Great War Diaries (2014) s01e01 Episode Script
Part I
1 I think he needs a little bandage on his arm.
We, for our part, were "military" and bandaged little messenger boys In the park.
I do believe we all felt like doing our bit.
The messenger boys' wounds were always conveniently placed, and they never screamed and writhed or prayed for morphia when they were being bandaged.
And shoulders were not shot away, nor eyes blinded, nor men's faces mushed.
Papa! On this day in August, I was looking for my father out in the fields.
Papa! - The bells had been ringing for hours.
- Pap! Papa! When it is not a feast day, the bells chime only when there is a fire, or something really bad has happened.
They were ringing not only in our village, but also in the neighbouring town.
How different the bells sounded on that day Papa! as if they were a portent of things to come, calling for help.
Papa! Papa! My father was a colonel of the Kuban Cossacks, a proud, hard man.
On this day, he hugged and kissed me without a word.
He had never done so before.
On a certain radiant morning seven weeks ago, we learned that a man and woman had been murdered in a distant country.
We felt deeply for the great family who had known many tragedies, but the murder of the Grand Duke and Duchess of Austria In the town of Sarajevo had nothing to do with us so we thought.
We were wrong.
War had been declared.
The thing which we had talked of for years had happened.
And with the lifting of the veil of that peace, which concealed the hate behind it, Germany stood revealed as England's old and Implacable enemy.
And now, what would the gash of a sabre look like? Would it cut through the middle of the face? No, the face must surely be preserved.
Perhaps a slice through the shoulder? We were not ready, we did not pretend to be ready, but we meant to fight whether we were ready or not.
Also we meant to go on fighting till the end.
The war was a matter of national honour.
Even though Englishmen do not feel hate, they very often feel rage.
My, my, I'm terribly excited.
We're going to take care of all these men.
Bandage, wash Most importantly, we must smile.
All of you must maintain your smile.
I call it the Patent Patriotic Smile.
It looks somewhat like this.
You must learn to carry it in all situations - it will keep up the men's courage.
No doubt we should start there.
I, Sarah Macnaughtan, am Scottish and proud of It.
I was born in 1864 Into a wealthy family.
To me, it has always been important to use my wealth to alleviate the sufferings of others and to do good.
As a Red Cross volunteer, I have lived through the wars in South Africa and the Balkans, so it is only natural that I should report for duty as an auxiliary nurse at the front in Belgium.
Travelling with me is a group of inexperienced young women who also want to assist the British Army in the most brutal conflict it has ever faced.
Give me a hand here, would you, dear? Don't forget your jacket.
Oh, your suitcase.
Allow me, ladies.
I'm Dr Henry Beavis, and you've been assigned to me.
Sarah Macnaughtan, sir.
Our outfit is complete.
All the women of our group are prepared to partake in the toughest of tasks to aid the wounded.
The wounded? My dear ladies, what do you expect you'll be doing? Forgive me, Dr Beavis.
I can assure you that with my experience - in the South African War - And I can assure you, this is no mere skirmish with a couple of natives.
Cooking, cleaning and food distribution are precisely the tough tasks you can look forward to.
Shall we? Karl argues against it, with every reason he can think of.
I feel somewhat grateful that he should fight for him.
I am Käthe Kollwitz, mother, wife, Social Democrat and, above all, artist.
It is the suffering of the working class that delves me.
I must draw it, must show it to the world.
We, on the other hand, are doing very well.
I am called Germany's most important female artist.
Karl is a successful doctor and we live with our son Peter in Berlin - where else? Here, for all its modernity, power is still in the hands of the arch-conservative Prussian nobility, and, above all, in the hands of the heel-clicking military that keeps them there.
At its head is Emperor Wilhelm II, a ruler who seems unable to distinguish fantasy from reality.
Since the day I was born, Germany has won all the wars it fought.
We have forged a mighty empire through these victories, but with it, fear, even hatred, from our neighbours.
We feel, in fact, surrounded by enemies.
A feeling of pressure and inconsolability.
Of the impossibility of sacrificing Peter.
One speaks in vain, because the boy's silence overwhelms my own Inner feelings.
It's a long way to Tipperary It's a long way to go Allons enfants de la Patrie Our Cossacks were getting their horses ready to board the train.
The men showed off their courage and contempt of death, as is required by tradition.
They did not show their feelings.
I remembered an old war tradition which my father had told me about.
The women follow the Cossacks as they go to war and stay as close as possible to the army.
Why should it be any different this time? I had only one word ringing In my ears - war, war, war.
Against whom and why The Tsar had ordered it and a Cossack never asks.
I am Marina Yurlova and I'm 14 years old.
I live in the south of our mighty Russian Empire, in a small village by the river Kuban.
As the daughter of a Cossack colonel, I'm always ready for adventure.
We Cossacks are feared warriors.
Because of this, we form the Tsar's personal bodyguards.
Ordained by God, he rules over all Russians.
Nicholas II seems to me to be a very sad Tsar.
Again and again, he has had to endure horrible news.
He has lost wars and even faced revolutions.
Now all of Russia seems to be losing Its mind.
We Cossacks are the only ones he can always rely on and he does.
War.
Everywhere, people on the streets.
And within me the feeling we've endured long enough the pressure, the embrace of the enemy.
Now we are attacked and must defend ourselves.
Now we can live again.
It is as though we are awakened from an oppressive dream.
And now it was all done.
That sacrifice my son drew me to, and to which we drew Karl.
I must say something about my altered attitude towards the war.
For the first time, I felt the absolute togetherness of the people.
I felt I was beginning anew, as though none of the old values were left, as though everything had to be put to the test.
I can't write, can't think connectedly, canât get the idea of anything with any fullness.
I simply piffle through the whole of every day, thinking about what I could do to hide my few years over the age limit.
I think I have an idea.
I am Charles Edward Montague and, at 48 years old, getting on a bit.
When I was a young man, I went up to Oxford, where I became an ardent pacifist.
Today I live in London, the capital city of the greatest empire the world has ever known.
At the moment, I am working as a Journalist for The Manchester Guardian.
But since the German attack on Belgium, I am a pacifist no longer.
This injustice, this barbaric act of violence against a defenceless people must be stopped.
And who can stop the Germans, if not us? The wrath of the ordinary people is incredible.
German stores are ravaged.
Everything that is even remotely reminiscent of the hated Huns is laid in ruins.
But for me, wrath alone is not enough.
I've decided to volunteer for the Army even though I am some years over the age limit of 42.
Charles Edward Montague.
Mountaineer.
Swimmer.
Sporting fit.
41 years old, sir.
Do you have a family? A wife and seven children, sir.
And are things so bad at home that this will be your gift to your wife? Sir? Montague.
How old are you? I mean your real age, and don't you dare take me for a fool.
I just wanted to fight, like the rest of the country.
I felt an appetite for danger and, after all these years sitting behind a desk, a passion for any fresh enterprise.
In a word, for more life.
48, sir, but only just.
You know, it's rather scandalous, what you're doing here.
If I hadn't seen that life-saving medal-ribbon on your Jacket, I would have had you hauled off.
Understood? Yes, sir! Montague out there, you won't be saving any lives.
You'll be killing.
Is that clear to you? Peter and the others went to the barracks early for a medical examination.
They returned at six o'clock.
They'd all been turned down.
Hope that we might be able to keep him at home.
In times like these, one realises how stupid it is that these children are going to war.
The whole thing is so desolate and mad.
This silly thought, that surely they will not take part in such madness, and then, like a cold shower, you realise they must.
They must.
All my previous ideas of men marching to war had a touch of heroism, crudely expressed by quick-step and smart uniforms.
Today I see men so broken that their own mothers would hardly recognise them.
And their uniforms are stiff with blood and have to be cut off.
The wounded are collected in the courtyard.
They carry labels with their names, regiment numbers, the types of wounds they have.
You're here to ensure the men have something to drink.
Fetch yourselves a handcart.
I want to see tea, coffee and water here at all times.
Understood? Oh, you'll get used to it.
The Germans don't normally fire at us, but we're so close to the front you never know your luck.
Right, follow me.
The first sound of shells is unexpected and a little startling.
It was a curious sound of rending, increasing in violence as the missile comes toward one, giving one plenty of time to wonder whether it intends to hit one or not.
Stop! I saw French and Russian money In Peter's Jacket.
But then I take it all out again because, If he were taken prisoner, he could be executed if French banknotes were found on him.
I'm only sewing in German gold for him now.
We kiss goodbye.
He thanks me.
I thank him.
Suddenly, I sense something - my son will die.
I bade farewell to my darling today.
Just as the train started to move, I was gripped by a sudden fear - for now, I was letting go of everything that made life worth living.
Dear mother, you will see I have left Aberystwyth as you feared.
My only two real friends have gone.
I have done nothing to dishonour you as my parents but, on the contrary, I believe that I will make you proud.
Off to the front.
I asked my wife not to come with me to the station to say goodbye.
It would have taken away whatever little courage I have left.
I kiss Nyura for the last time.
She called out, "You promised not to cry!" I feel ashamed.
As my comrades sing, I cannot hold back the tears.
I am not exaggerating when I say that I felt neither remorse nor fear.
I was a Cossack.
I was driven by a blind instinct to follow the men into war.
To be caught up in the tide was an adventure for me, just as I had always dreamed it would be.
"War, " sang the iron wheels, "War, war" - a monotonous, contented song.
We passed many trains, all filled with men, marching towards victory, or so we thought.
Papa has told us that war has been declared between France and Germany.
Three regiments have already left for the border.
The soldiers are very happy.
We can hear the cannons from here.
The battle of Altkirch has happened.
Our soldiers took the town with their bayonets and our cavalry went after the German rearguard.
The soldiers carry in triumph the border-posts that they have uprooted.
I am Yves Congar.
I am ten years old and I live in Sedan.
My father is too old now to go off with our regiments and fight the Boche.
It's not the first time we have had to fight the Prussians.
Both he and Grandpa remember only too well our last war - the catastrophe of 1880-1881.
To our shame, it was here, It was our city, where we lost the decisive battle against Germany.
And after our defeat, we had to hand over Alsace and Lorraine, two of our richest provinces, to Germany.
The whole nation is ashamed and we never stop talking about it in school.
We will never be able to live in peace with such bloodthirsty neighbours, everyone knows that.
But we had to be clever, we need allies to take on this monster.
Russia, and even England, our old enemy.
Together, united, we will defeat the Germans.
The great battle has not begun yet.
Whenever German planes come to bomb us, we shoot them down with cannon fire.
We have already shot some down between Florenville and Carlgnan.
Today, the German planes flew overhead, but then they turned away.
Montague! They got me! God, help me.
Jesus! I had the rotten luck to be blown up while instructing our company In bombing.
There was not a great report, but a strong flame.
I was pushed back by the explosion.
When I looked round, I saw half a dozen men In great pain.
To make a million volunteers into soldiers Is a difficult undertaking.
I, at my age, and with no experience at all, am now a plodding grenadier sergeant, or ringleader of bomb-throwers.
Accidents are bound to happen.
Montague? Montague? How old are you? I mean your real age, and don't you dare take me for a fool.
You, you were lucky, my old friend.
Luck? Call this luck? My moustache is gone.
I suppose my wife never liked it anyway.
But the hair? All that trouble.
When can I go back to the men? You'll have to be patient.
On the Eastern Front, the battle has been raging for days.
If you are quiet and pay close attention, you can feel the ground shake softly.
It is an ominous feeling.
My name is Elfriede Kuhr and I am Just a girl, worse luck.
Even worse, I am only 12 years old.
If only I was older - and a man - I could fight! But here I am, stuck in this backwater with Grandmother, who looks after me.
We live in Schneidemühl, In the province of Posen, where our great German Empire borders Russia.
And here, nothing ever happens at all.
But now we are at war, and the Russians are advancing.
So like almost all girls in my class, I have begun to write a war diary.
This is "to capture this glorious time", as our teacher puts It.
At school, the teachers have told us it is a duty towards our fatherland not to use foreign words.
At first, I didn't know what they meant by that.
Now I understand.
We shouldn't use the word "adieu" - it's French.
From now on, I am to call Mama "Mutter", but "Mutter" isn't gentle enough.
I think I'll say "Muttchen".
I've just arrived here in the slums of Woolwich, in the outskirts of London.
The roads here are vile, cut to bits and thick with mud.
You lost your way? Excuse me, could you please point me in the right direction? I'm looking for hall number two of the munitions factory.
Such a fine lady! What's your business here? Another volunteer, I suppose? Ow, get your hands off me? What's your problem? It's over there.
Let go of me! Let go of me.
Won't be seein' that one 'ere again! Want to make a bet? Show me your papers! Oh Oh, God.
Oh, God! I am Gabrielle West.
Papa, who chose my somewhat unusual name, has always tried to protect me from the unpleasantries of the outside world.
So, for 24 years, I have lived a sheltered and carefree life but no longer.
We are at war, and as a patriot I feel I must do my bit, too so I have set about looking for a job.
It's not about the money, of course, but about serving my country.
With the men gone to war, we women are desperately needed to work in the factories that make the bombs and grenades, which supply the front line.
I've a good deal of experience, having worked with the Red Cross.
Would you like to see my references? And are you familiar with this kind of environment? What on earth is that? Sulphuric and nitric acid.
Together, they're important in producing dynamite and explosives our men out there in France need.
A couple of hundred tonnes of the stuff a day.
The particles of acid land on your face and make you nearly mad, like pins and needles, only much more so.
They get up your nose and down your throat and into your eyes, so that you are blind and speechless by the time you make your escape.
Did the Red Cross teach you how to handle the, erm the effect of this stuff, in case of an emergency? Well, the procedure is relatively simple.
If conscious, give an emetic.
If blue in the face, apply artificial respiration.
If very blue, oxygen - but perhaps that's obvious to you.
I'm afraid the Red Cross simply had me running a large kitchen.
Really? In our kitchen, we have two nieces of the Duchess of Wellington.
And sadly, they couldn't tell the difference between a turnip and a boiled egg.
There's some room here by me, if you like.
The people are restless.
I have heard that some families have already left Schneldemühl.
Trenches are being dug just a few kilometres outside the city.
My papa was right.
We could hear the endless thump of the cannons from here and also the sound of firearms and machine guns.
Grandpapa, who always talks of the war of 1870, wonders if the whole town won't explode.
In my heart, a sort of cease-fire had set in.
I did not need to cry any more, sometimes I was quite happy.
As long as the boy is still alive, the feeling creeps over me that everything will perhaps not be so bad.
Moreover, there are good reports of the war in France.
It might all be over in a few weeks' time.
Now and then artillery fire, some German snipers.
Good morning, sir.
Excuse me, sir.
Mainly we have been waiting.
One can hardly imagine the ubiquitous muckiness, mud and stench of the whole front.
That is the real enemy.
I have had a little dose of trench fever and it isn't getting any better.
Rather worse in these conditions.
Should I really have insisted on serving In the trenches? The one thing of which no description given In England has given any true measure is the universal misery of it all.
After the heavy losses of the first battles, our soldiers invented, out of pure instinct of self-preservation, a new kind of warfare - the trench.
Entire labyrinths spring up behind the front lines.
Digging trenches soon fills up most of our dally lives.
The devastating effects of shells and bullets are only survivable underground.
But still the Germans are advancing.
We are able to hold them back here In the very last corner of Belgium, but I fear that further south in France the situation daily grows more and more ominous.
Tuesday.
Terrible Tuesday! They are here! The barbarians are walking past our windows.
I hear a soldier bark out an order.
Achtung! It sounds something like "aa-rr-n-charr"! The Germans are at Monsieur Benoit's front door.
They make sure that no soldiers are hiding there.
They shot his dog to stop his barking from alerting the French about the German patrols.
I'm sure I will never experience anything so horrible for the rest of my life.
I think I have seen too much pain lately.
I now live, from five o'clock, in an atmosphere of bandages and blood.
Blood-stained mattresses and pillows are carried out into the courtyard.
There is always a pile of bandages and rags being burnt, and a youth stirs the horrible pile with a stick.
A queer smell permeates everything and the guns never cease.
The guns were so close now that the air began to shake with them and some houses around our hospital were hilt by shells and took fire.
The roads are lined and filled with people, walking or in carts and carriages, all trying to get away.
These poor people are doomed to leave behind everything that only a few weeks ago seemed so permanent.
Now their whole world lies scattered in ruins.
One hears this is not just in Belgium, but all over Europe.
The continent has not faced such horrors for more than 100 years.
We walk all day.
There is no water anywhere, only in the hoof-prints of horses.
With a spoon, we scoop up tiny mouthfuls of the foul liquid.
This place is worse than a wasteland, with nothing but ashes ahead of us, and in the middle of the ashes, human souls, freezing and hungry.
Emiel went away with one pair of shoes and after that I haven't seen the poor boy again.
I often remember him, together with my other brothers and sisters, but Emiel I remember most of all.
We only had time to take what we could fit into a suitcase.
I had only one thought in my head - where should we go? Where in heaven's name could we go? Those fleeing were running Into each other, as though they were escaping a burning theatre.
Friendliness, humanity - it was all swept away.
I don't know what you're bringing, Miss Macnaughtan, but it certainly isn't coffee.
No, Dr Beavis, this is good Scotch whisky.
I bought it myself.
It's for the men.
I thought that, mixed with water, it might help soothe them, strengthen their organism, and most importantly help them sleep.
What can I say? Can't do any harm.
Poor buggers.
As a Scot, I can assure you a little whisky always helps.
Time for some tea? Thank you.
Thank you.
Two pieces of sugar for me! Only one each, I'm afraid.
We're wastin' away 'ere and you won't even give us enough sugar for our tea? The sugar is rationed, I assure you.
It isn't my decision.
I'm feeling dizzy.
Please don't make a scene over a piece of sugar! Mary! Not again! - She's falling, catch her! - Sorry! The ether in the cordite affects the girls.
It gives some headaches, hysteria and sometimes fits.
If a worker has the least tendency to epilepsy, even if she has never shown it before, the ether will bring it out.
Some of the girls have 12 fits or more, one after the other.
We dosed the men.
It seemed to do them a wonderful lot of good.
Also, it pulled them together and they got some sleep afterwards.
100 beds filled with men in pain give one something to think about.
And it's during pain that these attitudes of suffering strike one most.
Some of them bury their heads In their pillows, like shot partridges seek to bury theirs in autumn leaves.
Still, you should be glad you weren't caught by a bullet.
Not even a scratch, sir.
Bronchitis.
Temperature of 1 03.
Measles rash.
Let that be enough, Montague.
I can't dispute the justice of it.
For though I felt wholly young till I was burnt, I begin to feel an old crock out of place among the boys.
The Kaiser has ordered that after so many victories, school is to be cancelled.
The news came so late, that we still had to have maths and geography.
Worse luck.
Tannenberg, what a victory! Not only in school, throughout the city euphoria prevails.
The Russians are defeated.
We have taken over 60,000 prisoners.
The Russians flee and are forced back Into the lakes and swamps, where they must surely perish miserably.
We are lucky still to be alive.
Everything feels unreal, but we have to get used to It.
The town is filled with Germans.
Captain Nemnick, a German officer, Is living with us.
This morning, he had four chickens cooked.
His ordinance officer ate a whole one to himself.
In history class, I read, "The Huns came to France "and burned everything that stood In their way.
" How is it possible that after 1,400 years, we have such a barbaric and destructive race once again In Europe? Peter's birthday.
Antwerp has fallen, and the sky Is once again blue.
For the first time in our lives, today, on October 10th, we, dedicated Social Democrats, we are hanging out the Kaiserâs black, white and red flag from the boy's room, for both Peter and Antwerp.
Above all, though, for Peter.
They should have been back hours ago to pick us up.
It looks like they have forgotten us, my dear.
But the severe cases are still here and us.
Here we found the wounded all yelling like mad things, thinking they were going to be left behind.
We shan't be able to leave now.
Let us take all the wounded down to the coke cellar.
Lads, surely we're not going to run away from these ghastly German shells, now, are we? This assurance that we did not mean to desert them seemed to bring a curious sense of safety to the men, as if a handful of women could protect them from bursting shells! I've been assigned the night shift, which means 24 hours without a bed and without sleeping.
What rotten luck! I thought I could manage, do my bit, but I just don't have what it takes for this kind of work.
The country might in fact do rather better without the likes of me.
My dear Miss West - We're under attack! - Now, now, calm down! Calm down, ladies.
Hurry to the shelter! Go on.
Calmly.
That's it.
Hurry, please.
And keep calm! The Zeppelin.
Before the war, admired as a marvel of German technology.
Now, turned into an indiscriminate killing machine.
Night after night, their airships cross the Channel, dropping bombs on London, our port cities in the south, and even over Scotland.
The damage they cause Is usually not great, more it is the feeling that England Is no longer an Island, safe from enemy attack.
Where is Mary Morgan? Where is Mary Morgan? Mary? The Zeppelin was high up, like a small sausage in the sky.
Three searchlights were playing on it and then all the guns began.
Mary? Oh! Mary! It's OK, I'm here.
Not a man remained with us.
Our staff consisted solely of women.
I did not fancy this small coal cellar gave any protection whatever, and there was always the chance that the building above might collapse and fall on top of us.
But that was one of the chances which had to be accepted.
And the fact of being In any sort of cellar had a certain pretention of safety about it which satisfied the men.
Two sugars for you, was it? Thank you.
We sat in the cellar with one night-light burning and with 70 wounded men to take care of.
Two of them were dying.
There was only one line of bricks between us and the shells.
Now they came over at a rate of four a minute.
Still we all smiled and made little Jokes.
Well, now, who can still give me a patent patriotic smile? Well, what with all the men I had on top of me today I found myself wishing that for me a shot would come and finish the horrible thing.
We sat there all night.
We ourselves got away only by chance the next morning.
This very day, the Germans captured the city of Antwerp.
But elsewhere they were being defeated.
Paris held on and the Germans had to withdraw.
But as summer turned to winter, our own counterattacks got bogged down In the mud and rain.
Everywhere lay destruction and death, nowhere was there to be found a decisive victory.
After a mere three months of this terrible war, a million men have fallen.
It is my sad duty to inform you that your son, in the accomplishment of his duties towards King and country has given his greatest sacrifice to the Republic, for the glory and honour of France may you and your family accept the eternal gratitude of the great Habsburg dynasty and of all its members.
Rest assured that this death was neither In vain, nor will It ever be forgotten.
It was during our most recent attack that your son bravely rushed Into the fray, and was killed we, the officers, share your grief at the death of this wonderful comrade and kind-hearted man.
We buried him where he fell.
We, for our part, were "military" and bandaged little messenger boys In the park.
I do believe we all felt like doing our bit.
The messenger boys' wounds were always conveniently placed, and they never screamed and writhed or prayed for morphia when they were being bandaged.
And shoulders were not shot away, nor eyes blinded, nor men's faces mushed.
Papa! On this day in August, I was looking for my father out in the fields.
Papa! - The bells had been ringing for hours.
- Pap! Papa! When it is not a feast day, the bells chime only when there is a fire, or something really bad has happened.
They were ringing not only in our village, but also in the neighbouring town.
How different the bells sounded on that day Papa! as if they were a portent of things to come, calling for help.
Papa! Papa! My father was a colonel of the Kuban Cossacks, a proud, hard man.
On this day, he hugged and kissed me without a word.
He had never done so before.
On a certain radiant morning seven weeks ago, we learned that a man and woman had been murdered in a distant country.
We felt deeply for the great family who had known many tragedies, but the murder of the Grand Duke and Duchess of Austria In the town of Sarajevo had nothing to do with us so we thought.
We were wrong.
War had been declared.
The thing which we had talked of for years had happened.
And with the lifting of the veil of that peace, which concealed the hate behind it, Germany stood revealed as England's old and Implacable enemy.
And now, what would the gash of a sabre look like? Would it cut through the middle of the face? No, the face must surely be preserved.
Perhaps a slice through the shoulder? We were not ready, we did not pretend to be ready, but we meant to fight whether we were ready or not.
Also we meant to go on fighting till the end.
The war was a matter of national honour.
Even though Englishmen do not feel hate, they very often feel rage.
My, my, I'm terribly excited.
We're going to take care of all these men.
Bandage, wash Most importantly, we must smile.
All of you must maintain your smile.
I call it the Patent Patriotic Smile.
It looks somewhat like this.
You must learn to carry it in all situations - it will keep up the men's courage.
No doubt we should start there.
I, Sarah Macnaughtan, am Scottish and proud of It.
I was born in 1864 Into a wealthy family.
To me, it has always been important to use my wealth to alleviate the sufferings of others and to do good.
As a Red Cross volunteer, I have lived through the wars in South Africa and the Balkans, so it is only natural that I should report for duty as an auxiliary nurse at the front in Belgium.
Travelling with me is a group of inexperienced young women who also want to assist the British Army in the most brutal conflict it has ever faced.
Give me a hand here, would you, dear? Don't forget your jacket.
Oh, your suitcase.
Allow me, ladies.
I'm Dr Henry Beavis, and you've been assigned to me.
Sarah Macnaughtan, sir.
Our outfit is complete.
All the women of our group are prepared to partake in the toughest of tasks to aid the wounded.
The wounded? My dear ladies, what do you expect you'll be doing? Forgive me, Dr Beavis.
I can assure you that with my experience - in the South African War - And I can assure you, this is no mere skirmish with a couple of natives.
Cooking, cleaning and food distribution are precisely the tough tasks you can look forward to.
Shall we? Karl argues against it, with every reason he can think of.
I feel somewhat grateful that he should fight for him.
I am Käthe Kollwitz, mother, wife, Social Democrat and, above all, artist.
It is the suffering of the working class that delves me.
I must draw it, must show it to the world.
We, on the other hand, are doing very well.
I am called Germany's most important female artist.
Karl is a successful doctor and we live with our son Peter in Berlin - where else? Here, for all its modernity, power is still in the hands of the arch-conservative Prussian nobility, and, above all, in the hands of the heel-clicking military that keeps them there.
At its head is Emperor Wilhelm II, a ruler who seems unable to distinguish fantasy from reality.
Since the day I was born, Germany has won all the wars it fought.
We have forged a mighty empire through these victories, but with it, fear, even hatred, from our neighbours.
We feel, in fact, surrounded by enemies.
A feeling of pressure and inconsolability.
Of the impossibility of sacrificing Peter.
One speaks in vain, because the boy's silence overwhelms my own Inner feelings.
It's a long way to Tipperary It's a long way to go Allons enfants de la Patrie Our Cossacks were getting their horses ready to board the train.
The men showed off their courage and contempt of death, as is required by tradition.
They did not show their feelings.
I remembered an old war tradition which my father had told me about.
The women follow the Cossacks as they go to war and stay as close as possible to the army.
Why should it be any different this time? I had only one word ringing In my ears - war, war, war.
Against whom and why The Tsar had ordered it and a Cossack never asks.
I am Marina Yurlova and I'm 14 years old.
I live in the south of our mighty Russian Empire, in a small village by the river Kuban.
As the daughter of a Cossack colonel, I'm always ready for adventure.
We Cossacks are feared warriors.
Because of this, we form the Tsar's personal bodyguards.
Ordained by God, he rules over all Russians.
Nicholas II seems to me to be a very sad Tsar.
Again and again, he has had to endure horrible news.
He has lost wars and even faced revolutions.
Now all of Russia seems to be losing Its mind.
We Cossacks are the only ones he can always rely on and he does.
War.
Everywhere, people on the streets.
And within me the feeling we've endured long enough the pressure, the embrace of the enemy.
Now we are attacked and must defend ourselves.
Now we can live again.
It is as though we are awakened from an oppressive dream.
And now it was all done.
That sacrifice my son drew me to, and to which we drew Karl.
I must say something about my altered attitude towards the war.
For the first time, I felt the absolute togetherness of the people.
I felt I was beginning anew, as though none of the old values were left, as though everything had to be put to the test.
I can't write, can't think connectedly, canât get the idea of anything with any fullness.
I simply piffle through the whole of every day, thinking about what I could do to hide my few years over the age limit.
I think I have an idea.
I am Charles Edward Montague and, at 48 years old, getting on a bit.
When I was a young man, I went up to Oxford, where I became an ardent pacifist.
Today I live in London, the capital city of the greatest empire the world has ever known.
At the moment, I am working as a Journalist for The Manchester Guardian.
But since the German attack on Belgium, I am a pacifist no longer.
This injustice, this barbaric act of violence against a defenceless people must be stopped.
And who can stop the Germans, if not us? The wrath of the ordinary people is incredible.
German stores are ravaged.
Everything that is even remotely reminiscent of the hated Huns is laid in ruins.
But for me, wrath alone is not enough.
I've decided to volunteer for the Army even though I am some years over the age limit of 42.
Charles Edward Montague.
Mountaineer.
Swimmer.
Sporting fit.
41 years old, sir.
Do you have a family? A wife and seven children, sir.
And are things so bad at home that this will be your gift to your wife? Sir? Montague.
How old are you? I mean your real age, and don't you dare take me for a fool.
I just wanted to fight, like the rest of the country.
I felt an appetite for danger and, after all these years sitting behind a desk, a passion for any fresh enterprise.
In a word, for more life.
48, sir, but only just.
You know, it's rather scandalous, what you're doing here.
If I hadn't seen that life-saving medal-ribbon on your Jacket, I would have had you hauled off.
Understood? Yes, sir! Montague out there, you won't be saving any lives.
You'll be killing.
Is that clear to you? Peter and the others went to the barracks early for a medical examination.
They returned at six o'clock.
They'd all been turned down.
Hope that we might be able to keep him at home.
In times like these, one realises how stupid it is that these children are going to war.
The whole thing is so desolate and mad.
This silly thought, that surely they will not take part in such madness, and then, like a cold shower, you realise they must.
They must.
All my previous ideas of men marching to war had a touch of heroism, crudely expressed by quick-step and smart uniforms.
Today I see men so broken that their own mothers would hardly recognise them.
And their uniforms are stiff with blood and have to be cut off.
The wounded are collected in the courtyard.
They carry labels with their names, regiment numbers, the types of wounds they have.
You're here to ensure the men have something to drink.
Fetch yourselves a handcart.
I want to see tea, coffee and water here at all times.
Understood? Oh, you'll get used to it.
The Germans don't normally fire at us, but we're so close to the front you never know your luck.
Right, follow me.
The first sound of shells is unexpected and a little startling.
It was a curious sound of rending, increasing in violence as the missile comes toward one, giving one plenty of time to wonder whether it intends to hit one or not.
Stop! I saw French and Russian money In Peter's Jacket.
But then I take it all out again because, If he were taken prisoner, he could be executed if French banknotes were found on him.
I'm only sewing in German gold for him now.
We kiss goodbye.
He thanks me.
I thank him.
Suddenly, I sense something - my son will die.
I bade farewell to my darling today.
Just as the train started to move, I was gripped by a sudden fear - for now, I was letting go of everything that made life worth living.
Dear mother, you will see I have left Aberystwyth as you feared.
My only two real friends have gone.
I have done nothing to dishonour you as my parents but, on the contrary, I believe that I will make you proud.
Off to the front.
I asked my wife not to come with me to the station to say goodbye.
It would have taken away whatever little courage I have left.
I kiss Nyura for the last time.
She called out, "You promised not to cry!" I feel ashamed.
As my comrades sing, I cannot hold back the tears.
I am not exaggerating when I say that I felt neither remorse nor fear.
I was a Cossack.
I was driven by a blind instinct to follow the men into war.
To be caught up in the tide was an adventure for me, just as I had always dreamed it would be.
"War, " sang the iron wheels, "War, war" - a monotonous, contented song.
We passed many trains, all filled with men, marching towards victory, or so we thought.
Papa has told us that war has been declared between France and Germany.
Three regiments have already left for the border.
The soldiers are very happy.
We can hear the cannons from here.
The battle of Altkirch has happened.
Our soldiers took the town with their bayonets and our cavalry went after the German rearguard.
The soldiers carry in triumph the border-posts that they have uprooted.
I am Yves Congar.
I am ten years old and I live in Sedan.
My father is too old now to go off with our regiments and fight the Boche.
It's not the first time we have had to fight the Prussians.
Both he and Grandpa remember only too well our last war - the catastrophe of 1880-1881.
To our shame, it was here, It was our city, where we lost the decisive battle against Germany.
And after our defeat, we had to hand over Alsace and Lorraine, two of our richest provinces, to Germany.
The whole nation is ashamed and we never stop talking about it in school.
We will never be able to live in peace with such bloodthirsty neighbours, everyone knows that.
But we had to be clever, we need allies to take on this monster.
Russia, and even England, our old enemy.
Together, united, we will defeat the Germans.
The great battle has not begun yet.
Whenever German planes come to bomb us, we shoot them down with cannon fire.
We have already shot some down between Florenville and Carlgnan.
Today, the German planes flew overhead, but then they turned away.
Montague! They got me! God, help me.
Jesus! I had the rotten luck to be blown up while instructing our company In bombing.
There was not a great report, but a strong flame.
I was pushed back by the explosion.
When I looked round, I saw half a dozen men In great pain.
To make a million volunteers into soldiers Is a difficult undertaking.
I, at my age, and with no experience at all, am now a plodding grenadier sergeant, or ringleader of bomb-throwers.
Accidents are bound to happen.
Montague? Montague? How old are you? I mean your real age, and don't you dare take me for a fool.
You, you were lucky, my old friend.
Luck? Call this luck? My moustache is gone.
I suppose my wife never liked it anyway.
But the hair? All that trouble.
When can I go back to the men? You'll have to be patient.
On the Eastern Front, the battle has been raging for days.
If you are quiet and pay close attention, you can feel the ground shake softly.
It is an ominous feeling.
My name is Elfriede Kuhr and I am Just a girl, worse luck.
Even worse, I am only 12 years old.
If only I was older - and a man - I could fight! But here I am, stuck in this backwater with Grandmother, who looks after me.
We live in Schneidemühl, In the province of Posen, where our great German Empire borders Russia.
And here, nothing ever happens at all.
But now we are at war, and the Russians are advancing.
So like almost all girls in my class, I have begun to write a war diary.
This is "to capture this glorious time", as our teacher puts It.
At school, the teachers have told us it is a duty towards our fatherland not to use foreign words.
At first, I didn't know what they meant by that.
Now I understand.
We shouldn't use the word "adieu" - it's French.
From now on, I am to call Mama "Mutter", but "Mutter" isn't gentle enough.
I think I'll say "Muttchen".
I've just arrived here in the slums of Woolwich, in the outskirts of London.
The roads here are vile, cut to bits and thick with mud.
You lost your way? Excuse me, could you please point me in the right direction? I'm looking for hall number two of the munitions factory.
Such a fine lady! What's your business here? Another volunteer, I suppose? Ow, get your hands off me? What's your problem? It's over there.
Let go of me! Let go of me.
Won't be seein' that one 'ere again! Want to make a bet? Show me your papers! Oh Oh, God.
Oh, God! I am Gabrielle West.
Papa, who chose my somewhat unusual name, has always tried to protect me from the unpleasantries of the outside world.
So, for 24 years, I have lived a sheltered and carefree life but no longer.
We are at war, and as a patriot I feel I must do my bit, too so I have set about looking for a job.
It's not about the money, of course, but about serving my country.
With the men gone to war, we women are desperately needed to work in the factories that make the bombs and grenades, which supply the front line.
I've a good deal of experience, having worked with the Red Cross.
Would you like to see my references? And are you familiar with this kind of environment? What on earth is that? Sulphuric and nitric acid.
Together, they're important in producing dynamite and explosives our men out there in France need.
A couple of hundred tonnes of the stuff a day.
The particles of acid land on your face and make you nearly mad, like pins and needles, only much more so.
They get up your nose and down your throat and into your eyes, so that you are blind and speechless by the time you make your escape.
Did the Red Cross teach you how to handle the, erm the effect of this stuff, in case of an emergency? Well, the procedure is relatively simple.
If conscious, give an emetic.
If blue in the face, apply artificial respiration.
If very blue, oxygen - but perhaps that's obvious to you.
I'm afraid the Red Cross simply had me running a large kitchen.
Really? In our kitchen, we have two nieces of the Duchess of Wellington.
And sadly, they couldn't tell the difference between a turnip and a boiled egg.
There's some room here by me, if you like.
The people are restless.
I have heard that some families have already left Schneldemühl.
Trenches are being dug just a few kilometres outside the city.
My papa was right.
We could hear the endless thump of the cannons from here and also the sound of firearms and machine guns.
Grandpapa, who always talks of the war of 1870, wonders if the whole town won't explode.
In my heart, a sort of cease-fire had set in.
I did not need to cry any more, sometimes I was quite happy.
As long as the boy is still alive, the feeling creeps over me that everything will perhaps not be so bad.
Moreover, there are good reports of the war in France.
It might all be over in a few weeks' time.
Now and then artillery fire, some German snipers.
Good morning, sir.
Excuse me, sir.
Mainly we have been waiting.
One can hardly imagine the ubiquitous muckiness, mud and stench of the whole front.
That is the real enemy.
I have had a little dose of trench fever and it isn't getting any better.
Rather worse in these conditions.
Should I really have insisted on serving In the trenches? The one thing of which no description given In England has given any true measure is the universal misery of it all.
After the heavy losses of the first battles, our soldiers invented, out of pure instinct of self-preservation, a new kind of warfare - the trench.
Entire labyrinths spring up behind the front lines.
Digging trenches soon fills up most of our dally lives.
The devastating effects of shells and bullets are only survivable underground.
But still the Germans are advancing.
We are able to hold them back here In the very last corner of Belgium, but I fear that further south in France the situation daily grows more and more ominous.
Tuesday.
Terrible Tuesday! They are here! The barbarians are walking past our windows.
I hear a soldier bark out an order.
Achtung! It sounds something like "aa-rr-n-charr"! The Germans are at Monsieur Benoit's front door.
They make sure that no soldiers are hiding there.
They shot his dog to stop his barking from alerting the French about the German patrols.
I'm sure I will never experience anything so horrible for the rest of my life.
I think I have seen too much pain lately.
I now live, from five o'clock, in an atmosphere of bandages and blood.
Blood-stained mattresses and pillows are carried out into the courtyard.
There is always a pile of bandages and rags being burnt, and a youth stirs the horrible pile with a stick.
A queer smell permeates everything and the guns never cease.
The guns were so close now that the air began to shake with them and some houses around our hospital were hilt by shells and took fire.
The roads are lined and filled with people, walking or in carts and carriages, all trying to get away.
These poor people are doomed to leave behind everything that only a few weeks ago seemed so permanent.
Now their whole world lies scattered in ruins.
One hears this is not just in Belgium, but all over Europe.
The continent has not faced such horrors for more than 100 years.
We walk all day.
There is no water anywhere, only in the hoof-prints of horses.
With a spoon, we scoop up tiny mouthfuls of the foul liquid.
This place is worse than a wasteland, with nothing but ashes ahead of us, and in the middle of the ashes, human souls, freezing and hungry.
Emiel went away with one pair of shoes and after that I haven't seen the poor boy again.
I often remember him, together with my other brothers and sisters, but Emiel I remember most of all.
We only had time to take what we could fit into a suitcase.
I had only one thought in my head - where should we go? Where in heaven's name could we go? Those fleeing were running Into each other, as though they were escaping a burning theatre.
Friendliness, humanity - it was all swept away.
I don't know what you're bringing, Miss Macnaughtan, but it certainly isn't coffee.
No, Dr Beavis, this is good Scotch whisky.
I bought it myself.
It's for the men.
I thought that, mixed with water, it might help soothe them, strengthen their organism, and most importantly help them sleep.
What can I say? Can't do any harm.
Poor buggers.
As a Scot, I can assure you a little whisky always helps.
Time for some tea? Thank you.
Thank you.
Two pieces of sugar for me! Only one each, I'm afraid.
We're wastin' away 'ere and you won't even give us enough sugar for our tea? The sugar is rationed, I assure you.
It isn't my decision.
I'm feeling dizzy.
Please don't make a scene over a piece of sugar! Mary! Not again! - She's falling, catch her! - Sorry! The ether in the cordite affects the girls.
It gives some headaches, hysteria and sometimes fits.
If a worker has the least tendency to epilepsy, even if she has never shown it before, the ether will bring it out.
Some of the girls have 12 fits or more, one after the other.
We dosed the men.
It seemed to do them a wonderful lot of good.
Also, it pulled them together and they got some sleep afterwards.
100 beds filled with men in pain give one something to think about.
And it's during pain that these attitudes of suffering strike one most.
Some of them bury their heads In their pillows, like shot partridges seek to bury theirs in autumn leaves.
Still, you should be glad you weren't caught by a bullet.
Not even a scratch, sir.
Bronchitis.
Temperature of 1 03.
Measles rash.
Let that be enough, Montague.
I can't dispute the justice of it.
For though I felt wholly young till I was burnt, I begin to feel an old crock out of place among the boys.
The Kaiser has ordered that after so many victories, school is to be cancelled.
The news came so late, that we still had to have maths and geography.
Worse luck.
Tannenberg, what a victory! Not only in school, throughout the city euphoria prevails.
The Russians are defeated.
We have taken over 60,000 prisoners.
The Russians flee and are forced back Into the lakes and swamps, where they must surely perish miserably.
We are lucky still to be alive.
Everything feels unreal, but we have to get used to It.
The town is filled with Germans.
Captain Nemnick, a German officer, Is living with us.
This morning, he had four chickens cooked.
His ordinance officer ate a whole one to himself.
In history class, I read, "The Huns came to France "and burned everything that stood In their way.
" How is it possible that after 1,400 years, we have such a barbaric and destructive race once again In Europe? Peter's birthday.
Antwerp has fallen, and the sky Is once again blue.
For the first time in our lives, today, on October 10th, we, dedicated Social Democrats, we are hanging out the Kaiserâs black, white and red flag from the boy's room, for both Peter and Antwerp.
Above all, though, for Peter.
They should have been back hours ago to pick us up.
It looks like they have forgotten us, my dear.
But the severe cases are still here and us.
Here we found the wounded all yelling like mad things, thinking they were going to be left behind.
We shan't be able to leave now.
Let us take all the wounded down to the coke cellar.
Lads, surely we're not going to run away from these ghastly German shells, now, are we? This assurance that we did not mean to desert them seemed to bring a curious sense of safety to the men, as if a handful of women could protect them from bursting shells! I've been assigned the night shift, which means 24 hours without a bed and without sleeping.
What rotten luck! I thought I could manage, do my bit, but I just don't have what it takes for this kind of work.
The country might in fact do rather better without the likes of me.
My dear Miss West - We're under attack! - Now, now, calm down! Calm down, ladies.
Hurry to the shelter! Go on.
Calmly.
That's it.
Hurry, please.
And keep calm! The Zeppelin.
Before the war, admired as a marvel of German technology.
Now, turned into an indiscriminate killing machine.
Night after night, their airships cross the Channel, dropping bombs on London, our port cities in the south, and even over Scotland.
The damage they cause Is usually not great, more it is the feeling that England Is no longer an Island, safe from enemy attack.
Where is Mary Morgan? Where is Mary Morgan? Mary? The Zeppelin was high up, like a small sausage in the sky.
Three searchlights were playing on it and then all the guns began.
Mary? Oh! Mary! It's OK, I'm here.
Not a man remained with us.
Our staff consisted solely of women.
I did not fancy this small coal cellar gave any protection whatever, and there was always the chance that the building above might collapse and fall on top of us.
But that was one of the chances which had to be accepted.
And the fact of being In any sort of cellar had a certain pretention of safety about it which satisfied the men.
Two sugars for you, was it? Thank you.
We sat in the cellar with one night-light burning and with 70 wounded men to take care of.
Two of them were dying.
There was only one line of bricks between us and the shells.
Now they came over at a rate of four a minute.
Still we all smiled and made little Jokes.
Well, now, who can still give me a patent patriotic smile? Well, what with all the men I had on top of me today I found myself wishing that for me a shot would come and finish the horrible thing.
We sat there all night.
We ourselves got away only by chance the next morning.
This very day, the Germans captured the city of Antwerp.
But elsewhere they were being defeated.
Paris held on and the Germans had to withdraw.
But as summer turned to winter, our own counterattacks got bogged down In the mud and rain.
Everywhere lay destruction and death, nowhere was there to be found a decisive victory.
After a mere three months of this terrible war, a million men have fallen.
It is my sad duty to inform you that your son, in the accomplishment of his duties towards King and country has given his greatest sacrifice to the Republic, for the glory and honour of France may you and your family accept the eternal gratitude of the great Habsburg dynasty and of all its members.
Rest assured that this death was neither In vain, nor will It ever be forgotten.
It was during our most recent attack that your son bravely rushed Into the fray, and was killed we, the officers, share your grief at the death of this wonderful comrade and kind-hearted man.
We buried him where he fell.