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J.R.R. Tolkien and the First World War
Hurrying forward again, Sam tripped, catching his foot in some old root or tussock. He fell and came heavily
on his hands, which sank deep into sticky ooze, so that his face was brought close to the surface of the dark
mere. There was a faint hiss, a noisome smell went up, the lights flickered and danced and swirled. For a
moment, the water below him looked like some window, glazed with grimy glass, through which he was
peering. Wrenching his hands out of the bog, he sprang back with a cry. 'There are dead things, dead faces
in the water,' he said with horror. 'Dead faces!'
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
Like many others of the time, J.R.R. Tolkien served as a soldier in the First World War. The
following story 'There and back again' uses what we know about Tolkien's life to recreate his part
in the 1916 Battle of the Somme, where he served as a Signals Officer with the 11th Battalion
Lancashire Fusiliers.
There and back again… Friday 14 July 1916
It was a few minutes before midnight, so the guns were still firing. Whizzzz-crump! Whizzzz-crump! Peering
over the top of his own trench, Private Sam Wisdom could just about see the enemy positions being
battered by artillery shells. Every now and then, another explosion sent a shower of fragments flying into
the air above the hill. There used to be a village up there. Whizzzz-crump! The Germans were probably
hiding deep underground in their shelters. On the surface, there were just a few mangled hedges and
broken buildings. Sam had never seen a volcano, but wondered if it looked like this - all flashes and bangs
and showers of sparks in the night.
'Will you look at that lot!' he sighed. 'It's like a fortress, with all that barbed wire! And we've got to climb
and capture it?'
'Someone's got to, Sam,' 2nd Lieutenant Tolkien snorted. 'Ready?'
Sam stepped down from the parapet - he'd seen enough. They'd all soon have an excellent view of the
battlefield when the attack started. He shivered, feeling sick. This was his first time for going 'over the top'.
'We've just got to make it into the forward trench, haven't we, sir?'
Tolkien nodded. The 'forward trench' was a German trench further up the hill, captured by the British in a
previous attack - but the Germans wanted it back and had been trying to drive them out with rifles and
hand grenades.
'That's right, Sam. Of course, the Germans won't be wanting that. Are you ready, lad?'
'If you are, sir.' He grinned. 'We'll walk it!'
John Ronald Tolkien shrugged and smiled. Sam was the ideal soldier. He didn't moan, he did his best, and
he always believed in what he was doing. Tolkien was glad to have him there. His gaze wandered along the
faces of the other members of the battalion preparing to charge up across 'No Man's Land', and he
wondered how they all felt. He was shivering too, but tried to hide it. When the firing stopped, the first
wave would go in - and then he would follow with Sam. Would they 'walk it'? He wasn't sure.
On 1 July 1916, thousands of British soldiers had dashed up the hill towards the ruined French village of
Ovillers, trying to capture it on the first day of the 'big push', the Battle of the Somme. But the Germans had
'dug in' too well, constructing a labyrinth of trenches to defend the position, reinforced with a network of
barbed wire barricades and machine guns. Thousands of British soldiers had died trying to capture that
little hill, and two weeks later the Germans were still holding on to their bit of it.
Tolkien was the battalion's Signals Officer - his job was trying to keep his commanders in touch with their
men. He could now send messages in code with flags, flashlights, signal rockets, carrier pigeons and field
telephones. The telephones needed yards and yards of wire strung out or buried along the line to work - if
a wire was cut in the middle of a battle, it was his job to find the break and get it fixed quickly. Sometimes it
was easier to send a 'runner' to carry a message - but they didn't always get through.
During the evening, his battalion had taken up position in this captured German trench, ready to go
forward with the night attack. But all the waiting gave him time to think. He noticed how well this German
trench was built with its wooden walls and concrete shelters, much better than the British ones. Was that
why the Germans still held the hill? He'd also seen the wounded men being brought back, and the dead
bodies littering the battlefield, some covered by blankets to be taken away and buried. What sort of people
had they been, the ones under the blankets? Where had they come from, to die here like this? He'd heard
tales of 'tanks', the British secret weapon - a little fort with guns that crawled over the trenches like a giant
reptile. Imagine being safe inside that! But there were no tanks in action today, just men and rifles and
bayonets and hand grenades. It would be messy - like ants fighting over a muddy anthill. He checked his
watch. Nearly midnight.
Whizzzz-crump! Whizzzz-crump! Then nothing. Silence. The guns had stopped.
There was a whisper of orders and suddenly he could hear the sound of the first wave in front, scrambling
up their ladders and disappearing over the top of the trench into the darkness. Why were they so noisy?
Couldn't the Germans hear them? Keep quiet, you lot! Bang! Suddenly, the sky lit up. Star shells, bathing
the battlefield in white light. Bang! The British had been seen. Bang! The Germans were firing more star
shells, searching for targets in the darkness as the British advanced towards them. Tattattattat! Machine
guns. Men versus machines. Tattattattat!
The Lancashire Fusiliers waited in their own reserve trench, deep in their own thoughts. Some were
praying, fingering a crucifix or a holy medal, or the pages of a Bible. Sam muttered the words he knew by
heart of Psalm 23: Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou
art with me…
That suddenly seemed a very good idea. 'Dear Jesus,' prayed Tolkien, 'I think there are so many things you
want me to do in future. Please let me do my duty and live.' It wasn't a long prayer, but he meant it.
Tolkien checked his kit again. Just as before, everything was present and correct. His pistol was loaded, his
field telephone strapped up and his heavy roll of wire already connected to battalion headquarters ready
for laying out on the ground as he followed the others. Carrying it wouldn't be easy - it was heavy and
awkward - but there was no other way. Sam would have the field telephone on his back - this was just as
bad and it made an even bigger target. They stood, waiting, with nothing else to say, listening to the
horrible sounds of battle up ahead.
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Were the first wave getting through, up there? Tolkien peeped over the parapet to see wounded men
tumbling back into their trench, complaining about being hit, about not being able to see where they were
going, about the machine guns, then being hustled back to the first aid stations.
'Second wave prepare to attack.' The order came through, brought by a messenger. Without a word,
Tolkien, Sam and the others shuffled along the support trenches to take their places, gazing at the ladders
they'd have to climb... waiting for the whistle.
Then it came... time to go over the top. Controlling the panic, breathing deeply, shuffling forward, trying
not to feel sick, trying not to let the others down... pause to catch your breath... then a tap on the shoulder
and they were climbing up, into the darkness into No Man's Land, and forward. Tolkien unrolled his
telephone wire as he walked, trying not to trip up. Had they been seen yet? What about the first wave where were they? Were they all back now? Where had they gone? Why had it gone quiet up the hill? He
stumbled over something, over somebody.
'Mate, can you help?' A voice, British, somebody wounded. 'It's my leg.'
'Not now, later,' Sam whispered, from behind. 'Keep quiet. We'll come back for you. Promise.'
Would they come back? The first wave had reached the enemy lines.
Another star shell and blinding light… cover one eye against the flash, so you can still see in the dark. Then
the enemy machine guns fired again, finding new targets. Tattattattat! Fusiliers were falling to the ground.
Tattattattat! Others hacked at the wire with cutters. Tattattattat! Bullets zipped overhead. More men were
falling and some were wriggling their way through the wire. Tattattattat! Near the forward trench already!
Shouting, explosions. Thump! The crump of mortars - both sides firing their vicious little rocket bombs up,
down, then exploding. Tattattattat! Thump! More flares and thick black smoke drifting down the hill… a
scattering of rifle shots chattering away, then stopping. Bang!
'This way!' shouted another officer, waving his pistol. The waves of men pushed onward and upward. There
were less of them now… Tattattattat... some lay twisted and still. It was all happening - so quickly and so
slowly. Whizzzz-crump! Whizzzz-crump! Now the British guns were firing overhead behind the German
lines, trying to stop German reinforcements coming up to help. More flashes from star shells… cover one
eye. Tolkien and Sam were through the barbed wire, into the forward trench, their telephone wires
stretching all the way back to the British lines. Now what?
An officer crawled alongside them and saw their equipment: 'Good to see you! Tell HQ to send us more
men! We're nearly through! We need more men NOW!' Tolkien and Sam crouched down in their new
trench, set up their telephone, connected the wires, wound up the little power generator and tap-taptapped their messages in Morse code. Would a flashlight have been easier? Maybe, but how would you get
a message back without the enemy seeing it? Soon there were more signals to send, orders flying back and
forth down the wires across No Man's Land. Whizzzz-crump! Shells were landing nearby. The German
gunners were firing at their own forward trenches now, trying to drive the British back. It was like a horrible
game of chess in the dark, with each player making a move, then a counter-move, where the knights and
castles and pawns could only see their own squares on the board.
More messages and questions. How far had the British advanced? How many casualties? Who was in the
forward trench? Where was the attack heading now? Had it slowed down? Had it stopped? Why? Where
were the reinforcements? More explosions… Whizzzz-crump… more black smoke swirling around the hill…
soldiers dashing past, back to the British lines. Why? Another officer, shouting: 'Retreat, we can't hold
them!' Time to move.
Fusiliers (many of them wounded) were now streaming back down the hill. Tolkien and Sam sent their last
message, packed up their equipment and joined them, leaving the wires behind. Soon, they were back in
the trench where they had started - and, amazingly, neither had even been scratched. On the way down,
they'd even found the wounded soldier and got him a stretcher bearer.
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Back in the reserve trench, they found a place to sit, have a quick sip of water and then check their field
telephone for damage. (Always check your equipment first, you never know when you'll need it again.) The
telephone wires were gone, they'd need replacing… you can always get replacements. But then he
remembered the others. Who was missing? Familiar faces weren't there back in the trench with them.
Why? Where had they gone? Had they got lost? It was as if there had been a massive tidal wave of British
soldiers running up a beach and then back down it again - only the high tide had left some behind.
What a night. 'Are you all right, sir?' asked Sam, passing over a cigarette and looking worried.
Tolkien nodded, then shook himself. He must have been looking a bit shell-shocked… don't let that happen.
'And you?' he asked, taking the cigarette and lighting up, trying not to let his fingers shake.
'Mustn't grumble,' said Sam, lighting up too. 'It's like they say - if you know a better hole, you'd better get
to it.' And, suddenly, they grinned in relief. After their first battle, they were still alive, and it felt strangely
good.
As they made their way back to headquarters in the morning light, Tolkien was thinking hard. Had it been
worth it? The forward trench up the hill had been reinforced with a few more soldiers, but they hadn't gone
on to capture the village. Had it been worth it? How soon before they had to do it all over again? Tolkien
didn't know. He believed in the war, but wished it was grander and less dirtier than this. The good shouldn't
have to die like that, cut down in the dark by bullets and shells, like blades of grass under a giant mowing
machine. It seemed so pointless. It wasn't right.
How soldiers fought in the First World War
In August 1914, the soldiers who went off to fight on the Western Front had expected a quick war,
mostly fought with horse cavalry, but machine guns and barbed wire changed all that. Armies
across Europe discovered a new type of fighting, where soldiers had to hide in holes in the ground
behind strong defences, and vicious battles would be fought over very small patches of ground. It
was strangely similar to the medieval 'siege' tactics of knights and castles, a thousand years
before.
In 1915, both sides tried to punch their way through the enemy lines (at Loos, then at Verdun),
with heavy bombardments from cannons, followed by massed attacks of infantry. This was tried
again by the British in July 1916 on a large scale at the Battle of the Somme, but the result was a
horrible stalemate, although the attack probably saved the French, who were facing defeat at
Verdun further south, and seriously weakened the German army. This 'deadlock' wasn't broken
until 1918, when two massive German attacks were beaten and the British (with the French and
Americans) launched a major combined attack using aircraft, tanks and cavalry. The Germans were
finally defeated in November 1918.
J.R.R. Tolkien's big ideas
It was Sam's first view of a battle of Men against Men, and he did not like it much. He was glad that he
could not see the dead face. He wondered what the man's name was and where he came from; and if he
was really evil of heart, or what lies or threats had led him on the long march from his home; and if he
would not really rather have stayed there in peace.
J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien was born in 1892. After his father died, he came to live in Birmingham,
England, at the age of four, from South Africa. He and his mother spent several years moving from
one address to another, in which time he attended several schools. It was here that he developed
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the gift for languages, which eventually took him to Oxford University as a student, and then as a
professor.
During the First World War, Tolkien served as an officer with the Lancashire Fusiliers. But he fell
sick after a few months in the trenches and was taken to hospital where he experimented with
writing fantasy. He later returned to Oxford. His interest in story and poetry grew and, by 1930, he
was writing The Hobbit (published in 1937) and The Lord of the Rings (published in 1954). Other
stories followed. By the mid-1960s, his tales of Middle-earth were 'cult' reading. He died in 1973.
Tolkien was a close friend of C.S. Lewis, another Oxford professor. They both loved playing with
the power of words, so they would meet up for a drink once a week, to chat and share any new
stories and poetry they had written. It was through this friendship that Tolkien convinced Lewis
that Christianity was the best way to live - and Lewis became a Christian.
They enjoyed a good argument too, but Tolkien couldn't stand Lewis's popular Narnia stories,
which he thought were simple allegories of the Christian story - Tolkien didn't like allegory. As far
as he was concerned, a good story always pointed in some way to the truth about God.
Consider - if Tolkien had died in the war there would have been no Middle-earth - and no Narnia!
Tolkien's style of fantasy still inspires modern authors - such as Terry Pratchett - but why are
fantasy worlds so interesting? Perhaps they're actually providing a picture of our own world, giving
us a chance to see the good people win. Tolkien said that all myths point to the most powerful
myth ('deep truth') of them all - the victory of the goodness of God over evil, in the resurrection of
Christ.
During the Second World War against Hitler's Germany, Tolkien wrote a series of letters to his son
Christopher, sharing his thoughts about life and the war. Here are some extracts:
My Sam Gamgee… is a reflection of the English soldier, of the privates and batmen I knew in the 1914 war,
and recognised as far superior to myself.
We are attempting to conquer Sauron with the Ring. And we shall (it seems) succeed. But the penalty is, as
you will know, to breed new Saurons, and slowly turn Men and Elves into Orcs.
You can't fight the Enemy with his own Ring without turning into an Enemy.
I sometimes feel appalled at the thought of the sum total of human misery all around the world at the
present moment… All we do know… is that evil labours with vast power and perpetual success - in vain.
There is still hope that things may be better for us in the mercy of God.
There was an Eden on this unhappy earth. We all long for it, and we are constantly glimpsing it: our whole
nature at its best… is still soaked with a sense of 'exile'.
I fancy that our Lord actually is more pained by offences we commit against one another than those we
commit against himself.
The Lord of the Rings is of course a fundamentally religious and (Christian) work… for the religious element
is absorbed into the story and the symbolism.
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