As previous posts on this site have explored, fashion – and war – could produce some unlikely conjunctions. The fashionable flapper of 1915 might be recognised by her cartridge buttons or the silken bayonet belt she might choose to wear, perhaps in Joffre blue. The appeal of fashion in Edwardian Britain was not, however, a purely female preserve. The knut — and the conflicts he could present in terms of legitimatised forms of male identity – offers another site of change for words in war time..
When WW1 began, the knut or nut (both spellings are in use) remained undefined in the Oxford English Dictionary. ‘He has come too late for Dr. Murray’, a correspondent to the Times regretted (‘Dr. Murray’ referred to James Murray, editor-in chief of the OED). Its topicality was, however, undoubted. The most recent incarnation of a well-established pattern of male display, the knut was a descendant of the dandy and the beau, the macaroni and the toff. Favoured by young unmarried men, and -in comparison with the ‘toff’ markedly democratised (even a clerk might be ‘knut’ on his day off) — he could be recognised by his hat (floppy or silk), pastel gloves, bright socks, and indolent demeanour. In terms of langauge, the knut was the slang of the moment, as the Times commented in December 1913:
No self-respecting youth can use the slang of his uncle …. He cannot guess that his uncle, when he uses the word “toff,” remembers the time when he himself was one, just as he will remember the time when he was a “nut.”
Basil Hallam’s music-hall turn as Gilbert the Filbert, the ‘knut with a capital K’ — in the revue ‘The Passing Show’ (which opened at the Palace Theatre in April 1914)– only served to enhance the popularity – and prevalence — of the knut in pre-war days. As Hallam’s lyrics stressed, the knut was ‘the pride of Piccadilly’, engaged in nothing more arduous than ‘counting his ties’.
The declaration of war in August of that year nevertheless brought a new set of images of male identity into prominence. Recruiting posters which urged (male) addressees to ‘play the man’ did not have the knut in mind. The knut’s brightly coloured clothing symbolised an ostentatious freedom from utilitarian constraint — a form of conspicuous (and leisured) consumption in which the performance of identity was very different. Such meanings could, in themselves, swiftly seem démodé. Young men who did not volunteer were liable to be proscribed as slackers and shirkers, epithets which took on pointed associations of cowardice or the deliberate avoidance of conflict in contemporary discourse. Continue reading →
The injunction to Keep Calm and Carry on, with or without various mutations, has, in recent years, become ubiquitous. ‘One of the most recognisable slogans in British history’, as Henry Irving notes, it can, in modern English, be found inscribed on anything from mugs and cards to clothing or bags.
Its origins as slogan have been carefully located in WWII, being credited to the shadow Ministry of Information. As Simon Eliot explains, almost three million copies of a MOI poster urging the populace to ‘keep calm and carry on’ had been distributed across the British Isles by the early autumn of 1939. It was, nevertheless, to be a notably short-lived campaign. A crisis of confidence– founded in concerns that it might seem patronizing or even annoying – led to its swift demise. Originally intended to strengthen the war-time spirit, and to reassure as a new war began, the posters were – with a few exceptions – pulped in 1940.
Slogans, however, also have beginnings and “carrying on” – as a specific injunction to maintain war-time resilience, and with particular reference to qualities of fortitude on the Home Front – already had a long (if forgotten) history. Devising their poster in 1939, the shadow MOI drew, in fact, not on a blank slate of language but made use of what was already an established collocation of war-time use. Based in WW1 rather than WWII, the determination to “carry on”, had already featured prominently in a wide range of private and public discourses.
As war began in August 1914, uses of carry (and carry on) were, as we might expect, plentiful. Carry on had already been given three senses by Samuel Johnson in his Dictionary of 1755; the recent entry in the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (in a section published in 1888) had expanded this to five. Discussion of the need to carry on the war, to carry on work, or to carry on the fight or struggle are easily found. Carrying on is made a serious business often collocating with words of industry and labour. As in the example below, uses of this kind required a direct or indirect object.
‘many, too, must stay at home to carry on the daily business of life, to provide the means of feeding and paying the Navy and the Army, and even to manufacture the necessary instruments of warfare’ (The Times December 5th 1914)
Particularly prominent, however, are uses of carry on as it came to be used in another early motif of WW1 – here in the expressed determination to carry onbusiness as usual, an idiomatic expression often credited to Winston Churchill though it was, in fact, used by Lloyd George as early as August 4th.
Importantly, this construction signalled much more than a commitment to maintain the national economy, being deeply imbued with the morale-boosting resolve to maintain quintessentially British ways of life on the Home Front, irrespective of what the war might bring. Business as usual already had its own linguistic history (being in use in the 18th century). Coupled with carry on, however, it came to express a war-time mind-set, a state of ideological resistance – founded in a determination not to give in, and to continue unaffected, however bad things might become.
Are you ready and fit to tackle your everyday duties and to carry on “Business as usual”
as an advertisement for Iron Jelloids – identified as an ‘invigorating tonic – hence demanded in September 1914. Churchill, using this phrase in November 1914, was – to use a modern idiom – merely making use of a current meme. As in the Jelloids advertisement, business – and the duty to carry on is embedded in ‘everyday duties’, whatever they might be. By implication, anyone and everyone could participate in this national endeavour, and in the spirit of war-time resistence.
In England in this national crisis we [have] tried to carry on business as usual, we hoped with confidence for victory as usual, and we were determined to maintain justice as usual
As language history proves, businessas usual would, in fact, assume a life of its own, often being used without the accompanying verb. Importantly, the same is also true of carry on in war-time usage. An interesting example of this separation appears in the Times in July 1915:
No more stern test of any man’s mettle could be imagined than he should have to “carry on” when death is doubly present in the mines below the water and the shells bursting above’…Those fishermen, too, who have continued to follow their calling have found that “business as usual” has not been without its added risks.
Carrying on here links both to the role that has to be performed, but also to the appropriate mind-set of performance – the resolve, courage, dedication, which ‘business as usual’ (which here includes mine-sweeping) might require.
Be British! Carry on!
likewise appears in a 1914 advert for Napier Motor Business vehicles, in an even closer correlate for the connotative values which carrying on came to acquire. ‘The famous Acton Works … are carrying on business as usual’, as Napier went on to assure its customers:
‘whatever happens, we feel we must carry on and do what we are called upon for’
an article in the Times stated to similar effect in November 1914. In examples of this kind, carrying on exists in its own right, yet inferentially continues the sense of patriotic resolve of business as usual — not least in the expressed determination to be uncowed by circumstances, whatever these might prove to be.
While earlier uses of carry on tended to require a direct or indirect object (one carries on with something, one carries on the struggle, in which continuance of various kinds is the central issue at stake), these uses of carry on are therefore intriguingly different. Often framed by inverted commas, these usefully act as visual reminders or cues for the semantic nuances involved in carrying on in this particular sense. Individual examples thereby often move beyond a sense of simple continuity (i.e. merely carrying on in ways which correspond to previous states), but instead engage with a wider interpretative framework — based in the implied willingness to try and keep going, to shoulder the new burdens, and to make the best of things:
BEHIND THE GUNS. war has released the most terrible engines of destruction, the giant guns that have been so long preparing for The Day; yet the human element remains supreme. It is the man behind the gun who counts. And to all who “carry on” at home lies the duty of keeping fit — we are all “behind the guns.” Get the Kruschen habit, the daily discipline of half a teaspoonful of Kruschen Salts in a tumbler of hot water before breakfast ….(advertisement, Kruschen Salts, 1916)
As here, advertising could – as so often in WW1 – prove highly adept at appropriating war-time diction for its own ends. ‘We’, collectively, are encouraged to ‘carry on’, whatever this might involve – since in a nation at war, not least in one which, by 1916, involved both combatants and non-combatants as objects as attack, all are – literally or metaphorically, ‘behind the guns’. Endurance — on a range of levels — was vital.
The salience of non-combatants, and especially women in the activity of carrying on is, in this respect, often brought to the fore in contemporary discussions. An article in March 1915 in the Evening News, for instance, addressed the ‘Mobilisation of the Women’ as a striking new departure of war:
I have seen little more than the headlines in newspapers which announce “Mobilization of the Women”. I suppose it means that, at the last pinch, women must prepare to “carry on” while the men have gone to the wars in Flanders and elsewhere.
You will ask what they are doing now if they are not “carrying on.” For the children still have their breakfasts and their marching orders for school, the mysterious world of the household goes forward, the daily adventure of shopping, the daily achievement of the dinner-table. Yet the Board of Trade must require more, or it would have sent out no circular. …The Amazons are no extinct tribe.
Here, if certain domestic things still happen in the established patterns of the past (and therefore, by definition, “carry on” or continue in the older senses of the verb), what is now additionally to be carried on is of a very different order. The resolve and determination that women must now exhibit – in departing from their accustomed roles – is key, here invoking a state of patriotic engagement and a willingness ‘to do their bit’ in compensating for the loss of male labour.
A CALL TO WOMEN …”The lesson we want to teach our women,” said Miss Pott, “is that they have not done all that is necessary when they have let their men go to the war. If they would only do the odd jobs that come along — hoeing turnips, for example — they would be helping to “carry on”. (The Times, 9 March 1916)
Carrying on can mean committing – with proper patriotic resolve and endurance – to the wider life of the nation, in ways which were –for many women– unprecedented in earlier years. Again, however, it is the attitudinal response which is made most significant, over and above the ways in which this might – in individual circumstances – now be realised. More is at stake than merely carrying on the hoeing.
Carrying on could, for the duration, therefore become a way of life, offering a range of well-established precedents for ‘Keep Calm and carry on’. As in the advertisement below, here from January 1918, carrying on was made into an effective linguistic symbol of resilience. Two short words could, with striking economy, be made to evoke the war-time spirit, with its complex layers of commitment and resolve, patriotism and endurance, as well as a refusal to give in, especially on the Home Front.
Amazon was, in 1884, one of the first entries to be published in the Oxford English Dictionary. Deriving from the classical languages, it had already acquired, as the dictionary explained, a range of meanings in English. Historical reference led back to the mythical female warriors ‘alleged by Herotodus (among others) to exist in Scythia’, while later extended use had given the general sense ‘female warrior’ – even if this tended, of necessity, to exhibit largely hypothetical or figurative uses in English use. As in Shakespeare’s Henry VI, ‘play[ing] the Amazon’ implied the appropriation of a suitably intransigent demeanour, rather than the decision to bear arms against a common foe.
A further shift of meaning was located in the mid-eighteenth century. An Amazon of this kind was different again, implying, as the dictionary specified, ‘a very tall, strong, or masculine woman’. First illustrated by Samuel Johnson in an 1758 essay in the Idler which in which an amazon rides a thousand miles in less than a thousand hours, thereby winning a wager, the link to war is demonstrably severed in favour of achievements which are distinct from those which conventionally appear in canons of feminine behaviour. That these are also placed outside regulative female norms can, however, be plain.
‘To the man an Amazon never fails to be forbiddding’,
as James Fordyce warned in his Lectures to Young Women:
The amazons of war-time discourse can therefore offer some interesting changes – and continuities — in this respect. An early citation for airwoman in the Words in War-Time Archive, for example, extols the achievements of ‘the Princess Shakovsky, a well-known sportswoman, who holds a flying certificate’ and who had ‘been permitted to join General Ruzsky’s staff as a military airwoman’. Yet conflict remained, prototypically, a man’s business:
The Czar refused permission for the formation of a regiment of Amazons which three hundred society women were desirous to join.
Twentieth-century Amazons also appeared in news discourse in Britain, affirming similar impulses towards action. A lengthy article in the Scotsman in December 1914 focussed, for example, on responses received to the recent questionnaires on enlistment (and eligibility) as sent out by the Parliamentary Recruiting Committee. As these made plain, in circumstances where no men were available, a number of women had attempted to volunteer instead. In the Scotsman, ‘the brave and patriotic spirit in which the women of our country are facing the situation’ was duly extolled:
Some women, who, to their sorrow, have no men to send to the firing line, express the wish to go themselves – a fact which suggests the possibility of the formation of an Amazons’ Battalion. “Regret,” writes one, “we have no men in this household. Just wish you would give women a chance’
As the Scotsman added:
The same brave Amazon spirit finds forcible expression in the following offer from a lady not a hundred miles from Glasgow Cross: – “I regret we haven’t a man of any age in this house. If a strong, healthy, and willing woman of uncertain age, past the first flush of youth, would be of any use to you, I’m at your service, without money and without price.
Such offers of active service were politely refused; war, as the Parliamentary Recruiting Committee’s own posters stressed, was an exercise in ‘playing the man’ – in a diction of performance and masculinity from which women were excluded.
By 1916, the diction and framing discourse of the Amazon had nevertheless taken on a new prominence. In a Punch cartoon from early 1916, the Amazon is, for example, now seen as a recognisable type, in vigorous existence throughout the nation. Framed by other stereotypes of war-time identity, such as the slacker and the rumour-monger, the Amazon instead appears, in uniform, striding across the page. Unencumbered by the hobble skirts – or long hair — of the past, she exhibits a sense of freedom and purpose, as well as a determined engagement with the war effort. A timorous new recruit (also female) meanwhile hovers uncertainly to her right, in a distinctly underpowered version of her future self.
Amazons, in war-time discourse, would, in reality, assume a variety of forms. By 1916, a range of erstwhile male roles were, for example, being performed by women as more and more men went to the front (first as volunteers, then via the Derby Scheme, and finally via conscription). As other posts explore, these changes generated their own issues of taxonomy – if clerks were male, was a female clerk a lady clerk, a clerkess, or a girl clerk? Similarly, was a conductress or a conductorette to be preferred? Or a woman- or lady- or girl-conductor? Amazon clearly offered in some respects a useful generic – not least in signalling commitment to active war service on the Home Front (and as opposed to the prototypically domestic service of the past). Railway amazons hence populate the trains, trams, and tube as drivers and conductors rather than passengers; as in the War Budget in March 1917, the ‘Amazonian ranks’ are given as being visibly increased by new roles assumed by women in the pharmaceutical industry or as portresses. Other amazons are located on the land, in hotels, in motor work, in ambulances, or in industry. Munitionettes, too, could equally testify to the Amazonian spirit and its salience in war. As the Scotsman commented, using transparently military diction to describe life in a munitions factory:
The Amazonian column that had passed in files along the central passage of the factory had apaprently formed up in line on reaching the canteen and charged up to the barrier — a long counter held by a garrison of voluntary women workers who had for some time been preparing in expectation of the attack … On the further side, the voluntaries moved briskly about, successfully keeping out of each othere’s way, and trasferring plates of ham, poached eggs, pots of tea, toast, and other edibles appropriate to a high tea, from the cooking range to the counter.
As War Illustrated affirms, the amazon was, in such new incarnations, surely part of a ‘social revolution’ and a significant player in the forging of a ‘new England’:
Neither on this farm, nor on the farm adjoining did I see a man. Girls were doing everything, and doing it splendidly. Homeward bound, skirting the coverts, we paused at a rustic stile at the moment a shapely, gaitered leg swung over it. Another Amazon! This fresh version had a gun over her shoulder. Velveteen breeches, a loose-fitting tunic with deep side-pockets … “My head game-keeper –Miss Smithers’ cried Mr. XXX, in proud introduction.
We might compare the news journalist Michael MacDonagh writing in his diary in 1916:
Women are to be seen at work everywhere. “Men must fight and women must work.” … You see them at the wheel of motor-cars and motor-drays. You see them handling the reins of horse-drawn vehicles. They are ticket-collectors at Underground and tube stations. At hotels and offices the lift-boy has become a lift-girl. The hall-porter at some of the big hotels is an Amazon in blue or mauve coat, gold-braided peaked cap and high top-boots.
If, in the OED, the amazon is depicted as defeminised and ‘other’, the amazons of 1916 and after can present some interesting readings, in which strength and ability are positively constructed (at least in terms of their alignment with the war effort), while — as in the examples above, amazons can also be rendered subjects of the all-too-approving male gaze. As MacDonagh confesses to his diary, the hall porter amazon is ‘a gorgeous figure that fascinates me’. Yet ‘my favourite’, he adds
is the young “conductorette” on trams and buses, in her smart jacket, short skirts to the knees and leather leggings’.
Uniforms, donned as visual symbols of the public and professional identities which were assumed ‘for the duration’, could have disconcerting effects. That war-work, or being a war-worker, did not preclude attractiveness is a recurrent aspect of comment of this kind.
If the peacettesof 1915 evoke a sustained engagement with an anti-war rhetoric (being, in turn, negatively constructed in mainstream news discourse, along with their peace prattle), amazons can therefore appear as their antithesis. They are situated, too, in positive contradistinction to female versions of the slacker and shirker whose abilities are wasted, and whose contributions to the war effort selfishly remain unmade. As in the campaigns for ‘Women’s Right to Serve’ in 1915, which stressed women’s suitability for war service of various kinds, war-time amazons are therefore often framed in diction which suggest their status as metaphorical soldiers, mobilised for the war effort, and who, as volunteers (rather than conscripts) also willingly respond to the nation’s call. An ideological commitment to war is translated into war service in a range of legitimised forms. Altruistic amazons of this kind offer their own forms of self-sacrifice – in which work is constructed as part of war-time duty and properly patriotic endeavour. Meanwhile, by volunteering for active service in industry, transport, or munitions – or, indeed, in new structures such as the Women’s Reserve Ambulance Corps with its formal appropriation of a range of military ranks) women might also, in another well-established collocation of the day, ‘release a man for the front’, in what remained a far more direct engagement with conflict per se.
Being Amazonian occupies therefore an intriguingly conflicted position in war-time Britian. It both evokes and elides direct military participation; if, for the OED, amazons are ‘female warriors’, their fight is, in 1914-18, relocated onto the front lines of the economy, munitions, transport, or food production, or in their work as nurses or ambulance drivers (among a wide range of other roles). Just like men who have volunteered for the Front, women too could gain a range of forms of insignia and visual validation, such that armlets and badges (as well as uniforms) made active service plain. The amazon can therefore be used to express (and affirm) a range of forms of female endeavour, resolve, and duty, while being amazonian can, as contemporary collocations confirm, be a matter of martial spirit and war-like resolve in which readings of ‘otherness’ can often be deliberately suspended — at least ‘for the duration’. Amazons in 1918 would, however, face a very different future, as later posts will explore.
The spring and summer of 1916 saw an escalating series of air raids over Britain. Some twenty raids (according to official tallies published in the Press) had taken place over 1915. In 1916, Andrew Clark decided to keep his own record in the Words in War-Time archive as a further part of his engagement with contemporary history and its representation. 19th May 1916 – almost a hundred years ago to-day – hence saw the 10th raid in six weeks.
While debates on the desirability of air reprisals continued (see War of terror”: “terror” and “reprisal” in 1916), the question of air defence, and, more specifically, of the kind of air raid precautions that should be introduced and maintainedfor the Home Front, were increasingly prominent. Still associated most commonly with WW2, it was WW1 which would, in reality, see a range of measures implemented in this respect. As the Scotsman argued in February 1916, the ‘expediency of public warnings against Zeppelins’ was surely incontrovertible’ — what was needed was ‘an organised system giving early warning of the presence of enemy aircraft in the country, and information as to their movements inland’.
Language – and the plethora of locutions that emerge in 1916 – can, however, be used to explore some of the complexity of response. Silent warnings, light warnings, buzzers, hooters, and syrens as well as sirens – or indeed, no warnings at all — appear in the public discourse of air raids and the importance of non-combatant safety.
The dominant meaning of air raid (in terms of the Home Front) in 1916 remained, as the Words in War-Time archive makes plain, an attack on non-combatants by enemy airship (the latter usually referred to at this point in time under the generic Zeppelin). Precautions were often referred to equally specific terms:
ANTI-ZEPPELINPRECAUTIONS IN EDINBURGH. ‘A deputation from the Edinburgh Rotary Club were present at a meeting of the Lord Provost’s Committee of Edinburgh Town Council on Saturday, and advocated the adoption by the Corporation of certain anti-Zeppelin precautions.
Air raid warning first appears, as the Oxford English Dictionary confirms, in 1915:
1915 Times 13 Sept. 3/3 (heading) The British Fire Prevention Committee announce that their Air Raid ‘Warning’ as to the nature of the bombs and how to deal with the fires arising from them, is being reissued in the form of a small poster.
While the accompanying OED definition — ‘a public warning about impending air raids, usually given by means of a siren’ — reflects later use with precision, this can neverthless sit somewhat uneasily alongside earlier evidence in WW1. As the 1915 citation given above indicates, for example, the ‘warning’ specified gives generic advice in terms of public safety and the fires that might ensue after such an attack. Its poster format is linked less to an ‘impending air raid’ but rather to general public safety, and a warning of longer rather than shorter duration. Sirens, too, present a number of complexities in their suggested use in 1915-16.
Whether noise should be used at all was, for example, a matter of considerable debate. As the Scotsman indicates in April 1916, while ‘anti-Zeppelin precautions’ were a matter of immediate concern, their precise form remained controversial:
[The deputation] insisted on a more stringent carrying out of the instructions as to the darkening and obscuring of lights, and indicated that some general public warning should be given. The Committee said they were fully in accord with the views of the deputation as to the importance of obscuring lights as much as possible, and pointed out that those places which had adopted general warnings by sound had discarded them.
Siren warnings could, it was felt, allure rather than force people off the streets.– in ways which neatly aligned with their classical forebears (‘Syrene, the mermayde is a dedely beste that bringeth a man gladly to dethe’, as a 16th-century citation in the OED declares). That Zeppelins might connote spectacle alongside danger is a recurrent thread in comment at this time. Siren warnings, in this respect, might merely alert the populace to Zeppelin presence in ways which tempt rather than deter. An article in the Daily Express, in April 1916, provides a useful illustrativion of the conflicted meanings which warnings of this kind could assume:
AIR RAIDER DRIVEN OFF. SEAPLANE’S FUTILE VISIT TO KENTISH COAST. SYREN WARNING. ‘Holidaymakers at Ramsgate and Broadstairs to-day experienced the thrill of hearing the shrill shriek of the syren announcing the approach of hostile aircraft. The syren sounded at 11.58 in both towns, but there was no panic. The mayor’s reiterated warning to keep under cover was again disregarded, and the visitors, as well as the inhabitants, seemed to enjoy the excitement. …At 12.30 the syren again sounded to announce that all danger was past. …This is the first time the syren at Ramsgate has given warning before the arrival of hostile aircraft.
Buzzerspresented similar problems; if attack was heralded so was the prospect of seeing the invader:
Warning was given. There was no panic. People came into the streets to see what they could, but were disappointed. The safety buzzer went at 4 o’ clock (Star, July 1916)
If the air raid warnings trialled in 1916 intentionally shared the semantic force of warn (OED, sense 3): ‘To put (a person) on his guard, to caution against some person or thing as dangerous’, they could, it seems, also participate – at least for some sections of the population – in the less loaded sense by which warn merely provided useful notification. Being warned, individuals might instead venture out to get a glimpse of what was going on. First-hand accounts of the experience of seeing a Zeppelin are not difficult to find.
‘the most surprising thing is the way everybody rushes into the street. Nobody takes any notice of the police warning; they just look upon these raids as a good show, and all are eager to miss nothing’ (Evening News April 1916)
The safety buzzer, or release buzzer, both of which appear in signalling the “All Clear” (an idiom used in railways which was only gradually extended to air raids and air attack) — could, in this respect, simply herald the end of the ‘performance’.**
Warnings, however implemented, could therefore be surprisingly polysemous. The empty streets which followed warnings in 1918 self-evidently took some time to achieve. What is particularly clear in 1916 is the ways in which precautionary measures were often local and individual. Air raid sirens (dated to 1918 in the OED, in an entry revised in 2008) could be used, either on their own or alongside other measures. Yet they were by no means the automatically favoured form. In the Potteries, for example (in February 1916):
News of approach of Zeppelins is to be signalled by a “buzzer,” or if the use of a “buzzer” is considered inadvisable, by the stoppage of the tramway service. A second “buzzer” will mean that it is safe to turn up the lights
Here the embedded punctuation – and the presence of scare quotes – offers a visual reminder of the changes of words and word-use that are at stake. Used as gas alarms on the Western Front, buzzers provide a similarly defensive function across Britain, gaining new patterns of signification (‘something that buzzes’ versus ’something that buzzes in warning of imminent air attack’).
3 ZEPPS OVER EAST COAST. 32 Bombs on Norfolk and Lincolnshire. NO CASUALTIES … A “Star” correspondent telegraphs: — ‘About midnight the inhabitants of a certain important North-East Town, which has suffered severely from air raids in the past, heard, after a pleasant immunity of over three months, the sound of the buzzer. They listened with considerable confidence, knowing that extensive defensive precautions had been taken. The enemy never got over the town, and about four o’clock the welcome sound of the release buzzer sent the people to their beds.
Hooters appeared elsewhere, gaining similar meanings, as in the following article, headed ‘How a Midland Town was Warned’, which appeared in the Scotsman in March 1916.
In accordance with prearranged plans to warn the public, electricity was cut off, hooters were sounded, and the Corporation tramcars were stopped, together with general traffic.… The place was kept in complete darkness until all danger was over’
Similarly interesting is the diction of the light warning, used, for example, in Southend from April 1916:
SOUTHEND “LIGHT” WARNING. The residents of Southend will in future receive warning of air raids. The pressure of the electricity main will be reduced in the borough for five minutes on receipt of information that hostile aircraft are in the district.
Or, conversely, the decision to implement silent warnings, as in Birmingham in May a hundred years ago:
SILENT WARNING. ‘The Lord mayor and Chief Constable of Birmingham yesterday sanctioned a scheme for giving silent warnings throughout the city in the event of Zeppelin raids. Captains have been appointed in each ward, and each captain will be in charge of a number of helpers. To carry out the scheme 672 special constables have been sworn in.
Just as in later air raid warnings in London 1917, policemen could become, in effect, “moving posters”, as they walked, cyclued or drove across the city by means of the words ‘Take Cover’ emblazoned on placards on their person or vehicle.
This close engagement with temporality — here in the diversities of the diction of air raid precautions in 1916 — can usefully counter the flattening of history and language which broader narratives must, of necessity, employ. The most important change comes, however, not in the language of material form (how the air raid warning is delivered) but in the changing nature of response and understanding. If, as in Scotland in March 1916, the imminent arrival of a Zeppelin meant that the strees were ‘thronged [by those who] gazed upwards in a vain attempt to locate the airship’, the best precaution lay, of course, in patterns of behaviour by which, whatever form the warning took, it would be interpreted as an imperative to take immediate shelter. People ‘must learn to avoid the open streets, and no less open passages’, as the Scotman already stressed. The changing prominence — and use — of the diction of air raid shelters (first recorded in the OED in 1917) is, in this respect, a closely related story.
** The OED entry, and definition, for All clear (revised in 2012) reveals some of the same problems when applied to WW1: A signal indicating that there is no danger or obstruction; esp.(a) a railway signal indicating that the line is clear (cf. danger n. 4c); (b) a signal given by means of a siren, etc., to inform the public that (the danger of) an air raid is over
Long before 1914 and the advent of war, Samuel Johnson had pointed out that words, like citizens, exist in ‘different classes’. Some are natives, remaining in their linguistic homeland from the beginning. Others are denizens, having lived there for so long that they are virtually indistinguishable from the original inhabitants. Others, however, retain ‘the state of aliens’. If used in English, these – either in terms of form, spelling, or pronunciation – confirm allegiance to languages outside the nation state. The first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, still in progress during 1914-18, maintained these same divisions. Naturalisation was key.
The langscapes of war brought some interesting synergies into play in this respect. Political solidarities with allied nations could, as with France, yield a new influx of words. An ‘Entente-Gallicism’ seemed to be in operation alongside the ‘Entente-Cordiale’, the Daily Mail observed, drawing attention to the wide range of French derived forms which had appeared in public discourse and at the Front from the summer of 1914. As Andrew Clark verified in the Words in War-Time archive, this was a marked feature of the war, even if, as he rightly suspected, the majority of such words would fade out of use when war came to an end.
Words with traceable (or suspected) links to the enemy were rather different. German was ‘the Stigma’, as an article the Star in 1915 observed, here in documenting a campaign by the residents of German Place in London to have it renamed Tipperary Place. The Words in War-Time archive documents a variety of emergent shibboleths in this respect, as in the cultural silencing of terms such as wanderjahr:
‘Many servants are bent on taking what might have been called a “Wanderjahr” – the fates forbid I should use this word now’. Daily Express (March 1915).
The idea of war-weather as a specific locution is prominent from the beginning of World War One. As for Maude Gonne – writing, from France, to William Butler Yeats in August 1914 – this could rely on traditional metaphors by which nature is seen as reflecting or embodying human states of mind.
Though we are in such a quiet place, so far from the war, the weather is really war weather strange thunderstorms, & floods — a house was nearly swept away yesterday, the people say they have not seen things like that since 1870 during the war. [italics in original]
For Gonne, war-weather functions as pathetic fallacy – as in Shakespeare’s King Lear, a storm can signify far more than a set of atmospheric conditions, offering portents of human violence and disorder. Foreboding, fear, and the sense of impending conflict in far more visceral ways underpin Gonne’s words.
Metaphors of a slightly different kind appear in documenting the war-weather of conflict per se. The ‘thunder’ of guns or cannon, or storm of bullets were, of course, already well-established figurative transfers. These continue into trench warfare and descriptions of the Western Front, as in an extended account of the thunderstorm of war which appears in the Scotsman in the winter of 1914:
I have spent two nights – in this deserted and luxurious chateau, over which a thunderstorm seemed to pass almost every hour of the day and night. There were times when it raged furiously, and made the forest bellow with fright, times when it sounded like a distant echo, times when it roared at the very gates of the chateau
Other extended figurative senses of hail, rain, shower, deluge, and stormcan also appear. ‘Sense 3. transf. and fig. A storm, shower, or volley of something falling like hail, esp. of shot’, the entry for hail, for instance, states in the Oxford English Dictionary. Here, the definition — as the mention of ‘shot’ confirms – references older forms of warfare (the entry was written in 1898, and has, as yet, not been updated). Nevertheless, in keeping with the status of WW1 as ‘modern war’ (another locution in use from the early days of conflict), the metaphorical identities of war-weather in 1914-18 were, in turn, often modernised too. ‘Shot’ does not appear. Insteadshrapnel(in a sense unknown when the relevant OED entry was published in March 1914), or minenwerfer or gas-shells can all appear in contexts of this kind. Tornado andhurricanebombardment would, in similar ways, make their own way into the discourse and diction of modern war:
The enemy poured adeluge of shrapneland high explosive shells from their heavy guns, and to escape annihilation our men had to fling themselves into depressions, or take cover in the dead ground of the slopes of the hills (Scotsman, October 1914)
As soon as the French infantry deploy their ranks and appear in the open, they are met with showers of shrapnel (Scotsman, September 1914)
the Allemands were not going to let us have it all our own way, and at four o’clock they started a hail of shell-fire, which is supposed to have been the heaviest during the whole war for the area concerned’ (Evening News, May 1915)
It seems an artillery duel is progressing and our battery opened fire with the so-called‘hurricane’when one shot follows another without any interval – like a musical arpeggio (Daily Express, December 1914)
War-weather , in all its manifestations, demanded extreme fortitude, and the British “Tommy’s” capacity to withstand conditions of various kinds attracted repeated commendation in this respect.
‘He is smart and natty in his get-up, kindly in his demeanour, can fight like a lion, and stand all kinds of war weather’
War weathercan, however, also be used in quite literal senses, and in ways which became especially pertinent for Britain in 1916. That certain types of weather could be advantageous for attack, and specifically for attack by air, had, for instance, received comment from early in the war. As the Daily Express had noted, here in describing an aerial attack on Ostend and Ghent in September 1914:
The Germans chose a clear starlight night for this marauding expedition. There was very little wind, and the journey over the unconquered portion of Belgium was made smoothly and at high speed.
Suggestions that Britain, too, might be subject to attacks by air had earlier prompted caustic charges of Zeppelinphobia (a word used to suggest an unwarranted and groundless fear). By 1916, however, Zeppelin attacks were all too real, as was air raid itself (as noun and adjective) used in the specific sense of an attack made on non-combatants by enemy aircraft. While the deterrent effect of air reprisals remained a popular topic of debate, notions of air defence (in another new formation of the war) are therefore also of marked interest for language and history alike. Knowing the right weather for war could, in this light, be highly topical. As the Daily Express concluded in February 1916:
‘The Zeppelin only comes over on certain nights, when the glass is high or stationary at a fairly high point. These nights have almost all a close resemblance to each other. They are still, windless, dark, and preferably misty or cloudy. On such nights aeroplanes are useless, and guns are difficult to aim without any exactitude’
The introduction of the Zeppelin barometer, as part of this advice to private individuals, offers another telling intersection between language and the material culture of WW1. The ‘glass’ in the Daily Express citation above refers to air pressure as indicated by a conventional barometer. Yet readings of this kind, as an article in the Evening News explained, could easily be adopted for the unprecedented circumstances of modern warfare, offering guidance for private individuals as to the plans for shelter they might need to take. In contrast to the military metaphors in use on the Western Front, ‘rain’ as indicated by the marking on a Zeppelin barometer was distinctly reassuring. If the barometer needle pointed to ‘rain, ‘much rain’ or ‘change’ , it was safe to conclude that ‘No Zepp’s coming’, the Evening News informed its readers.
‘Fair’, in the war-weather of 1916, instead became highly inauspicious, prompting the advice ‘Zepp’s may come’. Weather that was both ‘very dry’ and ‘set fair’ was, it continued, most dangerous of all: ‘Zepp’s Coming’ was a possible conclusion. Anti-Zeppelin precautions for air defence were to be taken seriously. As in the image above, a clear night demanded heightened caution.
Public measures for air defence will be discussed in a later post. Private measures of this kind provide, however, confirmation of the value of incidental details in the texturing of war in the language of WW1. Andrew Clark’s war-time diaries record, for example, many comments of precisely this kind, with a meticulous observation of air pressure and visibility in ancipation of possible attack. Tracking war-weather could become yet another routine of life on the Home Front.What came to be known as Zeppelin nights preset us with telling details for the understanding of war experience, and its inscribing in war-time use. Zepp, with its contracted and colloquial familiarity, likewise confirms its assimilation into the vernacular English of 1916.
THE NEW WAR OF TERROR. IS BRITAIN NO LONGER AN ISLAND?
MAILED FIST IN THE AIR.
The heading above appeared in the Daily Express in February 1916. Like 9/11, and the emergence of the modern “war on terror”, perceptions of this ‘new war of terror’ in 1916 were prompted by a series of aerial attacks in civilian locations. While WW1, by 1916, was indeed a ‘world war’ in hitherto unprecedented ways, it was the victims of German aerial warfare in British towns along the east coast, in Kent, and in the Midlands which prompted anxiety of this kind. The language of ‘terror’ was marked. While war zone is itself a coinage of WW1 (dated to 1914 in the Oxford English Dictionary, it is widely documented across the Words in War-Time archive), it was clear by 1916 that systemetic attack could occur outside formal theatres of war. Conflict of this kind instead consolidated the sense of what we know now as total war. As the article continued:
The governing condition of our national life during about the last four hundred years – that is, since naval power became our principal defence, has been the circumstance that Britain was an island, which strength at sea could defend … Britain is, quite manifestly, ceasing to be an island, and though strength at sea does still protect her from serious invasion, and may continue to do so for some years to come, that strength is powerless to defend us against aerial attack.
In war in the air, geographical boundaries were easily transcended; the ‘mailed fist’ could, as in the headline above, hover at will above London or Lowestoft, Dover or Deal. ‘Henceforth no non-combatant will be immune from attack’, the writer added. Here, too, language and (re)definition could be at stake. As recent events confirmed, combat and non-combatants could intersect with deadly effect, rendering civilians remote from the field of battle into direct casualties of war.
The language of terror– phrased with particular acuity in 1916 –can, in fact, be traced from the beginning of the war, whether in analysis of the Kaiser’s ‘power to terrorise’ (in September 1914) or in comment on the emergence of new weapons of destruction which Continue reading →
Australian soldiers having their feet inspected for trench foot at Zonnebeke, September 1917.
‘Frostbite in trenches’ announced a prominent headline in the Evening News in January 1915. ‘Frostbite. Winter in the Trenches’, the Daily Express echoed. The accompanying articles detailed still other unforeseen circumstances of war on the Western Front. While Ernest Shackleton had set off to cross the Antarctic via the South Pole in August 1914 — a domain where frostbite was a known and present danger –its stated prevalence in accounting for military casualties on the Western Front is striking.
“During the abominable weather of December and January, “frost-bite” raged like an epidemic’, the Scotsman noted in March 1915, looking back at the toll the previous months had taken. It had been a “scourge”, affecting the feet of soldiers in the trenches in unprecedented ways. “The surgical history of the war in Flanders shows that during last winter frost-bite was responsible for much intense pain and permanent maiming2, an article in the Daily Express affirmed later that year. As the second winter of the war approached, it reflected on the lessons which had, hopefully, already been learned.
Frostbite in this respect was, however, another new sense-development of war. The word could, of course, still occur in its conventional sense. As the relevant entry in the Oxford English Dictionary explained in 1898, frostbite in the strictly medical sense was a condition caused by ‘severe cold’. The modern revision of the Dictionary, in an entry dated to March 2015, is still more explicit. Frostbite is identified as:
Injury to body tissues caused by exposure to extreme cold, typically affecting the extremities and often involving only the skin, which initially becomes white and hard, but in severe cases resulting in gangrene of deeper tissues and loss of the affected parts.
A number of articles in the Words in War-Time archive comment on the danger of exposure to extreme temperatures, and the kind of damage that can occur to the face and hands if left unprotected.
Nevertheless, uses of frostbite from early in the war differed in critical ways from the kind of processes described in the OED. Unlike frostbite (OED sense 1), frostbite of thsi kind was characterised by swelling, itchiness, and blisters. It occurred moreover in conditions of sustained damp, irrespective of the temperature of the air. As the Scotsman explained, for example, the number of ‘”frost-bite” patients’ was in fact closely correlated with the opportunities that soldiers had to dry and warm their feet, rather than with the presence of freezing temperatures per se:
“’During the spell of sharp fighting in January, when there was no time to think of their feet, there was another jump in the number of “frost-bite” patients’.
Frostbitein this sense was, it commented, better seen as ‘the consequence of living in the trenches with permanently wet feet, and never taking one’s boots and tight puttees off’. Indeed, it might, more appropriately, be termed water-bite, another article ventured, since it thrived in conditions of continual damp, such as those which had pertained at “Plugstreet” before recent improvements in material conditions had been made:
The men had to stay for weeks at a time in the trenches, swimming in water, without planking to walk on, and without the knowledge which has since been gained on how to preserve the feet from the scourge of frost-bite, or water-bite as it should be called.
Mud-bite was another designation which appears in war-time dicourse. Bite in all three can effectively suggest the intensity of pain and suffering that accompanied this condition. ‘The first glow of life burns like red-hot pokers’, a later article in the Scotsman (from November 1915) confirms.
Renamed trench frost-bite in the Lancet in September 1915, in yet another shift of nomenclature, the disease was to be carefully documented in terms of cause, consequence, and prevention. Frost-bite in this transferred sense did not require frost — but it depended instead on the sense of numbness and chill (as well as pain) that popular connotations of frostbite suggested. Left untreated, moreover, it, too, could result in gangrene — and amputation of the affected limb.
It was this specialised sense of frostbite (still unrecorded in the OED) which would, in time, gain the label by which it is usually known to-day — trench foot. Dated to 1915, this has survived as perhaps one of the more surprising legacies of WW1 in modern use. ‘Glastonbury 2015: Medics prepare for cases of trench foot’, as the Independent informed its readers in June 2015. LIke the trenches of WW1, the mud and rain of Glastonbury, as the article explained, offered ideal conditions for what is now seen as an immersion foot disorder.
War-time uses of frostbite continued, however, ‘for the duration’, even if they have become obsolete today. Frostbite and trench feet often co-occur in accounts from 1915 and 1916, offering a form of symbiosis and mutual definition. As the Scotsman recorded, for example, here in marking the beginning of the winter of 1915-16:
“Trench feet,” which we used to call “frozen feet” last winter, are coming into the field ambulances again and getting passed down to the casualty clearing stations. It is easy enough to cure if taken in time, but the men “stick it” too long sometimes, and then it is a bad business trying to bring life into the senseless limbs.
‘This winter’, the M.P. Major Lyell stated in December 1915, the Allies ‘knew better how to combat frostbite and trench feet and how to keep the trenches dry and livable’ (Scotsman 16 Dec 1915).
In other contexts, frostbite clearly retained a popular and colloquial role . As Andrew Clark’s war diaries (‘Echoes of the Great War’) confirm, frostbite (and associated words) continued to be used as popular descriptors, being assimilated into the general parlance of the war, on Home as well as Western Front. ‘Ernest Wright is in hospital in France with feet frost-bitten’, Clark notes, for example, in February 1917. Another villager, Leonard Cule, has ‘had his feet frost-bitten’, thus becoming ‘a case for Blighty’, Clark’s diary states in the following month.
Looking at language in 1916, we can therefore see this continued patterning of old and new forms of reference. As in the quotation below, anti-frost creams are, for example, explicitly directed as what is now given as trench foot; frost, by extension, does not denote the presence of crystals of ice but is used in signalling a sense of generalised discomfort in which cold and wet prevail. The product promises:
A POWERFUL SKIN STIMULANT FOR RESTORING CIRCULATION TO BENUMBED AND CHILLED EXTREMITIES. INVALUABLE FOR TRENCH FEET.
As remedy against trench foot (and trench feet), and frostbitewe can likewise find other new products such as trench waders, in other locutions which are equally embedded in the historical moment (and absent from the formal lexicographical record). The ailments of the Western Front would, in this as in other respects, clearly present further opportunities for commodification and language alike.
Anderson’s POCKET TRENCH WADERS ARE REALLY WATERPROOF Stockings, fitting completely over the socks –inside the boots – at bottom, and fastening to wait buttons at top. Being absolutely Waterproof, they afford adequate protection against the terrors of cold and damp and …. frostbite
‘BOCHE, BOSCH, AND BOSH’ states an arresting headline taken from the Echo in 1915. Preserved in the Words in War-Time archive, the article which followed explored the use, and meaning, of another new word of war. First recorded in 1914, Boche – variably spelled as Bosche — formed part of what, at least ‘for the duration’, would prove a markedly over-crowded space. Alongside Fritz and Hun, Uhlan and Willie (‘soldier of Wilhelm’, as the archive explains), uses of Boche presented yet another way of writing the enemy. Replete with negative connotations (and able to be visually enhanced by the Germanised spelling with -sch), Boche came to designate, as in the examples below, someone, and esp. a soldier, of German ethnicity. It could be either singular or plural, noun or adjective, inflected or uninflected.
‘men huddled below the parapets, gazing through their periscopes, or sniping at invisible Boches’ (Daily Express / news / 1915-02-01 )
‘doing the “outside edge” round Jack Johnson holes, and Boches a mile or two ahead or in the rear’ (advertisement, Scotsman, November 1916)
Originally deriving from French (as a later entry in the OED would confirm), boche has been linked to Fr. boche ‘scoundrel’, perhaps drawing too on tête de boche, a stubborn, obtuse unintelligent person (a form already used in French before the war as a derogatory term for a German). Other possible sources link it to caboche (‘blockhead’) — of which boche might be a shortened form — or to alboche (a form which appears early in the archive, and which represents a conflated form of Allemand and Boche, complete with further derogatory overtones). Alboche was ‘French Military slang’, a 1914 note in the archive confirms. If alboche was relatively resticted in use, Boche would, in contrast, prove both popular and pervasive.
Its range of uses can therefore illustrate one strand in the war-term assimilation of this form. More striking, however, as the Echo also commented, was the remarkable similarity, at least in auditory terms, that anglicised Boche and bosh had come to assume. This offered the potential for a richly punning identity.
‘By one of the miraculous freaks of language the word conveys the essential idea to almost all the nations engaged in the war’,
George Robey’s rendition of the music-hall song ‘Archibald, Certainly Not’ perhaps provides an unlikely accompaniment to the First World War. It deals with the comic archetypes of domestic – and specifically marital – strife. The unfortunate Archibald is subject to continual reproof and correction from the moment he ties the knot. Denied a honeymoon, the opportunity to play cricket, or a piece of roast chicken, Archibald’s endeavours are, in each case, firmly curtailed by the refrain ‘Archibald, certainly not’. Even outside the domestic sphere, Archibald is apparently doomed to identical processes of castigation and control:
I once strolled through a field, and there a mad bull came across.
It gamboll’d with me playfully and quickly won the toss!
Of course I sued the owner, and the day the case was fought,
The judge exclaimed when I said, “Sir, let’s have the bull in court!”
“Archibald, certainly not! Just show what other evidence you’ve got!”
But he cried when I said, “Please forgo it…
Because I must stand up to show it. “Archibald-certainly not”
The recurrent patterning by which Archibald’s every endeavour is rebutted and repulsed, was, however, to effect an interesting transfer into the diction of the war. As an article in the Evening News in January 1915 indicates, it was by this point seen as yet another component in the lexical ingenuity of war-time English. While the article draws attention in general terms to ‘the ingenuity of the British soldier in inventing picturesque names for the various engines of destruction brought to bear against him’, Archibald features as an item of specific interest. It designates ‘for some unknown reason’ the ‘anti-aircraft gun’, the writer explains. As in so many other cases, the language of Front and Home Front had apparently diverged. Here, a proper name had inexplicably been used to ‘christen’ an inanimate object. Both, admittedly, began with the same letter but at least in this article the transfer is seen as entirely opaque.
Across the Words in War-Time archive, however, the prevalence of this usage is clear. As a further quotation from December 1914 confirms, for instance, attributions of this kind were already part of common parlance at the Front. ‘High-angle guns firing shrapnel’ are ‘commonly known as “Archibalds”’, the Daily Express explains for the benefit of its own readers. Used with reference to the enemy, Archibald offered a ready personification of agency and attack: Continue reading →