Vera Brittain’s Sisters at Lemnos; Henry Williamson’s Sister Assigned to a Lonely Soldier

Vera Brittain‘s life and her private writing are a major focus of this project. But she also writes verse, with an eye to publication, and this we’ve seen very little of. “The Sisters Buried at Lemnos,” written last year while en route to Malta, was first published in a magazine at her former school, St. Monica’s. It has now moved up one significant wrung: today, a century back, it was published in The Oxford Magazine.

The Sisters Buried at Lemnos

O Golden Isle set in the deep blue Ocean,
With purple shadows flitting o’er thy crest,
I kneel to thee in reverent devotion
Of some who on thy bosom lie at rest!

Seldom they enter into song or story;
Poets praise the soldier’s might and deeds of War,
But few exalt the Sisters, and the glory
Of women dead beneath a distant star.

No armies threatened in that lonely station,
They fought not fire or steel or ruthless foe,
But heat and hunger, sickness and privation,
And Winter’s deathly chill and blinding snow.

Till mortal frailty could endure no longer
Disease’s ravages and climate’s power,
In body weak, but spirit ever stronger,
Courageously they stayed to meet their hour.

No blazing tribute through the wide world flying,
No rich reward of sacrifice they craved,
The only meed of their victorious dying
Lives in the heart of humble men they saved.

Who when in light the Final Dawn is breaking,
Still faithful, though the world’s regard may cease,
Will honour, splendid in triumphant waking,
The souls of women, lonely here at peace.

O golden Isle with purple shadows falling
Across thy rocky shore and sapphire sea,
I shall not picture these without recalling
The sisters sleeping on the heart of thee!

Vera Brittain

First, literature. This, needless to say, is an effort that reflects neither Brittain’s incisive prose style nor her mounting frustration and “threadbare” patriotism. But then again, for Vera Brittain, 1916 was a long time ago. Is a change in her style coming, or will she soldier on in the mold of a Minor Sister of St. Rupert, combining unreflective reflections on sacrifice with beautiful sentiments, and no thoughts particularly sharp or unyielding?

Second, politics. This is a traditionalist poem, but its argument is quite progressive. Given how thoroughly Vera’s emotional life–especially as reflected in her correspondence–revolves around four young male soldiers, it’s easy to forget that few women (especially women of her class, but that’s another matter) entered into active war service. There is still enough public discomfort with the idea of well-bred young “girls” handling the bodies of young men that she does not dwell, here, on just how difficult and intimate that service is. Instead, she uses her first acquaintance with women as actual casualties of the war to make an unassailable feminist argument: that, if they should die, think only this of them–they have as much claim to this rhetoric of beautiful sacrifice as any doomed officer…

Stranger by far is our other bit of writing for today, a century back. Henry Williamson has just finished haranguing his mother when a parcel arrives, necessitating a short thank you note.

Dear Mater,

Thanks for vests recd yesterday. We are very busy, as we have many new drafts, and shortly shall kill a few more Bosches I expect. There is no leave. Love to all. HWW.

But the letter has a striking and strange enclosure: a note to his sister Doris, asking her to take on the role of pen-pal and gift-giver to one of the men in his company.

Dear Biddy,

Just a hasty line to you. Will you send a small parcel including sweets etc and a pipe (about 1/6) and about 100 Woodbines etc to this man–68348 Driver G. Bevan, 208 MGCoy, BEF France–with a note stating you have heard he is a lonely soldier, & would he care to accept etc etc etc. Don’t mention your connection with me but sign your proper name and address. You might write him a letter, & mention that a parcel is coming. Make it a decent one up to 10/- or so & Father will give you the money from my a/c. No time now, love Harry.^[1]

Is this simply a charitable impulse? It seems a bit unwise, as, though surely Williamson is a common-enough name, the driver might have cause to wonder whether this sudden London Williamson benefactress is any relation of his young lieutenant’s. Impulsive or inscrutable, Williamson always has some sort of surprise up his sleeve…