NOW IT CAN BE TOLD
PSYCHOLOGY ON THE SOMME
XIII
I am not strong enough in the science of psychology to understand the
origin of laughter and to get into touch with the mainsprings of gaiety.
The sharp contrast between normal ethics and an abnormality of action
provides a grotesque point of view arousing ironical mirth. It is probable
also that surroundings of enormous tragedy stimulate the sense of humor
of the individual, so that any small, ridiculous thing assumes the proportion
of monstrous absurdity. It is also likely -- certain, I think -- that
laughter is an escape from terror, a liberation of the soul by mental
explosion, from the prison walls of despair and brooding. In the Decameron
of Boccaccio a group of men and women encompassed by plague retired
into seclusion to tell one another mirthful immoralities which stirred
their laughter. They laughed while the plague destroyed society around
them and when they knew that its germs were on the prowl for their own
bodies . . . . So it was in this war, where in many strange places and
in many dreadful days there was great laughter. I think sometimes of
a night I spent with the medical officers of a tent hospital in the
fields of the Somme during those battles. With me as a guest went a
modern Falstaff, a "ton of flesh", who "sweats to death
and lards the lean earth as he walks along."
He was a man of many anecdotes, drawn from the sinks and stews of life,
yet with a sense of beauty lurking under his coarseness, and a voice
of fine, sonorous tone, which he managed with art and a melting grace.
On the way to the field hospital he had taken more than one nip of
whisky. His voice was well oiled when he sang a greeting to a medical
major in a florid burst of melody from Italian opera. The major was
a little Irish medico who had been through the South African War and
in tropical places, where he had drunk fire-water to kill all manner
of microbes. He suffered abominably from asthma and had had a heart-seizure
the day before our dinner at his mess, and told us that he would drop
down dead as sure as fate between one operation and another on "the
poor, bloody wounded" who never ceased to flow into his tent. But he
was in a laughing mood, and thirsty for laughter-making liquid. He had
two whiskies before the dinner began to wet his whistle. His fellow-officers
were out for an evening's joy, but nervous of the colonel, an austere
soul who sat at the head of the mess with the look of a man afraid that
merriment might reach outrageous heights beyond his control. A courteous
man he was, and rather sad. His presence for a time acted as a restraint
upon the company, until all restraint was broken by the Falstaff with
me, who told soul-crashing stories to the little Irish major across
the table and sang love lyrics to the orderly who brought round the
cottage pie and pickles. There was a tall, thin young surgeon who had
been carving up living bodies all day and many days, and now listened
to that fat rogue with an intensity of delight that lit up his melancholy
eyes, watching him gravely between gusts of deep laughter, which seemed
to come from his boots. There was another young surgeon, once of Barts'(1),
who made himself the cup-server of the fat knight and kept his wine
at the brim, and encouraged him to fresh audacities of anecdotry, with
a humorous glance at the colonel's troubled face . . . . The colonel
was forgotten after dinner. The little Irish major took the lid off
the boiling pot of mirth. He was entirely mad, as he assured us, between
dances of a wild and primitive type, stories of adventure in far lands,
and spasms of asthmatic coughing, when he beat his breast and said,
"A pox in my bleeding heart!"
Falstaff was playing Juliet to the Romeo of the tall young surgeon,
singing falsetto like a fat German angel dressed in loose-fitting khaki,
with his belt undone. There were charades in the tent. The boy from
Barts' did remarkable imitations of a gamecock challenging a rival bird,
of a cow coming through a gate, of a general addressing his troops (most
comical of all). Several glasses were broken. The corkscrew was disregarded
as a useless implement, and whisky-bottles were decapitated against
the tent poles. I remember vaguely the crowning episode of the evening
when the little major was dancing an Irish jig with a kitchen chair;
when Falstaff was singing the Prologue of Pagliacci to the stupefied
colonel; when the boy, once of Barts', was roaring like a lion under
the mess table, and when the tall, melancholy surgeon was at the top
of the tent pole, scratching himself like a gorilla in his native haunts
. . . . Outside, the field hospital was quiet, under a fleecy sky with
a crescent moon. Through the painted canvas of the tent city candle-light
glowed with a faint rose-colored light, and the Red Cross hung limp
above the camp where many wounded lay, waking or sleeping, tossing in
agony, dying in unconsciousness. Far away over the fields, rockets were
rising above the battle-lines. A red glare rose and spread below the
clouds where some ammunition-dump had been exploded. . . . Old Falstaff
fell asleep in the car on the way back to our quarters, and I smiled
at the memory of great laughter in the midst of tragedy.
FOOTNOTES
(1) Barts' -- St Bartholomews
Hospital, London.