Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Because all wars in the twenty-first century are potentially global wars, the centenary
of the first global war is an occasion for reflection. This volume offers an unprece-
dented account of the lives, stories, letters, games, schools, institutions (such as the
Boy Scouts and the YMCA), and toys of children in Europe, North America, and
the Global South during the First World War and surrounding years. By engaging
with developments in Children’s Literature, War Studies, and Education, and min-
ing newly available archival resources (including letters written by children), the
contributors to this volume demonstrate how perceptions of childhood changed in
the period. Children who had been perceived as innocents playing safely in secure
gardens were transformed into socially responsible children actively committing
themselves to the war effort. In order to foreground cultural connections across
what had been regarded as “enemy” lines, perspectives on German, American,
British, Australian, and Canadian children’s literature and culture are situated so
that they work in conversation with each other. The multidisciplinary, multinational
range of contributors to this volume make it distinctive and a particularly valuable
contribution to emerging studies on the impact of war on the lives of children.
Edited by
Lissa Paul, Rosemary Ross Johnston,
and Emma Short
First published 2016
by Routledge
711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017
and by Routledge
2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN
Children’s literature and culture of the First World War / edited by Lissa
Paul, Rosemary Ross Johnston, and Emma Short.
pages cm. — (Children’s literature and culture; 107)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Children’s literature—History and criticism. 2. World War,
1914–1918—Literature and the war. 3. War in literature. I. Paul,
Lissa, editor. II. Johnston, Rosemary Ross, editor. III. Short, Emma
(Researcher in English literature) editor.
PN1009.5.W35C47 2016
809'.89282—dc23 2015029589
Typeset in Sabon
by codeMantra
Contents
List of Figures xi
Foreword: All Unknown Soldiers Now xiii
M I C H A E L M O RP URGO
Acknowledgements xvii
SecTioN I
Writing War
SecTioN III
Education and Play
15 “Playing Soldiers?”: War, Boys, and the British Toy Industry 239
R achel Duffe TT
Contents ix
Section IV
Activism
Contributors 331
Index 337
This page intentionally left blank
List of Figures
William Farley lived down the lane in Paradise Cottage, near the tiny village
of Iddesleigh in deepest Devonshire – just down the lane from us. One day
in 1914 he closed the door behind him, and walked away, past the house
where I now live, and off to war. It was a journey that was to take him from
Paradise to Hell. I know nothing more about him, other than that he served,
fought, and survived. His name is on the Roll of Honor in the church.
In that sense he is now like all those millions who went. We may know
their names: from monuments, from the back of faded photographs. They
may have been generals or privates, airmen or seamen. They may have
been Canadians, Italians, British, Indians, Germans, Americans. They left
their home from all over the world. They may have been poets or politi-
cians. They may have been killed or wounded, they may have survived like
William Farley. But we do not remember them. Only their names are known
to us now. Each will have had his own story, but many of their stories have
died with them, unknown forever.
“We will remember them.” We hear those words as the echo of the bugles
fade away every Remembrance Day, see them inscribed on war memorials
all over the country. But, except for the very few, and fewer as each year goes
by, we do not remember them. They may be family, they may have grown
up in our town, our village, in the very house we live in, but we did not and
cannot know them. We can remember them only now for what they did. But
the men and women they were, their faces and their voices, are all gone. Yet
if ever a generation should be remembered, it is this one.
Thirty years ago I met Wilf Ellis. He was already in his eighties. He lived
in our village, just below the pub. He had by this time become an antique
dealer. He sold me a nineteenth-century painting of a racehorse in a stable.
The horse was called Topthorn, the painter anonymous, and the painting
undistinguished, but appealing nonetheless. I think it was the way Topthorn
looked wistfully out of the picture. Wilf and I got talking one day in the
pub, about horses, and then about the war he went to as a young man.
He talked eloquently, movingly, disturbingly about his experiences. I think
I was the first and only person he had talked to in such depth about the First
World War, which was strange, because I was a newcomer to the village.
As he spoke, I felt he was handing on the story to me, passing it on. His
story, along with others told to me by two more octogenarians in the parish,
xiv Michael Morpurgo
Captain Budgett and Albert Weeks, so touched me that I determined to sit
down and write a novel about their war. I called it War Horse.
Those three old boys are of course all gone now and, even in the village,
are increasingly forgotten as the years pass. Their names live still on the
gravestones and memorials, but like William Farley, they will, like all of
us, fade into the mists of yesterday. But what they did, what they endured,
how many of them died or were wounded so young, in a war that shook the
world asunder and destroyed an entire generation, that twenty years on led
to another war even more catastrophic than the first – all this we have to
remember. We may no longer be able to remember them. It is for what they
did that we must remember them.
And now, about one hundred years from the beginning of it all in August
1914, is a good time for all of us to do just that, to remind ourselves how
it was for them, to reflect on how the war they fought made our world of
today what it is. It is not the time to wallow in the glow of narrow national
pride. After all, the courage was their courage, not ours. And the courage
was on all sides. The final victory was theirs, not ours. Rather we might ask
ourselves uncomfortable questions about the whys and wherefores of “the
war to end all wars,” to understand as well as we can what the men and
women and children of those times lived through, the suffering, the loss, the
grieving, the pain, but also their love of country, their camaraderie, their
courage, their determination to go on hoping, to win through in the face of
such appalling losses and horrors. And we might want to look at ourselves
hard, all these years later, and consider what it was that made this catastro-
phe, this holocaust, happen; and whether or not we have squandered the
peace and freedom they fought and died for.
That I have lived my seventy years in comparative peace, and in freedom,
I owe in great part to that generation (and, of course, to the generation of
my parents who lived and fought through the next great conflagration, or
was it the same one?). We are who we are because of them. They did indeed
“give their tomorrows for our todays.” Though “give” is not perhaps the
right word. Rather, their tomorrows were taken from them. They gave us
the opportunity of finding other ways of solving our problems and disputes.
We owe it to them, to those faces in sepia photographs, to those names of
unknown soldiers on war memorials, to create a world where their kind
of suffering and dying is no longer necessary. They sowed the seeds of our
peace in their lives. We have to grow that peace. That is how we can best
honor those names, that generation.
To honor them, and what they did, without any longer having had the
benefit of knowing them, of really remembering them, is difficult. But there
is a way, many ways. “Who’ll sing the anthem? Who will tell the story?”
This is a line from the song that opens and closes the National Theatre play
of War Horse, adapted for the production by John Tams. The answer must
be, we all can, we all will. And the stories must be truthful in the full sense
of the word. First, and most importantly perhaps, we can hear their voices
Foreword xv
still, in letters to and from the front, in their diaries, and their poems. We can
see them still, in photographs, marching off to war through cheering, flag-
waving crowds, asleep by some roadside, going over the top, a gun-carriage
passing through ruined Ypres, No Man’s Land, the beds in the Field Hospi-
tals, row on row, the wounded, the graves, row on row. To make some sense,
if any is possible, of all this, of the slaughter of the ten million on all sides, or
maybe sixteen, to try to understand the whys and wherefores, we can turn
to the historians for answers. They may not agree, but they will shine new
light on the conflict, help us to begin to comprehend. So we can still know
something of how it was, even though we were not there. We can remember.
And then we can tell our own stories, tell it out in plays, in songs and
concerts, in art and in dance, and in so doing forge anew our connection
with them and their times. And this we can do in our own way. There is no
right or wrong way for each of us to make our connection with them. For
me, and for many, the more we learn about that war, and indeed all wars, the
more important it becomes to tell their stories of war, of killing and dying,
of hope and longing, and to sing about the pity and the peace we know, that
they never knew.
I have just returned from a folk festival in Beverley where John Tams,
Barry Coope, and I performed our concert of “War Horse.” They sang
the anthem. I told the story. The next day I went to see how others told
the story. They told it with passion and pride and pity. Over one hun-
dred people at the Miller’s Day Centre in Beverley had made a life-size
puppet of Joey from War Horse, the legs of linked plastic milk cartons,
a white horse with a white mane and tail. They led him proudly around
the festival tent. On stage, students from Longcroft School read out imag-
ined letters from the front, letters from home. And men from Hull Prison
had composed heartfelt songs of their own, songs sung by Henry and his
band “The Men of a Certain Age.” Hymers College Theatre Company
discovered there had been an “Economic Food Demonstration” during
the First World War in Beverley, and dramatized it. There was a visiting
group of German students from Bremerhaven who played folk tunes from
Germany and England, and read poems in German, English, Russian, and
Turkish. All of them were telling the story, singing the anthem, and doing
it their way.
For young people of today, the First World War can so easily become
remote, lost more and more with every passing year in the mists of history,
seemingly irrelevant to their lives, to their world of now. It is only when they
feel a personal connection to it, through family history perhaps, or through
poems and stories, in whatever form, that they can begin to understand how
it must have been to endure and suffer as that generation did. Unknown sol-
diers may be honored, but they are unknown. Tell the story of one of them,
or of a few, get to know them, and empathize, care about them, and that
unknown soldier lives again, becomes a William Farley or a Wilf Ellis or a
Captain Budgett from my village.
xvi Michael Morpurgo
Visiting Ypres some while ago with the BBC, making a radio program,
I was standing in the rain in a Commonwealth War Cemetery, being inter-
viewed. It was silent, grey. We were alone there in the peace and sadness of
the place, graves all around us, 2,000 of them. A bus drew up. Out poured
fifty or so teenagers, English, loud, boisterous, disrespectful, as they came
into the cemetery. We had to stop recording of course. I was about to remon-
strate with them, when something strange happened. In twos and threes the
youngsters spread out, and a hush fell upon them. They were talking rarely
now, and only in whispers. Some were holding hands, as they read aloud the
names on the gravestones.
A teacher approached us. She had noticed the microphones, I suppose,
then recognized me for some reason. “This is extraordinary,” she said. “To
find you here. Extraordinary. You are not going to believe this. But we have
come from Epsom in Surrey to visit the battlefields and the cemeteries, but
primarily to seek out the grave of Private Peaceful. We had read that when
writing your novel of Private Peaceful, you had discovered the name of your
soldier in The Bedford Cemetery. We found it this morning. We have just
come from there. Back at school we made a wreath for him, and they all
wrote letters to him. We just left them on his grave. Your story, it made that
soldier come alive for all of us.”
Later that day, I went to the Bedford Cemetery and found the wreath,
read their letters to him. Standing there in the rain what I felt was an over-
whelming admiration and gratitude for the courage that generation showed,
at the front and at home. But above all it was the pity of it, the waste of
young lives on all sides, that left me with a deep longing for a world without
war. I felt also how vital it is that we pass our stories on, that it matters, just
as much as their lives matter, even if they are now unknown to us now.
So in gratitude and in longing for peace I determined then to wear the red
poppy and the white poppy every November, side by side. And I determined
also to go on singing the anthem, telling the story, because their story is our
story, all our stories.
Acknowledgements
As the centenary of the First World War loomed in the early part of the
new millennium, Peter Hunt (Cardiff), Rosemary Johnston (University of
Technology, Sydney), Lissa Paul (Brock), Kimberley Reynolds (Newcastle),
and Lynne Vallone (Rutgers) began discussing the viability of an inter-
national project on children’s literature and culture in the context of the
approaching anniversary. As every local conflict still threatened as a poten-
tially global conflict, the timing seemed appropriate. It was Peter Hunt who
came up with what still rings as an ominous title, “Approaching War.” Our
first thanks go to Peter, Kim, and Lynne for their support throughout. We
also want to take the opportunity here to recognize the people who contrib-
uted to the development of this volume, primarily through the international
network and series of “Approaching War” conferences that grounded the
initial research.
With the support of the Leverhulme Trust at first, and later with the Social
Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada, Newcastle Univer-
sity in the UK, the Australian Centre for Child and Youth, the University of
Technology, Sydney in Australia, and Brock University in Ontario, Canada,
three conferences were organized to focus on children’s literature and cul-
ture in the approach to the First World War. Each conference was designed
to develop out of the experiences of the region in which it was held. Our first,
held in Sydney, Australia, in December 2011, hosted by Rosemary Johnston,
was “‘A Game that Calls Up Love and Hatred Both’: War and the Children
of the Global South.” Sessions were held at the University of Technology,
Sydney, the Sydney Opera House, and D romkeen Children’s Literature
Museum in rural Victoria (a plane trip away). This conference featured a
keynote by Theo van Leeuwen on toys and war games, and presentations
from the Australian War Memorial, The National Library of Australia, the
State Library of New South Wales, and the Victorian State Library. The sec-
ond conference, “From the Garden to the Trenches,” was hosted by Lissa
Paul, in conjunction with author Linda Granfield and critic and scholar
Deirdre Baker. The conference took place across three sites: in the N iagara
region, where Brock University is located; in Toronto, at the Osborne
Collection of Early Children’s Books; and at Trinity College, University of
Toronto. Special thanks go to Linda, Deirdre, and to Leslie McGrath at
xviii Acknowledgements
the Osborne. The Canadian conference was particularly fortunate in hav-
ing Michael Morpurgo as a keynote speaker just as War Horse was run-
ning in Toronto and soon after the Steven Spielberg film was released. With
thanks to the Canadian authors for their revisioning the First World War
for twenty-first century children, and for their g enerous participation in the
conference: Hugh Brewster, Deborah Ellis, Sarah Ellis, Kevin Major, Arthur
Slade, and John Wilson. Lissa Paul would like to thank all those who helped
bring the conference to life: Air Canada; Julie Benner; G eoffrey B
ubbers;
The Canadian War Museum; especially Susan Ross; Brandy Dewar; Robert
Gibbs; Itia Golan; The Guelph Civic Museum/McCrae House; C arolyn
Hibbitt; Sylvia Lassam; Barbara Lazar; Nadine Litwin; Mirvish Productions;
National Theatre, London; Patrick Tierney; Philip Thomas; Cal Smiley;
Tobias Wiegand; Friends of the Osborne Collection; and Murray Wilcox.
The third and final conference of the Leverhulme-funded international
network took place at Newcastle University, UK, in March 2013. Organized
by Stacy Gillis and Emma Short, the conference focused on childhood and
the First World War in the European context. The tremendous response to
the Call for Papers resulted in a conference program that showcased high
quality, international scholarship on a range of topics, including, but not lim-
ited to, children’s literature, magazines, toys and games, class, nationhood,
and the figure of the refugee. Particular highlights of the conference were
the keynote addresses given by Trudi Tate (Cambridge) and Michael Paris
(Central Lancashire) and the presentation given by Mary Guyatt and Ieuan
Hopkins, representatives from the Victoria and Albert Museum of Child-
hood. In addition to the two keynote speakers and all the speakers involved
in the Newcastle event, Emma Short would especially like to thank Stacy
Gillis, the co-organizer of this conference and the Principal Investigator of
the International Leverhulme Network, for her hard work and dedication
over the course of the project, and for her continuing support and guidance
with this collection.
Our final thanks go to our editors at Routledge: Philip Nel for his early
support of our project and for his help with titles; to Elizabeth Levine,
Nancy Chen and to our very supportive copy-editor, Sofia Buono.
Introduction
Children’s Literature and Culture of the
First World War
Lissa Paul, Rosemary Ross Johnston,
and Emma Short
In this photograph from the Canadian War Museum Archive, “Military Band
161 St. Hurons”1 (Fig. 1), a very small boy stands tucked between two seated
trumpet players in the front row.
Figure 0.1 Military Band 161 St. Hurons. Canadian War Museum.
He is so small that it is easy to miss him staring silently across the cen-
tury in his exquisitely detailed regimental tartan, complete with miniature
sporran. Although adults in military dress signal membership in the armed
services of the wearer’s country, children in the same uniforms do not. When
“dressed up in special costumes,” or depicted “unconsciously prefiguring
adult gender roles,” we typically categorize children, as Anne Higonnet
explains in Pictures of Innocence, as adorable or cute (1998: 33, 35).
Children in military dress send out conflicting semiotic signals, simulta-
neously jarring and arresting in their inherent contradictions of innocence
and experience, adult and child, work and play. A child in soldier’s clothes
is what French critic Guy Debord would classify as détournement, usually
translated as “turnaround,” “reversal,” “detour,” or more recently, “appro-
priation.” Related to the idea of “spectacle,” “détournement” also refers to
the production of the media of everyday life.2 Images of children in military
dress in photographs from the early part of the twentieth century work sim-
ilarly as examples of détournement, jolting our senses awake in the manner
2 Lissa Paul, Rosemary Ross Johnston, and Emma Short
of surrealist images by making us attend to the clash of the familiar against
the unfamiliar.
The child in the photograph was not an anomaly. In national archives,
conference talks, and on the web, we ran across other compelling images of
small, pre-pubescent children in uniform: a little Italian boy in the broad-
brimmed and feathered cap of an Italian soldier; a Canadian girl of about
3 or 4 dressed as a nurse, standing next to a slightly older boy, likely her
brother, dressed as a soldier; an Australian boy posed proudly as a min-
iature replica of his uniformed father; smiling young German boys kitted
out as soldiers, complete with distinctive Pickelhauben (spiked helmets) and
toy guns; and a very little British boy, identified as Rowland Hill, standing
in his miniature replica of a soldier’s uniform, ready for war: hat, jacket,
trousers, socks, shoes, and gun, all neat and correct.3 Unlike the polyester,
mass-produced costumes likely to be found in the Disney store today, the
uniforms the children wear in the photographs look carefully handcrafted,
detailed, and perfectly tailored. They are clothes in which to pose, not
clothes for playing in, or for getting dirty or torn. They are dress-up clothes.
It was not particularly unusual for middle-and upper-class children (as
well as rich and titled ones) to be outfitted in military uniforms for pho-
tographs in the early part of the twentieth century. It was an extension of
the nineteenth-century fashion for dressing children in costumes inspired
by images adapted from popular literature and/or art. The black velvet suit
of the kind Little Lord Fauntleroy is wearing in the Reginald Birch illustra-
tions of Frances Hodgson Burnett’s 1886 novel was one example. The green
“skeleton suit,” with its “straight, loose pants buttoned to a short jacket”
(Higonnet, 1998: 47), in the 1866 painting John Everett Millais made of his
grandson blowing bubbles was another, particularly after it became famous
as brand image for Pears soap.4 A rather beautiful photograph in the same
genre is one taken in the early 1870s of the Royal cousins, the future George
V (1865–1936) – he reigned from 1910 to 1936 and was King during the
First World War – and the future Tsar Nicholas II (1868–1918). Their moth-
ers were sisters, Danish princesses. There is also a photograph of George’s
cousin, later Wilhelm II of Germany (1859–1941) at age 4, in full Scottish
regalia, taken at Balmoral Castle.
Wilhelm was Queen Victoria’s eldest grandson (the first child of her
daughter Victoria) and George was the heir to the British throne, the first
child of her son Edward VII.5 George and Nicholas apparently did not much
like the slightly older Wilhelm, though there were opportunities and loca-
tions for the three of them to be together during their childhoods. Victoria
and Albert had designed wonderful play spaces for their own nine children,
spaces that were later used by their grandchildren and great-grandchildren.
Osborne House, completed in 1851, was once such space, a vacation home
on the Isle of Wight. It featured several settings for imaginative/educational
play, including a “Swiss Cottage” in which the children could pretend to do
their own domestic chores; a garden, with small tools and a plot for each
Introduction 3
child; and, crucially, a battlefield called Albert’s Barracks. As a play area for
princes, Albert’s Barrack’s included a small mock fort and moat, and was
also, ominously, a miniature replication of the concerns of the larger world;
between 1850 and 1870, fifteen forts were built on the Isle of Wight as part
of a line of defense against feared invasions. While there are no records con-
firming whether or not George, Nicholas, and Wilhelm did in fact holiday
together in the grounds of Osborne House, in light of the role that each
grew up to play in the years leading up to and during the First World War, it
is difficult not to be haunted by the costumed images of all three as children
playing their favorite war games.
In The War that Ended Peace (2013), Margaret MacMillan brings into
focus the childlike qualities of the monarchs who, at least officially, led their
respective countries – England, Germany, and Russia – into the Great War.
She characterizes the “powerful and complicated” war machinery under
the control of Wilhelm II as “rather like giving a powerful motor car to
Toad in the children’s classic, Wind in the Willows” (MacMillan, 2013: 72).
This image of a pompous, comic, and very English Toad with potentially
lethal toys is instantly resonant and subtly imprints Wilhelm’s Englishness,
his status as Queen Victoria’s eldest grandson, on his character. MacMillan
also comments on Wilhelm’s fondness for his uniforms, again reminiscent of
Toad and his driving outfits. But Wilhelm was not the only major player in
the approach to war who fussed about his uniform; so too did George V and
Nicholas II, and photographs from the early years of the First World War
show each of these men wearing highly elaborate military uniforms, fes-
tooned with decorations. The photographs provoke the troubling interpre-
tative possibility that conventional readings of images of costumed children
as dressed-up versions of adults is the wrong way around: Wilhelm, George
and Nicholas in all their grown-up military glory suddenly look like children
playing dress-up. In their adult incarnations, they read as “upscaled” chil-
dren. No longer innocent children playing harmless war games in Albert’s
Barracks on the Isle of Wight, as adult men they have fully lethal weapons
at their disposal to dispatch over the lands and seas of Europe.
The irony is that although George, Wilhelm, and Nicholas – who contin-
ued to play war games long after their childhoods – come across as large-
scale children, the specific voices of the ordinary children that we encounter
through the images, diaries, letters, and journals found in First World War
archives come across as mature in their engagement with the harsh reali-
ties of loss, deprivation, and responsibility in times of war. Several of the
contributors to this volume study the voices of those children, revealing
the complex ways in which they negotiated the unfathomable social and
political agendas of war. In “A ‘Revolutionary’ War,” Andrea McKenzie
charts the ways in which American girls in particular, writing in St. Nicholas
magazine, reframe their response to war so as to assert their autonomy and
authority while grieving their losses. Katharine Capshaw, writing about Our
Boys and Girls magazine in “War, the Black Diaspora, and Anti-Colonialist
4 Lissa Paul, Rosemary Ross Johnston, and Emma Short
Journalism,” situates African-American children of the Harlem Renaissance
emerging “as public thinkers and social activists on the subject of war,”
Agnieszka Stasiewicz-Bienkowska explains how Swedish-American children
struggled as they dropped their initial old-world allegiance to Germany once
it became clear to them that the Germans were on the “wrong” side of the
conflict. In “‘A Very Cruel Thing’: Canadian Children, the First World War,
and the Grain Grower’s Guide,” Kristine Moruzi demonstrates how children
from the wheat-growing prairies of Canada contributed to the war effort
by raising money to support Blue Cross care for animals conscripted for
the war effort in Europe. Through her “detailed analysis of weekly newspa-
pers published in eight contrasting provincial English towns or cities,” Siân
Pooley, in “‘Leagues of Love’ and ‘Column Comrades,’” reveals the con-
flicted responses that working-class children in particular had to the First
World War. In all the essays, we hear the voices of real children willingly
accepting what we would normally consider adult burdens of responsibility.
The voices of children constitute just one way in which contributors have
accessed the culture of childhood in the First World War. The two other
important areas represented in this volume demonstrate how children
were primed for war through their imaginative literature, toys, and games,
and through their instructional (schools) and social (Red Cross, Scouts)
institutions.
Because the pre-war period is typically characterized as the “golden age”
of children’s literature, it provides clues to the fictional texts that imagina-
tively inspired children who grew up to play important roles in the war.
Paul Stevens, author of the first essay, “Churchill’s War Horse: Children’s
Literature and the Pleasures of War,” traces Churchill’s devotion to the “joys
of war” to Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines (1885), which Churchill
read twelve times as a child. As the essay’s title suggests, Stevens covers a
broad span of both literary and chronological territory, moving from H aggard
and Churchill to the fictional revisioning of the First World War in Michael
Morpurgo’s War Horse (1982). In “Girl Volunteers: Empowerment through
Stories,” Margaret R. Higonnet also acknowledges heroines, both historical
(Pocahontas, Joan of Arc) and fictional (Louisa May Alcott’s characters in
Hospital Sketches) who inspired real girls, by portraying heroines who “read-
ily overcame obstacles with exuberant dash and cleverness.” In “Australia and
Wartime C horography: Showing and Telling the Story of Home,” Rosemary
Ross Johnston describes how the literary arts of poetry and novels, especially
those for children and young people, and the visual arts of paintings and post-
ers, often depicting children – were used in Australia to show and tell not only
the idea of home to those at war, but also the idea of home for those at home.
In keeping with the fact that the Great War was also the first global war,
essays on non-Anglophone children’s literature are in this volume. Two essays
on Italian children’s books speak partly to the changes in reception that
occur as the political winds shift through the war years. Lindsay Myers, in
“Flying the Flag,” discusses a now obscure 1916 fantasy novel, L’aeroplano
Introduction 5
di Girandolino, by Arturo Rossato. In “On the Italian Front,” Francesca
Orestano counters with a book that became a classic of Italian children’s
literature, Piccolo Alpino, an adventure story by Salvator Gotta published in
1926. Emer O’Sullivan, in “Fun and Military Games,” notes the incongruous
frequency with which the word lustig (“merry”) turns up in the title of the
war-themed picture books for German children of the period, and she shows
“how the military and conflict are portrayed in terms of child’s play.”
Because “play” is, of course, characterized as one of the distinctive features
of childhood, two essays deal with the shift in cultural attitudes towards war
toys and games as the war dragged on. As Rosie Kennedy explains in “How
Merrily the Battle Rages,” the realistic-looking guns and action figures that
were so popular in the pre-war and early-war years fell out of favor as the
cultural tide turned. Toys and games designated as encouraging violence or
aggression were no longer deemed suitable for children, as Rachel Duffett
explains in “Playing Soldiers?” especially in her account of the short shelf-life
of an “exploding trench” game.
Several authors attend to the institutions that shaped the culture and
ethos of children in the years leading up to and including the war. B arbara
Cooke, in “The Eastern Glow Where the Big Sons Go,” interrogates what
she describes as the particularly “martial” ethos of a boys’ boarding school,
Clifton College in Bristol. In his essay, “Lives of Girls and Young Women
in Germany during the First World War,” Andrew Donson focuses on the
school-aged girls of the period who – contrary to the expected type of fem-
inine passivity – were encouraged to support military aggression. Jonathan
Weier, in “The Building of Boys for War,” explains that the YMCA turned
away from its original nineteenth-century institutional mandate (promot-
ing games for boys), and toward encouraging boys to perform adult farm,
industrial, and military labor. Two other essays depict children who were
“conscripted” into selling the official government “war” agendas to their
elders: Justin Nordstrom, in “A Salesman Soldier for Uncle Sam,” focuses on
the exploitation of the American entrepreneurial spirit; and Branden Little,
in “A Child’s Army of M illions,” demonstrates that child members of the
American Junior Red Cross were explicitly constructed as American patri-
ots. In a similar vein, Marnie Hay, in “Scouting for Rebels,” explains that
the Irish National Boy Scouts, the Na Fianna Éireann, recruited for the Irish
nationalist movements under cover of the international Boy Scout service
organization.
Despite the expanding field of critical scholarship on the First World War,
book-length studies of childhood and its relation to the conflict are relatively
rare. There are a few excellent ones, including: Andrew Donson’s Youth in
the Fatherless Land: War Pedagogy, Nationalism, and Authority in Germany,
1914–1918 (2010); Stéphane Audoin-Rouzeau’s La Guerre des enfants, 1914–
1918 (1993); Antonio Gibelli’s Il Popolo Bambino: Infanzia e Nazione della
Grande Guerra a Salò (2005); and Rosie Kennedy’s The Children’s War:
ritain, 1914–1918 (2014). There are also studies that chart the shifts in
B
6 Lissa Paul, Rosemary Ross Johnston, and Emma Short
children’s literature following the outbreak of war in 1914, including Michael
Paris’s Over the Top: The Great War and Juvenile Literature in Britain (2004)
and Susan R. Fisher’s Boys and Girls in No Man’s Land: E nglish-Canadian
Children and the First World War (2011). Yet while these studies are
immensely valuable in terms of the insight they offer into how children expe-
rienced and engaged with the conflict surrounding them, each has a specific
national focus. The essays gathered in this volume offer the first transnational
account of childhood in the context of the first global conflict.
Across the divides of language, culture, race, gender and class, childhood
was one thing all participants in the First World War had in common with each
other and with us. At some level, the fact that all adults have been children
seems bluntly self-evident, but under the weight of scholarly discussions about
difference, blame, and conflict, the experience of the common ground of child-
hood has risked being lost in the big picture, in much the same way that the lit-
tle boy in the military band in the photograph seems lost among the adults. The
authors of the essays in this volume focus explicitly on children and childhood,
concentrating on the impact of imaginative, intellectual, economic, and politi-
cal forces that shaped their lives. Instead of situating children on the fringes of
war culture, they are at the center. The four sections of our volume – “Writing
War,” “Propaganda and Experience,” “Education and Play,” and “Activism” –
foreground the otherwise marginalized experience of childhood.
The centenary of the First World War has offered the occasion for reflec-
tion on what has changed since the first global conflict became the marker
for the character of the twentieth century. The new millennium had, after
all, started with a feeling that we could put the old wars behind us and
begin to build a better technologically driven and connected global future.
The twentieth century had opened in much the same way. As MacMillan
explains at the beginning of The War that Ended Peace, The Paris Universal
Exposition of 1900, had been heralded as “a suitable way to mark the end
of a century that had started with revolutions and wars, but that now stood
for progress, peace, and prosperity” (2013: 7). The outbreak of the First
World War in 1914 changed that faith for people living in the twentieth
century, as the 2001 terrorist attacks on the Twin Towers in New York did
for people of the twenty-first century. And with the attacks on Parliament
Hill in Ottawa, Canada in October 2014, a downtown coffee shop in Syd-
ney, Australia, and a school of children in Pakistan in December 2014, the
shape of global war in the twenty-first century is taking on a terrifying lack
of definition. Instead of war as something fought in spaces defined as battle-
fields by people designated to fight, twenty-first-century war is in our homes
and schools and offices, in our front yards and our back yards. Distinctions
between the battlefront and the homefront have been dissolved. It is also
harder to distinguish between combatants and non-combatants in an age
when women and children are deployed as suicide bombers, and child-sol-
diers – such as the twin Htoo brothers in Burma who – at just 12 years of
age – led a “God’s Army” of guerilla fighters. In the twenty-first-century
Introduction 7
model of global warfare, there are no safe places, and all people—including
children, who used to be classified as “non-combatants”—are now all, sadly,
fair game.6
Notes
1. The photograph is control number 19820400-004_3 in the Canadian War
Museum Archives. With thanks to Susan Ross for suggesting it.
2. Guy Debord and Gil Wolman are credited with popularizing the term détour-
nement, particularly in A User’s Guide to Détournement, originally published
as “Mode d’emploi du détournement,” Les Lèvres Nues, 8 (1956). The transla-
tion (no copyright) by Ken Knabb is available at: http://www.bopsecrets.org/SI/
detourn.htm (accessed 1 November 2014). For a broader discussion of détour-
nement and ideas related to the “Situationist” movement with which it is associ-
ated, see de Certeau (1988).
3. The photograph of Rowland Hill is the one most easily available online at:
http://www.telegraph.co.uk/history/world-war-one/11000792/WWI-photos-
colourised-to-mark-the-100th-anniversary-of-the-start-of-the-conflict.html?
frame=2991327 (accessed 1 November 2014).
4. For an extended discussion on the ways in which fashions for children in the
years leading up to the First World War were influenced by the art and literary
models in the late Romantic period, see Higonnet (1998), particularly the first
three chapters.
5. The images are owned by Getty, but as they were used in a BBC Two, two-part
documentary, Royal Cousins at War, they can be accessed at: http://www.bbc.
co.uk/programmes/galleries/p01qtv8x (accessed 1 November 2014).
6. With thanks to Margaret R. Higonnet for suggesting the inclusion of references
to child-soldiers here.
Bibliography
Audoin-Rouzeau, Stéphane (1993) La Guerre des enfants, 1914–1918. Paris: Colin.
de Certeau, Michel (1988) The Practice of Everyday Life. Trans. Steven Rendell.
Berkeley: University of California Press.
Donson, Andrew (2010) Youth in the Fatherless Land: War Pedagogy, Nationalism,
and Authority in Germany, 1914–1918. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press.
Fisher, Susan R. (2011) Boys and Girls in No Man’s Land: English-Canadian
Children and the First World War. Toronto, ON: University of Toronto Press.
Gibelli, Antonio (2005) Il Popolo Bambino: Infanzia e Nazione della Grande Guerra
a Salò. Turin, Italy: Einaudi.
Higonnet, Anne (1998) Pictures of Innocence: The History and Crisis of Ideal
Childhood. London: Thames and Hudson.
Kennedy, Rosie (2014) The Children’s War: Britain, 1914–1918. Basingstoke, UK:
Palgrave Macmillan.
MacMillan, Margaret (2013) The War that Ended Peace: How Europe Abandoned
Peace for the First World War. London: Profile.
Paris, Michael (2004) Over the Top: The Great War and Juvenile Literature in Britain.
Westport, CT: Praeger.
This page intentionally left blank
References
Paris, Michael (2004) Over the Top: The Great War and
Juvenile Literature in Britain . Westport, CT: Praeger.
This page intentionally left blank
1 Churchill’s War Horse: Children’s
Literature and the Pleasures of War
Paris, Michael (2004) Over the Top. The Great War and
Juvenile Literature in Britain. Westport, CT: Praeger
Publishers.
Winter, Jay and Blaine Baggett (1996) The Great War and the
Shaping of the 20th Century. New York: Penguin Studio.
5 War, The Black Diaspora, and
Anti-Colonialist Journalism: The Case of
Our Boys and Girls
Grant, Colin (2008) The Negro with a Hat: The Rise and Fall
of Marcus Garvey. Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press.
Harris, Sharon (2009) “‘Across the Gulf’: Working in the
‘Post-Recovery’ Era.” Legacy, 26(2): 284–298.
“If We Take Samoa” (1919) Our Boys and Girls, October: 14.
“Whose are the West Indies?” (1919). Our Boys and Girls,
March, p. 14.
6 Germanic Power and Uncle Sam’s Orders:
Immigrant Experience of the First World
War in Swedish-American Writings for
Youth
Harle, Vilho (1994) “On the Concepts of the ‘Other’ and the
‘Enemy’.” History of European Ideas 19(1–3): 27–34.
Hesse, Luise (1915) “Aus der Zeit für Schule und Leben.”
Monatsschrift für katholische Lehrerinnen, 28: 86–88.
Linton, Derek (1991) “Who Has the Youth has the Future:”
The Campaign to Save Young Workers in Imperial Germany.
New York: Cambridge University Press.
———. (1997) T.E. Browne: His Life and Legacy. Isle of Man:
The Manx Experience.
Archival Sources
Photograph albums
and ADD MSS 52455 A & B, August 1915 – 28 April 1921. Both
part of
Ober Frank W. (1913) The Demand for Men for the Association
Secretaryship. YMCA of Montreal Fonds, P145/02A, HA 2055,
Concordia University Archives.
Raney, David (2002) “In the Lord’s Army: The United States
Christian Commission, Soldiers and the Union War Effort.”
In Paul Cimbala and Randall Miller (eds) Union Soldiers
and the Northern Home Front: Wartime Experiences, Postwar
Adjustments. New York: Fordham University Press, pp.
263–292.
Kennedy, David (1980) Over Here: The First World War and
American Society. New York: Oxford University Press.
Tappan, Eva (1918) Food Saving and Sharing: Telling How the
Older Children of America May Help Save from Famine their
Comrades in Allied Lands across the Sea. Garden City, NY:
Doubleday, Page and Co.
Agnew, Kate and Geoff Fox (2001) Children at War: From the
First World War to the Gulf. London: Continuum.
Paris, Michael (2004): Over the Top: The Great War and
Juvenile Literature in Britain. Westport, CT: Praeger.
Paris, Michael (2004) Over the Top: The Great War and
Juvenile Literature in Britain. Westport, CT: Praeger
Press.
Paris, Michael (2004) Over the Top: The Great War and
Juvenile Literature in Britain. Westport, CT: Praeger.
Hawley, Ellis W. (1979) The First World War and the Search
for a Modern Order: A History of the American People and
their Institutions, 1917–1933. New York: St. Martin’s.
———. (2013a) Making the World Safe: The American Red Cross
and a Nation’s Humanitarian Awakening. New York: Oxford
University Press.
Paris, Michael (2004) Over the Top: The Great War and
Juvenile Literature in Britain. Westport, CT: Praeger.
Winter, Jay (1986) The Great War and the British People.
Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press.
Afterword: Prophesying War: The Hidden
Agendas of Children’s Literature,
1900–1914 … and 2015
Agnew, Kate and Geoff Fox (2001) Children at War from the
First World War to the Gulf. London: Continuum.
Hunt, Peter, and Dennis Butts (2012) How Did Long John
Silver Lose His Leg? Cambridge, UK: Lutterworth Press.
Paris, Michael (2004) Over the Top. The Great War and
Juvenile Literature in Britain. Westport, CT.: Praeger.