1917...

I went along to the Watershed again yesterday to see Sam Mendes’ much-acclaimed film ‘1917’. It’s a WW1 drama based on the real-life experiences of Mendes’ grandfather Alfred. It follows two young soldiers Schofield (played by the impressive George MacKay) and Blake (equally impressive Dean-Charles Chapman) as they undertake a perilous mission in a race against time to deliver a warning message to save another regiment from a German ambush. Among the 1,600 men whose lives are at risk is Blake’s own brother…

It’s an incredibly powerful film – made all the more so by cinematographer Roger Deakins’ presentation as a ‘one take shot’ in real time (Schofield is never out of the frame).

The film underlines the futility and horror of war – with soldiers on both sides mere pawns responding to orders given by Generals who are positioned well back from immediate danger. 
The ‘one shot take’ emphasises the stark reality of what it was like to be a soldier on the front line… and the randomness and luck involved in survival (Blake had been given his orders to convey the important message and told to take a ‘mate’ with him).

The film underlines the dreadfulness of conflict… as Schofield and Blake make their way across no-man’s land, they have to contend with rats, bodies (in various states of decay), craters left by bombs and large shells, mud, noise, imminent danger and the fear of the unknown.

An important, hugely-impressive, memorable and sobering film.

I think you need to see it.

PS: It was also sobering to recall that my grandfather, Frank Walker, was probably positioned within 30 miles of Schofield+Blake’s frightening ‘escapade’. I wrote a blog about Frank’s war (he was one of the original members of the British Expeditionary Force that arrived at le Havre, France, at the very start of the war) – tracking his day-to-day movements from his unit’s war diaries now located in the National Archives. Sadly, the diaries from 1917-18 are understood to have been destroyed in a fire in London.  

frantz...

I went along to the Watershed this afternoon to see Francois Ozon’s “sumptuous period piece set in the aftermath of WW1, where a young woman forms an unlikely bond with a man she encounters at her late fiancé’s grave” (as the Watershed’s blurb puts it).
In a small German town after the end of the war, Anna (beautifully played by the beautiful Paula Beer) mourns daily at the grave of her fiancé, who was killed in battle. One day a mysterious young Frenchman Adrien (again, very well played by Pierre Niney) also lays flowers on the grave… and the pair embark on a friendship – in which Anna finds some solace in memories of her beloved.
That’s all I’m saying… you need to see the film!
This largely black-and-white film is apparently a loose adaptation of the 1932 Ernst Lubitsch drama Broken Lullaby, which was in turn based on a play by French playwright Maurice Rostand – although Ozon has written his own new second half of the story.
The film is part-romance, part anti-war and highlights the struggles, sufferings and reactions of people from both sides (in this case, German and French). The film also highlights the rise of nationalism in Germany immediately after the first world war – a theme which has been echoed recently with a rise of nationalism in Europe generally (eg. Marine Le Pen’s far-right party gaining popular support in France; UKIP’s voice in the depressing Brexit vote… and some politicians calling for a return to borders).
It’s a powerful film about remembrance, love… and the pain (some would say ‘futility’) of war.
I very much enjoyed it (and was completely captivated by Paula Beer’s portrayal of Anna!).
PS: My enjoyment of the film was somewhat marred by the two loud-mouthed, elderly (my age!), ‘posh’ ladies sitting immediately behind me - who insisted on commenting on what was happening on screen in ‘stage whispers’ throughout the film – DESPITE me twice turning round and giving them my ‘look’!!

letter to an unknown soldier...

This is what the 1418-Now website says: “On Platform One of Paddington Station in London, there is a statue of an unknown soldier; he’s reading a letter. On the hundredth anniversary of the declaration of war… we’re inviting everyone in the country to pause, take a moment or two, and write that letter. All the letters the soldier receives will be published here, creating a new kind of war memorial – one made only of words”.

The website remains open until 11pm on 4 August – the centenary of the moment when Prime Minister Asquith announced to the House of Commons that Britain had joined the First World War.

This was my brief offering:

“I rather envy you… you reading that letter from a loved one.
My grandfather Frank, aged 17, was a member of the 8^th Brigade Royal Field Artillery and entered the Theatre of War in France/Belgium on 19 August 1914. He was one of the “lucky” ones, he survived. His service war record indicates that he spent a total of 4 years 221 days in France (until April 1919). He never really spoke to us about the war – although it seems that he was on the receiving end of the first German chlorine gas attack at Ypres and, amazingly, also bumped into one of his brothers there too!  
Through access to War Diaries at The National Archives, I’ve managed to follow his Brigade’s “progress” through the war (although sections from 1917/1918 remain incomplete).
What we have NOT got are any of the letters he wrote during the course of the war or any he received from his family and friends… they must have provided some crucial scraps of comfort to all concerned at a time of huge uncertainty and fear.
Frank survived, which, of course, meant that my mother was born… and me, and my three daughters, and my six grandchildren…
Did you survive?
A hundred years on and we try to remember those didn’t.
For me, these are just names (or represent vague thoughts about the futility of war) but, for many, they were and are much more than that”.
Photo: the statue of the unknown soldier on platform 1 at Paddington Station.
PS:  at the time of this posting, the website says the soldier has received 19,167 letters.

war graves… yes, war graves

I’ve just finished reading a book about war graves of WW1.

It was brilliant.
Yes, I know what you’re thinking: “sad café man hits all time low in his quest to find new interests”.
Actually, you’d be SO wrong!
In this centenary year since the start of WW1, I’d already done a fair amount of research into my grandfather’s war experiences and so this book provided wonderful, fresh insights into the devastated and grief-stricken world of that time.
My grandfather Frank Walker was just 17 when joined the King’s Royal Rifle Corps in April 1914 (the minimum qualifying age was 19). He transferred to the Royal Field Artillery on 1 July and entered the “Theatre of War” in France/Belgium on 19 August as one of the first members of the British Expeditionary Force (BEF) – just a fortnight after Britain had declared war on Germany.
He survived.
The book (“Empires of the Dead” by David Crane) tells the extraordinary (and forgotten) story behind the building of the British+Commonwealth war cemeteries – largely due to the efforts of one visionary, 44 year-old, volunteer ambulance commander called Fabian Ware. He had been horrified by the ignominious treatment of the dead in 1914 and began to record the identity and position of each grave.
He was born in Clifton, Bristol (there’s a coincidence!). He was “a social radical in conservative clothing”; for five turbulent years he’d been the “erratically brilliant, ‘warmongering’ editor of the right-wing, imperialist Morning Post”.
I’m not so sure I’d have liked him (mild understatement)!
From arbitrary and adhoc (and purely voluntary) beginnings, Ware was able to become a driving force in the origins of the Imperial War Graves Commission. I have to admit that, whilst I’ve always been impressed and rather humbled by the images of immaculately-kept war cemeteries, I hadn’t actually given any thought to how they came about. But then you (suddenly, in my case) realise that, of course, there were thousands of soldiers dying and someone had to organise things in a proper and appropriate manner (in the event, there were over 580,000 British dead and the Commission had more than 23,000 burial sites under its control!).
Ware was a truly remarkable man. The book describes him thus: “For a fierce idealist and visionary, he was an unusually skilled politician; for a born autocrat, he was a smooth performer in committees… and a natural leader”.
Although I’ve seen a number of war memorials (in this country), I’ve never visited any of the numerous cemeteries in France and/or Belgium. After reading this book, I feel I need to do just that.
It’s hard to think of more potent advocates of peace and futility of war than the existence of the hundreds of thousands of massed graves of those who didn’t survive.
The author, Davis Crane, is an eloquent and very gifted writer (and passionate about the subject) and, at times, I found the story incredibly moving. The book contains some parliamentary extracts of the time (when politicians were arguing about policies for burying the war dead) and from various letters written by soldiers or grieving parents/wives.
I’ll end with this powerful extract from a letter sent home by soldier Roland Leighton, Vera Brittain’s fiancé:
“Let him who thinks War is a glorious, golden thing, who loves to roll forth stirring words of exhortation, invoking Honour and Praise and Valour and Love of Country with as thoughtless and fervid faith as inspired the priest of Baal to call on their own slumbering deity, let him but look at a little pile of sodden grey rags that cover half a skull and a shin bone and what might have been his ribs, or at this skeleton lying on its side, resting, half crouching, as it fell, perfect but that it is headless… and let him think how grand and glorious a thing it is to have distilled all Youth and Joy and Life into foetid heap of hideous putrescence”.
Roland Leighton, himself, was dead by Christmas 1914.
Photo: Tyne Cot Cemetery, Ypres

11 november 1918

Ninety years ago today, as war ended, my grandfather Frank was on leave in the UK. He was only granted three brief periods of leave during the course of The Great War – from the time of his arrival at Le Havre on 19 August 1914 to the end of the conflict in 1918. The last of these began on 6 November when he was allowed back to the UK via Boulogne for 14 days leave. It must have been somewhat unreal for him to hear the news when he was away from his wartime colleagues, just after he’d arrive back at home. I suspect he might have had a couple of beers to celebrate perhaps?
I’ve just been updating the “Tracking Frank” blog (now virtually complete up until the end of 1916) based on the information I’ve compiled at the National Archives. The war diaries include map links that I've created (thanks to those clever people at Google!) showing his movements for each year of WW1.
Photo: very poor photograph of Frank, taken in 1972.