In January 1917, the Red Cross Shakespeare Exhibition, which opened at the Grafton Galleries in London, was advertised with two different posters. One displayed an oversize red cross on a white background – the Red Cross emblem and the English national flag. The other depicted Shakespeare’s coat of arms. The exhibition, described in the press as the most comprehensive show of Shakespeareana ever exhibited, was originally curated in Manchester as part of the celebrations of the 1916 Tercentenary, the commemoration of the three hundred-year anniversary of Shakespeare’s death. In London, it became part of the war effort, the way civilians at the ‘Home Front’ did their bit to help the British Army in the trenches. The exhibition, a successful charity venture, moved to London thanks to the collaboration of actor-manager Martin Harvey and the British Red Cross, one of several wartime collaborations between the British NPO and the theatrical profession to bring relief to Western Front soldiers. The poster portraying Shakespeare’s coat of arms aimed to present Shakespeare as an English gentleman, to counteract the influence of the Baconians who questioned Shakespeare’s authorship. This exhibition was one of several ways in which Shakespeare’s cultural capital was enlisted to raise funds in wartime.

Was Churchill a military figure who happened to have gone in for politics or was he a civilian politician with a military background? His role in the early stages of the war as first lord of the admiralty did seem to indicate that he was combining military, naval and political leadership in his own person: taking personal command at the siege of Antwerp, adopting a ‘hands-on’ style at the admiralty and blurring the distinctions between land and sea command. The problem with the Dardanelles campaign was the confusion over whether it was to be a purely naval operation or a joint military–naval one, and the blame for this confusion must lie at least in part with Churchill’s 1914 decision to bring Fisher out of retirement. Churchill’s sacking was a sharp reminder of the ultimate authority of the prime minister, while his service on the Western Front reminded him that his heart really lay in Westminster. Ultimately, he experienced the war from an astonishing range of perspectives while operating as a lone figure. The war provided an important apprenticeship for 1940–5, but it also confirmed that he was essentially a civilian politician who happened to have a strong military side.

Implementing treaties and policy papers, particularly when they are the result of a precarious compromise between multiple international players, is notoriously troublesome in the functioning of coalitions. A coalition grand strategy is shaped by usually conflicting national war aims, which are the products of distinct domestic considerations and strategic views. That is why general agreements are often followed by implementation documents providing an operational framework. These, however, are rarely flexible enough to survive contact with the enemy, as well as unpredictable situational changes. The implementation of the London Treaty is a clear example.

‘In the very elaborate medical arrangements for “Messines” every possible factor in the problem of collecting, clearing, treating and evacuating casualties, was foreseen and exactly provided for,’ wrote Butler in the official history. He continued: ‘As it turned out, “events” were in so close accord with “arrangements” that, as an exposition of military medical technique, an account of the medical features of the battle may be based on either.’1 This glowing description of the medical provisions at Messines stands in stark contrast to the medical care provided to wounded and sick soldiers at Gallipoli.

The European winter of 1917–18 was a time of change for the Australian Imperial Force. In Australia, two plebiscites to introduce conscription had failed, and plans to raise a sixth Australian division were scrapped. Recruits originally destined for this new division were distributed among the existing five divisions, which had suffered significant losses in the fighting in September and October 1917, during the Third Battle of Ypres. In November 1917, having been withdrawn from the line the month before, the five Australian divisions were reorganised into one Australian Corps and attached to the British Fourth Army. The British and New Zealand divisions that had been part of II ANZAC became the British XXII Corps, part of First Army. General Sir William Birdwood, who had been Commanding Officer of I ANZAC, was originally put in charge of the new corps, but in May 1918 he was made Commanding Officer of Fifth Army. As a result, Major General John Monash was promoted to lieutenant general; the Australian Corps was in his command from May onwards, marking the first time an Australian was in command of a fighting unit at corps level on the Western Front.1

This book has argued that Germany’s treatment of Allied prisoners during the First World War was neither brutal nor benign, but somewhere in between. Through the experiences of Australian prisoners of war captured on the Western Front, we see that Germany largely adhered to the pre-war agreements as best it could. Although there were cases of deliberate mistreatment, ex-prisoners of war testified that their captors had largely treated them humanely, provided them with food, shelter and medical assistance, and respected the rank of captured officers.

No sooner had the barrage lifted from the Australian trenches on the night of 5 May 1916 than two German raiding parties entered the shattered remnants of the Bridoux Salient and began searching through the smoke and debris for underground mining galleries. They picked their way through the tangle of sandbags and smashed timber, lobbing grenades into makeshift shelters where the surviving Australian garrison sought refuge. Three grenades were lobbed into a dugout and exploded, after which five stunned and terrified figures emerged with hands raised above their heads. After eight minutes, three sharp whistle blasts signalled the raiders to return across No Man’s Land. With them went two 3-inch Stokes mortars and eleven men of the 20th Battalion, who had the misfortune of being the first Australian soldiers taken prisoner by German forces on the Western Front.

Towards the end of Somme Mud, Edward Lynch’s fictionalised memoir of fighting on the Western Front, the book’s protagonist, Nulla, encounters a group of British and French soldiers who had spent the previous three years as prisoners of war. Among them is a ‘tall, gaunt figure’ who sways up to Nulla and introduces himself as an Australian who ‘got knocked’ and was taken prisoner at Fleurbaix in July 1916. ‘Can you spare a couple of tins of bully beef?’ he asks. Nulla looks pitifully on the ‘poor, half-starved wretches. All dirty yellow skin, hollow cheeks and sunken, hopeless eyes.’ He gives food and cigarettes to these ‘scarecrows on legs’ that clutch with ‘long, claw-like, grasping fingers that shake’. Nulla was appalled. ‘How we pity these poor beggars! How we thank our lucky stars we escaped the ordeal of being prisoners of war. We look upon [these] fellow men reduced to skin-clad skeletons and are sickened.’