Researching the Second World War, I’m constantly humbled by the bravery shown by the servicemen and women I read about. Having never been in the situations described in these memoirs and letters, it’s difficult for me to say how I would react or indeed how much I would be willing to share after such extreme experiences. Reading Norman Craig’s memoir, The Broken Plume, this week brought home to me how far it was from the traditional notions of bravery and the archetypal figure of the fearless soldier.[1] As a conscript and a man who had no interest in a long-term career in the British Army, Craig writes with brutal honesty about his own fear and that of his men as they prepared for the battle of El Alamein in the Royal Sussex Regiment. As well as sharing his vulnerability, he highlights the critical role of an officer in battle, maintaining the mask of valour expected by his men whilst leading a platoon.
Figure: Photo of Norman Craig from The Broken Plume.
Writing just after the end of the war, Craig describes his platoon as they waited in their foxholes for the imminent Second Battle of El Alamein in 1942. The fog of war is thick, and although the platoon is part of a larger coordinated attack, they are described in disorienting, isolated terms. All that exists is a target over the lip of the foxhole - a hillock or an abandoned tank. The Allied artillery bombardment adds to the men’s disorientation. As the jumping-off time approaches, Craig writes:
“We were all afraid now. Before an attack fear is universal. The popular belief that in battle there are two kinds of person - the sensitive, who suffer torment, and the unimaginative few who know no fear and go blithely on - is a fallacy. Everyone was as scared as the next man, for no imagination was needed to foresee the possibility of death or mutilation. It was just that some managed to conceal their fear better than others.”[2]
A persistent fallacy in the popular understanding of combat is the distinction between the “sensitive” individual who suffers and the “unimaginative” few who remain blithely unafraid. Churchill’s personal physician, Lord Moran, famously categorised men into four types: those with no fear (often linked to a lack of imagination), those who felt fear but hid it, those who showed it, and those who failed to appear due to it.[3] As Craig’s memoir reveals, however, fear is a universal experience. Indeed, there is physiological evidence supporting the idea that fear was universal based on a survey of US troops in the Pacific.[4] The capacity to foresee death or mutilation required little imagination, making every man as scared as his peer. John Ellis attempted to pinpoint one of the sources of fear before battle as: “This sense of the randomness and ubiquity of death was one of the greatest strains on morale.”[5]
Figure: A painting of a small group of tents next to a track in the desert. Outside the largest tent a group of bare-chested soldiers rest with their shovels. In the foreground two other soldiers are digging a trench. Three planes are visible flying overhead. By Ivor Beddoes. (Source: Art.IWM ART LD 1698)
To mask fear, soldiers often engaged in silence or inconsequential banter and jokes to project an image of courage to themselves and others.[6] Rifleman Bowlby, on the other hand, writes that he dealt with fear by suppressing thoughts of the future: “All of us knew that within a few days we would be in action. Any one of us might be killed. Yet none of us gave it a thought.”[7] Hiding true feelings of fear was particularly important for the officers, as Craig writes:
“[An officers’] role was essentially histrionic. He had to feign a casual and cheerful optimism to create an illusion of normality and make it seem as if there was nothing in the least strange about the outrageous things one was asked to do. Only in this way could he ease the tension, quell any panic and convince his men that everything would come out right in the end.”[8]
Playing the role men expected through self-control was one way the officer maintained discipline in preparation for battle.
Figure: British infantry rushes an enemy strong point through the dust and smoke of enemy shell fire. (Source: IWM E 18513)
Once the fighting had started, a soldier’s fear might manifest as action or paralysis, depending on his training, discipline, psychological state, and the nature of the battle. Alan Allport writes:
“Being under fire provoked a wide range of responses: surprise, confusion, catatonic fear, but under the right circumstances, soldiers’ fear could stimulate rather than paralyse his mind. Violence, if provoked by enough panic and frustration, was not so difficult to mete out.”[9]
This psychological conversion of the fighting man once the battle had started, is most starkly shown in Norman Craig’s description of his response to the sudden and violent death of his Corporal.
“For my part, I felt no revulsion or horror. I almost rebuked myself for my insensibility. But this termination of one human life made no difference to the rest of us. In action there was no time for death; it was merely an ugly inconvenience. There was no pathos either. Nerves were too taut and reactions too disciplined for those involved to feel ordinary human emotions. Death is touching only when it can be related to the normal pattern of life. When one can visualise a man at home with his family, only then can the tragic brutality of the sacrifice by appreciated. In battle one was blind to this, and aware only of an instinctive and overwhelming sense of relief at the thought, ‘Thank God it wasn’t me!’.”[10]
This response is shocking and far removed from the Hollywood movie portrayal of such incidents in battle. Fighting, existing outside the spectrum of “normal” experience, provokes a numbness that makes Craig immune to tragedy, even if it is one of his colleagues. This is all the more impactful after Craig describes the close relationship he had developed with his platoon in the build-up to battle. I do not try to judge whether this was the right or wrong response, having thankfully never been put in this situation. Indeed, it is beyond moral judgment, but it’s an aspect of the battle experience that is rarely shared.
Examining personal memoirs can raise issues when authors emphasise their courageous deeds and contributions during the war. When the author presents their psychological vulnerability in such clear terms as in The Broken Plume, however, then it’s important to take note. Understanding the fighting man’s experience requires acknowledging that violence and bravery were often products of fear, panic, frustration, and a desperate self-control intended to keep one’s dignity and discipline intact. Far from diminishing the valour, somehow, this acknowledgement makes the bravery shown by these ordinary people even more remarkable.
[1] Norman Craig, The Broken Plume: A Platoon Commander’s Story, 1940-45 (Imperial War Museum, 1982).
[2] Craig, The Broken Plume, p. 75.
[3] Lord Moran, Anatomy of Courage (Constable, 1945).
[4] Physiological symptoms of fear exhibited by US soldiers before a battle included violent heart pounding (84%), sinking stomach sensations (69%), and trembling (61%) John Ellis, The Sharp End of War: The Fighting Man in World War II (David & Charles, 1980), p. 103.
[5] Ellis, The Sharp End of War, p. 100.
[6] Ellis, The Sharp End of War, p. 107.
[7] Alex Bowlby, The Recollections of Rifleman Bowlby, Paperback edition (Weidenfeld & Nicolson, 2021), p. 9.[8] Craig, The Broken Plume, p. 75.
[9] Alan Allport, Browned off and Bloody-Minded: The British Soldier Goes to War, 1939-1945 (Yale University Press, 2017), p. 243.
[10] Craig, The Broken Plume, p. 85.