Painting of the week: Gassed by John Singer Sargent

© IWM (Art.IWM ART 1460)

At the moment I am reading 'Forgotten Voices of the Great War, by Max Arthur. It is a great read, and reviews the history of the First World War through the eyes and words of those that experienced it. I was reading it on the tube the other day and was reminded of one of my favorite pieces of official war art, Gassed by John Singer Sargent. Every time I visit the Imperial War Museum in London, I spend time in the gallery, trying to absorb the image and its overwhelming story. Every time I see it I am horrified and moved.

I may have used this image before, however I make no apology for using it again. It illustrates perfectly the memory of one of the survivors of the horrors of WWI and gas attacks, which I will reproduce here:

Sergeant Jack Dorgan

7th Battalion, Northumberland Fusiliers

During the attack on St Julien on the 26th of April a shell dropped right in amongst us, and when I pulled myself together I found myself lying in a shell-hole. There was one other soldier who, like me, was unhurt, but two more were heavily wounded, so we shouted for stretcher-bearers. 

Then the other uninjured chap said to me, 'we're not all here, Jack,' so I climbed out of the shell-hole and found two more of our comrades laying just a few yards from the shell-hole.

They had their legs blown off. All I could see when I got up to them was their thigh bones. I will always remember their white thigh bones, the rest of their legs were gone. Private Jackie Oliver was one of them, and he was unconscious. I shouted back to the fellows behind me, 'Tell Reedy Oliver his brother's been wounded.' So Reedy came along and stood looking at his brother, lying there with no legs, and a few minutes later watched him die. But the other fellow, Private Bob Young, was conscious right to the last. I lay along side him and asked, 'Can I do anything for you, Bob?' He said, 'Straighten my legs, Jack,' but he had no legs. I touched the bones and that satisfied him. Then he said, 'Get my wife's photograph out of my breast pocket.' I took the photograph out and put it in his hands. He couldn't move, he couldn't lift a hand, he couldn't lift a finger, but he somehow managed to hold his wife's photograph on his chest. And thats how Bob Young died.

But I had to get on. As we moved forward we came across a ditch in a corner of a field, where there were some Canadian soldiers. They said, 'You can't go any further than this. The Germans have released gas and we've had to retire to these reserve trenches.' But it was just a ditch to me, so I jumped across it along with the rest of the fellows.

But we'd only gone a hundred yards in front of  the Canadians when we encountered the gas. We'd had no training for gas prevention, never heard of the gas business. Our eyes were streaming with water and pain, and all we had was a roll of bandages in the first aid kit we carried in our tunic. So we bandaged each other's eyes, and anyone who could see would lead a line of half a dozen or so men, each with his hand on the shoulder of the one in front. In this way lines and lines of British soldiers moved along, with rolls of bandages around their eyes, back towards Ypres. When we got there, we were directed to a first aid station and lay down in a field. We hadn't even got to the original front line. We'd only got as far as the Canadians reserve trenches. But we just accepted it. It was war to us.

The day afterwards, the 27th of April, what was left of the Northumberlands were paraded in a field somewhere near Ypres to be addressed by Sir John French, the Commanding Officer of the British Forces. He praised us for our bravery, but we thought little of him. We just felt, 'Well, he's just come down from his office somewhere back in the line and is praising us up now. What did he come here for?' We just accepted it, but we didn't want it rubbed in.

Source: Forgotten Voices of the Great War, Max Arthur in association with the Imperial War Museum: Ebury Press. Pages 81-3

I have given the full text from Sargeant Jack Dorgan as it contextualizes the events around the gas attack, and illustrates the brutality and futility of war. 

My Friend, you would not tell with such high zest,

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old lie, 'Dulce et decorum est,

Pro patria mori.'

(Wilfred Owen)