I have wondered if soldiers at the time ever looked to future and thought what would become of the places were they fought...

The following is the only reference i have come across. It is from a footnote or explanatory note to a line within the prose poem by David Jones (1895 - 1974) "In Parenthesis". (The note refers to a line which appears on page 186 this line reads - ..."leave it for a Cook's tourist to the Devastated Areas and crawl as far as you can and wait for the bearers.").

The note reads -

"This may appear to be an anachronism, but I remember in 1917 discussing with a friend the possibilities of tourist acitivity if peace ever came. I remember we went into details and wondered if the unexploded projectile lying near us would go up under a holiday maker, and how people would stand to be photographed on our parapets. I recall feeling very angry about this, as you do if you think of strangers ever occupying a house you live in, and which has, for you, particular associations."


Is anyone else aware of 'contemporary' opinions on the subject of tourism etc? interested to learn of more.

- David.

Philip Johnstome write this poem in 1918 - interestingly, also on the subject of tourism!
Marina


High Wood
Ladies and gentlemen, this is High Wood,
Called by the French, Bois des Fourneaux,
The famous spot which in Nineteen-Sixteen,
July, August and September was the scene
Of long and bitterly contested strife,
By reason of its High commanding site.
Observe the effect of shell-fire in the trees
Standing and fallen; here is wire; this trench
For months inhabited, twelve times changes hands;
(They soon fall in), used later as a grave.
It has been said on good authority
That in the fighting for this patch of wood
Were killed somewhere above eight thousand men,
Of whom the greater part were buried here,
This mound on which you stand being ...
Madame, please,

You are requested kindly not to touch
Or take away the Company's property
As souvenirs; you'll find we have on sale
A large variety, all guaranteed.
As I was saying, all is as it was,
This is an unknown British officer,
The tunic having lately rotten off.
Please follow me - this way ...
The path, sir, please,

The ground which was secured at great expense
The Company keeps absolutely untouched,
And in that dug-out (genuine) we provide
Refreshments at a reasonable rate.
You are requested not to leave about
Paper, or ginger-beer bottles, or orange-peel,
There are waste-paper baskets at the gate.

PHILIP JOHNSTONE, 1918

I think AP Herbert wrote a poem that waxed lyrical about a imaginery hotel at Helles but I cant find any reference to it. One of the RND experts might be able to help?

There's this one, which was written in the mid-1930s.

cheers Martin B

The Road to La Bassée

I went across to France again, and walked about the line,
The trenches have been all filled in - the country's looking fine.
The folks gave me a welcome, and lots to eat and drink,
Saying, 'Allo, Tommee, back again? 'Ow do you do? In ze pink?'
And then I walked about again, and mooched about the line;
You'd never think there'd been a war, the country's looking fine.
But the one thing that amazed me, most shocked me, I should say
- There's buses running now from Bethune to La Bassée!

I sat at Shrapnel Corner and I tried to take it in,
It all seemed much too quiet, I missed the war-time din.
I felt inclined to bob down quick - Jerry sniper in that trench!
A minnie coming over! God, what a hellish stench!
Then I pulled myself together, and walked on to La Folette -
And the cows were calmly grazing on the front line parapet.
And the kids were playing marbles by the old Estaminet -
Fancy kiddies playing marbles on the road to La Bassée!

You'd never think there'd been a war, the country's looking fine -
I had a job in places picking out the old front line.
You'd never think there'd been a war - ah, yet you would, I know,
You can't forget those rows of headstones every mile or so.
But down by Tunnel Trench I saw a sight that made me start,
For there, at Tourbieres crossroads - a gaudy ice-cream cart!
It was hot, and I was dusty, but somehow I couldn't stay -
Ices didn't seem quite decent on the road to La Bassée.

Some of the sights seemed more than strange as I kept marching on.
The Somme's a blooming garden, and there are roses in Peronne.
The sight of dear old Arras almost made me give three cheers;
And there's kiddies now in Plugstreet, and mamselles in Armentiers.
But nothing that I saw out there so seemed to beat the band
As those buses running smoothly over what was No Man's Land.
You'd just as soon expect them from the Bank to Mandalay
As to see those buses running from Bethune to La Bassée.

Then I got into a bus myself, and rode for all the way,
Yes, I rode inside a bus from Bethune to La Bassée.
Through Beuvry and through Annequin, and then by Cambrin Tower -
The journey used to take four years, but now it's half an hour.
Four years to half an hour - the best speedup I've met.
Four years? Aye, longer still for some - they haven't got there yet.
Then up came the conductor chap, 'Vos billets s'il vous plait.'
Fancy asking for your tickets on the road to La Bassée.

And I wondered what they'd think of it - those mates of mine who died -
They never got to La Bassée, though God knows how they tried.
I thought back to the moments when their number came around,
And now those buses rattling over sacred, holy ground,
Yes, I wondered what they'd think of it, those mates of mine who died.
Of those buses rattling over the old pave close beside.
'Carry on! That's why we died!' I could almost hear them say,
To keep those buses always running from Bethune to La Bassée!'

quote: I think AP Herbert wrote a poem that waxed lyrical about a imaginery hotel at Helles

Spot on JS.




‘The Helles Hotel’
by Sub-Lieutenant A. P. Herbert, Hawke Battalion, RND

When I consider how my life is spent
In this dark world of sugar-cards and queues,
Where none but babes get proper nourishment
And meanly men remunerate the Muse,
I dream of holidays when Peace is sent,
But not such dreams as common persons use –
I know a headland at the Dardanelles
Where I shall build the best of all hotels.

I know a cliff-top where the wealthy guest
From languid balconies shall each day view
Far over Samothrace the tired sun rest
And melt, a marvel, into Europe’s blue,
To come back blushing out of Asia’s breast
And hang, at noon, divided ‘twixt the two,
While shuttered casements looking out to Troy
Shall faintly stimulate the Fifth-form boy.

There shall they have, with those delicious skies,
All that rich ease for which the Armies prayed,
Nor dust nor drought nor shortage of supplies,
But long cool glasses in the cypress’ shade,
And starlight suppers, and, of course, no flies,
And in their bathing-place no mules decayed;
Shall swim in the Aegean, if they want,
Or go and do it in the Hellespont.

There shall they hear from olives overhead
The cricket call to them and no shells sing,
While painted lizards flash before the sudden Spring;
Shall walk, unblended by disease and dread,
Where myrtle beckons and rock-roses cling,
And find it difficult to tell their aunts
The proper names of all these funny plants.

There shall they see across the storied Sound
Some snow-peak glisten like a muffled star,
And murmur, “That’s Olympus, I’ll be bound,”
And tread old battle-fields where vineyards are;
With scarred young veterans they’ll amble round
The Turks’ entanglements at Sedd-el-Bahr,
And practice at a reasonable charge
Heroic landings in the hotel barge.

But there are dates when tourists shall be Banned,
High dates in April and of early June,
When only they that bear the Helles Brand,
A few tired Captains and the Tenth Platoon,
Shall see strange shadows in that flowery land,
And ghostly cruisers underneath the moon:
They only then shall scale the sunny hills,
And they alone shall have no heavy bills




[first published in ‘The Bomber Gipsy’ by Methuen & Co. Ltd, 1919.
Copyright by A. P. Watt on behalf of Crystal Gale & Jocelyn Herbert.
As reproduced by Len Sellers in his magazine ‘RND’ issue No.18, Sept. 2001]

Thats the one! Thanks Michael as I couldnt find it anywhere.

Marvellous poem!
Marina