Extracts From The Wipers Times And Punch

Punch

- Armageddon (A.A.Milne). The only directly anti-war article the paper produced.

- In Flanders Fields (John MacCrae). One of the most famous war poems ever written.

- There Used To Be Fairies in Germany. An example of Punch as an instrument of propaganda

The Wipers Times

- Editorial to The B.E.F. Times. (The Wipers Times no.1 #2)

- To My Chum. A poem submitted to the paper.

- Correspondence. Mock “Letters To the Editor”

- Aunt Annie’s Corner. One of the regular articles in the paper pastiching civilian writing

Armageddon.

(A.A.Milne, August 5^th, 1914)

The conversation had turned, as it always does in the smoking rooms of golf clubs, to the state of poor old England, and Porkins had summed the matter up. He had marched around in ninety-seven that morning, followed by a small child with an umbrella and an arsenal of weapons, and he felt in form with himself.

“What England wants,” he said, leaning back and puffing on his cigar, - “what England wants is a war. (Another whiskey and soda, waiter.) We’re getting flabby. All this pampering of the poor is playing the very deuce with the country. A bit of a scrap with a foreign power would do us all the good in the world.” He disposed of his whiskey at a draught. “We’re flabby.” He repeated.” The lower classes seem to have no sense of discipline nowadays.” We want a war to brace us up.”

It is well understood in Olympus that Porkins must not be disappointed. What will happen to him in the next world I do not know, but it will be something extremely humorous; in this world however, he is to have all that he wants. Accordingly the gods got to work.

In the little village of Ospovat, which is in the south-eastern corner of Ruritania, there lived a maiden called Maria Strultz, who was engaged to marry Captain Tomsk.

“ I fancy ,” said one of the gods, “that it might be rather funny if Maria jilted the Captain. I have an idea that it would please Porkins.”

“ Whatever has Maria – “ began a very young god, but he was immediately suppressed.

“ Really, “ said the other “ I should have thought it was sufficiently obvious. You know what these mortals are. “ He looked round to them all. “ Is it agreed then?”

So it was agreed.

So Maria Shrultz jilted the Captain.

Now this, as you may imagine, annoyed Captain Tomsk. He commanded a frontier fort on the boundary between Ruritania and Essenland, and his chief amusement in a dull life was to play cards with the Essenland captain, who commanded the fort on the other side of the river. When Maria’s letter came he felt that the only thing to do was to drown himself; on second thoughts he decided to drown his sorrows first. He did this so successfully that at the end of the eveninghe was convinced that it was not Maria who had jilted him, but the Essenland captain who had jilted Maria; whereupon he rowed across the river and poured his revolver into the Essenland flag which was flying over the fort. Maria thus revenged, he went home to bed, and woke the next day with a bad headache.

(“Now we’re off,” said the gods in Olympus.)

In Diedeldorf, the capital of Essenland, the leader-writers proceeded to remove their coats.

“ The blood of every true Essenlander,” said the leader –writer of the Diedeldorf Patriot, after sending out for another pot of beer, “will boil when it hears of this fresh insult to our beloved flag, an insult which can only be wiped out with blood.” Then seeing that he had two “bloods” in one sentence, he crossed the second one out, substituted “the sword”, and lit a fresh cigarette. “For years Essenland has writhed under the provocations of Ruritania, but has preserved a dignified silence; this last insult is more than flesh and blood can stand.” Another “blood” had got in, but it was a new sentence and he thought it might be allowed to remain. “We shall not be accused of exaggeration if we say that Essenland would lose, and rightly lose, her prestige in the eyes of Europe if she let this affront pass unnoticed. In a day she would sink from a first-rate to a fifth-rate power.” But he didn’t say how.

The Chancellor of Essenland, in a speech gravely applauded by both sides of the House, announced the steps he had taken. An ultimatum had been sent to Ruritania demanding an apology, an indemnity of a hundred thousand marks, and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, whose epaulettes were to be torn off by the Commander-in-Chief of the Essenland Army in the presence of a full corps of cinematograph artists. Failing this, war would be declared.

Ruritania offered the apology, the indemnity, and the public degradation of Captain Tomsk, but urged that this last ceremony would be better performed by the Commander-in-Chief of the Ruritanian Army; otherwise Ruritania might as well cease to be a sovereign state, for she would lose her prestige in the eyes of Europe.

There was only one possible reply to this, and Essenland made it. She invaded Ruritania.

( “Aren’t they wonderful?” said the gods in Olympus to each other.

“But haven’t you made a mistake?” asked the very young god. “Porkins lives in England, not Essenland.”

“Wait a moment” said the others.)

In the capital of Borovia the leader-writer of the Borovian Patriot got to work. “How does Borovia stand?” he asked “If Essenland occupies Ruritania, can any thinking man in Borovia feel safe with the enemy at his gates?” (The Borovian peasant, earning five marks a week, would have felt no less safe than usual, but then he could hardly be described as a thinking man.) “It is vital to the prestige of Borovia that the integrity of Ruritania should be preserved. Otherwise we may resign ourselves at once to the prospect of becoming a fifth-rate power in the eyes of Europe.” And in a speech, gravely applauded by all parties, the Borovian Chancellor said the same thing. So the Imperial Army was mobilized and, amidst a wonderful display of patriotic enthusiam by those who were remaining behind, the Borovian troops marched to the front…

(“ And there you are,” said the gods in Olympus.

“But even now –” began the very young god doubtfully.

“Silly, isn’t Felicia the ally of Essenland ; isn’t Marksland the ally of Borovia; isn’t England the ally of the ally of the ally of the Country which holds the balance of power between Marksland and Felicia?”

“But if any of them though the whole thing stupid or unjust or – ”

“Their presitige,” said the gods gravely, trying not to laugh.

“Oh I see.” Said the very young god.

And when a year later the thundred-thousandth English mother woke up to read that her boy had been shot, I am afraid she shed foolish tears and thought that the world had come to an end.

Poor short-sighted creature! She didn’t realise that Porkins, who had marched aound in ninety-six the day before, was now thoroughly braced up.

( “What babies they all are” said the very young god”)

In Flanders Fields

(John McCrae, December 8^th, 1915)

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

There Used To Be…

(July 4th 1917.)

(Punch had a bizarre fascination with fairies, which links into it's dogged portrayal of Britain as a rural haven.)

There used to be fairies in Germany-

I know, for I've seen them there

In a great cool wood where the tall trees stood

With their heads high up in the air;

They scrambled about in the forest

And nobody seemed to mind;

They were dear little things (tho' they didn't have any wings)

And they smiled and their eyes were kind.

What, and oh what were they doing

To let things happen like this?

How could it be? And didn't they see

That folk were going amiss?

Were they too busy playing,

Or can they perhaps have slept,

That never they heard an ominous word

That stealthily crept and crept?

There used to be fairies in Germany-

The children will look for them still;

They will search all about till the sunlight slips out

And the trees stand frowning and chill.

"The flowers" they will say, "Have all vanished,

And where can the fairies be fled

That played in the fern?" - The flowers will return,

But I fear that the fairies are dead.

The Wipers Times.

Editorial.

(The B.E.F. Times, no 1, #2, Wednesday August 15^th, 1917)

We must apologise to all our subscribers for the delay since our last issue. We are sure they will understand and forgive as the delay was due to an awkward providence and more war than is conducive to the steady production of a paper. What a lot ahs happened in the interim! Much to rejoice and plume ourselves about, but also many old chums to regret the loss of. That unfortunately must always be the way, but this time there seems to be more than a fair proportion of the old brigade. Some of these are mentioned in another part of the paper so we will leave the matter there. On the other hand we have to welcome others to the old Division, especially our new G.O.C. who achieved a speedy and lasting popularity. It could be no easy job to take up the mantle of “The Professor” who, through nearly two strenuous years, had led us from greenness to understanding. Much as we regret the loss of our old G.O.C. we cannot grudge his departure and well-merited honours. Also the loss is tempered by the arrival, in his successor, of one of the “Cognoscenti”. There has been so much to write about since our last issue that one is rather at a loss where to begin. Hindenburg has won a long series of victories (vide Official German news) and we have met with many repulses, (vide occupants of many well aired and commodious cages in the neighbourhood of Vimy, Mssines and Vlamertinghe.) However, the war foes on, and we are putting our faith on the journey of Ramsey Macdonald to Stokholm ! ! ! We are afraid that this number may be rather a scratch one as there are so many counter issues. War is all very well in its way, but when it interferes with the publication of a journal it’s a -- --, well let’s turn to brighter subjects. Have any of you been on leave lately? The Editor has just returned from thirty days of the best and brightest. A lot of the time he spent in London with the wind well up and a crick in the neck, but otherwise only filled with winder at the bare-faced robbery which is rife. We should imagine that there are many people who will be sorry when the war is over and they don’t all keep restaurants.

We have had the opportunity lately of visiting the birthplace of our paper. One cannot notice the appreciable difference, and the neighbourhood is just as healthy! We are glad to be able to announce that all previous numbers will be shortly available bound in book form, and purchasable at the modest price of 15 francs or thereabouts, through the enterprise of Mr Herbert Jenkins, publisher. At the present moment there’s a church parade going on one side and a ‘plane scrap to the other, so that this editorial must come to an untimely conclusion. We must ask all old contributors and also newcomers to the Division to send along copy. A heart welcome to all our new stars, and good luck to those who have left us.

To My Chum.

(vol.2 #4, 20^th March 1916)

No more we’ll share the same old barn,

The same old dug-out, same old yarn,

No more a tin of bully share,

Nor split our rum by a star-shell’s flare,

So long old lad.

--:o:--

What times we’ve had, both good and bad,

We’ve shared what shelter could be had,

The same old crump-hole when the whizz-bangs shrieked,

The same old billet that always leaked,

And now – you’ve “stopped one.”

--:o:--

We’d weathered the storm two winters long,

We’d managed to grin when all went wrong,

Because together we fought and fed,

Our hearts were light: but now – you’re dead

And I am Mateless.

--:o:--

Well, old lad, here’s peace to you,

And for me, well, there’s my job to do,

For you and the others who lie at rest,

Assured may be that we’ll do our best

In vengeance.

--:o:--

Just one more cross by a strafed road-side,

With it’s G.R.C., and a name for guide,

But it’s only myself who has lost a friend,

And though I may fight through to the end,

No dug-out or billet will be the same,

All pals can only be pals in name,

But we’ll all carry on till the end of the game

Because you lie there.

Correspondence

(The Wipers Times, Monday, 6^th March 1916 no 3, #1)

To the Editor,

Sir, - Whilst walking along the Rue de Lille the other night, a gentlemen (sic) coming in the opposite direction accosted me quite abruptly with the words “Who are you?” When I told him not to be inquisitive he became quite offensive ,and assumed a threatening attitude. This incident was repeated several times before I had reached the Square. I endeavoured to find a constable, but could not. Where are our police, and what are they doing? Have any more readers had the similar unpleasant experience?

Yours, etc.

TIMIDITY

Aunt Annie's Corner

(The "New Church" Times, 29th May 1916.)

TENDER TALKS TO TINY TOTS

My dear little Tot-ties,-

I want you all to write to me please, and I will al-ways answer your let-ters if you have been good child-ren.

Isn't this pretty : -

There was a little man,

He had a little gun

He shoots it when he can,

But has never hit a Hun.

It was sent to me by a lit-tle friend named Gilbert. he oft-ten writes love-ly poet-ry like this. Isn't he clev-er.

Roger has a col-lec-tion of pretty pic-tures that he looks at every day. All his lit-tle friends like to look at them too.

Johnnie has a friend named Reggie, they go for long walks to-geth-er.Isn't that splendid, Tots? Johnnie has a lit-tle girl friend that he writes let-ters to some-times.

Good-bye until next week , Tots,

Your Loving

Auntie Annie

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