I am a little more than halfway through Tolkien and the Great War and I am enjoying it immensely. I think my enjoyment stems from my love of history and the origins of greatness, and from my appreciation for war journalism and war histories.
Tolkien’s closest friends during this time were his Oxford pals (the TCBSers) Rob Gilson, Christopher Wiseman, and G.B. Smith. These young fellows wrote letters to each other, encouraged each other, sent their poetry for critique and discussion, and mourned their dead friends together. Rob Gilson was the first to die, struck down by a shell during the early days of the terrible Battle of the Somme.
A bit of correspondence and some war poetry, as recounted in the chapter “Castles in the Air”, stood out for me today as I read them. They are reproduced below.
The first is an excerpt from a letter written to Tolkien by his friend Christopher Wiseman as Tolkien was recovering from trench fever. This is prophetic:
“I am convinced that if you do come out in print you will startle our generation as no one has yet . . . Really it is presumptuous in me to say anything about the poems themselves, but I am afraid they will kill the dear old XIXth Century altogether . . .”
The second item is two verses of war poetry written by G. B. Smith, who would later die from an infected shrapnel wound. War poetry, meaning poetry written by the soldiers who experienced the maelstrom, affects me greatly. World War I was, indeed, a catastrophe for an entire generation of young men.
Who battled have with bloody hands
Through evil times in barren lands,
To whom the voice of guns
Speaks and no longer stuns . . .– G. B. Smith
And in this poem he addresses the spirits of dead friends. He would soon be joining them:
Shapes in the mist, ye see me lonely,
Lonely and sad in the dim firelight;
How far now to the last of all battles?
(Listen, the guns are loud tonight!)– G. B. Smith
