hang a small Son in Service flag in their window. The blue star in the center of the red-bordered white rectangle signified a family member in active service. The star was replaced (or covered) with a gold star (in practice, yellow or dark yellow) if the family member died in action. (Hence the name of the organization “Gold Star Mothers” of women who had lost sons in the war.)

Sons in Service flags made and used by families usually were no larger than about one foot long. They were always hung vertically, a stick being sewn into the top heading of the flag and a piece of string attached to both ends of the stick - the string suspended at its midpoint from a hook or some other feature of a front window of the home. If a family had a husband and a son, or multiple family members in the service of their country, then additional blue stars were set into the white rectangle. (Source: “Flags of the World” website)

When the Lads Come Back

When once again the dove of peace

Has spread her wings throughout the world,

And gallant lads come marching home,

With flags of victory all unfurled.

How many an eye will dim with tears

And heart will ache with pain,

For those who proudly marched away,

But came not back again.

With aching hearts we watched them go,

To answer to their country’s call,

To fight for honor, truth and right,

And gladly give their life—their all.

But in our hearts there was a hope,

That triumphed over fear and pain;

When war’s grim spectre staked away,

God will bring back our lads again.

‘Tis not for us to doubt his love,

Although we do not understand

The rugged path we have to tread,

Or see the working of His hand.

But this we know that free from pain

And sheltered by His tender love,

Away from sorrow, care and strife,

Our dear ones wait for us above.

And ever in our heart of hearts,

Their cherished memory we will keep,

And laugh with those who joyous are,

But weep with those who weep.

-       Beth