A Muddy Trench: Sniper's Bullet

Hamish Mann, Black Watch, Officer-Poet, 1896–1917

Jacquie Buttriss

• Publisher: Pen & Sword Military
• Year: 2018
• ISBN:
  9781526745101
• Topic: History
• Subtopic: World War I
• Index: History

The recent discovery of a wooden chest, unopened for 100 years revealed a treasure trove of eloquent trench diaries, letters and poetry. The author was Hamish Mann, a young Black Watch subaltern killed in France in 1917 just five days after his 21st birthday.Thanks to Manns outstanding literary gifts and prodigious output, this book re-lives his fateful journey from the declaration of war, his voluntary work at a military hospital, his training and commission and, finally, his service with 8th Black Watch on the Somme.The daily hardship and trauma he experienced at the Front were shared with countless thousands of his comrades. But Hamishs extraordinary gift was his ability to record the traumatic events and the range of his emotions, writing often in his dug-out by the light of a guttering candle.A century on, thanks to the Familys discovery and Jacquie Buttrisss sensitive commentary, Hamishs tragically short life can be celebrated and his literary legacy given the recognition it so richly deserves.

Chapter One

The Craigleith Chronicles

‘ With the utmost reluctance and with infinite regret, His Majesty’s Government have been compelled to put this country in a state of war.’

(Herbert Asquith to Parliament, 6 August 1914)

For 18-year-old Hamish Mann, with his career mapped out as a writer and actor, the declaration of war came as both an obstacle to fulfilling his dreams and a patriotic call to serve his country. ‘A fearful anticipation,’ he wrote in his notebook, next to details of the first of his friends to enlist: his long-time school friend C.S. Nimmo.

Inspired by the wave of patriotism that enveloped the nation, Hamish picked up his pen, as he always did at important moments of his life, and the words tumbled out onto paper. It wasn’t his best poem, but it certainly expresses the fervour he felt for the ideals of war against injustice.

BRITAIN IS AWAKE!

Sound the trumpet, beat the drum!

Throngs of khaki warriors come;

Belgium’s burning at the stake –

Britain is awake, awake!

Sound the pilbroch, blow the fife!

Honour’s dearer far than life.

Mark, O Germans, your mistake –

Britain is awake, awake!

Look! The guns go rumbling by,

Out to know the reason why;

Rattling wagons jolt and shake –

Britain is awake, awake!

Wave on high the Union Jack,

Send the foemen hurtling back!

Shout until Earth’s bowels quake –

BRITAIN IS AWAKE, AWAKE!

Later, Hamish wrote the first three pages of what he intended to be his personal memoir. The first paragraph looked back to this momentous sequence of events:

When the war broke out and overwhelmed the world in a veritable tornado of martial fury, I found myself of no use to the Army on account of a temporary weakness of the heart. It was not the little god who had caused this weakness, but something much more prosaic and matter-of-fact, namely too much physical exercise on a ‘push-bike’!

The youngest of a family of five, Alexander James Mann, known to all as Hamish, attended George Watson’s College, Edinburgh for most of his schooldays, where he took part in the Literary Club’s challenging debates, gave talks on natural sciences at the Field Club, enjoyed sports and joined the school’s Officer Training Corps (OTC) as a cadet.

A bright and popular boy with a talent for words, Hamish did well at school … until he fell seriously ill, aged 16, with an enlarged heart (now known as cardiomyopathy and potentially of much greater consequence than what he referred to as his ‘temporary weakness of heart’). Private tutoring at home occupied some of his obligatory quiet hours during his year-long illness and convalescence. His prolific output of seventy-three poems, plus articles, plays and other writings during this period, twenty-nine of them published in newspapers and periodicals, attest to his making the best use he could of his enforced bed-rest to polish his literary skills.

At the age of 17, while recovering some of his old impishness, Hamish fired off a variety of ironic and provocative letters to the editors of Scottish newspapers, all signed by a twist on his name, Jamie d’Homme. His first, on the opening of Edinburgh’s new Zoological Gardens, dared to suggest that wild animals might fare better in captivity than in the wild, thereby drawing, as he knew it would, much high dudgeon in the resulting letters of protest.

In response to Hamish’s next topic of clothing, his tongue-in-cheek criticisms of ‘women’s undress fashions’ and his suggestion that men too should be permitted to wear brightly-coloured clothes for all occasions brought a short but very clear put-down from an active group of 1913 feminists:

How dare he suggest that our sober (sometimes) and respectable males should convert themselves into circus funny men? If he thinks he’d look nice in pale blue satin knee-breeches, yellow stockings and a tartan coat, let him by all means don these elements of lunacy. … We are afraid ‘Jamie’ is a frivolous boy, and now that we have a zoo in Edinburgh we would advise him not to stray too far from home. ‘The Suffragettes’

(Edinburgh Evening Dispatch, 24 July 1913)

Known to have a keen sense of humour, ‘Jamie’ (or Hamish) must have enjoyed this repartee, which he carried on for the next six months, alongside his more serious writings.

Being a prolific writer in various genres, Hamish wrote plays, some of which were performed on the Edinburgh stage, as well as in smaller venues. Indeed, Hamish himself, once he was well enough, regularly acted on the stage of the Lyceum Theatre as a member of a repertory company.

Hamish kept a scrapbook of programmes and newspaper cuttings of some of his published plays and performances on various stages in Edinburgh and beyond. These include reviews (all of them complimentary) taken from the Edinburgh Evening News and the Edinburgh Dispatch, including this example from The Gentlewoman magazine of 9 January 1915:

On Saturday evening there was a really delightful entertainment, the principal feature being the production of a farcical ridiculosity by Hamish Mann, entitled My Eye! A Spy! arranged for two players, the author himself sustaining one part and Miss Rudland, a well-known Edinburgh actress, the other. This sketch found great favour with the audience, the crisp wit and droll situations provoking much mirth. Both players are to be congratulated on their clever representations.

A cutting from The Stage Year Book of 1915 lists Hamish among its ‘Authors of the Year’ for his play For £1,000, written when he was 18 and clearly making a name for himself on the national scene.

However, Hamish loved writing for local charities too. Indeed, he relished every challenge, as he demonstrated by writing a one-act play The King’s Enemy especially for the Boy Scouts, in which two clever young scouts track down some secret documents stolen by a German spy and repatriate them to the authorities.

Hamish subsequently received an enthusiastic letter from the scoutmaster:

Dear Sir,

I have your esteemed letter to hand. I am so glad to hear that you were satisfied with the characters in your play. I can assure you it was the hit of the evening, and thoroughly deserved the success it attained. You have placed me under your indebtedness for all time. I cannot express in mere words our gratitude to you …

Wishing you every success in your future career,

Yours most respectfully,

J. Robertson

A magazine review in the Catholic Herald recorded ‘high praise’ for both the acting and the play itself: ‘The play is well written and the characters well-defined. There are situations that completely carried the audience away. The play is thoroughly patriotic. Congratulations to Mr Mann!’

It was this very patriotism that evoked painful regrets for Hamish. Always lurking in the background of his daily life was the knowledge of his friends fighting the foe, ‘doing their bit’ for the war effort. As Hamish’s writings attest, hidden deep in his daily thoughts was his sense of disappointment and even despair that he could not pass the stringent medical necessary to join the army. This prompted him to write a short story: a ‘fiction’ that in fact mirrored almost exactly his own experience:

THE CHANCE

Lyndsay Macdonald was downcast and sick at heart. All his life, Fate had dogged his footsteps with misfortune. Changes often began to materialise, and then, just as he was about to take advantage of them, they would vanish in some mysterious fashion before his very eyes.

It had been the way all along; but, unlike many another similarly placed, he had not become cynical or indifferent. On the contrary, he was always good-hearted, expectant and ambitious. Each time bad luck knocked him down, he was on his feet again in a moment, hoping to be treated more generously next time. All his days seemed to have been spent in getting bowled over and then getting up again with s smile on his face.

But he had never been struck as hard as now – never.

The Great War had suddenly crashed about the ears of Europe. Thousands upon thousands of men would be required to crush the devilish militarism of Germany. Every mother’s son who was ready and willing was needed to grind overbearing Prussianism into ignominious pulp. Lindsay Macdonald was both ready and willing. It was a privilege and an honour to him to be able to wield arms in such a glorious case. He loved the hedges and fields and rivers of his homeland, and the idea of the professors of ‘Kultur’ devastating the fair, sweet countryside made his blood boil. His imagination – which was neither sentimental nor morbid – brought before him the bloody scenes of Belgium. He thought of his mother and his sisters … and he went to the nearest recruiting depot.

Here was a chance indeed! His blood was racing through his veins as he walked briskly down the street…. Already, in his mind’s eye, he was on the field of war, fighting his country’s battles. The prospect was inspiring…. But his dreams were interrupted by a display of posters, and the words: ‘RECRUITING OFFICE’.

He walked in … and then the blow fell.

Fate had chosen the Examining Medical Officer as her agent: Lindsay Macdonald was told that he was ‘unfit for military service’!

Ill-luck had knocked him down again and, on this occasion, it took him some time to get up on his feet. The splendid future he had been picturing crashed in shatters about him … he was unfit …

And then, Hope came to him, as it always did. He would try another recruiting depot and another Medical Officer.

He tried dozens, but he was always told the same thing: two years must elapse before he would be fit enough for military training…. Two years!

Lindsay Macdonald cursed the excess of zeal which had caused him to indulge in athletics to such a degree that he had strained himself. For the time being, he was sick of the world, sick of life, sick of everything. Never before had he felt quite as he felt now. What was the use of it all? It was always the same…. His ideals, his aspirations were always beyond realisation …

He walked dejectedly along the streets, silently envying each man that passed in khaki, and imagining that every eye was fixed scornfully upon him. His tweed suit became as hateful to him as the arrowed garments are to a convict.

Suddenly, in the distance, came the sound of a military band. Everyone looked about and strained eager ears. Gradually came the steady and regular tramp of feet; then the battalion came into sight. Instantly there was a surge towards the curb to watch the troops go by. Lindsay Macdonald felt a lump rise in his throat, and what looked suspiciously like tears blurred his vision. But no one appeared to notice him: he was in plain clothes, merely an onlooker.

The soldiers swung past, while he who was unfit watched, wishing devoutly that he could change places with any man of them. But, even had this been possible, not one member of those stalwart ranks woul...