A.P. Herbert
Hold back, sub-editor! You march and plan
So much more swiftly than the soldiers can.
They take a trench or two, a few-score scalps,
But your white arrows are across the Alps.
Even a tank must sometimes pause for fuel,
But you fly onward, twice as quick and cruel.
I know it’s easy to imagine ‘traps’
And super-Stalingrads on small-scale maps.
What is a river, or a mountain-crag?
They are not marked. So Fritz is ‘in the bag’.
In the Crimea—do the Germans know?—
They ‘faced annihilation’ long ago.
I can’t recall when you announced the kill;
I know they face annihilation still.
If all the Huns had met a horrid end
That you’ve ‘enveloped’ in the Dnieper Bend,
Or pronged at Tarnopol or Krivoi Rog,
Or caught with pincers in the Pripet bog,
We might stop talking of the Second Front—
There would not be another Hun to hunt.
Desist, headliner, from your wild advance,
And let the front-line fellow have a chance.
Lay off, brave scribe; for, when he does prevail,
We hardly notice it—the news is stale.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem offers a sharp critique of the sensationalism in war reporting, particularly the way in which journalists and sub-editors romanticize or exaggerate military action. The speaker addresses the “sub-editor” directly, highlighting the contrast between the reality of warfare and the way it is portrayed in the press. The sub-editor is depicted as someone who moves swiftly and decisively, mapping out victories and battles that may have little connection to the true experience of soldiers on the ground.
The first lines illustrate this disconnection between the real and the imagined. While soldiers “take a trench or two, a few-score scalps,” the sub-editor’s arrows are “across the Alps”—a reference to the speed at which journalists are able to construct grand narratives of war, far outpacing the actual progress made by the soldiers themselves. This image suggests that the real work of warfare—the grinding, slow-moving battles—cannot keep up with the sensationalized headlines that quickly move from one victory to the next.
The comparison of the sub-editor to the soldiers highlights the tension between the “white arrows” (the metaphorical reporting that travels fast) and the harsh, slow realities of military combat. “Even a tank must sometimes pause for fuel, / But you fly onward, twice as quick and cruel” reinforces the idea that journalism in wartime can be quicker, more dramatic, and ultimately less grounded in truth. The sub-editor’s speed in creating narratives about the war contrasts sharply with the soldiers’ endurance and struggle, where real progress is often measured in inches, not in the sweeping strokes of a headline.
The poem then shifts into a critique of the way journalists have historically exaggerated the progress of war. The speaker sarcastically points out how reports from the front line—such as those in the Crimea or in the Dnieper Bend—are filled with promises of “annihilation” for the enemy, yet the reality of the war is much grimmer. The “super-Stalingrads” and “small-scale maps” that the sub-editor imagines are divorced from the actual terrain, both physical and emotional, that soldiers must face. By referring to these reports as “easy to imagine,” the poem critiques the simplicity with which reporters turn complex and devastating experiences into digestible soundbites for the public.
The reference to battles and locations like Tarnopol, Krivoi Rog, and the Pripet bog further emphasizes the disconnection between the battlefront and the newsroom. These are not just geographical references; they represent the complex and brutal nature of warfare that the average reader may never understand fully. In contrast, the sub-editor writes with an air of certainty and a sense of victory, despite knowing little about the actual human cost of war.
By the end of the poem, the speaker calls out the sub-editor for stealing the glory of soldiers on the ground. The soldier’s true victories are “hardly noticed”—the news of real accomplishments is quickly overshadowed by new headlines, and “when he does prevail, / We hardly notice it—the news is stale.” This final criticism underlines the point that in the world of wartime journalism, the lived experience of the soldier is often reduced to a backdrop for the next big headline. The soldier’s sacrifice is diminished in the rush for the next big story.
The poem is both a critique of the irresponsible nature of war reporting and a lament for the soldiers who endure the real hardships of battle without receiving the recognition they deserve. The sub-editor’s reckless advancement of the narrative is presented as a distraction from the true work of the soldiers, and the poem implicitly calls for a more responsible, measured approach to reporting on war—one that takes the time to reflect the real experiences of those on the front lines, rather than rushing to sensationalize or oversimplify the conflict.