Jennifer Bohnhoff
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The Thiepval Memorial

9/14/2023

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Back in 2019, when I was researching World War I for A Blaze of Poppies, I had the honor of touring battlefields and memorials in Belgium and France. It was a sobering experience, and one of the most sobering was the memorial outside the little town of Thiepval, in Picardy, France. 
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The Thiepval Memorial is dedicated to the men of the British Commonwealth who went missing in the Battles that occurred in the Somme between 1915 and 1918 and whose bodies have not been found. Designed by Sir Edwin Landseer Lutyens, one of the most famous architects of the time, it is the only memorial that Edward VIII ever dedicated, since he abdicated soon after. 

Inside the memorial, a large inscription on an internal surface of the memorial reads:


Here are recorded
names of officers
and men of the
British Armies who fell
on the Somme battlefields
July 1915 February 1918
but to whom
the fortune of war
denied the known
and honoured burial
given to their
comrades in death.

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Piers of Portland stone
are engraved with over 72,000 names. 90 per cent of these soldiers died in the first Battle of the Somme, between 1 July and 18 November 1916. 

Because the monument is reserved for those missing or unidentified soldiers who have no known grave, a soldier’s name is excised from the wall by filling in the inscription with cement when his body is found and identified. The remains are then given a funeral with full military honors at a cemetery close to the location at which they were discovered. This practice has resulted in numerous gaps in the lists of names. 80 names came off the monument 2018. 


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Just behind the Thiepval Memorial lies two cemeteries that commemorate the joint nature of the 1916 offensive. One side of the cemetery holds 300 soldiers of the British Commonwealth under rectangular, white stone headstones inscribed with "A Soldier of the Great War / Known unto God". The other side holds the graves of 300 French soldiers under grey stone crosses that bear the single word "Inconnu" ('unknown'). Most of the soldiers buried here – 239 of the British Commonwealth and 253 of the French – are unidentified. Their bodies were found on the battlefields of the Somme and as far north as Loos and as far south as Le Quesnel, then reburied here between December 1931 and March 1932.
I'm not a numbers person, but over 72,000! Even if I can't really conceive a number that large, I know it is huge. And that's not the number of men who died in the area: it's the number of men who died and whose bodies were never recovered. It's astounding and beyond comprehension.  

World War I was supposed to be the Great War: the War to End All Wars. Yet here we are, over a hundred years later and wars rage throughout the globe. Clearly, we have not yet learned the lesson such carnage should have taught us. 


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Jennifer Bohnhoff is the author of a number of historical novels for middle grade through adult readers. A Blaze of Poppies is set in New Mexico and the French Battlefields in the time leading up to and including the American involvement in World War I. Her intent in writing the book was not to glorify war, but to give readers a taste of what life might have been like during that tumultuous period. 

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The Aisne-Marne American Cemetery: A Monument of Remembrance

10/20/2022

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Americans call November 11th Veteran's Day, and use the day to honor veterans of all wars . But originally November 11th observed Armistice Day, the when World War I ended, at least officially. .

There are many cemeteries in Belgium and France that hold the remains of Americans killed during the First World War. Unlike the cemeteries in Normandy, which contain those killed during the D-Day Invasion in World War Two, many of the World War 1 cemeteries recieve very few visitors each year.


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The Aisne-Marne American Cemetery covers 42.5-acres at the foot of the hills that holds Belleau Wood. It contains the graves of 2,289 war dead. Most of these men came from the U.S. 2nd Division, which included the 4th Marine Brigade, and fought in the 20 day long battle for Belleau Wood. Also buried here are soldiers from the 3rd Division who  arrived in Château-Thierry and blocked German forces on the north bank of the Marne throughout June.and July of 1918.

The second largest number of New Mexicans killed in France during World War I died at the Battle of Chateau-Thierry. Many of them were part of  Battery A of the New Mexico National Guard, which came from Roswell. The 28 New Mexicans killed in this battle are interred at the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery together with 2,261 AEF soldiers.  

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The carved marble at the top of the pillars that flank the entrance to the French Romanesque chapel depict soldiers engaged in battle in the trenches.
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One of the stained glass windows inside displays the insignias of American divisions engaged in the area. Another window has the crests of countries on the Allied side of the war.
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The inside of the chapel is inscribed with the names of 1060 men who were missing after the battles. Some of those names have a small brass star next to them. That means the body was later found and identified.
It has been over a hundred years since World War I ended. There are no veterans left for us to honor. But we must never forget, and we must continue to honor the men who went "over there" and fought to keep us free. 

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Jennifer Bohnhoff is a native New Mexico with an interest in history. In 2019, she had the privilege of touring the Aisne-Marne American Cemetery and walking through Belleau Wood. That experience led her to writing A Blaze of Poppies, a novel about New Mexico's involvement in World War I. 

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War on the Border: A nonfiction Book Review

1/19/2022

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If you've read my novel A Blaze of Poppies, you'll know a little about Black Jack Pershing, Pancho Villa, the raid on Columbus, and the American response.  If you'd like to know more, Jeff Guinn's War on the Border: Willa, Pershing, the Texas Rangers, and an American Invasion (Simon & Schuster; May 18, 2021) would be a good place to start. 

Guinn does a good job of explaining the turmoil in Mexico in the first few decades of the 20th century.  and how a M
exican general named José Doroteo Arango Arámbula, but who went by the name of Pancho Villa, was a key figure in it. Guinn analyzes the nature and temperament of each man in this battle of wills and does a good job of explaining the ebb and flow of power. While most men in positions of power in the goverment sided with the rich and landed aristocracy, Villa championed the poor and landless. He helped force out President Porfirio Díaz when Diaz did not do enough to promote land reform, led forces that outsted the right-wing General Victoriano Huerta, then after helping him attain the presidency, turned against Venustiano Carranza when the new president dragged his feet over promised social reforms. 

Villa, who had been a supporter of the United States, changed his mind when the US continued to back Carranza. 


On March 9, 1916, Villa led about 600 of his soldiers across the border and raided the town of Columbus, New Mexico, about 3 miles into American territory. There are many theories why Villa did this, but Guinn asserts that he wanted to provoke the United States Army into chasing him back across the border to prove to the Mexican people that Carranza was too weak to oppose their neighbor to the north. He expected an American invasion to lead to Carranza's overthrow.

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​Villa expected the raid on the little border town would be quick and easy, and he would come away with much needed ammunition, horses, and supplies. The spies he had sent into town earlier reported that Camp Funsten, the small Army facility charged with protecting the border, was only sparsely manned. The spies were wrong, and the raid turned into into a full battle that resulted in the deaths of 8 American soldiers, 67 Mexican soldiers, and 10 civilians. Guinn does a good job of detailing the raid. He questions the report of Colonel Herbert Jermain Slocum, the commander of the 13th Cavalry who was in charge of the installation.  

Villa was right about what the raid would do. President Woodrow Wilson, egged on by angry Americans, ordered General John "Black Jack" Pershing to organize a Punitive Expedition into Mexico. Pershing was to defeat Villa's troops, but soon found that the Mexican people, and the Mexican Government did not support his mission. After a year of attempting to avoid confrontation with Federal Mexican Troops, Pershing declared the mission a success and complete and returned home. 

Guinn's narrative goes beyond the Punitive Expedition. He details violence all along the border, including the frequent and bloody clashes in Texas. Guinn is particularly damning of the imperiousness of an American foreign policy that looked down on Mexico as a poor and illiterate neighbor, and of Texas Rangers who looked more like members of the Ku Klux Klan than protectors of the innocent. 

I was particularly interested in what Guinn had to say about the relations between Japan and Germany during this period. I thought I knew the contents of the Zimmerman telegram fairly well but didn't know about the overtures Germany had made to Japan, including offering them California while Mexico took back the remaining border states.

I wish Guinn had said more about Villa's death, which is covered in a single sentence in the epilogue of this book. The last chapter also explains how Columbus remains divided about the Raid and its meaning even today.

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Jennifer Bohnhoff was born in Las Cruces, New Mexico, not far from the border with Mexico. She now lives near Albuquerque, where she taught High School and Middle School History and English. Her novel, A Blaze of Poppies, is the story of a female rancher in Southern New Mexico who is caught up in the Pancho Villa Raid and goes overseas as a nurse when America enters World War I. 

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Poet’s Corner and the Poets of WWI

1/16/2022

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Because over 100 poets, playwrights and writers are buried there, the South Transept of Westminster Abbey in London, England is known as Poets' Corner.
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Geoffrey Chaucer, author of 'The Canterbury Tales,” was the first poet interred in Poets' Corner. When he was buried there in 1400, it was not because he was a poet, but because he was Clerk of the King's Works. 198 years later, Edmund Spenser, author of 'The Faerie Queene,' asked to be buried near Chaucer. This began the tradition of either interring famous writers there or erecting memorials for those buried elsewhere. William Shakespeare, Jane Austen, the Bronte sisters and Charles Dickens, Rudyard Kipling and Thomas Hardy are all represented in this area of Westminster. More recent memorials acknowledge Ted Hughes, C.S. Lewis and Philip Larkin. Not everyone buried or memorialized in the South Transept are poets. Musician George Frederic Handel is also buried there, as are several prominent clergymen and actors. 

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On November 11, 1985 a memorial stone was laid in Poets Corner recognizing the poets of World War I. This stone has the name of 16 British poets who also served as soldiers during the Great War. Some had died during the war. Others went on to live full lives. All seemed tormented by their experiences. At the time of its dedication, only Robert Graves was alive to see his name etched in the stone.
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In 2021, as part of my promotion for my World War I book, A Blaze of Poppies, I wrote a series of blogs on World War I poets. I included all of the poets whose names are on the Westminster stone, plus a few who were American or Canadian. Links to each of these blogs is listed below. The names in red are on the stone. The names in green are not. Names in purple did not serve in the war, but wrote about it. May all of these names continue to be remembered both for their service on the battlefield and their contributions to our literary heritage.

Edward Thomas https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/october-14th-2021
Richard Aldington https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/trench-idyll-of-richard-aldington
Siegfried Sassoon https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/siegfried-sassoon
Robert Graves https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/two-fusiliers-and-two-poets
Laurence Binyon https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/for-the-fallen
Isaac Rosenberg  https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/break-of-day-in-the-trenches
Julian Grenfell https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/a-poem-to-lead-men-into-battle
 Henry Chappell  https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/a-poem-for-a-horse
Wilfred Owen https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/dulce-et-decorum-est
John McCrae https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/in-flanders-fields
Ivor Gurney https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/on-somme-by-ivor-gurney
Alan Seeger https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/a-rendevous-with-death
Edmund Blunden https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/a-poet-looks-back-at-world-war-i
Rupert Brooke https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/rupert-brooke-the-golden-boy-of-wwi-poets
Wilfrid Gibson https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/two-poems-by-wilfrid-wilson-gibson
David Jones https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/david-jones-wwi-poet-and-painter
Robert Nichols https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/robert-nichols-wwi-poet
Charles Sorley https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/charles-hamilton-sorley-world-war-i-poet
Herbert Read https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/herbert-read-world-war-i-poet
Edgar Albert Guest https://jenniferbohnhoff.com/thin-air-my-blog-about-writing-and-my-books/the-wrist-watch-man


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Jennifer Bohnhoff's novel A Blaze of Poppies was published in October 2021, and tells the story of a ranching woman from Southern New Mexico during the turbulent years of World War !. It is on sale on Amazon for .99 from January 15-20, 2022. 

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Herbert Read: World War I Poet

11/24/2021

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Herbert Read was unlike many of the young, privileged Englishmen who left university to prove themselves in the bloody cauldron of war. Born in Yorkshire, he was the eldest child of a tenant farmer who died when he was still young. Because they didn’t own the farm, the family had to leave. Read was sent to a school for orphans. His mother took a job managing a laundry. 
Read considered studying medicine after graduation. As a way to pay for it, he joined the local unit of the Royal Army Medical Corps and received a commission in the Green Howards, a Yorkshire Regiment. By the time he entered the University of Leeds, he’d decided that medicine wasn’t for him, so he transferred from the Medical Corps to the Officer Training Corps, where he found himself surrounded by men who had come through Eton or other public schools. Compared to them, Read felt provincial.
When the War broke out, Read left his studies and was shipped overseas.  He found that he was far more comfortable dealing with the sixty or so men in his platoon than the other officers. His platoon was filled with men who had done hard work in the mines and factories of Durham and North Yorkshire. Many were older and more experienced than he, who became a captain in his early twenties, but he developed a good repoire with them.  His fellow officers struck him as “snobbish and intolerant.”
He soon realized that “all the proud pretensions which men had acquired from a conventional environment” became insignificant at the front, and his fatalistic soldiers with their “Every bullet has it billet. What’s the use of worryin’?” attitude coped better than “men of mere brute strength, the footballers and school captains.”
Politically, Herbert Read was what the English call a “Quietist Anarchist.” He was no waver of flags and felt no fervor for one people over another. He expressed hope that the relationships that he had developed in the trenches would lead to new social movement after the war, and that class conflict and nationalities would be abandoned for a more egalitarian, universal social order. He saw signs that the world had wearied of war and was ready to put aside nationalism in this remembrance:


In April, 1918, when on a daylight ‘contact’ patrol with two of my men, we suddenly confronted, round some mound or excavation, a German patrol of the same strength. We were perhaps twenty yards from each other, fully visible. I waved a weary hand, as if to say: What is the use of killing each other? The German officer seemed to understand, and both parties turned and made their way back to their own trenches. Reprehensible conduct, no doubt, but in April, 1918, the war-weariness of the infantry was stronger than its pugnacity, on both sides of the line 
However, when the end finally came, Read found that he had lost too much to sustain much hope. His youngest brother, who had followed him into the Green Howards and had served on the Italian Front, died of a bullet shot in the last few months of war, leaving him in a state of grief that allowed no sympathy or consolation. Others, he knew, felt similarly. “We left the war as we entered it: dazed, indifferent, incapable of any creative action. We had acquired only one new quality: exhaustion.” 
When the Armistice came, a month later, I had no feelings, except possibly of self-congratulation. By then I had been sent to dreary barracks on the outskirts of Canterbury. There were misty fields around us, and perhaps a pealing bell to celebrate our victory. But my heart was numb and my mind dismayed: I turned to the fields and walked away from all human contacts.
Read, who earned both the Distinguished Service Order and the Military Cross, wrote two volumes of poetry based upon his war experiences: Songs of Chaos (1915) and Naked Warriors (1919). His poems are seen as a bridge between the lyrical forms used by Owen, Sassoon, and Graves and the epic form used by David Jones in In Parenthesis.  His poem, Kneeshaw goes to War, which I have included here, tells the story of one soldier who finds his personal meaning through, or in spite of, the horrific experiences he endured during the war. 
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Aerial view of the Polygonveld (Polygon Wood) 25 June 1917. The town of Zonnebeke shelled to annihilation during WWI.

Kneeshaw goes to War

1

Ernest Kneeshaw grew
In the forest of his dreams
Like a woodland flower whose anaemic petals
Need the sun.

Life was a far perspective
Of high black columns
Flanking, arching and encircling him.
He never, even vaguely, tried to pierce
The gloom about him,
But was content to contemplate
His finger-nails and wrinkled boots.

He might at least have perceived
A sexual atmosphere;
But even when his body burned and urged
Like the buds and roots around him,
Abash'd by the will-less promptings of his flesh,
He continued to contemplate his feet.

2

Kneeshaw went to war.
On bleak moors and among harsh fellows
They set about with much painstaking
To straighten his drooping back:

But still his mind reflected things
Like a cold steel mirror — emotionless;
Yet in reflecting he became accomplish'd
And, to some extent,
Divested of ancestral gloom.
Then Kneeshaw crossed the sea.
At Boulogne
He cast a backward glance across the harbours
And saw there a forest of assembled masts and rigging.
Like the sweep from a releas'd dam,
His thoughts flooded unfamiliar paths:

This forest was congregated
From various climates and strange seas:
Hadn't each ship some separate memory
Of sunlit scenes or arduous waters?
Didn't each bring in the high glamour
Of conquering force?
Wasn't the forest-gloom of their assembly
A body built of living cells,
Of personalities and experiences
— A witness of heroism
Co-existent with man?

And that dark forest of his youth --
Couldn't he liberate the black columns
Flanking, arching, encircling him with dread?
Couldn't he let them spread from his vision like a fleet
Taking the open sea,
Disintegrating into light and colour and the fragrance of winds?
And perhaps in some thought they would return
Laden with strange merchandise --
And with the passing thought
Pass unregretted into far horizons.

These were Kneeshaw's musings
Whilst he yet dwelt in the romantic fringes.

3

Then, with many other men,
He was transported in a cattle-truck
To the scene of war.
For a while chance was kind
Save for an inevitable
Searing of the mind.
But later Kneeshaw's war
Became intense.
The ghastly desolation
Sank into men's hearts and turned them black --
Cankered them with horror.
Kneeshaw felt himself
A cog in some great evil engine,
Unwilling, but revolv'd tempestuously
By unseen springs.
He plunged with listless mind
Into the black horror.

4

There are a few left who will find it hard to forget
Polygonveld.
The earth was scarr'd and broken
By torrents of plunging shells;
Then wash'd and sodden with autumnal rains.
And Polygonbeke
(Perhaps a rippling stream
In the days of Kneeshaw's gloom)
Spread itself like a fatal quicksand, --
A sucking, clutching death.
They had to be across the beke
And in their line before dawn.
A man who was marching by Kneeshaw's side
Hesitated in the middle of the mud,
And slowly sank, weighted down by equipment and arms.
He cried for help;
Rifles were stretched to him;
He clutched and they tugged,
But slowly he sank.
His terror grew --
Grew visibly when the viscous ooze
Reached his neck.
And there he seemed to stick,
Sinking no more.
They could not dig him out --
The oozing mud would flow back again.

The dawn was very near.

An officer shot him through the head:
Not a neat job — the revolver
Was too close.

5

Then the dawn came, silver on the wet brown earth.

Kneeshaw found himself in the second wave:
The unseen springs revolved the cog
Through all the mutations of that storm of death.
He started when he heard them cry " Dig in!"
He had to think and couldn't for a while.
Then he seized a pick from the nearest man
And clawed passionately upon the churned earth.
With satisfaction his pick
Cleft the skull of a buried man.
Kneeshaw tugged the clinging pick,
Saw its burden and shrieked.

For a second or two he was impotent
Vainly trying to recover his will, but his senses prevailing.

Then mercifully
A hot blast and riotous detonation
Hurled his mangled body
Into the beautiful peace of coma.

6

There came a day when Kneeshaw,
Minus a leg, on crutches,
Stalked the woods and hills of his native land.
And on the hills he would sing this war-song:

The forest gloom breaks:
The wild black masts
Seaward sweep on adventurous ways:
I grip my crutches and keep
A lonely view.

I stand on this hill and accept
The pleasure my flesh dictates
I count not kisses nor take
Too serious a view of tobacco.

Judas no doubt was right
In a mental sort of way:
For he betrayed another and so
With purpose was self-justified.
But I delivered my body to fear --
I was a bloodier fool than he.

I stand on this hill and accept
The flowers at my feet and the deep
Beauty of the still tarn:
Chance that gave me a crutch and a view
Gave me these.

The soul is not a dogmatic affair
Like manliness, colour, and light;
But these essentials there be:
To speak truth and so rule oneself
That other folk may rede.

 

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Jennifer Bohnhoff used to teach high school and middle school English, and she often included a unit on the World War I poets. She has now retired and writes from the quietness of her own mountain home. He most recent book, A Blaze of Poppies, is about the experience of two New Mexicans during the Great War.

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Charles Hamilton Sorley, World War I Poet

11/17/2021

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Charles Hamilton Sorley was born on May 19, 1895 in Aberdeen, Scotland. His father was a professor of moral philosophy. The family moved to Cambridge when Sorley was five.  He attended King’s College choir school and, like fellow WWI poet Siegfried Sassoon, Marlborough College, where he ran cross-country. Several of his pre-war poems are about running, especially in the rain.
 
Sorley received a scholarship to University College, Oxford. Before attending, however, he decided to spend sometime in Germany. He spent three months studying language and culture at Schwerin, then enrolled at the University of Jena. When Britain declared war on Germany, he was detained for a brief time, then told to leave the country.
 
Sorley returned to England and volunteered for military service. He joined the Suffolk Regiment, which arrived at the Western Front in May 1915. Sorley quickly rose from lieutenant to captain. On October 13, 1915 he was killed in action during the Battle of Loos by a sniper’s head shot. His last poem, “When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead” was discovered in his kitbag after his death.

The first collection of Sorley’s poetry, titled Marlborough and other Poems, was published posthumously and went through six editions in the first year. Sorley’s deeply conflicted attitude about war is evident in his poetry and is likely due to his time in Germany.  was from its start. His poetry has been called ambivalent, ironic, and profound. In his autobiographical book Goodbye to All That, Robert Graves counted Sorley, along with Wilfred Owen and Isaac Rosenberg as “the three poets of importance killed during the war.” 

'When You See Millions of the Mouthless Dead'
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When you see millions of the mouthless dead
Across your dreams in pale battalions go,
Say not soft things as other men have said,
That you'll remember. For you need not so.
Give them not praise. For, deaf, how should they know
It is not curses heaped on each gashed head?
Nor tears. Their blind eyes see not your tears flow.
Nor honour. It is easy to be dead.
Say only this, “They are dead.” Then add thereto,
“Yet many a better one has died before.”
Then, scanning all the o'ercrowded mass, should you
Perceive one face that you loved heretofore,
It is a spook. None wears the face you knew.
Great death has made all his for evermore.

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The Last Men to Die in WWI

11/11/2021

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The Armistice that ended World War I was officially signed at 5:45 a.m., but, to allow time for the news to reach combatants, it did not go into effect until 11am. In many sections of the front, fighting continued right up until the appointed hour. One reason this happened is because many soldiers did not trust the armistice and were sure that the war would continue on. Other soldiers wanted to reduce the stockpile of shells so that they wouldn’t have to carry so much back after the war.
The continued fighting resulted in 10,944 casualties on the last day of the war. 2,738 of those men died. Here are the last to die among some of the Allied troops: 
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The last British soldier to die was George Edwin Ellison, a private in the 5th Royal Irish Lancers. He was killed by a sniper around 9:30 a.m. while he was scouting on the outskirts of Mons, Belgium. 40 years old at the time of his death, Ellison had been both a soldier and a coal miner before the war, and volunteered at the beginning of World War I. He left behind a wife and four-year-old son. He is buried in the British cemetery at Mons, close to the grave of the first British soldier to die in the war. ​

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Also buried close to Ellison is Private George Lawrence Price, who was also shot by a sniper. Price, a Canadian, is recognized as the last Commonwealth, soldier to die. He was part of a force advancing into the Belgian town of Ville-sur-Haine, just north of Mons, when he was shot at 10:58, just two minutes before the armistice.

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The last Frenchman to die was Augustin Trébuchon, who was a shepherd who played the accordion for village parties before he joined joined the 415th Infantry Regiment as a messenger in August of 1914. On November 11, 1918, he had been sent to deliver a message to the 163rd Infantry Division, which had been ordered to attack an élite German unit, the Hannetons at Vrigne-sur-Meuse, in the Ardennes. He was killed fifteen minutes before the Armistice was supposed to begin. 

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The message that was still in his hand when is body was found said that hot soup would be served at 11:30, half an hour after the ceasefire. Like many grave markers of French soldiers killed on the last day of battle, his says that he died on November 10th. ​

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The last American to die was killed just one minute before the Armistice. Henry Gunther had recently been demoted, and may have been trying to redeem his reputation when he charged a German roadblock and was mowed down by a short burst of machine gun fire. This picture is the one that is on his grave marker. 

On this Veteran's Day, we remember all who have served their country and been lost in war, and we pray for peace for the families and loved ones left behind. 
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David Jones, WWI Poet and Painter

11/3/2021

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David Jones is not the most recognized of the World War I poets, but his work is considered among the finest.

Jones was born on November 1, 1895 in a suburb of London. His mother was a Londoner, but his father, who was a printer for the Christian Herald Press, was Welsh and had grown up in Wales. David’s father learned to speak English to help his career. However, he sang Welsh songs, and that stimulated his son’s interest in Welsh language and Welsh mythology.

His parents belonged to the Church of England. David Jones converted to Roman Catholicism after the war. Both his Welsh heritage and his religion are very evident in his artistic work.

Jones knew by the time he was six years old Jones knew that he wanted to be an artist. When he was 14, he entered Camberwell Art School, where he studied literature and the Impressionist and Pre-Raphaelite schools of art. His teachers had worked with Van Gogh and Gauguin, who both influenced his style. By the time the First World War broke out, he was already a very successful watercolor painter, focusing mostly on portraits and landscapes. His work as a wood-engraver was also well known. 

At the beginning of the war, Jones tried to join the Artists' Rifles, but they rejected him because his lungs were weak. Undeterred, he enlisted in the London Welsh Battalion (the 15th) of the Royal Welch Fusiliers. He served on the Western Front from 1915 to 1918.  He was wounded at Mametz Wood, recuperated in England, then returned to the Ypres Salient, where he participated in the attack on Pilckem Ridge at Passchendaele. In 1918 he contracted trench fever and nearly died. He spent the rest of the war stationed in Ireland.

Like many men, Jones’ own personal war continued long after the Armistice was signed. Jones suffered from shell-shock, which is now called post-traumatic stress disorder. In order to combat it, he threw himself in to his art. In 1932, his work has risen to such a frenzied state that he finished 60 large paintings in just four months. He also worked on writing, including a first draft of his epic work In Parenthesis. But such drive could not continue, and in October 1932 Jones suffered a nervous breakdown. So profoundly was Jones shaken that he was not able to paint again for 16 years.  

During the period in which he could not paint, Jones work on In Parenthesis, an epic recalling his experiences in the war through the eyes of a fictional character. The title implies that the events take place in a parenthesis of life – during a period that was set aside and distinct from what came before and what came afterward. It is a long and lyrical poem that is at once specifically about one man’s experiences in a specific war and about war in general, and it is filled with Biblical allustions, Welsh folklore, and allusions to Shakespeare and Malory’s Morte d’Arthur.

Praise was heaped on In Parenthesis and on Jones when it was published in 1937. It won the Hawthornden prize, which at the time was Britain’s only major literary award. T.S. Eliot praised the poem for using words in a new way and W. H. Auden declared it "the greatest book about the First World War." The war historian Michael Howard called it "the most remarkable work of literature to emerge from either world war." Graham Greene thought it "among the great poems of the century." In 1996 the poet and novelist Adam Thorpe said "it towers above any other prose or verse memorial of ... any war." The art historian Herbert Read called it "one of the most remarkable literary achievements of our time."  Dylan Thomas wished that he had "done anything as good as David Jones." Hugh MacDiarmid announced that Jones was "the greatest native British poet of the century," and Igor Stravinsky thought him "perhaps the greatest living writer in English". Some have said that Jones did for England what Homer did for the Greeks.

Despite all the praise heaped upon Jones, he is not well read. His highly allusive poems are difficult and long; definitely not appropriate for including in a blog such as this. Reading one is a major undertaking. His visual arts have ascended even as his written ones have fallen in favor, and his paintings now command a hefty price.
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In 1970, Jones fell and broke the ball of his femur. He never fully recovered and died on October 28, 1974. 



Jennifer Bohnhoff's novel A Blaze of Poppies is set in New Mexico and the battlefields and field hospitals of France during World War I. 
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Rupert Brooke, The Golden Boy of WWI Poets

10/27/2021

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In his day, the handsome and charming Rupert Brooke was a celebrity. In Dictionary of Literary Biography, Doris L. Eder calls him "a golden-haired, blue-eyed English Adonis." The Irish poet W B. Yeats called him “the most handsome man in Britain". But it was his poetry that made Brooke a national hero.
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Brooke had his finger on the pulse of the nation. Before the outbreak of World War I, the British were proud colonialists, confident in their strength and proud of their ability to control an empire that stretched around the globe. But the Pax Britannia, the relatively peaceful world that Britain’s control had secured, weighed heavily on its restless and pampered youth, of which Brooke was one.

Brooke was born into a privileged family on August 3, 1887. He attended Rugby, where he was a head prefect and captain of the rugby team. At Cambridge University he studied Classics and moved in intellectual circles. After college he traveled to America and the South Seas and spent a year in Germany. His first book of poems, published in 1911, were not well received. However, one of his poems written in Germany in 1912 touched the hearts of the English and catapulted him into the limelight. The speaker in "The Old Vicarage, Grantchester," is a homesick Englishman who asks 

“Stands the Church clock at ten to three?
And is there honey still for tea?"

When war broke out in August 1914, Brooke, like the rest of the nation, was ready to join. His sonnet, "Peace," demonstrates how war was welcomed by a youth whose life felt frivolous and void of meaning. Wanting to prove himself, he enlisted in the Royal Naval Reserve and saw some brief action at Antwerp in October 1914.
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Brooke’s best-known poem, “The Soldier," was read from the pulpit on Easter Sunday 1915. The reader commented that “such enthusiasm of a pure and elevated patriotism had never found a nobler expression". On March 11, both the poem and the comment were repeated in The Times, and Rupert Brooke became Britain’s ideal handsome young warrior.   His poems expressed the idealism, patriotic fervor, and romantic sacrifice that the public wanted. 
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But Brooke would not live to hear the nation’s praises. He was sent east with the British Mediterranean Expeditionary Force at the start of the Gallipoli offensive.  While sailing aboard the transport ship Grantully Castle, he was bitten on his lip by a mosquito. The bite festered, and he was transferred to a French hospital ship that was anchored off the island of Skyros. About a week after his poem was red, Brooke died, of septicemia or blood poisoning, on April 23 1915. His friends buried him in an olive grove on Skyros. He was only 27 years old.

A month after Brooke’s death, his friend Edward Marsh rushed the poems he had written in his last few months of life into print. Titled “1914 and Other Poems,” the collection included a romantic photo of him with bare shoulders and flowing hair that made many a woman swoon. Brooke became, according to Bernard Bergonzi, author of Heroes’ Twilight, the “quintessential young Englishman; one of the fairest of the nation’s sons; a ritual sacrifice offered as evidence of the justice of the cause for which England fought.” People as varied as Virginia Woolf and Winston Churchill paid him homage. First published in May 1915, the book was so popular that it had been reprinted 24 times by June 1918.
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Brooke had expressed the sentiments of a nation anxious to show itself in war. As the war dragged on, the nation realized that it was not the glamorous, heroic show they had expected. Critics began to call Brooke’s poetry foolishly naive and sentimental, and harsher and more realistic poems began to grab the public imagination. There is little doubt that, had he lived longer and experienced some of the horrors other war poets did, Brooke’s poetry would have changed as well.
 

PeacE

Now, God be thanked who has matched us with his hour,
      And caught our youth, and wakened us from sleeping!
With hand made sure, clear eye, and sharpened power,
      To turn, as swimmers into cleanness leaping,
Glad from a world grown old and cold and weary;
      Leave the sick hearts that honor could not move,
And half-men, and their dirty songs and dreary,
      And all the little emptiness of love!
Oh! we, who have known shame, we have found release there,
      Where there’s no ill, no grief, but sleep has mending,
            Naught broken save this body, lost but breath;
Nothing to shake the laughing heart’s long peace there,
      But only agony, and that has ending;
            And the worst friend and enemy is but Death.

The Soldier

If I should die, think only this of me:
      That there’s some corner of a foreign field
That is for ever England. There shall be
      In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
      Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam;
A body of England’s, breathing English air,
      Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
 
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
      A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
            Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
      And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
            In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.


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Jennifer Bohnhoff lives and writes in the mountains of central New Mexico. Her latest book, A Blaze of Poppies, is the story of a young cowgirl struggling to keep the ranch during the tumultuous years leading up to and during World War I. It is available directly from the author and in paperback and ebook on Amazon. 

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Why the Ladies Dance

10/24/2021

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Morris dancing is a type of English folk that has been around since at least the fourteenth century. The earliest record of it is from May 19, 1448, when a ground of Morris dancers in London were paid 7s (35p) for their services. By Elizabethan times it was already considered to be an ancient dance, and references appear to it in a number of early plays
The term 'morris' most likely came from the French word morisque, which means 'a dance.'

Usually, Morris dancing is accompanied by music, but sometimes it is unaccompanied. The dancers often wear bell pads on their shins and carry sticks, swords or handkerchiefs.

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And up until the twentieth century, the rhythmic stepping and intricately choreographed figures were always, exclusively,  performed by men.

World War I changed that. 


During the First World War, much of the English countryside was largely devoid of their menfolk. Unless women stepped in, fields lay fallow and crops weren't harvested. The situation wasn't much better after the end of the war. In some English towns and villages, male mortality rate approached seventy percent. Just like the fields, women needed to step in if the tradition of Morris dancing was to continue. 

​In 1972, an English folk singer named Austin John Marshall heard someone commenting rather derisively on all the older women who participated in Morris dancing, and his heart went out to them.  Marshall knew that many of the older ladies who participated in Country Dance Societies were war widows, or women who had lost fiancés or lovers during the Great War. Country dancing kept the memory of their young men alive, and it kept a centuries-old tradition from dying out. 

Marshall wrote Whitsun Dance as a tribute to the widows, sweethearts, sisters and daughters of the men lost in World War I. He wrote it fifty years after the war ended. Another fifty has passed since that time. May we continue to keep alive the memories.

Whitsun Dance

It's fifty long springtimes since she was a bride,
But still you may see her at each Whitsuntide
In a dress of white linen with ribbons of green,
As green as her memories of loving.
The feet that were nimble tread carefully now,
As gentle a measure as age will allow,
Through groves of white blossoms, by fields of young corn,
Where once she was pledged to her true-love.
The fields they stand empty, the hedges grow (go) free--
No young men to turn them or pastures go see (seed)
They are gone where the forest of oak trees before
Have gone, to be wasted in battle.
Down from the green farmlands and from their loved ones
Marched husbands and brothers and fathers and sons.
There's a fine roll of honor where the Maypole once stood,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.
There's a straight row of houses in these latter days
All covering the downs where the sheep used to graze.
There's a field of red poppies (a gift from the Queen)
But the ladies remember at Whitsun,
And the ladies go dancing at Whitsun.


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Jennifer Bohnhoff's historical novel A Blaze of Poppies tells the story of a young rancher from Southern New Mexico who serves as a nurse in a French field hospital in a desperate attempt to keep her family's ranch from being sold, and to stay near the National Guardsman she has learned to love. You can read more about that novel here. 

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    ABout Jennifer Bohnhoff

    I am a former middle school teacher who loves travel and history, so it should come as no surprise that many of my books are middle grade historical novels set in beautiful or interesting places.  But not all of them.  I hope there's one title here that will speak to you personally and deeply.

    What I love most: that "ah hah" moment when a reader suddenly understands the connections between himself, the past, and the world around him.  Those moments are rarified, mountain-top experiences.



    Can't get enough of Jennifer Bohnhoff's blogs?  She's also on Mad About MG History.  

    ​
    Looking for more books for middle grade readers? Greg Pattridge hosts MMGM, where you can find loads of recommendations.

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