Edward Tennant
The powers that be in solemn conclave sat
And dealt out honour from a large tureen,
And those unhonour’d said ’twas rather flat,
Not half so sparkling as it should have been.
Those honour’d silently pass’d round the hat,
Then let themselves be freely heard and seen.
And all this time there were a lot of men
Who were in France and couldn’t get away
To be awarded honours. Now and then
They died, so others came and had to stay
Till they died too, and every field and fen
Was heavy with the dead from day to day.
But there were other men who didn’t die
Although they were in France — these sat in cars,
And whizzed about with red-band caps, awry,
Exuding brandy and the best cigars.
With bands and tabs of red, they could defy
The many missiles of explosive Mars.
But one there was who used to serve in bars
And for his pretty wit much fame had got :
Though really not so fit to serve in wars,
They made him a staff-colonel on the spot,
And threw a knighthood in as well, because
He really had done such an awful lot.
Up fluttered eyebrows (incomes fluttered down),
His erstwhile yeomanry stood all aghast,
This Juggernaut, devourer of renown,
Was he their fellow-mug in days long past ?
In France he went by train from town to town,
Men thought his zenith had been reached at last.
To this the Powers That Be replied, ” Oh no ! “
And they discovered (else my mem’ry fails)
That he had gone by train some months ago
From Paris with despatches to Marseilles !
” See here,” they cried, ” a well-earned D.S.O.
Because you did not drop them ‘neath the rails.”
So now from spur to plume he is a star,
Of all an Englishman should strive to be,
His one-time patrons hail him from afar
As ” Peerless warrior,” ” battle-scarred K.G.”
And murmur as he passes in his car,
” For this and all thy mercies, glory be ! “
But all this time the war goes on the same,
And good men go, we lose our friends and kith,
The men who sink knee-deep in boosted fame
Prove that ” rewarded courage ” is a myth :
I could sum up by mentioning a name :
A pseudonym will do, we’ll call him Smith.
VERMELLES,
2$th October, 1915.
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Analysis (AI Assisted)
This poem delivers a sharp critique of wartime honor and recognition, contrasting the experiences of soldiers in the trenches with those who remain safely detached from the battlefield. It uses satire to highlight the inequities of how bravery and service are rewarded, particularly focusing on the empty pomp surrounding military honors.
The structure unfolds in two worlds: the grim reality of the frontlines and the insulated privilege of those far from the danger. Soldiers in France endure unimaginable hardships, many dying namelessly in fields and fens, while others, often in positions of power or influence, maneuver themselves into accolades. The tone throughout is biting, with a mix of irony and resignation that underscores the absurdity of the system.
One of the poem’s most striking features is its depiction of the “powers that be” who casually distribute honors like trinkets from a tureen. This trivialization of valor contrasts sharply with the unending sacrifice of the men on the ground, whose contributions often go unrecognized. The imagery of “mud-churned” fields versus “red-band caps, awry” paints a stark divide between the lived reality of war and the insulated privilege of bureaucratic soldiers.
A central figure in the poem is the staff-colonel, a caricature of unearned recognition. Once an ordinary man with a knack for humor, he ascends to knighthood through connections and minor tasks, like carrying despatches from Paris to Marseilles. The absurdity of this rise is emphasized by the poet’s sarcastic description of his accolades and the incredulous reactions of his former peers. The refrain of hollow praise—”For this and all thy mercies, glory be!”—underscores the farcical nature of such honors.
What makes the poem powerful is its undercurrent of grief and anger. Behind the satire lies a deep sorrow for the “good men” lost in the war. These soldiers, who endure the true horrors of battle, receive no accolades and are often forgotten. The poet’s mention of “boosted fame” and the myth of “rewarded courage” feels like a final indictment of a system that fails those it relies upon most.
The closing stanza wraps the critique in a grim resignation, offering “Smith” as a stand-in for the nameless masses who pay the ultimate price. It’s a reminder that the real heroes often remain uncelebrated, while the system props up those who navigate it for personal gain. Through sharp wit and poignant contrasts, the poem lays bare the moral failures of wartime recognition and its hollow rituals.