Seasons in The Somme - I
Unrequited Hiraeath is taking a much-needed sabbatical from provocative articles and hedonistic editorials for the writing project to end all writing projects.
There is some rather exciting news to report…
I am going to write a book about the cemeteries and memorials dedicated to The Battle of The Somme (WWI). This undertaking is most likely going to extend throughout the remainder of 2024, thus precluding time and energy for what is typically presented here, but I will be sharing teasers for each chapter along with links to photographs of my hikes and bike rides to the sites. See below for the first batch.
It will be an honor to share my creative journey with the masochistic followers of this Substack account.
The working title for the effort is Seasons in The Somme, a play-on-words relating to the classic song "Seasons in the Sun” by Terry Jacks (for numerous reasons, that). And, throughout this process, I’m elated to report that I’ll be assisted by the sedulous proofreading of Mike and Amanda Goulet.
A click on the photos or locations for these previews will lead to the corresponding collection of images on my Flickr account.
Dulce et Decorum est?
Jews are buried at the Fricourt German War Cemetery. They fought alongside Christians, atheists, and agnostics for the Fatherland at The Somme and elsewhere; they died from artillery shells, bullets, and infections most of all. Many died from gas attacks. And less than a quarter of a century later, other German Jews who served their country during World War I—those who had survived the trenches and open-field charges at machine gun nests—would also be gassed. These Jewish veterans arrived at the death camps with an Iron Cross or other campaign medals to show Nazi executioners proof of their allegiances to Germany. They thought the evidence of their patriotism would save them. If anything, their murders were expedited by embittered Holocaust functionaries lacking similar degrees of past valor in comparison.
A tour bus of children from the United Kingdom arrives at the site. My intimate relationship with the crater is, after nearly fifteen inseparable minutes alone together, temporarily shattered. I am a selfish trekker and researcher: the surroundings must be pristine without the unintentional, yet still disrespectful laughter of teenagers. There is no desire on my part to share the experience, or the feelings of sanctity about a historical place that I have previously read so much about, with those seemingly less interested. But have I encountered others in the past at these types of locations with far greater knowledge of the pertinent histories than my own? I grudgingly admit this to myself and smile as the amoeboid movement of the group progresses around the crater. It is not for me to have a monopoly on the degrees of interpretation for a particular cemetery or memorial over those of others. The reverence for the atrocities alone should be humbling enough.
There were trenches here. There were men huddled together here, shivering and bleeding and hungry, being led by the doctrine of a previous century’s tactical maneuvers against a modern century’s weaponry. The smell of the fertilizer piles is stifling on my hike; these lush fields were once fertilized by the blood of combatants. Nearby trees are barely older than one-hundred years. On their branches, the nests of birds sit snugly. I hear their playful chirping and imagine, in their absence, the call of whistles to initiate yet another climb over the parapets by the soldiers on both sides. Vultures once flew here to feed on the dead and nibble on the incapacitated. And now, in this tranquility, I ponder the violence and devastation of warfare itself and question its purpose.
The Thiepval Memorial to the Missing
There are over 73,000 names inscribed at Thiepval. They were men of the United Kingdom and South Africa; all killed at The Somme, all without known graves. Buried in plots behind the monument are 300 Commonwealth and 300 French troops. I tried to find my last name on these headstones and the limestone slabs of the structure, but failed. And an odd assortment of emotions followed soon thereafter. The lineage of my clan traces to Kilkenny with several offshoots dispersed throughout Great Britain and elsewhere in the British Empire of the time. Someone from my bloodline, from somewhere, had to have fought and died here. My goosebumps and sense of déjà vu that occur while traversing these roads and fields must emanate from a genetic connection. Yet, I cannot reconcile the balance of being equally disappointed and relieved at not discovering an engraving of my family name at this hallowed site.