As the previous post explores, the early months of 1916 witnessed a number of new stages in recruitment for the armed forces. The Derby scheme represented the last stages of volunteerism, enabling men who had attested to be called up – in another newly pervasive form of words – in groups. As the 1916 booklet When I Join the Ranks explained, “The “calling up” of any Group is effected by means of a general Proclamation, giving one month’s notice, but each individual soldier also receives a notice by post actually summoning him and giving him a fortnight in which to settle his affairs’
There were nevertheless large numbers of men who still remained outside this system – some excluded by age or disability, or by work in spheres which were deemed important enough to secure exemption from active service. Others – at least rhetorically – were often deemed to fall into the domains of shirkers and slackers, words which took on increasingly gendered patterns of meaning between 1914-18. While shirker is, on the surface, gender-neutral, it was, ‘for the duration’, a term freighted with connotations of evading and avoiding military service in ways which pertained only to male spheres of use. Slacker was similar. Both operated as terms of male opprobrium, in narrowly specific senses which pertained to the absence of active participation in the war.
While men might have “failed to come forward”, either as part of the Derby Scheme or in the months and years before its introduction, the question of (non)-participation was, however, to became much more pointed with the introduction of conscription or compulsory service, first announced in the Military Service Bill of January 1916 (though not fully implemented until May). “Compulsion becomes law”, the Daily Express announced on May 26; as of to-day ‘the Military Service act’ would ‘make a soldier of every man, married or unmarried, in Great Britain between the ages of eighteen and forty-one’. While the wider ramifications of this – especially in terms of the refusal to serve, will be considered in later posts — this post will focus on other aspects of evasion and attempted control in the diction of what came to be known as the round-up or rounding-up
Some young men, hearing that a “round-up” was impending, unsuccessfully tried to escape during the progress of the match, and with a number of others were detained for enquiries.
Raid at Newmarket. A Military “Round-Up” on the racecourse. Newmarket racecourse was raided to-day by a strong force of military and police in search of absentees from service. .. The rounding up continued during the day.
The round-up, as a contemporary note from 1916 in the Words in War-Time archive explains, was used to designate “attempts made, by police raids, in places of amusement, in search of men of military age who were shirking service”. Continue reading →
Like the bride-to-be, the diction of the soldier-to-be has an interesting liminality. The bride-to-be is not yet a bride; the promise has been made, but not yet fulfilled. The formal union lies in the future. Nevertheless, if framed by a kind of temporal expectation, events may still not materialise quite as planned. Not all brides-to-be become brides; decisions made earlier might be regretted or revoked. Second thoughts might prevail, while the advertised wedding might not come to pass.
Soldiers-to-be participates in some of this flux of meaning and status, if relocated to a rather different sphere. Here the expected union is that of active service, while ‘to-be’ adroitly picks up the gap between a stated commitment to fight, and its realisation. As in the age-old divide between word and deed by which the true hero is defined, the soldier to-be could occupy an interestingly liminal space.
It appears as yet another lexical item which remains unrecorded in formal lexicography. Picked up in the Words in War-Time archive in early 1916, it appears, for example, in advertising campaigns directed at the ‘Derby Men’ or, on other words, at a specific sub-category of men who had attested under Lord Derby’s scheme, formally the Group Scheme, in the autumn of 1915. The ‘Derby Scheme’ (variously referred in news discourse of the day the Derby crusade or Derby experiment, with various degrees of reservation) aimed to boost enlistment among the millions of eligible men who, as National Registration had shown, remained at home (some, admittedly, in protected forms of employment). Under the ‘Scheme’, one could enlist for immediate service, thereby passing from civilian or civvie to soldier with immediate effect. But, as in the case of soldiers-to-be, one could ‘attest’ and remain at home, bearing only to the obligation to embark on active service once summoned to do so, or ‘called up’.
Seen in terms of language, then, the Derby Scheme yielded a range of interesting forms. Hall’s Wine, the ‘supreme tonic restorative’ which frequently advertised its efficacy for the diverse forms of nerve-strain witnessed as war advanced, would, for example, rapidly seize this opportunity too. While targeted marketing was therefore aimed at soldiers at the Front, a further assault was aimed at the soldier-to-be whose anxiety levels, as the advertising campaigns noted, might well be on the rise. Unlike the enlisting fever or khaki fever attested in earlier comment on the war, soldiers-to-be had hitherto proved resistant to contagion of this kind. Now, however, ‘many and many a man’, as the advertising copy proclaimed, was to be fetched from occupations on the Home front for a set of ‘new and arduous duties’:
The next few months will take many and many a man from desk and office and factory to make of him a soldier. In thousands of cases these workers will be ‘softened’ by their sedentary lives, will indeed be far from fit to tackle their new and arduous duties. In every case Hall’s Wine will be found most helpful
Addressed directly to the ‘soldier-to-be’, advertising of this kind neatly exploited the linguistic and military limbo of this section of the Derby Scheme. As it stressed, ‘workers’ will be made into ‘soldiers’, while the ‘sedentary’ must be made ‘fit to tackle’ war. 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 →
‘I am still in the pink. Terribly dirty, but as happy as a kid with mud. Still in the same place. Awful slaughter. Two more of our men were wounded last night by a shell. One had three fingers blown clean off’.
This letter was reproduced in the Evening News in October 1914 from where, carefully clipped out (and with in the pink underlined), it made its way into the Words in War-Time archive. Originally written by Corporal Bert —- [the surname is elided], it reassured his family in Walthamstow of his continued good health at the Front.
Moving from private to public domains, the letter hence participated in the contemporary recording of war (newspapers such as the Evening News regularly sought out first-hand testimony of this kind, offering, too, the promise of monetary reward).
Seen in term of the archive, however, it was to participate in living history of a different kind. In these terms, in the pink signalled a phrase which was, as yet, unattested in the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary (the section dealing with words in the range Ph-Piper had been published eight years earlier, appearing in June 1906). It would, in fact, emerge as one of the most characteristic idioms of war-time discourse, constituting a familiar item in letters to and from the Front, as well as being appropriated into a range of other domains. Continue reading →
An advertisement for corsets isn’t perhaps the most obvious place to find information on language change in a time of war. Nevertheless, in the Words in War-Time archive, history and history principles were regularly – and consciously – applied both to ephemera as well as a wide range of non-canonical sources. Source-selection – and historical evidence – could avoid the overly literary or poetical, focussing instead on resources which, even if closely embedded in the everyday, might, as Andrew Clark recognised in making these collections in 1914-19, all too easily be lost to ‘oblivion’ – with consequences for historians and historians alike.
Corsets, then, offer an intriguing reading of gender, history, and war. Clark, as earlier posts on this site have explored, regularly assembled evidence on the changing dynamics of fashion – and fashionable accessories – as indices of war and its varied manifestation on the Home Front. Colour (the popularity in 1915 of what was termed Joffre blue) or form (the modish appearance of the casquette, based on the patterns of French uniform) could easily align female clothing and the discourse of war, rendering military a term which was not only resonant of strategy and the intricacies of tactical engagement but of style. While the first edition of the Oxford English Dictionary – still in progress when war broke out – defined military in exclusively male terms (‘Pertaining to soldiers; used, performed, or brought about by soldiers’; ‘befitting a soldier’), the military as illustrated in the Words in War-Time archive is therefore often far more wide-ranging. As Clark notes, for example, the OED’s entry was distinctly behind the times in this respect. Instead military was, as he confirmed, regularly used as ‘a persuasive in dressmaking & millinery’. Headlines such as military millinery (which appeared in the Daily Express in January 1915) was a case in point. The article announced the ways in which ‘The war has made itself felt in the millinery world in no small degree’ such that ‘the favourite hat for the spring is of a military type’. As it continued:
The military hat is especially suitable for morning wear, although its smartness makes it equally adaptable for dress occasions. A couple of rosettes are often rakishly poised at opposite ends of these close-fitting hats. One of the most notable of the military shapes is a striking reproduction of a field-marshal’s hat. It is carried out in soft pedal straw with the brim and crown faced with finest panne velvet, and is styled “Le General French”.
The military curve which appears in the advertisement above (as well as elsewhere in the archive) – in which military functions as a property of distinctly female underwear – offers further corroboration of this wider use.
As a collocation, military curve is, of course, interesting in its own right – the concept of a military curve remains, for example, unrecorded, and undefined, in the modern OED. Its real value, however, can be located in the wider significance it could accrue in contemporary forms of discourse between 1914-18. Continue reading →
‘The general health of the troops on war service’ is ‘actually better at this moment than it is at home’, the Scotsman announced in March 1915. ‘Modern Medical Science. Mitigating Disease in warfare’ appeared as the celebratory heading of a further article the following month. Even in July 1915, the same tone of congratulation was apparent; if some 6500 British soldiers had, by that point, been killed on Turkish soil alone, nevertheless, as readers were informed, ‘not even a microscopical portion of the fatalities is traceable to any weakness in the condition of our men’. ‘Our army’s extraordinary good health’ and ‘wondrous immunity from disease’ were soundly commended. ‘Never have soldiers entered upon a campaign in better physical fettle’, the Scotsman proclaimed. In contrast to the Boer War, when typhoid had ‘killed a far greater number of our men than did the enemy’, here, too, the conditions of an eminently modern war had come to prevail:
it is safe to say that had a war of the magnitude of the present struggle, and conducted like it under siege conditions, entailing great hardships, prolonged exposure to the most inclement weather, and the billeting of large numbers of men in insanitary quarters for many months together, been undertaken by the British nation a few years ago, it would have been accompanied by an outbreak of disease which would have decimated our forces
By no means restricted to the Scotsman, articles of this kind appear across the spring and summer of 1915 in a wide-ranging and robust discourse of health.
For modern readers, this evocation of good fortune amidst the realities (and casualties) of WWI can appear somewhat anomalous. It was resonant, too, of a certain proleptic irony. Headlines in August 1915, for example, foreground another new locution – and a previously unknown condition in which ‘physical fettle’ was noticeably lacking while the ‘wondrous immunity from disease’ had apparently disappeared. ‘Mysterious Disease like Influenza’, the Daily Express instead announced on 18th August, describing a rather different facet of life at the front. This was trench fever, an illness which, as its name confirmed, would come to be seen as yet another distinctive aspect of trench warfare. Continue reading →
‘If the Cap Fits You‘ appeared as the text of a poster issued by the Parliamentary Recruiting Committee in 1915. Like many advertisements both then and now, it played with a carefully calibrated set of meanings. On one level, the familiar idiom of ‘if the cap fits, wear it’ raises questions of identity and individual affirmation. On another, this idiom was targeted via a specific type of cap and the diction of direct address. As the image confirms, the metaphorical ‘cap’ is now to be seen in terms of the khaki service cap, while the obligation to ‘wear it’ is re-interpreted via the action of ‘joining- up’, and the identity politics of active service.
In terms of language, this can, in fact, raise other interesting issues. In 1914-15, the cap, as here, formed the prototypical image of the British soldier, functioning not only as an item of uniform but able to emblematise wider issues of national and ideological identity. Helmets, in contrast, operated in a similar way for the enemy. While helmet in the sense ‘a defensive cover for the head’, which is either made with, or strengthened with, metal, had long existed in English, usage from early in the war confirms a careful divide in this respect, As in the extract below (taken from the Scotsman in September 1914), helmet operates as a form of semantic shorthand or ethnonym (‘a proper name by which a people or ethnic group is known’). In what becomes a pervasive pattern of writing the enemy, helmet connotes not merely an item of clothing, but the enemy per se.
German troops have apparently been interspersed with the Austrian soldiers in the entrenchments for the purpose of raising the moral of the latter. What this moral is worth is apparent from a report received from a correspondent on the frontier, stating that after the Russian attacks on the “bluecloaks” – namely, the Austrians – took to flight, while the “helmets” i.e., the Prussians, were prepared to die to the last man, and perished accordingly.
The German helmet, referring to the spiked leather and metal pickelhaube was to be a distinct, and distinctive, marker. In other words, To appropriate the diction of the recruiting poster, in this light, If the cap fits, one is British. if the helmet fits, one is not.
This does not, of course, mean that helmets were not used at all by the British troops — but rather that, until the autumn of 1915, core meanings and contexts of use were somewhat different. A demand for helmets was, for example, common from the early weeks of war. “You ask me if I want anything’, states a letter in the archive (reprinted in the Scotsman in December 1914). As the writer elaborated, the answer was a definite ‘Yes’: Continue reading →
To be under fire is perhaps an inevitable condition of war. Across the Words in War-Time Archive, the phrase appears with striking frequency, appearing in sources which report on action from the Front as well as in the purple prose by which, early in the war, the ‘sublime comradeship’ of war could, as in the extract below, be extolled:
Comradeship! It is a wonderful word, a binding of soul to soul, heart to heart in a bond that death alone can sever. Comradeship, which breeds simple faith, fine endurance, noble self-sacrifice rising to self-obliteration. What a splendid virtue! To see it on the battlefield, under fire, is to see it transfigured, consecrated into the sublime (Daily Express 10 Sept 1914)
Outside rhetorical positioning of this kind, fire occupied a prime place in military diction, whether in assessments of firepower (‘the total effectiveness of the fire of guns, missiles, etc., of a military force’, a word first used in 1913 according to the OED) or in offering accounts of fire-trenches – another form which antedates WW1 (it is dated to 1909 in the OED) but which was swiftly assimilated into the complexities of trench warfare after 1914. Fire-screens (in uses still unrecorded in the OED) and fire-steps become—among a range of other forms — other common components in narrating conflict at this time:
A major led his men instead of using them in the conventional fashion as a fire screen, and was shot down before he had gone twenty feet. A mere handful of soldiers had followed him, and these, too, were mown down by machine guns (Daily Express, 1915-03-02)**
From the beginning of the war, fire – as ‘flame’ rather than with reference to the various projectiles which might be used — had, however, also been used as weapon per se. A propensity to use flame was, for example, often depicted as a further manifestation of German barbarity, underpinning the characterisation of the enemy as firebugs in the sense ‘an incendiary’ or someone who was, by definition, inclined to use arson. Arch-firebug (in a particularly Germanic compound) was similar, while carbonize, as other posts on this site have explored, likewise comes into marked prominence in early news reporting (and atrocity propaganda).
Being under fire could, in such instances, be rendered strikingly literal. That the newly devised Black Maria was ‘intended to set things on fire’ is, for example,also carefully documented in Andrew Clark’s examination of the new words and meanings of war, while words such as fire-lightertake on newly specific senses in recounting German methods of attack:
Quantities of “fire lighters” – so indispensable to a German army on the march – are stored with tins of benzine one of the military depots on the outskirts of the city. It would be an easy matter for a brigade of these well-trained incendiaries to set Brussels ablaze from end to end in an hour.
Following came the bearers of heavy tubes of petrol fitted with sprays, with which they drenched the woodwork and furniture of each room thus exposed, then the firelighters with their long torches, smeared with a substance which makes them glow like live coals and emit an intense heat without flame.
Dated to September 1914, the firing of Belgian cities such as Louvain is thereby depicted as a two-stage process. Fire-lighters (sense 1) are devices which spray petrol which are used to prepare the ground. Then come the fire-lighters (sense 2) — the ‘well-trained incendiaries’ who, bearing ‘long torches’, ignite the fuel.
As other articles explore, however, still more terrifying was the conflation of these two stages by means of a single weapon. This yielded another new word together with a range of associated synonyms. As the Daily Express explained to its readers in July 1915, for example, it was the flammenwerfer which was used to direct ‘liquid fire’ not at physical structures such as buildings or streets, but at soldiers in the trenches. Continue reading →