Words and The First World War

by Julian Walker

  Experience common to men from urban households on different sides of no man’s land gave rise to common expressions: margarine was ‘axle-grease’ and Wagonschmiere, the German stick-hand-grenade was a ‘potato-masher’ and a Kartoffelstomper, a bomb giving off black smoke was a ‘coalbox’ and Kohlenkasten. Anglophone soldiers took the word Trommelfeuer and, finding it appropriate, used the idea as ‘drumfire’. From the continuous experience of being told il n’y a plus – ‘there’s none left’ – by French bartenders and shopkeepers, anglophones developed ‘napoo’, while the Germans called a lager naplü, and a cognac naplüchen.

  Enthusiasm for etymology gave the academic community an audience: the writer of ‘Are the Germans really Huns?’ in The Pow-Wow (9 December 1914) correctly showed that the Allemani, whose name developed into the French Allemagne, derived from forms cognate with the English ‘all men’, indicating their heterogeneity. But contested and multiple etymologies were an inevitable aspect of the study of new terms. ‘Archie’, the name given to anti-aircraft fire, is widely recognised as coming from the 1909 song ‘Archibald Certainly Not’, written by John L. St John and Alfred Glover, notably performed by George Robey. The term is documented from very early in the war,18 is noted by Brophy and Partridge19 as having ‘pride of place’ in Issue 2 of the Wipers Times, and gained wide acceptance, extending to its use as a verb, ‘to Archie’. The song refers to a man being told by his wife not to expect intimate relations after their honeymoon night, which explains the definitions, or explanations in Cassell’s New English Dictionary (1919):

  [nickname from the popular song, ‘Archibald, certainly not,’ with allusion to the fewness of the hits made], n.pl. (Soldiers’ slang) Anti-aircraft guns or shells; the anti-aircraft force.

  and Collins’ Etymological Dictionary (1922):

  Archies n.pl. the anti-aircraft force; also, the guns and shells. The name is said to have been given, owing to the fewness of the hits, from the song, ‘Archibald, certainly not.’

  A different version is given by Ernest Weekley in his An Etymological Dictionary of Modern English (1921):

  Archibald, Archie: ‘It was at once noticed at Brooklands [where much aviation development and testing was carried out prior to 1914] that in the vicinity of, or over, water or damp ground, there were disturbances in the air causing bumps or drops to these early pioneers. Some of these “remous” were found to be permanent, one over the Wey river, and another at the corner of the aerodrome next to the sewage farm. Youth being fond of giving proper names to inanimate objects, the bump near the sewage farm was called by them Archibald. As subsequently, when war broke out, the effect of having shell bursting near an aeroplane was to produce a “remous” reminding the Brookland trained pilots of their old friend Archibald, they called being shelled ‘being Archied’ for short. Any flying-man who trained at Brooklands before the war will confirm the above statement.’

  COL. C H JOUBERT DE LA FERTÉ,

  I M S [Indian Medical Service] ret.

  Both of these are fully viable, and not necessarily mutually exclusive; a more likely interpretation is that complementary sources cemented the use of the term. The multiple sources and experiences of language made multiple etymologies and reinforcements inevitable – Fraser and Gibbons reported that ‘cushy’ was ‘popularly said to be derived from Cushion’, while noting that it had a history dating back to the Hindi word for ‘pleasant’; Partridge agreed that ‘it is not absolutely certain that it does not represent a shortening of cushiony’,20 which was the view of John Nettleinghame.21

  But enthusiasm for the etymology of war language led some into conjectures that were more optimistic than wise. ‘Gone west’ excited many suggestions, but had a wider range of sources than at first thought of: the ‘Miscellany’ writer for the Manchester Guardian 25 September 1917, p. 3, wrote that he had discovered the Chinese phrase hui-hsi, meaning ‘returned west’, or ‘gone to heaven’, Buddhist heaven being ‘in the west’. Dubious etymology, folk etymology, and missed usages were part of the business of the public and academic interest in slang. Brophy and Partridge omitted the interpretation ‘breaking wind on parade’ for ‘dumb insolence’, which Fraser and Gibbons had given in 1925, and did not include it in the 1969 edition of Songs and Slang of the British Soldier 1914–1918, though Partridge included it in his Dictionary of Slang and Unconventional English, dating the usage to 1916. Some attempts at etymology might have been better left unsaid: ‘H.V.W.’ wrote to The Observer suggesting that ‘wangle’ derived from ‘angle’, because it involved getting something by ‘ “fishing” in the slang sense’;22 and Ernest Weekley’s entry in An Etymological Dictionary of Modern English (1921) for ‘Botulism’ betrays a lasting resentment against Germany:

  Botulism

  Ger. Botulismus, discovered and named (1896) by Ermengem. From L botulus, sausage, being caused, in Germany, by eating same. See newspapers Apr 24, 1918.

  The names given to the prototype tank ‘Little Willie’, and its successor, ‘Big Willie’, are widely supposed to be poking fun at the Kaiser and his son, particularly following the relentless cartoon pastiching of them in comics and magazines.23 Alternatively the term ‘the Wilson machine’, from the name of one of the designers, has a good claim for being the source, becoming ‘Big Willie’ and ‘Little Willie’ after the development of the second, larger machine. In several cases what may be happening is a reinforcing through parallel sources or associations, which might strengthen the name. Multiple sources might lead back to an ultimate commonality: in Her Privates We (1929/30) ‘Bourne, thinking with a rapidity only outstripped by her precipitate action, decided that the Hindustani “cushy” and the French “coucher” must have been derived from the same root in Sanskrit’.24 ‘J.R.H.’ in Notes and Queries proposed that ‘fed up’ had been acquired by British troops from Australian soldiers during the Boer War (1899–1902),25 while ‘A.R.McL’ recorded ‘I am full of him’ from 1877; he felt its link with the French ‘j’en ai soupé’, which the writer refers to, was no more than common feelings giving rise to common metaphors.26 And the slang of the period did not exist in chronological isolation: ‘scarper’ was established slang in the late Victorian period, from the Italian scappare (to escape), and was reinforced by rhyming slang from ‘Scapa Flow’ (go).

  Arguments persisted long after the war, in some cases up to the present. Was it myth or actuality that Schweinhund, beloved of Second World War film scriptwriters, was in use in the earlier conflict? Were Scottish soldiers really described as ‘ladies from hell’? Both of these terms appear, Schweinhund in a signal intercepted off Gallipoli,27 and in Adèle De L’Isle’s diary – ‘After Jerry had sampled the sort of fight we could put up if properly roused, he christened us “The Ladies from Hell”.’28 Argument continues over the origin of ‘basket case’, though the Oxford English Dictionary and Lighter’s Slang of the AEF both carry the same clear citation referring to the war. ‘Plonk’ is possibly the most familiar contentious word, with a wide assumption that this term for wine emerged from the soldiers’ shortening of ‘vin blanc’. Though ‘plink-plonk’ and ‘plinketty-plonk’ were recorded by Brophy and Partridge, ‘plonk’ alone was a very common word for mud, as used in ‘over the plonk’, with ‘to plonk’ meaning to shell. Among New Zealand soldiers ‘plonk’ was also used for the transcription of the sound of a gun firing and a rifle firing;29 it appeared in the expression ‘Comment allez plonk?’, while ‘vim blong’, ‘vim blank’, ‘point blank’,30 ‘vin blank’ and ‘von blink’31 were used in place of vin blanc;32 but never ‘plonk’ alone, which was first recorded meaning ‘wine’ in 1927.33

  Arguments over the etymology of this or that phrase characterised the post-war correspondence in The Athenaeum: Nettleinghame dismissed Sparke’s suggestion that ‘to put the tin hat on it’ came from trying to catch rats with a helmet, but quite reasonably and generously made the point that ‘it is as impossible to find origins or first usages of such expressions as it is to differentiate
between “taking the cake”, “the bun”, or “the biscuit” ’.34 J. Howard Randerson claimed to have initiated the use of ‘no man’s land’ in August 1914, not for the space between the front lines, but for the effect of the German armies’ advance through Belgium and France.35 Not only lexis but phonology was disputed. ‘J.R.H.’ again in Notes and Queries judged the pronunciation of the first word of ‘route-march’ as rhyming with south-east English ‘about’ as a ‘mispronunciation’; the editor of The Pow-Wow (2 December 1914) was ‘emphatically of the opinion that “rout” [i.e. rhyming with “about”] is the correct pronunciation’. Siding with the second view, regardless of accent or questions of social class or J.R.H.’s view that it was a case of ‘evil communications corrupting good manners’, would seem to privilege the voice of the soldier over that of the observer.

  Arguments over etymology continue to the present: in 2015 there were debates over whether ‘putsch’ had come from the wartime sense of ‘push’, whether a ‘weather-front’ had derived from ‘Front’, and whether the term ‘chitty-chitty-bang-bang’ originated in a wartime song involving a chit that allowed the bearer access to a brothel.36

  Collecting words

  Within weeks of the outbreak of war ‘a glossary of terms for the man in the street’ appeared under the headline ‘War Terms’ in the Sheffield Independent.37 By November newspaper readers had become familiar with presentations of soldiers’ language, either as single words, such as ‘Boche’, or short glossaries.38 Glossaries were needed also for those managing and accommodating Belgian refugees,39 soldiers wishing to speak French or Flemish, and women going to France and Flanders for nursing posts. Consequently by the end of 1914 the glossary had become a fundamental tool for understanding the war, for both civilians and the military.

  Given the unfamiliarity of the language to British nurses, glossaries of Flemish were of immediate need for those dealing with wounded Belgian soldiers. In ‘How to Converse with the Wounded Belgians’ The Sphere40 offered a list of questions and answers in English, French and Flemish. For those working with Belgian refugees, the Yorkshire Post provided lists of Flemish phrases and words, with pronunciation tips.41 Glossaries of forces slang in newspapers catered for the fascination with slang that had developed during the second half of the nineteenth century; anything worked that allowed civilians to identify with the soldiers, sailors and airmen, and was clearly patriotic – slang generally being portrayed in the press as a sign that British forces would make light of their situation and thereby appear to be on top of it.

  The format of these glossaries included comparisons between English and French slang;42 incidental mention of a few terms;43 groups of terms to do with one subject – money,44 food,45 money and food;46 others were offered in letters47 or as formal lists of slang and army terms.48 The subject was of sufficient interest to warrant newspapers reporting on other publications’ reporting of slang, the Reading Mercury reporting on the War Budget’s full page article on ‘Trench Slang’.49 The Times curiously did not publish a formal glossary of English slang during the war, but did print an article on French slang in March 1915, stating that words published in letters in the press were ‘joyfully adopted’ by newspaper readers.50 Press reporting of slang, as glossaries or otherwise, helped redress the balance as regards army, navy and air force language; articles on navy slang appeared in the Abergavenny Chronicle (4 August 1916, p. 2), the Daily Mail (5 May 1917, p. 2) and the Diss Express (21 June 1918, p. 3), notably not papers local to naval bases, and the Birmingham Gazette printed an article on RAF slang on 20 August 1918 (p. 2).

  While trench journals functioned as incidental glossaries of trench slang, formal and deliberate glossaries functioned both as celebrations, educative material for new recruits, and a space for satirical comments on army life. These might appear as a single expression, such as ‘Pommes de terre frits – Bombardier Fritz’ in The Gasper,51 or as formally laid out lists. Murray Johnston’s ‘Aussie Dictionary’ in Issue 1 of Aussie (January 1918) was a one-and-a-half-page spread comprising forty-one entries, including ‘finnee’, ‘hopover’, ‘mud’ and ‘wind up’, and significantly carries the note ‘for the use of those at home’. Primarily though the glossary offered the soldier-writer an opportunity for satire: ‘The Gasper Guide to the War’52 with ‘Wrist-Watch – a good excuse for appearing late on parade’; ‘Army Terms and their Derivation’53 with ‘Trench – so called from the trenchant remarks from those inhabiting them’; and in the French trench journal Poilu, ‘Définitions’54 with ‘Repos – temps consacré aux manoeuvres, revues, marches de nuit, etc’.55 By the end of the war trench journal editors had developed the glossary/dictionary model into a range of ideas: the Fifth Gloucester Gazette had ‘A Guide to the Language’ (Italian) with ‘Take away the Stilton – Alley tootsweeto il stiltonoh’, and ‘A Short Dictionary of Military Diseases’, including ‘inflatio capitis, or swelling of the head’ in its July 1918 issue, and in its next issue (January 1919), ‘Army Talk’, which comprised ‘a few hints on grammar and familiar words’.

  FIGURE 2.2 A single entry glossary in The Gasper, 8 January 1916.

  The more the people at home were familiar with the idea of slang, the more connection could be made by sharing it, especially where this raised a smile. Postcards printed for soldiers to send home catered for this, in both English and French, with cards showing brief slang glossaries or lists. An English card includes ‘Napoo’, ‘over the top’, ‘ticket for Blighty’, while a French one shows a French soldier with a list of what he will bring home on leave, including ‘saucisses’, a ‘marmite’ and twenty-five ‘cloches à melons’, all slang terms for items encountered at the Front.

  Glossaries also appeared as inclusions in memoirs, such as A Yankee in the Trenches (1918) by R. Derby Holmes, with a six-page glossary, Arthur Empey’s extensive ‘Tommy’s Dictionary of the Trenches’ in Over The Top (1917), and Thomas O’Toole’s curiously titled ‘Tommy’s Private Language’ in The Way They Have in the Army56 – the view that this is a ‘private language’ is given both before and after the glossary. Maximilian Mügge gives seven two-column pages of ‘war words’ at the end of The War Diary of a Square Peg (1920), using the word ‘slanguage’ to describe the talk of the men he served with in the infantry, and showing specific interest in expressions such as ‘by gum’, ‘p—off’, and ‘put a sock in it’, but also some curiosities, such as ‘at the toute’, ‘sprado’ (butter), ‘compray’, ‘couty’, ‘deadomer’, ‘jipper’, ‘filbert’ (head), ‘gobby’, and ‘iky’.57 Ward Muir in Observations of an Orderly collected several expressions in a military hospital bathroom, from which he made some assessments of the language (that rhyming slang would unfortunately catch on, and that the ‘facetious irony’ of war slang was its strong point), but it is his prognosis that is most interesting: ‘Some day these etymological mysteries must be probed. Perhaps the German professors, after the war, can usefully wreak themselves on this complex and obscure research. Meanwhile the above notes are offered not as a serious contribution to a subject so immense, but rather as a warning. The infectiousness of slang is incredible; and this gigantic inter-association of classes and clans has brought about a hitherto unheard-of levelling-down of the common speech. Accent may or may not be influenced: the vocabulary certainly is. Nearly every home in the land is soon going to be invaded by many forms of army slang: the process in fact has already begun. If we were a sprightlier nation the effect might not be all to the bad. But most of our slang-mongers are not wits. “He was balmy a treat,” I heard a soldier say of another soldier who had shammed insane. That is what we are coming to: it is the tongue we shall use and likewise (I fear) the condition in which some of us will find ourselves as a result’.58

  FIGURE 2.3 Two cartoon slang glossary postcards. The French card was sent in July 1917. The card in English was sent from the Front; the writer asks if ‘Mamma [has] been on the booze lately’, and says ‘I shall probably be in the line again by the time you receive thi
s’.

  FIGURE 2.3 Continued

  It is notable too that these glossaries were reported on in the press, the Yorkshire Evening Post reporting on O’Toole on 20 March 1916 (p. 4) and quoting Ward Muir extensively on 17 August 1917 (p. 4). This interest in war-lexicography continued after the war as newspapers reported on dictionary inclusions of wartime slang: ‘War Slang – Additions To the Dictionary’ reported the Daily Mail 17 December 1919 (p. 4), on the inclusion of ‘fed up’, ‘eye-wash’, and ‘napoo’ and others in Cassell’s New English Dictionary, while the Illustrated London News reported on the inclusion of ‘napoo’, ‘get the wind up’, ‘brass hats’ and ‘over the top’ in the new edition of Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase and Fable.59

  Two key glossaries in English appeared near the end of the war, W. H. Downing’s Digger Dialects (1919), and Lorenzo Smith’s Lingo of No Man’s Land (1918), which was published largely in support of the recruiting mission to induce British subjects living in the United States to enlist. Very distinct in tone, Smith’s was realist and at times carried a cynicism that was not ideally suited to his task, with the inclusion of ‘suicide club’, ‘Mad Fourth’ and ‘Irish Die-Hards’, both describing soldiers who had made a suicidal charge. Downing was responsible for some first documentations, such as ‘ ’alf-a-mo’ for a moustache, and ‘Aussie’ for a wound, corresponding to ‘a Blighty’, and was notably diligent in collecting words to do with sex, such as ‘knocking-shop’ and ‘short-arm’; his collection also embraced words that Australian soldiers encountered from other languages, such as ‘ferangi’ and ‘capisco’. Downing’s book helped fix war slang in the culture of Australia, cementing the culture of the war in the country’s identity.