Memoir of an officer of the 1st Royal Welsh Fusiliers who arrived in France in October 1915, was wounded in June 1916, returned to his battalion in January 1917 and died of wound in Feb 1918. An outstanding account of trench warfare
Adams was the first British soldier during World War I to publish his memoirs of service with the 1st Battalion. “Nothing of Importance – a record of 8 months at the front with a Welsh Battalion October 1915 to June 1916” was written whilst convalescing in England having been wounded in June 1916. His was the only record to be published in book form whilst the war was still being fought. He returned to the Front in January 1917 and was mortally wounded a month later.
Another war memoir which doesn’t start in a promising way and there was certainly a temptation to give up about half way as it seemed very like many other memoirs of its type. However I’m glad I finished it. The title comes from a phrase commonly used in dispatches; nothing of importance happened on the front today; when in reality men had died and been wounded. It describes the time Adams spent with a Welsh battalion (eight months) from October 1915, until he was wounded and sent home to recuperate. This is where the account ends. This was written during that time of recuperation and published in 1917 and one of the very first accounts of war and the trenches to be published; years before the more famous accounts. Adams went back to the front in January 1917 and was killed in February 1917. As I said the book starts slowly and Adams is a bit of a geek when it comes to measurements and topography; several early chapters are spent describing and drawing trench systems and their relation to each other and the landscape. He even suggests at one point that those not interested in this sort of thing should skip a chapter or two. Then Adams is able to do this with his description of a deserted village: “A few steps off the main road had brought me into what had formerly been a small garden belonging to a farm. There had been a red brick wall all along the north side with fruit trees trained along it. Now, the wall was mainly a rubble heap, and the fruit trees dead. One sickly pear tree struggled to exist in a crumpled sort of heap, but its wilted leaves only added to the desolation of the scene. An iron gate, between red brick pillars, was still standing, strangely enough; but the little lawn was run to waste and had a crater in the middle of it, about five feet across, inside of which was some disintegrating animal, also empty tins and other refuse. Trees were broken, weeds were everywhere. I tried to reconstruct the place in my imagination, but it was a chaotic tangle. I came across a few belated raspberries, and picked one or two; they were tasteless and watery. Rubbish and broken glass were strewn everywhere. It was a dreary sight in the grey rain; the only sign of life a few chattering blue-tits. The house was an utter ruin, only a ground room wall left standing; some of the outhouses had not suffered so much, but all the roofs were gone. I saw a rusty mangle staring forlornly out of a heap of debris; and a manger and hayrack showed what had been a stable. The pond was just near, too, and gradually I could piece together the various elements of the farm.” Gradually Adams’ account becomes starker and the anger seems to build and he begins to let his feelings show: “As I write I feel inclined to throw the whole book in the fire. It seems a desecration to “tell of these things”. Do I not seem to be exulting in the tragedy? Should not he who feels deeply keep silent? Sometimes I think so. And yet it is the truth, word for word the truth; so I must write it.” There is death throughout the book, but as the account goes on Adams becomes more affected; the death of a particular colleague is described vividly after a shell burst: “In the trench, half-buried in rags of sand-bag and loose chalk, lay what had been a man. His head was nearest to me and at that I gazed fascinated; for the shell had cut it clean in half and the face lay like a mask, its features unmarred at all, a full foot away from the rest of the head. The flesh was grey, that was all; the open eyes, the nose, the mouth were not even twisted awry. It was like a sculpture. All the rest of the body was a mangled mass of flesh and khaki. “Who is it?” whispered a stretcher bearer, bending his head down to look at that mask… “It is Lance Corporal Allan” said I. …. I leaned my face on my arm against the parados. Oh, this unutterable tragedy! Had there ever been such a thing before? Why was this thing so terrible? Why did I have this feeling of battering against some relentless power? Death. There were things worse than death… What made war so cruel was that force compelled you to go on. “Oh God! I shall go mad!” I thought in the agony of my mind. I saw into that strange empty chamber which is called madness; I knew what it would be like to go mad. And even as I saw, came the thought again of those glittering eyes, and the ruthless answer to my soul’s cry: “The war is utterly indifferent whether you go mad or not”” The end of the account sees Adams writing this and then giving an account of what he believes war is and why it is: “For I have seen the real face of war. I have seen men killed, mutilated, blown to little pieces; I have seen men crippled for life; I have looked in the face of madness and I know that many have gone mad under its grip. I have seen fine natures break and crumble under the strain. I have seen men grow brutalised and coarsened in this war. (God will judge justly in the end; meanwhile, there are thousands among us – yes and among our enemy too – brutalised through no fault of theirs). I have lost friends killed (and shall lose more yet), friends with whom I have lived and suffered so long. “ Adams is eloquent, hence the quotes. He hoped religion and pacifism might lead to the end of war. The fact he was wrong does not negate the power of the second half of the book.
Excellent contemporary Great War Memoir. Covering his service at Loos and on the Somme it includes no great battles but is thoughtful and insightful on periods of static trench warfare. In the 1st Bttn Royal Welch Fusiliers (the names are disguised) his contemporaries included Sassoon and Graves and incidents recorded appear in both their books. An intelligent, literary and religious man he was obviously trying to reconcile his Christian faith with the requirements of being an infantry officer. Tragically he was killed in early 1917 and like so many others one is left wondering what he might have achieved had he survived.
I read lots of Western Front material both history and fiction. This account is as honest as any and is the writing of a truly decent bloke. He shares his life 'over there' good and bad, with a truth rarely found in this sort of work. I feel that I know him now. It's a great shame that I can't meet him. Not in this world at least. Buy it. You won't be disappointed!
Probably the best war book I’ve ever read. Although the author frequently talks to the reader, he never plays to an audience. He doesn’t write to vaunt his own wonderfulness; he doesn’t pander to any segment of a target market. He simply tells you what he thought and felt at particular moments, in response to particular events, and doesn’t really worry about whether you, the reader, like it or not. The experiences are his, the reactions to them are his. And that’s that.
I particularly liked his characterization of war—of life, really—as one being dealt a random deck of cards. Sometimes excitement, sometimes boredom, or terror. And finally, perhaps sooner than seems just, Death.
How is it that this was allowed by the authorities to be published in 1917, while the war was still going on? I think the author is exactly the kind of man who I would want as an officer. He’s a fine role model without intending to be. If I were one of “the authorities”, I would want something like this published.
But I doubt that it could have been published in Germany. That probably had something to do with why Germany was responsible for, started, and finally lost the war.
Hail Britannia! Full salute to Captain Bernard Adams.
I wish I could give this book a 6 star rating. I have previously read Sassoon and Graves, who also belonged to RWF regiment. Sadly Bernard Adams died during the war, which makes this memoir even more poignant. You know from get go that this story will not end well even though the author himself does not know this! His true depiction of war , the atrocities, the futility, is unbelievable. He makes fun of the jingoistic fever of people who never experienced war, who glorify it without knowing how brutal it can be. The chapter where Richardson and Davidson die, is very painful to read. Adams also praises the conscientious objectors, which must have been brave as it was written in 1916. He was a Cambridge Classical scholar, war is such a waste! The book concludes with the hope that one day "love" may triumph over hatred and our hunger for power/war. He calls war evil, even if the fight is just. Great book.
I think this is the kind of book everyone needs to read. It's really eye-opening and informative, and it puts you viscerally and emotionally into the trenches of World War I. There were so many gut-wrenching moments, sometimes I had to stop and put it down to collect myself. I think if you want to get a picture of the war as it was for the soldiers involved, this is the book for you. It's not a history textbook, there are no major battles; it's just a description of one man's experience. And the kinds of things he experienced surprised me sometimes, even though I came into this with quite a bit of knowledge about the war. It's also beautifully written and every thought is so well articulated, it's worth a read just for Adams' language. Highly recommended.
Excellent. Written by the author as he recovered from an injury received whilst on active service in France during the Great War. A true, first hand, eye witness account of what it was to experience the horror of fighting in the trenches, both physically and mentally.
"Nothing of importance" is somewhere close in sentiment to 2All quiet on the Western Front". This is a visceral, honest and unpretentious account of an ordinary bloke caught up in the machinations of history and other peoples decisions. He says what he sees and feels, without spin and unashamed of his contradictions. An excellent contribution to the genre.
An outstanding account of life in the trenches by a gifted writer who would not live to see his book published. Tragic and fascinating, Nothing of Importance gets its name from a standard log entry about that day's activities- nothing of importance happened today (much in the same vein as the title of the quintessential WWI novel, All Quiet on the Western Front).
For the most part the book was a tad bit of a slog, the first 55 percent were a bit of build up to his deployment to France which was a bit dull. The latter 3rd was more interesting and it was an erudite appeal to the nature of war.
This is a piece of First World War literature that should not be overlooked. From the supreme irony of the title to the powerful final pages, this book is excels. It gains from being a faithful account of one man's experience recorded without embelishment. It should sit up their with Sassoon, Graves, Blunden and Remarque.
Surely one of the finest books ever written about the First World War. A captivating read about Bernard Adams (a reporter) who joined the Army and penned a first hand account about his time on the 'front line'. Brilliant stuff.
A brilliant, powerful, feverish, and honest take on the Great War, written by a soldier on medical leave. He eventually returned to the front, never to return.
Written during WW1 and published in 1917 this is a very real view of the war. Yes, Adams was privileged as an officer, with a servant and good food. His life was far removed from the soldier who spent long periods of time in the trenches. But what he tells us is real. He describes life as it was for himself and in part for the ordinary soldier. For me, I would not have even wanted the officer's life. At times, I thought, you've just got it too cushy, get real. And then the memoir moves slowly towards the real horror of war after he sees and 18 year old beautiful boy, his words, with his head blown in half. He himself gets wounded, and is relieved it is a Blighty wound. We leave him sitting in his aunt's garden reflecting on the horror of war. That war should never be fought and that the bravest men are the conscientious objectors. A must, particularly for students studying this period in British history.