Myth and Reality

A common factor in accounts of experiences of during World War 1 is that the men who returned never talked about what happened, to either their wives or their families. Most remained silent for the rest of their lives.

One reason for their silence was that their experience did not fit with the public narrative that prevailed at the time.

The government had promised that the war would be short and the victory quick and easy. The British Empire would put those cheeky Germans back in their place by Christmas.

The war against the Ottoman Turks would be easier still. The primitive Turkish heathen peasants would have no show against the sophistication of the British Empire. The men who volunteered to fight were promised a great adventure. They would come back as heroes, having assured the victory of empire and civilisation.

Unfortunately, reality did not match the rhetoric. The British Empire was soon bogged down in France, and the Gallipoli invasion was a disaster from the first day. The population back in New Zealand was shocked at the number of their sons being killed, injured and maimed.

Up against this raw reality of death and defeat, the public narrative had to change. The men who died were turned into heroes. They had sacrificed their lives for empire and for God. Dying for your country was the most noble thing that any young men could do. Those who gave their lives were following the example of Christ and dying for their friends.

This new narrative sustained the war effort and persuaded the people to keep sending their sons to serve and die in the war. By the end of the war, the casualties were so terrible that the narrative of sacrifice essential to justify it. The sacrifices were worth it, because the men died for their country.

The problem for the men returning home was that their experience did not match with the public narrative. Some of those who died were heroes, but many were not. Some died through stupidity, of their officers, or their own mistakes. Some of those who returned survived, because they found a way of keeping out of danger. Other had survived, because they had pushed their bayonets in their attackers, before they got them. Killing another men in hand-to-hand did not feel like sacrifice.

Like any other group of young men, they were a mixture of personalities, character and motivation. Some of their officers were thoughtful and caring, but many were callous and cruel, taking advantage of weakness and looking after their mates. Many of the survivors had seen men sent on futile sorties that they knew would fail before they started. Many knew that some of the men who died only went over the top, because they were afraid of being accused of cowardice, or before shot for treason if they refused to obey orders.

The young men thrust into war, found themselves living in hell on earth. Some lost their minds and fell apart. Many wished that they had never volunteered, and long to be home. Some injured themselves deliberately, so they could be evacuated. A few realised that they were invading a country where they had no right to be.

When they returned home, the men could not talk about what had happened, because they official narrative comforted the mothers who had lost their sons. They did not want to cause these mothers and families further pain, so they went along with the public narrative, and remained silent. Some accepted the narrative, as a way of coping with what had happened to them.

As time went on, the public myth of glory and sacrifice grew stronger and stronger, and is still the dominant narrative.

However, the men who fought in the First World War chose to remain silent, so their descendants do not respect their loss of lives, by talking up what they did. We should respect their silence, and remain silent too.

Anzac Day

I do not like war. I hate the terrible death and suffering. I also dislike the political propaganda that tries to turn something dreadful and awful into something to be celebrated. I particularly dislike the way that the media try to make war appear to be noble and good.

Yesterday was ANZAC day. 25 April 1915 was the first day of the Gallipoli campaign at the beginning of the First World War. I dislike the way that this day been captured by the military, and has changed from a day of grieving for lost family and friends into a celebration of the glories of war. Truth suffers in the process. Nothing is said about the folly of war. The disasters and evils that always accompany it are masqueraded as heroism and sacrifice.

Most wars are stupid, but the first World War was particularly stupid. It started when an Austrian archduke was shot by a Serbian in Sarajevo. Most Europeans could not tell an archduke from an archdeacon and no one cared about the Serbs or Sarajevo, but their political leaders decided they would have a jolly good old war anyway.

The politicians and kings started a stupid war and millions of ordinary young men paid full price for it. When the war finally ground to a halt five years later, nothing had been achieved, but 20 million people had died and another 20 million carried serious injuries.

The politicians and leaders never apologized for their mistake. Instead they turned the dead and injured into heroes. This distracted attention from their stupid decisions and made people feel better about an event that was really a terrible disaster. Calling the soldiers heroes makes it seem that what they had done was worthwhile.

The Gallipoli campaign was one of those stupid battles thought up by a politician in London that was never going to work in practice. The Australian and New Zealand troops ended up on stuck on a narrow beach in Turkey. The Turkish soldiers at the top of the cliffs were armed with machine guns and fighting to defend their homes and families. They were defending their own country, so they were never going to lose.

Several months later, the Australian and New Zealand troops withdrew having achieved nothing for a terrible price. One hundred thousand people were dead and another two hundred thousand were injured. The most embarrassing aspect of the fiasco was that white Christian people were supposed to be superior to the Turkish Moslems.

Gallipoli Heroes

I do not like war. I hate the terrible death and suffering. I also dislike the political propaganda that tries to turn something dreadful and awful into something to be celebrated. I particularly dislike the way that the media try to make war appear to be noble and good.

25 April was the first day of the Gallipoli campaign at the beginning of the First World War.

Most wars are stupid, but the first World War was particularly stupid. It started when an Austrian archduke was shot by a Serbian in Sarajevo. Most Europeans could not tell an archduke from an archdeacon and no one cared about the Serbs or Sarajevo, but their political leaders decided they would have a jolly good old war anyway.

The politicians and kings started a stupid war and millions of ordinary young men paid full price for it. When the war finally ground to a halt five years later, nothing had been achieved, but 20 million people had died and another 20 million carried serious injuries.

The politicians and leaders never apologized for their mistake. Instead they turned the dead and injured into heroes. This distracted attention from their stupid decisions and made people feel better about an event that was really a terrible disaster. Calling the soldiers heroes makes it seem that what they had done was worth while.

I suppose that some were heroes, but the line between heroism and stupidity is a fine one. I presume that others were cowards, and others just kept their head down and avoided trouble. The hero story was not totally true, but it fulfils a political purpose.

The Gallipoli campaign was one of those stupid battles thought up by a politician in London that was never going to work in practice. The Australian and New Zealand troops ended up on stuck on a narrow beach in Turkey. The Turkish solders at the top of the cliffs were armed with machine guns and fighting to defend their homes and families. They were never going to lose.

Several months later, the Australian and New Zealand troops withdrew having achieved nothing for a terrible price. One hundred thousand people were dead and another two hundred thousand were injured. The most embarrassing aspect of the fiasco was that white Christian people were supposed to be superior to the Turkish Moslems.

We say now that they died for their country, but that is not true. either The people of New Zealand had not interest in what happened in Sarajevo. Most did not know it even existed. The New Zealand soldiers went to defend the British Empire. I am not very keen on empires and I don’t think that God is either. However, when the British Empire called, the young men of New Zealand left their families and marched off to war without hesitation. The thought of fighting for an empire is not very nice, so dying for your country sounds much better.

We can honour the bravery of the soldiers.
We can honour loyalty to their mates.
We should not honour their blind obedience to the arrogant and foolish poltical leaders told them to go and fight a stupid war