The Pursuit of Justice: The Military Moral Economy in the USA, Australia, and Great Britain - 1861-1945 9789048530632

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The Pursuit of Justice

The Pursuit of Justice The Military Moral Economy in the USA, Australia, and Great Britain – 1861-1945

Nathan Wise

Amsterdam University Press

Cover illustration: World War Two – British Empire – The Home Front – British Army – Training – 1942 From PA Images, Alamy Stock Photo; taken 1st January 1942 Cover design: Coördesign, Leiden Lay-out: Crius Group, Hulshout Amsterdam University Press English-language titles are distributed in the US and Canada by the University of Chicago Press. isbn 978 94 6298 106 5 e-isbn 978 90 4853 063 2 (pdf) doi 10.5117/9789462981065 nur 686 / 689 © Nathan Wise / Amsterdam University Press B.V., Amsterdam 2017 All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of both the copyright owner and the author of the book.

Contents Acknowledgements 7 1 Introduction

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2 The 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment

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3 The Australian Imperial Force

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4 The 50th and 51st Divisions of the British Army

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5 Conclusion

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Bibliography 193 Index 205

Acknowledgements While much of the focused research for this book took place in recent years, the ideas have been in development for much longer, and I have many people to thank for their contributions, in many ways, shapes and forms, towards the completion of this book. I would first like to thank John McQuilton, Bruce Scates, Raelene Frances and Melanie Oppenheimer for inspiring and encouraging early investigations into this general field of inquiry. In so many ways your work and your guidance shaped the early thinking around this book and I will be forever grateful. A number of people have also provided valuable feedback on aspects of this work. I would particularly like to thank Greg Patmore and Shelton Stromquist for providing feedback and advice on early research into this area. Thank you to David Kent, Bruce Scates and Peter Way for their critical and detailed feedback on later versions of this research. My thanks also extend to many colleagues who listened, responded, and, in various ways, helped shape this book. They are numerous, but I would particularly like to thank Matthew Allen, Sarah Lawrence, Tristan Taylor, Brett Holman, and Richard Scully. My thanks to the School of Humanities at the University of New England for assistance with funding this project, and thanks also to Karin Smith and Sharon Ann Paradis for their assistance in securing records in the Maine State Archives. This book draws on a diverse collection of records located across three nations, and I owe a debt of gratitude to many librarians and archivists throughout various institutions. My thanks in particular to the staff of the Australian War Memorial, the State Library of New South Wales, the National Archives of Australia, the National Archives [London], the Institute of Psychoanalysis [London], the Imperial War Museum [London], the Churchill Archives Centre [Cambridge], the Maine State Library, and the Maine State Archives [Augusta]. Finally, my thanks to my loving family, Jenny Alice Wise, Matilda Holly Wise, and Lachlan Edward Wise. Thank you for the love, encouragement and inspiration you provide on a daily basis.

1 Introduction In May 1863, approximately 125 men of the 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment initiated a protest against military authorities. Their unit had been disbanded, and those 125 men were ordered to march out to a new unit, the 20th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment. Those men of the 2nd Maine had built a home in the 2nd Maine; their comrades had become like family, and they had built a common identity in the unit with their own traditions, cultures and values. When the order came to move out, the men stood their ground and refused to obey the order. Exactly 55 years later an almost identical incident played out on the Western Front during the First World War. In September 1918, several battalions of the Australian Imperial Force (aif) initiated a protest against military authorities. As with the 2nd Maine in 1863, their units were ordered to disband, and the men were ordered to march out to new units. As with the 2nd Maine, the men of those Australian battalions had built a home and an identity in their battalion, and their comrades had become like family. And again, as with the 2 nd Maine in 1863, when the order came to move out, the men stood their ground and refused to follow the order. Finally, in September 1943, a group of men from the 50th and 51st Divisions of the British Army were ordered to transfer to other units as reinforcements. Those men, as with those of the 2nd Maine and of the aif, had built their home and identity within their units. They had expected the military to honour their wishes to remain with their units, and when their expectations were shattered, they refused to comply with the orders. These three extraordinary events – which took place in three very different armies in three very different wars, separated across 80 years of history – display a series of remarkable similarities. In each of the situations men of the rank and file had developed clear expectations of how they should behave and how they should be treated within the environment of the military. In each case, when authorities broke those expectations, rank-and-file men felt they could, and should, engage in direct action to return the situation back to the status quo. As this book will show, those patterns within those military environments reflect the same patterns that functioned as moral economies within civil societies – and they can thus effectively be described as military moral economies. To emphasize the above points and demonstrate the workings of those military moral economies, this book will present an analysis of these three

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incidences of protest within military environments. In particular, it will seek a detailed answer to the question: ‘Why did these protests occur?’ A close analysis of these incidents reveals striking parallels in the motivations of the protesters, their treatment by authorities, and the manner in which these actions were eventually resolved. Equally important, however, is understanding why these particular men in these particular circumstances protested, while other men in similar circumstances did not protest. For example: the 2nd Maine men protested when ordered to serve elsewhere; but the 10th Maine men did not protest when given similar orders. The 19th, 21st, 25th, 29th, 37th, 42nd, 54th and 60th Battalions of the aif protested when ordered to serve elsewhere; but the 36th, 47th, and 52nd did not protest when given similar orders. And 350 men of the 50th and 51st Divisions protested when ordered to serve elsewhere; but 1150 other men in the same draft did not protest the order. In order to shed further light on these events, and to understand their peculiarities, this book will investigate these men and their circumstances in detail. By contrasting those three events, and by linking with other similar events of those periods, it will also contribute towards the growing global history of military labour and protest, and identify some of the common aspects of soldiers’ approach towards and expectations of military service. Historians have often described the protesters of 1863, 1918, and 1943 as ‘mutineers’. Leonard Guttridge noted that the term mutiny stirs the imagination and causes some to strike a sympathetic chord.1 But there is little scholarly consensus in the definition of the term, and historians often apply it to excite readers and build tension. Guttridge added that ‘Seldom has a term weighted with such gravity and threat eluded consensus upon its true definition’.2 Among military historians, there is often uncertainty regarding when a simple refusal to obey orders becomes a mutiny.3 For example, the author and editor of the Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-1918, C.E.W. Bean, was uncertain how to describe the events of September 1918. Bean used inverted commas to note the ‘mutinies’ and ‘mutinies over disbandment’, 4 and he indexed the event as the ‘protest 1 Leonard F. Guttridge, Mutiny: A History of Naval Insurrection (Annapolis: Blue Jacket Books, 1992), p. 1. 2 Guttridge, Mutiny, p. 1. 3 Guttridge provides examples of such uncertainty surrounding several incidents in Mutiny, pp. 2-3. 4 C.E.W. Bean, Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-1918: Volume VI – The Australian Imperial Force in France during the Allied Offensive, 1918 (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1942), p. 953.

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agst disbandmt. of bns.’5 The men involved in these three incidents also expressed similar uncertainty. For example, Hugh Fraser, one of the men involved in the Salerno protest of 1943, later reflected on the events: When the word mutiny is mentioned you perhaps think of, you know, Captain Bligh and the Bounty and men going about shouting and bawling and waving their swords and guns about. This was the quietest mutiny which ever happened at any time.6

Complicating this further are the political implications of this language. Mutinies have long been seen by military authorities as failures of leadership,7 and for this reason commanding officers who experience a mutiny under their command are often hesitant to use the term, lest it damage their reputation. 8 This is a common theme that recurs throughout military forces. For example, in the British Royal Navy, mutinies were described as ‘regrettable incidents’ in an attempt to preserve the force’s reputation as ‘the world’s most powerful and proudest naval force’.9 In other military forces, officers often sought to quickly resolve the issues at the heart of a mutiny or protest, and thus stop the action before it was brought to the attention of their superiors. Webb Garrison argued, for example, that during the American Civil War, ‘Many a general officer tried to avoid the risk of having his own leadership questioned in the aftermath of a mutiny, so used soft words in describing resistance to his authority’.10 Similar practices have been observed within the aif during the First World War. Rowan Cahill argued that, ‘To minimize the number of actual mutinies, it seems the preferred Australian option has been, where possible, to treat alleged mutinous behaviour as something less legally controversial, thereby attracting less attention and scrutiny, and avoiding political fallout’.11 5 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, Index, p. xxi. 6 Interview with Hugh Fraser for ‘Moray Firth People’. Am Baile: Highland History and Culture website, http://www.ambaile.org.uk, File 1669 (5/15). 7 For example, Douglas Haig blamed the commander of the Australian Corps, William Birdwood, for the Australian disciplinary problems during the First World War. J.G. Fuller, Troop Morale and Popular Culture in the British and Dominion Armies 1914-1918 (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1990), p. 169. 8 Guttridge, Mutiny, pp. 2-4. 9 Guttridge, Mutiny, p. 4. 10 Webb Garrison, Mutiny in the Civil War (Shippensburg: White Mane Books, 2001), p. v. 11 Rowan Cahill, ‘The Battle of Sydney’, Overland, no. 169, 2002, pp. 50-54. For examples of this treatment of mutiny in international contexts, see David Englander, ‘Mutinies and Military Morale’, in Hew Strachan (ed.), The Oxford Illustrated History of the First World War (Oxford:

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Terry Irving and Rowan Cahill also argued that, ‘Australian defence authorities have successfully swept mutinies under the carpet’.12 Peter Stanley also commented on a number of incidents of strike and protest at length in his book Bad Characters. Stanley noted that, ‘many of the “riots” and “mutinies” that the authorities faced were actually collective demonstrations […] Officers had reason to conceal or diminish such incidents but soldiers’ diaries reveal what the official record does not’.13 Stanley elaborated on this point by noting that officers of the aif often felt ‘shamed by their men’s protests’,14 and they were thus keen to cover up any rebellious incidents that occurred under their leadership. An example of this can be seen in an incident that took place in January 1915. While on a long route march through the Egyptian desert, soldiers of the 1st Brigade of the aif simply sat down in the sand as a protest against their inadequate rations. The men refused to move until their complaints were listened to. The flustered commanding officer promised the men better treatment provided they end their protest and continue marching before their brigadier arrived.15 However, such incidents barely featured in the Official History of Australia during the War of 1914-1918, as the official historian, C.E.W. Bean, was keen to downplay occurrences of ‘bad behaviour’ to instead present a positive image of the Australian soldier to readers at home. Even stronger sentiments are evident in histories of the British Army during the Second World War. Lawrence James argued that mutinies that occurred during the world wars ‘were deliberately hushed up for the good reason that news of them would dishearten both civilians and fighting men as well as cheer the enemy’.16 Where mutinies were described, the mutineers were often presented as cowards who shirked their duties and abandoned their comrades. Indeed, James argued that mutiny, ‘like cowardice, can be interpreted as a moral weakness. It is therefore a crime which is not much Oxford University Press, 1998), pp. 191-203; Jeffrey Grey, The Australian Centenary History of Defence: Volume 1: The Australian Army (Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 2001), pp. 62-6; Christopher Pugsley, On the Fringe of Hell: New Zealanders and Military Discipline in the First World War (Auckland: Hodder & Stoughton, 1991), especially p. 297; Timothy Bowman, Irish Regiments in the Great War: Discipline and Morale (Manchester: Manchester University Press), 2003. 12 Terry Irving and Rowan Cahill, Radical Sydney (Sydney: UNSW Press, 2010), p. 121. 13 Peter Stanley, Bad Characters: Sex, Crime, Mutiny, Murder and the Australian Imperial Force (Sydney: Pier 9, 2010), p. 149. 14 Stanley, Bad Characters, p. 210. 15 Jeffrey Williams, ‘Discipline on Active Service: The 1st Brigade, First aif 1914-1919’ (LittB thesis, Australian National University, 1982), p. 20. 16 Lawrence James, Mutiny in the British and Commonwealth Forces, 1797-1956 (London: Buchan & Enright, 1987), p. 3.

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talked about, either by civilians or servicemen’.17 An example of these various elements can be found in Hugh Pond’s analysis of the protest at Salerno in 1943. Pond scolds the protesters as ‘mutinous troops’ and describes in unsympathetic terms the ‘appalling situation’ in what was a ‘sad day for the British Army’.18 Pond also rashly suggested that the ‘real reason’ the men protested was because they ‘wanted to go back home (to Britain) with their regiments’.19 Furthermore, Pond argued that, ‘Not unnaturally the whole episode was hushed up under wartime secrecy’.20 Because mutinies and protests were often interpreted as shameful behaviour, the trend has also been to downplay and even omit such events from wartime reporting. Mutinies had the potential to damage morale, and there was always the risk that the behaviour could spread to other units. During wartime, soldiers were typically presented as ‘heroes’ – praised for their dedication to comrades, their courage under fire, and their sacrifice for the greater good. Praise was accorded to those soldiers who serve nobly and dedicate their lives to the military. Within this style of writing, refusals to work and fight, refusals to follow the orders of officers, and broader protests against military authorities were portrayed as cowardly, shameful and regretful incidents often led by a few ‘bad characters’. For example, one naval officer argued that the Fort Jackson mutineers of 1862 ‘were mostly of foreign birth and low origin’;21 and investigations into that mutiny by the Confederate general, Mansfield Lovell, attributed blame to the workingclass and immigrant soldiers.22 Similarly, during the First World War, C.E.W. Bean attributed the cause of bad behaviour within the aif in late 1914 and early 1915 to a small number of ‘old soldiers’. Bean argued, ‘A large number of these men were not Australians’, and they exerted a bad influence on the other younger men.23

17 James, Mutiny in the British and Commonwealth Forces, p. 4. James also remarked that he was refused access to one private archive due, he believed, to this reason. 18 Hugh Pond, Salerno (London: William Kimber and Co., 1961), pp. 208-9. Pond also argued that the men were ‘vitally required at the Salerno front’ which, by the time of their protest, was no longer the case. 19 Pond, Salerno, pp. 208-9. 20 Pond, Salerno, pp. 208-9. 21 Cited in Michael D. Pierson, Mutiny at Fort Jackson: The Untold Story of the Fall of New Orleans (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2008), p. 32. 22 Pierson, Mutiny at Fort Jackson, p. 32. 23 C.E.W. Bean, Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-1918: Volume: I – The Story of ANZAC from the Outbreak of War to the End of the First Phase of the Gallipoli Campaign, May 4, 1915 (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 11th edition, 1941), pp. 128-9.

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Both American and Australian military law (and procedures) were originally direct descendants of British military law, and for many years after American independence and Australian federation, both American and Australian military laws, respectively, retained direct links and references to (and in many cases, directly copied) their British counterparts24 Indeed, in Australia, Australian forces were specifically made subject to the British Army Act, ‘as if they were part of His Majesty’s Regular Land Forces’, and this included provisions for punishments as provided by the Army Act.25 However, despite the similarities in these systems of law, the application of those laws – specifically as they apply to mutinous behaviour – varied considerably depending on local factors, most notably the sentiment of commanding officers. As much as was possible and practical within a given situation, officers attempted to quell mutinous behaviour, deter protesters from persisting in such action, and avoid having to resort to laying charges against their men under the respective provisions granted by military law. In many cases where charges were made, they were laid by higher authorities and officers outside the unit being charged. Commanding officers and authorities within a unit were generally reluctant to lay serious charges against their own men if it could be avoided. In addition to the sentiment of commanding officers, other local environmental factors were also critical in determining authorities’ responses to mutinous behaviour. Lenience might be shown if men were desperately needed in combat; if officers were desperate to be seen as strong leaders; or if officers empathized with the causes of the men under their command. These details will be further unpacked in the following chapters. As such, individual acts of protest and mutiny must be understood within their specific contexts. As will be seen in the following chapters, there was a remarkably different response to the protests of 1863 and 1918, compared with the protests of 1943. Furthermore, we can even observe subtle changes in the treatment of mutinous behaviour during each of the three respective conflicts. The levels of discipline imposed by officers, and the punishments for offences throughout both the Confederate and the Union armed forces in 1865, bore little resemblance to the relatively more relaxed circumstances of early 1861. Similarly, during the Second World War, the threat posed by Germany 24 See for example Alfred Avins, ‘A History of Short Desertion’, Military Law Review, vol. 13, 1961, pp. 143-65. 25 Defence Act 1917, No. 36, ss 54 and 55. Australian military law retained these close references and links with British law until The Defence Force Discipline Act 1982, 85 years after the Federation of Australia.

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hardened the discipline level and the hitherto casual approach to military service by the ‘Saturday night soldiers’ of the Territorial Army (ta). Because authorities’ responses to mutinous behaviour have varied across space and time, historical accounts of mutinies and protests within military environments often adopt a comparative approach. For example, Webb Garrison’s book Mutiny in the Civil War served as a catalogue of protests and mutinies during the American Civil War, with several pages dedicated to each event, including the 2nd Maine’s protest of 1863.26 Lawrence James’s Mutiny in the British and Commonwealth Forces similarly sought to uncover and document a series of relatively little-known events over a broad period, and James included a brief discussion on the protest at Salerno in 1943.27 One of the most valuable aspects of James’s analysis is that he also sought to provide a broader social and political context to the events, with his objective being ‘not so much to discover a pattern, but in an attempt to reveal the extent to which external factors not only contributed to the uprisings but shaped them’.28 Leonard F. Guttridge’s Mutiny: A History of Naval Insurrection, focused, as the title suggests, on mutinies and protests within international naval forces;29 and John Harris adopted a similar approach in his book Scapegoat! by selecting a series of courts-martial for analysis, including several protests/mutinies.30 While there have been no dedicated studies of the 2nd Maine’s protest in 1863, several scholars have provide valuable analyses of the events within broader contexts. Most notably, James Mundy dedicated a chapter to the 1863 protest within his broader history of the 2nd Maine during the American Civil War.31 The key value here is that Mundy also established a detailed understanding of the broader experiences of the unit during the war. A similar level of insight is gained in Thomas Desjardin’s history of the 20th Maine during the Gettysburg campaign.32 While Desjardin focused his analysis on the 20th Maine, the experiences of the 2nd Maine men during their protest feature strongly in his discussion.

26 Garrison, Mutiny in the Civil War, pp. 92-7. 27 James, Mutiny in the British and Commonwealth Forces, pp. 167-75. 28 James, Mutiny in the British and Commonwealth Forces, pp. 4-5. 29 Guttridge, Mutiny, 1992. 30 John Harris, Scapegoat! Famous Courts Martial (London: Severn House, 1989). 31 James H. Mundy, Second to None: The Story of the 2d Maine Volunteers – ‘The Bangor Regiment’ (Scarborough, me: Harp Publications, 1992), pp. 1-32. 32 Thomas A. Desjardin, Stand Firm Ye Boys from Maine: The 20th Maine and the Gettysburg Campaign (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009).

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Likewise, there have been no dedicated studies of the protests undertaken by the aif in 1918. The most detailed account to date comes from C.E.W. Bean, who analysed the protests over several pages of the sixth volume of the Official History. But while Bean adopted an empathetic approach to the protesters, and did briefly seek to understand their motivations for protesting, his attention was primarily focused on the administrative circumstances surrounding the disbandment of the aif battalions and how this was managed by officers. Elsewhere, Michele Bomford and Ashley Ekins also provided brief summaries of the incident in their respective works, and a number of individual battalion histories have also made brief mention of the incident.33 But, to date, there remains an absence of any detailed analysis of the protest. Most analyses of the protest at Salerno in 1943 are also brief. The protest featured in Eric Morris’s detailed study of the Salerno invasion, titled, Salerno: A Military Fiasco, but only as a side-note within a section that generally explores the German counter-attack.34 It received similar attention by Hugh Pond, who provided a brief and critical analysis of the protest in his study of Salerno.35 And Dominick Graham and Shelford Bidwell also summarized events within the context of the Salerno invasion, concluding that, ‘The gut feeling of the Salerno mutineers was neither a refusal to face the dangers of the battlefield nor undue attachment to their regiments but that they had been treated unreasonably’.36 Indeed, aside from those brief summaries of the events, there are few detailed studies available on the events of 1863, 1918 and 1943. The one important exception to this is Saul David’s detailed analysis of the 1943 protest, titled Mutiny at Salerno.37 David scoured archival records and conducted interviews with many of the protesters and others involved in the subsequent trial to provide an exhaustive account of the 1943 protest, subsequent court-martial and the long-term impact of events on the protesters. Given this solid foundation, my investigation of the 1943 protest draws 33 Michele Bomford, Beaten Down By Blood: The Battle of Mont St Quentin-Peronne 1918 (Newport, nsw: Big Sky Publishing, 2012), pp. 325-7; Ashley Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion: Morale, Discipline and Combat Effectiveness in the Armies of 1918’, in Ashley Ekins (ed.), 1918: Year of Victory: The End of the Great War and the Shaping of History (Auckland and Wolombi: Exisle Publishing, 2010), p. 113. 34 Eric Morris, Salerno: A Military Fiasco (New York: Stein and Day, 1984), pp. 271-4. 35 Pond, Salerno, pp. 208-9. 36 Dominick Graham and Shelford Bidwell, Tug of War: The Battle for Italy, 1943-45 (Barnsley: Pen and Sword Military Classics, 2004), pp. 92-4. 37 Saul David, Mutiny at Salerno 1943: An Injustice Exposed (London: Conway, 2005).

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heavily on David’s work, and primarily seeks to contrast the events of 1943 with those of 1863 and 1918 and to understand the workings of the military moral economy within those environments. Within the traditional genre of writing, historians have long portrayed mutineers as among the most dangerous and destructive elements of a military force.38 Mutiny strikes fear into the heart of officers and has long been a military crime linked with the death sentence.39 But if we take the time to cast aside these fears and actually examine the sentiment, motivations, and actions of supposed ‘mutineers’, we can often observe clear efforts to maintain standards of honour, integrity, and justice in environments where those standards were in general decline. Furthermore, such ‘mutinies’ were often intended simply as protests or strikes against perceived injustices within a military environment, and they were not necessarily attempts to gain control of that environment. In the three cases analysed in this book, for example, the protesters were attempting to maintain the moral status quo and achieve justice in an environment where they all felt that moral values were being violated by authorities. To complement this traditional genre of military history, there is a growing body of scholarship that analyses military forces of the past as social environments, communities, and workplaces. Service personnel often enlisted for the pay or for the long-term social or economic benefits they hoped would result from military service; and they often thought of daily work within the military in similar ways that they thought of daily work within the civilian world. 40 Previous analyses of military labour have argued that this approach towards military service as work also included responses to complaints that utilized pre-war understandings of industrial action and bargaining. 41 38 For example, Erik-Jan Zürcher argued that ‘“Industrial action” by its own armed forces was of course the most serious crisis any ruling elite could face.’ Erik-Jan Zürcher, ‘Introduction: Understanding Changes in Military Recruitment and Employment Worldwide’, in Erik-Jan Zürcher (ed.), Fighting for a Living: A Comparative History of Military Labour 1500-2000 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2013), p. 41. 39 Guttridge, Mutiny, p. 7. C.E.W. Bean noted that ‘Mutiny was one of the only two offences punishable in the A.I.F [Australian Imperial Force] by death.’ Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 940. Furthermore, mutiny remained an offence punishable by death in the United Kingdom until as late as 1998. 40 See for example the analyses within Zürcher, Fighting for a Living. See also Nathan Wise, ‘The Lost Labour Force: Working Class Approaches towards Military Service during the Great War’, Labour History, 93, November 2007, pp. 161-76. 41 Wise, ‘The Lost Labour Force’, pp. 171-3; Nathan Wise, ‘“In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers”: Industrial Relations in the Australian Imperial Force during the Great War’,

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There are also increasing efforts to link these themes throughout different conflicts, and to identify the similarities and differences in the nature of military labour across different times and places. Erik-Jan Zürcher’s 2013 compilation, Fighting for a Living, brought together 19 different case studies that explored aspects of military labour around the world through five different centuries of conflict. Many of these studies focused on the nature of labour relationships within the military – that is, what were the structures (nature of income, duration of service, and legal constraints on freedom) within which soldiers were employed by the military. 42 These historians have sought to place such incidents within a broader social, cultural, and labour framework, and to see these incidents within the military as protests (or strikes) against unsatisfactory social and labour conditions. However, it can be difficult to determine when a protest becomes a more formal and organized strike. 43 This is particularly the case in the aif protest of 1918, when the protesters refused to follow a particular order, but continued with their regular work. Nonetheless, it is clear that both mutinies and strikes, however defined, fundamentally begin with a protest against military conditions that often develops into a larger incident. As such, the term protest is given preference throughout this book. By and large, the study of protests, mutinies, and strikes in military environments is an under-studied and under-appreciated area. It is thus hoped that this book will make a substantial contribution to the field, both in terms of uncovering details on the three events in focus and by shedding valuable light on the factors that incite people to protest, and how common these factors were across different military forces in different eras. Protests, mutinies, and strikes must be seen as more than just responses to short-term mistreatment and low morale. They must be placed within broader contexts that incorporate considerations of pre-war social and cultural environments. As James Scott suggested in his analysis of Southeast Asian peasant protests, such behaviour must be seen within the context of contemporary understandings of ‘social justice, of rights and obligations, of reciprocity’. 44 With this in mind, this book pays close attention to those Labour History, no. 101, November, 2011, pp. 161-76. 42 See for example Zürcher, ‘Introduction’, pp. 19-29. 43 Indeed, some scholars believe the term ‘strike’ originated in naval mutinies where, as Gilje argues, ‘sailors would “strike” the sails of a ship to prevent it from sailing during a labor stoppage’. See Paul A. Gilje, Liberty on the Waterfront: American Maritime Culture in the Age of Revolution (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2004), p. 252. 44 James C. Scott, The Moral Economy of the Peasant: Rebellion and Subsistence in Southeast Asia (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1976), p. vii.

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understandings. It will scrutinize how those protesters of 1863, 1918, and 1943 perceived their rights and the obligations of the military, and how those perceptions factored into their desire to protest. As a starting point, scholars must recognize and appreciate the civilian origins of soldiers, of their attitudes, and of the communities they constructed within the military. Much like the civil societies whence they came, the military communities those men shaped (largely, of course, in the absence of women) were structured along clear class lines and were heavily influenced by perceptions of manliness, job skill, and social status. Scholars must appreciate the continuities between those civilian and military environments. The same social divisions and tensions that permeated civil society in the usa, Australia, and Britain were replicated within military environments. Indeed, as explored in the following chapters, the rank-based hierarchy of the military was an extension of the civil social hierarchy. Thus, in order to understand the sentiments of protesters in 1863, 1918, and 1943 – and, in particular, their sense of opposition and resistance to authority and the sense of moral economy that developed in those three environments – each analysis in the following three chapters includes a detailed exploration of the pre-war civilian relations which formed the basis for social relations and social hierarchies within the military. In particular, they will consider the oppositional relationship workers experienced with their employers and other authorities within civil society. They will consider how those civilian workers in the 1860s, 1910s, and 1930s – much like Thompson’s English working people of the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries45 – articulated their sense of a common interest between themselves, and against their employers. As those civilian workers entered the military to become soldiers, they found themselves once again in a familiar position in the social hierarchy. Whereas in civil society they had worked at the demands of powerful authorities, their employers, within the military they worked at the demands of another class of powerful authorities – their officers. As will be seen in the chapters to follow, the men who held power in civil society were the same men who held power within the military. The class structure of civil society was simply replicated by the rank hierarchy of the military. Together, those workers carried that same identity of interests between themselves as they joined the rank and file in their new military environments. And, together, they encountered another class of men, their officers, 45 E.P. Thompson, The Making of the English Working Class (London: Penguin, 2013 [f irst published1963]), pp. 8-9.

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who held interests that were often different from, and occasionally in opposition to and in conflict with, the interests of the rank and file. For many workers, this pattern of common experiences – of being on the ‘lesser end’ of a productive relationship and of being in conflict with the interests of other classes, whether it be in a civil or a military environment – helped solidify their class consciousness and identity. In the United States, for example, the defeat of the Confederacy in 1865 was celebrated, by some, as the defeat of aristocracy and inequality throughout American society. In a resolution presented in Boston, Ira Steward urged that it ‘be known that the workingmen of America will in future claim a more equal share in the wealth their industry creates in peace and a more equal participation in the privileges and blessings of those free institutions, defended by their manhood on many a bloody field of battle’.46 The actions of men like Steward invigorated class-conscious workers and the American labour movement, and in the post-war years labour organizations flourished. These understandings of class, approaches to work, and responses to workplace issues must also be contextualized within historical understandings of gender and, in particular, of ‘manliness’ in these eras. In each of the three eras under investigation in this book, men demonstrated their manliness in an attempt to gain peer approval and social recognition. 47 John Tosh observed of nineteenth-century Britain, for example, that the ‘qualification for a man’s life among men – in short for a role in the public sphere – depends on their masculinity being tested against the recognition of their peers during puberty, young adulthood and beyond’. 48 Within civil society, manliness was typically demonstrated and tested at home, at work, and among all-male associations. 49 In each period, within the United States of America, Australia, and Great Britain, enlisting in the armed forces was a powerful way to assert manliness. Within an Australian context, for example, Martin Crotty argued that ‘the most obvious way in which manliness could be defined in national terms was in the glorification of fighting for the nation against external

46 Resolution presented at Faneuil Hall, Boston, 1865. Cited in Hyman Kuritz, ‘Ira Steward and the Eight Hour Day’, Science and Society, vol. 20, no. 2, 1956, p. 122. 47 Tosh argued that public affirmation was central to masculine status. John Tosh, ‘What Should Historians do with Masculinity? Reflections on Nineteenth-Century Britain’, History Workshop, no. 38, 1994, p. 184. 48 Tosh, ‘What Should Historians do with Masculinity?’, p. 184. 49 Tosh, ‘What Should Historians do with Masculinity?’, p. 184.

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enemies’.50 Soldiers’ identities then were grounded in an assertion of peakmanliness. Enlisting in the military was widely regarded as the ‘manliest’ thing a man could do. But enlistment in the armed forces did not end the pursuit of manliness. Within the new living and working environment of the military, men continued to search for ways to assert their manly credentials over others, and to test their manliness among their peers.51 However, this assertion of peak-manliness and attempts to assert manliness on a daily basis in the new environment of the military were complicated by the fundamentally subservient nature of military service. While new recruits asserted their masculine superiority over civilians who did not enlist, they were simultaneously in an authoritatively inferior position below their officers. On occasion, the tensions could boil over into conflict – not only between officers and their men but also between regiments of the same army – as groups of individuals sought opportunities to assert their manly superiority over others.52 Within the subservient environment of the army, one of the ways that men of the rank and file sought to assert their manly superiority was to display a sense of pride in their work. Much like skilled labourers in civil society had displayed pride in their productive outputs, so too soldiers in military environments displayed a sense of both personal and collective pride in their military achievements. In time, those achievements, and the sense of pride associated with them, became an integral part of each unit’s sense of esprit de corps, as outlined in more detail below. The similarities in these three protests can best be explained by utilizing the theories of moral economies, similar to those originally espoused by E.P. Thompson and James Scott.53 Moral economy theory holds that communities 50 Martin Crotty, Making the Australian Male: Middle-Class Masculinity 1870-1920 (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2001), p. 25. For a recent similar analysis of the situation in New Zealand, where soldiers were held up as the archetypal man during the First World War, see Steven Loveridge, ‘“Soldiers and Shirkers”: Modernity and New Zealand Masculinity during the Great War’, New Zealand Journal of History, vol. 46, no. 1, 2013, pp. 59-79; for a British comparison, see Meg Albrinck, ‘Humanitarians and He-Men: Recruitment Posters and the Masculine Ideal’, in Pearl James (ed.), Picture This: World War I Posters and Visual Culture (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2010), pp. 312-39. 51 This has been analysed in an Australian context in Nathan Wise, ‘Job Skill, Manliness and Working Relationships in the Australian Imperial Force during World War I’, Labour History, no. 106, May 2014, pp. 99-122. 52 For a detailed example of this, see Wise, ‘Job Skill, Manliness and Working Relationships’, pp. 115-21. 53 E.P. Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the Eighteenth Century’, Past and Present, no. 50, February, 1971; Scott, The Moral Economy of the Peasant.

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develop sets of standards and normal values that are then used as the basis for evaluating social and economic circumstances. These core values then contribute towards the assumptions upon which community decisions are made and legitimized, and thus upon which broader social institutions are shaped. When those expectations are broken, or ‘breached’, there is a sense that a social contract has been broken. This is often followed by direct action that primarily seeks to repair that contract and return the situation to the status quo. Such action is often presented as a legitimate response to an illegitimate or unjust breach of the moral economy. Within military environments, soldiers – both the rank and file and officers – construct and maintain communities that stand somewhat apart from civilian communities. Within that military community, sets of laws, customs, and cultures – often inherited directly from civil society – are developed and sustained. To secure the service of civilians recruited into those communities, the relationship is typically formalized through a contract, such as a service paper or attestation form, which effectively obliges the individual to work and serve in the military for a period of time – or, as is often the case, for the duration of a particular conflict. This binds the soldier and the military into an economic arrangement – the soldier works for the military in exchange for payment and benefits. Despite the many differences between military and civil societies – and, of course, in the nature of that work – to many recruits of military forces throughout history this initial arrangement has resembled other employment arrangements that they had experienced in civil society.54 But, from the very outset, that economic arrangement, and the broader social and cultural norms within that community, are influenced by and continue to change in accordance with a range of expectations held by both parties to the agreement. As noted, in civil society, social and economic behaviour is often guided by expectations of standards, norms, and customary practices which develop over time and are often codified by law. Similarly, within military forces, such behaviour is guided by a separate set of standards, norms, and practices also often codified by a separate 54 Gammage noted of the Australian Imperial Force that many of the earliest recruits simply left camp and returned home at the end of the day’s training, much as they would at the end of a regular shift of civilian work. Bill Gammage, The Broken Years: Australian Soldiers in the Great War (Ringwood: Penguin, 1987), p. 31. For other international examples see Wise, ‘The Lost Labour Force’ and ‘Job Skill, Manliness and Working Relationships’; Frank Tallett, ‘Soldiers in Western Europe, c. 1500-1790’, in Zürcher, Fighting for a Living, pp. 147-9; and Elise Kimerling Wirtschafter, ‘Military Service and the Russian Social Order, 1649-1861’, Zürcher, Fighting for a Living, pp. 404-17.

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set of military laws and orders which are judicially enforced by military authorities. When these two worlds first meet – that is, when civilians enter the military to become soldiers – a compromise takes place. The civilian modifies their expectations and their standards of behaviour to retain employment in the military, while the military adjusts their expectations of the new soldier to secure the ongoing commitment of that individual. In professional military forces, the compromise is minor as the recruit is more willing to accept the authority of officers and the high standards of the force. But in amateur forces consisting of citizen-soldiers, such as those analysed in this book, the compromises take place on both sides and can be substantial. The result of these compromises, whether small or large, is a new military moral economy. Because theories of moral economy focus on themes such as class relations, moral values, communities, and direct action, they were originally applied to analyses of pre-industrial agrarian societies and peasant rebellions, where protests tried to avoid risks that would jeopardize subsistence.55 For example, Thompson originally rooted his exploration of the moral economy in eighteenth-century England. But numerous scholars have since shown how moral economies are evident in a broad range of other historical contexts. As a result, moral economy theory is no longer rooted in peasant and pre-industrial societies; it has been successfully applied to settler societies, workplaces, business sectors, and modern global economic systems.56 It has become a trans-historical, trans-cultural concept that has been utilized to successfully explain the root causes of many forms of direct action throughout many different cultures in history. For example, Gregory Aldrete successfully argued that the Ancient Romans had a ‘moral economy’ analogous with that proposed by E.P. Thompson,57 while Keiko Sakurai and

55 See for example Scott, The Moral Economy of the Peasant, p. 18; Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’. 56 See for example Knut Laaser, ‘The Moral Economy of Work and Employment in Banks’ (PhD thesis, University of Strathclyde, 2013); Michael K. Goodman, ‘Reading Fair Trade: Political Ecological Imaginary and the Moral Economy of Fair Trade Goods’, Ethics in Political Ecology, vol. 23, no. 7, 2004, pp. 891-915; Mark Banks, ‘Moral Economy and Cultural Work’, Sociology, vol. 40, no. 3, 2006, pp. 455-72; Bruce Scates and Melanie Oppenheimer, ‘“I Intend to Get Justice”: The Moral Economy of Soldier Settlement’, Labour and the Great War: The Australian Working Class and the Making of Anzac, Labour History, no. 106, May, 2014, pp. 229-53; and Alan Atkinson, ‘Four Patterns of Convict Protest’, Labour History, no. 37, November, 1979, pp. 28-51. 57 Gregory S. Aldrete, ‘Riots’, in Paul Erdkamp (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to Ancient Rome (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), p. 429.

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Fariba Adelkhah, among others, argued that a moral economy forms the basis for interactions in madrasas.58 In 1991, in response to the broadening utilization of moral economy theory, Thompson ‘reviewed’ his original exploration. With respect to the general concept of a moral economy, he argued that: No other term seems to offer itself to describe the way in which, in peasant and in early industrial communities, many ‘economic’ relations are regulated according to non-monetary norms […] As Charlesworth and Randall have argued, ‘The basis of the moral economy was that very sense of community which a common experience of capitalist industry generated’.59

While Thompson was particularly focused on the economy of the crowd in the food market of eighteenth-century England, he recognized that the theory had applications outside of his own initial intent and interests; and, with some caution, he accepted the broadening definition and application of moral economy theory.60 With this in mind, the theory of moral economy employed in the following analysis, while borrowing heavily from Thompson’s original conception, more closely resembles Paul Greenough’s broader definition that removes the theory from a specific time and place. Greenough noted: By ‘moral economy’ I mean the cluster of relations of exchange between social groups, and between persons, in which the welfare and the merit of both parties to the exchange takes precedence over other considerations such as the profit of one or the other.61

Thompson himself supported this definition as one which, if it encourages historians ‘to discover and write about all those areas of human exchange to which orthodox economics was once blind […] is a gain’.62 Moral economy

58 Keiko Sakurai and Fariba Adelkhah (eds.), The Moral Economy of the Madrasa: Islam and Education Today (Abingdon: Routledge, 2011). 59 E.P. Thompson, Customs in Common (London: Penguin, 1991), p. 340. 60 Thompson, Customs in Common, pp. 340-51. 61 Paul R. Greenough, ‘Indian Famines and Peasant Victims: The Case of Bengal in 1943-44’, Modern Asian Studies, vol. 14, no. 2, 1980, p. 207n. 62 Thompson, Customs in Common, p. 344.

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theory is no longer rooted in a specific time or place; it is, as Thompson accepted, increasingly utilized as a valuable explanatory concept.63 While the precise nature of each of the military moral economies analysed in this book was new for the developing environments of the military,64 the assumptions and expectations that made up those moral economies were not new for the men who had long held onto and preserved similar values in their civilian lives. The cultural customs and values, and notions of right and wrong, that made up the military moral economies originated in civilian moral economies, and they were carried over into military environments by civilians as they enlisted. As noted above, those customs underwent some modification to fit the demands of military authorities; but they retained many core principles, in particular the right to subsistence and the best chances of survival. Recruits accepted that military service came with the risk of dying, but they assumed that officers would, within reason, do their utmost to prevent this from happening; and, as the following chapters will show, this assumption underpinned the military moral economy. In that new environment of the military, when the formal terms of the military service contract were adhered to and the informal, unwritten expectations of both groups met, then the relationship between the rank and file and their officers could strengthen and grow. In those situations, authorities developed a sense of trust in their soldiers; and soldiers developed an attachment to the military, identified the military community as their primary ‘home’, and adhered to the directions and orders of their officers. The expectations the rank and file had of normal and standard behaviour within those environments were legitimized through repeated acceptance of and adherence to those standards by authorities and, gradually, the moral economy was strengthened. Numerous scholars have observed the strengthening and ‘legitimizing’ of the moral economy through consensus in other contexts.65 Thompson observed that: the men and women in the crowd were informed by the belief that they were defending traditional rights or customs; and, in general, that they were supported by the wider consensus of the community. On occasion 63 Thompson, Customs in Common, p. 351. 64 This is particularly so for newly formed units. 65 In addition to Thompson, see also Steffen Mau, The Moral Economy of Welfare States: Britain and Germany Compared (Abingdon: Routledge, 2004), p. 32; and Scott, The Moral Economy of the Peasant, pp. 4-7.

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this popular consensus was endorsed by some measure of licence afforded by the authorities.66

Thompson later added that the moral economy: supposed definite, and passionately held, notions of the common weal – notions which, indeed, found some support in the paternalist tradition of the authorities; notions which the people re-echoed so loudly in their turn that the authorities were, in some measure the prisoners of the people.67

While strong support from authorities is not necessarily essential for the development of a moral economy, it certainly helps by adding strength through a further sense of legitimacy. Thus, while different groups of people or classes within a society may have opposing interests – such as Thompson’s English crowd and their authorities, Scott’s Southeast Asian peasants and their landlords, or the military’s rank and file and their officers – those opposing groups may find a consensus in some of their views of the moral economy. Even then, this is not to say that they must agree on all aspects of that moral economy. Thompson, again, elaborated how ‘the moral economy of the crowd broke decisively with that of the paternalists: for the popular ethic sanctioned direct action by the crowd, whereas the values of order underpinning the paternalist model emphatically did not’.68 This demonstrates that, while the building of consensus between opposing groups helps give strength to the assumptions of a moral economy, it is not necessarily required; and moral principles and rights held by one group could bring them into conflict with the interests of the other. An additional consequence of that consensus is the development of a sense of mutuality, commonality, and reciprocity,69 which also adds to the strength and legitimacy of the moral economy. Indeed, Steffen Mau argued that ‘reciprocity norms are quite crucial’ within the moral economy of welfare institutions.70 Within the military, that sense of mutuality, commonality, and reciprocity between the rank and file and their officers is often fostered as a necessity to counter the strength of an external enemy. In short, the rank and file must work together with their officers and other authority 66 Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’, p. 78. 67 Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’, p. 78. 68 Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’, p. 98. 69 Indeed, Steffen Mau suggested that membership status and mutuality are important features in the development of communities. Mau, The Moral Economy of Welfare States, p. 73. 70 Mau, The Moral Economy of Welfare States, p. 32.

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figures towards the mutual goal of defeating the enemy. The rank and file often accepts the general hardships of military life, on the understanding that their officers will work hard to provide comforts and subsistence when able. As noted above, the rank and file also accepts that they must risk their lives by engaging in combat with the enemy, on the understanding too that their officers will not be careless with their decisions, and that those officers will, as much as is practicable, provide the best circumstances for the survival of the rank and file. In time, both the rank and file and their immediate officers reached a consensus view that the best circumstances for survival were those which kept men together within the unit where they held a strong sense of esprit de corps. Those core principles of the military moral economy, the right to subsistence and survival, were directly inherited from civil moral economies. Indeed, these concepts often form the basis for community well-being and prosperity. People within a community often base their daily interactions and behaviours around this moral economy and around broader expectations of normal and standard behaviour. Steven Hahn went so far as to describe the moral economy as ‘the web of social life’, including, ‘ideas about justice, independence, obligation, and other aspects of social and political life, rooted in specific relationships and refracted through historical experiences’.71 Thompson’s eighteenth-century food rioters, for example, were angered at soaring prices and malpractice among dealers (among other issues), which, they felt, challenged their right to subsistence and thus breached the moral economy.72 Military moral economies work in similar ways. Expectations of norms within the military bind the rank and file together into cohesive units where they can operate with a clear understanding of the behaviour expected of them by authorities, while those men also believe that behaving in such ways will be reciprocated by authorities’ adherence to the rank and file view of the moral economy. As noted above, in civil societies, when those habits of mutuality and commonality are broken by one party, when expectations of standard and normal behaviour are not met, when the moral economy breaks down, and when faith and trust in the other parties within that economy is lost, the result is often a sense of moral outrage.73 Breaches of that moral economy – 71 Steven Hahn, The Roots of Southern Populism: Yeoman Farmers and the Transformation of the Georgia Upcountry, 1850-1890 (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983), pp. 6, 85. 72 Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’, p. 78. 73 Thomas Clay Arnold, ‘Rethinking Moral Economy’, American Political Science Review, vol. 95, no. 1, 2001, p. 86.

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described by Gregory Knouff as ‘violations’74 and by Thompson as ‘outrages’ to moral assumptions75 – need not be malicious or intentional; but they are often sufficient to cause strong feelings of mistrust and anger which result in subsequent action. As shall be seen, in each of the three protests analysed, the protesters felt that they had legitimate concerns, that they were defending their rights, and that ‘justice’ was on their side. Despite the growing utilization and value of moral economy theory, it has been relatively absent from histories of the military, where issues of class, morality, community, and direct action are generally less common, or where it is erroneously assumed that soldiers’ expectations of rights, standards and norms, and community customs and practices did not have time to develop. Often, the workings of this moral economy within the military are evident through the expression of expectations of rights, obligations, justice, and fairness in much the same way that they are expressed in breaches of civil moral economies. For example, during the 1 st Battalion’s protest of September 1918, Peter Stanley argued that the rank and file ‘would defy orders they thought contravened their understanding of their rights’.76 As will be seen in subsequent chapters, the protesters of 1863, 1918, and 1943 frequently drew on such language to describe their circumstances. While analyses of the concept of a moral economy operating within the military are rare, this is not the first study of this type. Gregory Knouff has previously presented a detailed analysis of the workings of a moral economy within the army during the American Revolution, and Michael S. Drake explored the concept of moral economy in his general study of military power.77 Knouff argued that those who enlisted in the American Continental Army: shared assumptions about what constituted a moral economy in both army and civilian life. They presumed that the bare necessities of life would be available at camp on a fair basis for all. In fact, many probably recalled politicized mob actions in which they engaged before the Revolution to defend the economic interest of their immediate community against imperial policy and life in the army. They expected to receive promised pay and bounties on time. Troops also demanded that their 74 Gregory T. Knouff, The Soldiers’ Revolution: Pennsylvanians in Arms and Forging of Early American Identity (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2004), p. 100. 75 Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’, p. 79. 76 Stanley, Bad Characters, p. 210. 77 Michael S. Drake, Problematics of Military Power: Government, Discipline and the Subject of Violence (London: Frank Cass, 2001).

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basic material needs (food, clothing, shelter, and so on) be met. Although soldiers endured privation on a level that few European professional soldiers would, there was a limit. When they felt that the government or their officers treated them unfairly, soldiers took matters into their own hands and reacted to blatant violations of what might be termed their military moral economy. They developed comparable understandings of what sort of treatment they deserved and developed strategies against mistreatment. Such actions took the form of petitions, individual and mass desertions, and isolated uprising against the authority of officers, culminating in the revolt of the entire Pennsylvania Line in 1781.78

Furthermore, Knouff argued that the central motive in the January 1781 mutiny was soldiers’ ‘commitment to protecting their own interests within the military moral economy’.79 Incidentally, the perceived violation of the moral economy in 1781 was around the issue of service duration. The Pennsylvanians had signed contracts to serve for ‘three years or the duration of the war’, and they expected to be released after three years. It was only after they were ordered to continue serving after that three-year period that the men began to protest.80 Unlike other forms of social action that seek substantial changes in societal norms and values, reactions to breaches in the moral economy often simply seek a return to the status quo. Marsha Pripstein Posusney argued: collective action is a response to violations of norms and standards to which the subaltern class has become accustomed and which it expects the dominant elites to maintain. Rather than reflecting some emerging new consciousness, then, protests under a moral economy aim at resurrecting the status quo ante. The goal is not to negotiate and redefine the terms of exploitation but to reinstate them after they have been abandoned.81

As will be seen in the following chapters, this directly reflects the motivations of the protesters in 1863, 1918, and 1943 – the primary objective these men strived for was a return to the status quo. Although the protests 78 Knouff, The Soldiers’ Revolution, p. 98. 79 Knouff, The Soldiers’ Revolution, p. 101. 80 Knouff, The Soldiers’ Revolution, p. 101. 81 Marsha Pripstein Posusney, ‘Irrational Workers: The Moral Economy of Labor Protest in Egypt’, World Politics, vol. 46, no. 1, 1993, p. 84.

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analysed in this book took place in relatively more developed societies compared to Thompson’s food rioters and Scott’s peasants, they were not without their risks, and the motivations to engage in protest were built upon precedents that established the idea that direct action could be conducted, it was believed, with minimal risk of punishment or retribution. Thus, the fear of punishment was either diminished, or was deemed worth risking to secure that status quo ante. As will be seen, these were clearly restorative protests. They sought not gains in income, conditions, or benefits. Rather, they clearly sought a return to circumstances as they previously were; a return to those standards and norms that operated, under mutual agreement, within the established military moral economy. While a sense of common class interest is evident in each of the three protests under investigation, two equally if not more important components in most military moral economies are the values of esprit de corps and unit cohesion. Within the military, esprit de corps is often publicly expressed as (and promoted by authorities as) pride in and loyalty to large battalion, regiment, brigade, or divisional units. Such pride and loyalty helps bind the rank and file to higher authorities, and encourages the ranks to strive towards broader military objectives. Frederick Manning argued that, within these groups, soldiers bond with their leaders and ‘come to accept these leaders’ aims and goals as their own’.82 But, on a daily basis, esprit de corps runs parallel to what scholars refer to as ‘unit cohesion’: the close bonds and sense of camaraderie that unite the men of smaller unit structures – such as sections, platoons, and companies – and provide direct motivation for them to work in military environments.83 S.L.A. Marshall observed in his seminar study that, ‘I hold it to be one of the simplest truths of war that the thing which enables an infantry soldier to keep going with his weapons is the presence or near-presence of a comrade’.84 Both unit cohesion and esprit de corps function side by side. Authorities will often attempt to extrapolate and link individual values of unit cohesion into the broader value of esprit de corps. Manning, for example, argued that: Esprit then is a higher order concept, paralleling cohesion at the primary group level, implying above all pride in and devotion to the reputation of a 82 Frederick Manning, ‘Morale and Cohesion in Military Psychiatry’ in Franklin D. Jones (ed.), Military Psychiatry: Preparing in Peace for War (Washington dc: Government Printing Office, 2000), p. 5. 83 Manning, ‘Morale and Cohesion in Military Psychiatry’, p. 5. 84 S.L.A. Marshall, Men Against Fire: The Problem of Battle Command (Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 2000 [first published 1947]), p. 42.

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formal organization beyond the primary group, and along with cohesion, necessary for sustained effective performance of soldiers in combat.85

In time, individuals, while feeling and experiencing close daily associations with the primary group, come to shape and express their personal identities and self-understandings as members of that larger secondary group; and they link their ongoing well-being and survival with membership of that larger battalion, regiment, brigade, or division. They increasingly believe, and publicly express their views, that they stand the best chances of surviving war if they remain within that group. To military psychiatrists, the issue of both unit cohesion and esprit de corps has long been paramount in their considerations of the mental health of soldiers and the morale and fighting effectiveness of their units. For example, Manning argued in Military Psychiatry that soldiers ‘need to have some justification, however inchoate, to stimulate them to do something which so obviously conflicts with the urge to self-preservation’.86 Soldiers often use esprit de corps as that justification. Because of the potential for esprit de corps to bind soldiers together into larger functioning groups striving towards larger military objectives, its development has also long been of interest to authorities. Building esprit de corps results in improved discipline, effectiveness, and morale. Likewise, soldiers benefit from the increased morale and satisfaction when they experience esprit de corps. Thus, esprit de corps and unit cohesion typically form standard expectations within the moral economy of military forces. Soldiers expect that their pride and loyalty in their unit, and their close bonds with comrades, will be respected and maintained. From the perspective of military authorities, esprit de corps is not without its downsides. Esprit de corps within confined units is often so intense that members of those units lose sight of the greater purpose of their efforts. Loyalty to a single unit can damage the effectiveness of a larger combined military force as soldiers bond with and express loyalty towards their unit, but not with (and often to the exclusion of or in competition with) other units in the broader force. Indeed, Knouff suggested that, during the American Revolutionary War, the sense of an ‘imperial military community’ within the British army, coupled with ‘draconian discipline’, meant that the British army did not experience the same degree of collective action as the Americans, who, in contrast, were largely bound together by local ties as 85 Manning, ‘Morale and Cohesion in Military Psychiatry’, p. 5. 86 Manning, ‘Morale and Cohesion in Military Psychiatry’, p. 5.

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the primary focus of their loyalty. As a result, soldiers of the British Army ‘rarely believed their military moral economy to be violated’, whereas the Americans perceived numerous violations.87 Evidence of this weakening of the force as a whole can clearly be seen in the three incidents in question. As will be shown, in all cases, men clearly proclaimed that they would only fight with their unit, not with any other. Within the broader structure of the military moral economy, soldiers developed a sense that their willingness to work for military authorities was bound to authorities’ willingness to support them, both as individuals and as a community tied together within broader battalion and regimental structures. In addition to expecting regular food, pay, and comforts, men also increasingly expected authorities to respect and honour the camaraderie, cohesion, and esprit de corps that developed among those men. In most cases, such respect and honour was mutually beneficial – it enhanced morale and fighting effectiveness and it gave men a primary reason for continuing their service; and, as explored in more detail in the following chapters, authorities often worked hard to foster esprit de corps among their units. But, as will also be seen in the three cases of protest, failure to appreciate the importance of esprit de corps, and attempts to remove men from their beloved units against their wishes, was perceived as a breach in the military moral economy. As will be seen, in all of the cases explored, the protests took place several years into their respective conflicts, by which stage both forces had experienced several years of horrific and exhausting fighting. But, again in all cases, the seeds for these incidents were planted in the original recruitment and development of the respective units. It was during this early stage that these men shaped their approach towards military service; and in doing so they also subsequently began shaping the cultures and the moral economies of their respective units. It will be seen how, in 1861, the men of the 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment initially enlisted for three months in what was expected to be a quick war; in 1914, Australian men enlisted into the aif with a proudly irreverent attitude; and, in 1939, British men enlisted into the Territorial Army partly because their friends were doing so and partly because there was the promise of a paid annual camp to a interesting location. These seemingly simple factors shaped the culture and the moral economy of those respective units, and they would go on to play a substantial role in the subsequent protests of 1863, 1918, and 1943. 87 Knouff, The Soldiers’ Revolution, p. 115.

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The cases analysed in this book draw together the above themes to explore how consensus from familiar officers strengthened the rank and file’s sense of the legitimacy of their perceived rights within the moral economy. Specifically, commanding officers at battalion, regiment, brigade, and division level acknowledged the importance of maintaining esprit de corps and unit cohesion, and they worked to preserve those aspects of military life. These core components of the rank and file view of the military moral economy were clearly endorsed by their immediate superiors. This ‘licence’ from authorities helped the military moral economy take root quickly within the culture of the rank and file of all three forces. In all three cases (in 1863, 1918, and 1943), the breach in the moral economy was caused by orders from unfamiliar higher authorities that lay outside the familiar unit structure. They had not given their licence, their support, their consent to the assumptions of the rank and file moral economy, and they had less hesitation in breaching those rank and file expectations. As shall be seen, in some cases, those breaches were even acknowledged by that familiar group of officers, and some even sought to work with their men in an attempt to restore the status quo. In order to understand the significance of the early stages of military service, the first part of each chapter is dedicated to understanding the civilian foundations of the military moral economies that developed in these three military forces. Each of the three chapters explores the nature of the respective military forces prior to the protests, and considers the men’s motivations for enlisting and how this shaped their approach to military service, their relationships with officers, and their level of discipline. Few of the men involved in the various protests considered themselves career soldiers or professional soldiers. Certainly, at the time of their protests they were well experienced in their job, considered themselves highly skilled, and felt that their value to the military as soldiers had increased through combat experience. But most men still saw themselves as civilians in arms, or ‘citizen-soldiers’, serving in the military for a limited period of time. This all meant that they never surrendered their civilian mentalities and never fully accepted the military regimen. They carried over into the military their civilian ways of thinking, their civilian beliefs and values, and, of particular pertinence for this analysis, their civilian ways of responding to breaches in the moral economy. For men experienced in industrial action, this meant utilizing the language and behaviour associated with such action within military environments. For men accustomed to independent modes of work, it meant maintaining the independent and democratic values associated with their new type of work within the military; and for

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men accustomed to working within a particular moral economy, it meant attempting to maintain the standards and norms that operated within that environment. In making the decision to serve in the military, many of these men, particular those of the aif, were motivated by the military pay, by the perceived job security of military employment (compared to the insecurity and itinerancy of civilian work), or by the benefits they believed they would reap when they returned to civilian lifestyles. This all meant that those non-professional, non-career soldiers – typically making up the vast bulk of the rank and file within those military forces – approached their military service as a job of work. They signed a contract upon enlisting, and many described daily life and daily work within the military in much the same way that they might otherwise describe daily life and daily work in civil society. The values and beliefs these men brought into the military, coupled with the fact that there was considerable intellectual continuity in transitioning from civilian to military work, were critical in providing the foundations for the moral economy within those three respective military environments. Building on this, each chapter then explores the breaches of those moral economies in detail, including an examination of why these breaches caused offence to the men of those units. Breaches in the moral economy could range from broader issues such as soldiers’ objection to the general conduct of the conflict, through to local issues such as the poor quality of food provided to rank and file troops. The large-scale French Army mutiny of 1917 provides a key example of the former, while the Australian army’s practice of conducting mock funeral services for poor military meals during the First World War provides an example of the latter. This analysis culminates with exploring the decision by those men in 1863, 1918, and 1943 to peacefully protest those breaches and seek a return to the status quo. The final part of each chapter explores responses to those breaches and the various attempts that were made to resolve the protests that took place. As will be seen, in two of the cases, those of 1863 and 1918, there was a resolution to the protests that, to varying extents, satisfied the protesters such that they returned to service – although this did not result in a return to the status quo in either case. In the third case, the protesters of 1943 were arrested and charged with mutiny. These analyses will consider why the protests were resolved in different ways, and what the key factors were in these different resolutions. The structure and nature of this book demands the analysis of a diverse range of sources. Where possible it has drawn upon evidence from

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participants and witnesses to the events, particularly as presented in diaries, letters, and recollections through oral interviews. While caution must be observed when assessing the degree to which these records reveal actual events from the period, this material nonetheless provides valuable insights into the thoughts and attitudes of witnesses, particularly with regard to their motivation to protest and their response to treatment by authorities. In addition to accounts from soldiers, official letters and military records were used where relevant. Identification and analysis of this material was no easy feat. Men rarely had the patience, the peace of mind, the time, or the opportunity to write. Joshua Chamberlain, who commanded the 20th Maine at the time of the 2nd Maine’s protest in 1863, commenced one of his letters to Governor Coburn of Maine, dated 21 July 1863, with ‘I embrace a rare opportunity – namely a day’s halt within a mile of our baggage – to write you in reference to the affairs of our Reg’t’.88 Similarly, Chamberlain had earlier written to his wife Frances (‘Fanny’): I do not have a very natural place for writing but I sit down on a box and take a piece of paper on a board in the midst of a furious drumming on one side and ever so many men talking loudly on the other.89

And again, several weeks later, he wrote: I am surrounded by ever so many officers on the floor sick, and a boy is cleaning an oil lamp right under my nose. I with both elbows stretched out to the utmost to make a good base am dashing off these lines.90

Such were the problems facing a commanding officer when he attempted to write home; the situation was even more difficult for the men of the rank and file, many of whom had limited literacy. This was as much the case in 1863 as it was in both 1918 and 1943. For example, Ernest Murray, who served in the aif, commenced his diary in 1916 with a brief note: ‘This

88 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to Governor Coburn, dated 21 July 1863. Maine State Archives online, http://www.maine.gov/tools/whatsnew/index.php?topic=arcsesq&id=14553 2&v=article (accessed 16 January 2015). 89 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to Frances (‘Fanny’) Chamberlain, 20 August 1862, in Thomas Desjardin (ed.), Joshua L. Chamberlain: A Life in Letters (Oxford: Osprey Publishing, 2012), pp. 166-7. 90 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to ‘Fanny’ Chamberlain, 3 September 1862, in Desjardin, Joshua L. Chamberlain, pp. 168-9.

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is a very scrappy Diary – written in all kinds of places and under all kinds of conditions’.91 A range of other sources also complements this material. The analysis of the 2nd Maine draws heavily on local newspapers that closely followed the experiences of locally raised units and often printed letters from soldiers during the war. The analysis of the aif’s protest draws strongly on unit war diaries that typically provided daily accounts of unit activities. These are often supplemented by a range of appendices that shed additional light on events; and, for the 1943 protest, detailed analysis was made of courtmartial records and of oral interviews with former service personnel. Each of these types of source presents potential problems. Few of them provide a direct and detailed account of events at the time. Indeed, a number of the key sources consulted were created weeks, months, years, and sometimes decades after the events took place. This then raises concerns about the reliability of the accounts, and extensive care has been taken to crossreference and verify information within these sources. Ultimately, a diverse range of source material was analysed to understand the workings of the military moral economy during three different events, as the following analysis will reveal.

91 Ernest Murray, No. 151, Mechanic, Surry Hills, Mitchell Library Manuscripts (hereafter ml mss) 2892, undated entry in Diary 4, c. 1916-1917.

2

The 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment

The state of Maine, in the New England region of the United States of America, contains the sites of some of the earliest attempts at permanent European settlements in North America. In 1604, the French established a colony on Saint Croix Island,1 and a few years later, in 1607, the English attempted a colony at Popham.2 Further development and additional settlements would follow in the coming centuries, motivated largely by the local availability of white pine (Pinus strobus), which was deemed ideal for masts for the British Royal Navy. Indeed, the Great Seal of the State of Maine, adopted in 1820 after the state seceded from Massachusetts,3 features a pine tree in the centre, flanked by a farmer resting on his scythe and a sailor resting on an anchor. The maritime and agricultural basis for Maine’s development prevailed into the nineteenth century. The region’s industries complemented each other well, and it was not uncommon to see workers engaged across a number of areas. Charles Scontras argued that much of the work within the state was hybrid: ‘one might farm and be [a] part-time lumberman, or farm and fish, or farm and perhaps make a voyage to the West Indies or Grand Banks’. 4 In the early nineteenth century the workers who engaged in this type of productive labour, as opposed to those who drew upon the labour of others, increasingly came to identify together as ‘producers’,5 and early workers’ advocate newspapers in the state sought to link those producers from various professions around common concerns. Alan Taylor noted, for example, that, ‘during the nineteenth century, hard-pressed workers and farmers sustained a producers’ ideology to damn the rich and defend the workingman’s right to the property his labor created’.6 Such rhetoric helped 1 In 1605 the colony was moved to Port-Royal and this became the first permanent French settlement in North America. 2 Popham was founded several months after Jamestown, but was disbanded after just one year. 3 Maine was originally part of Massachusetts until it voted to secede in 1820. It was admitted to the Union as the 23rd state on 15 March 1820. 4 Charles A. Scontras, Collective Efforts among Maine Workers: Beginnings and Foundations, 1820-1880 (Orono: Bureau of Labor Education, University of Maine, 1994), p. 1. 5 Scontras, Collective Efforts among Maine Workers, p. 9. 6 Alan Taylor, Liberty Men and Great Proprietors: The Revolutionary Settlement on the Maine Frontier, 1760-1820 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990), p. 247.

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build a sense of solidarity among workers and producers throughout the nineteenth century. Although mass unionism had not developed in Maine before the American Civil War, the state’s workers and producers were not blind to the social divisions that permeated society. As early as 1831 the Eastern Argus, published out of Portland, Maine, reported of the wealthy employer: Will his rusty dollars prostrate the forests, or sow the seed, – navigate the deep sea, or turn the spinning jenny – without the aid of the muscles and sinews of the animal mechanics? Not by ‘two chalks.’ Here then begins the entire dependence of opulent indolence upon the industry of the mechanic, the artist, the farmer, the every-day labourer.7

Indeed, Dubofsky and Dulles argue that Maine was the site for what is believed to be the earliest record of a disturbance of European labourers in North America. In 1636 a group of fishermen reportedly fell ‘into a mutany [sic]’ when their employer held back their wages.8 By the early nineteenth century those values had been strengthened in line with broader national workers’ movements, and these were further supported by increased local workers’ political organizations and, particularly from the 1830s onwards, local workers’ advocate publications. Labour disturbances in the usa increased further during the 1840s and 1850s; and, although large unions had not yet organized in Maine, various forms of industrial action were recorded in the state during this period, with most incidences revolving around the issue of wages.9 By the start of the American Civil War, workers in the state were conscious of the distinction between themselves and their employers, and many were familiar with, although not necessarily experienced in, the practice of protesting against breaches in the civil moral economy. Alongside that growing class-consciousness, however, there were also strong republican values which, in time, fed into the values and assumptions of both the state’s civil and military moral economy. Of particular interest is the fact that the North American states had a long tradition of 7 Eastern Argus, 10 May 1831, p. 2. Cited in Scontras, Collective Efforts among Maine Workers, p. 9. 8 Letter from John Winter to Robert Trelawny, 28 June 1636, in James Phinney Baxter (ed.), Documentary History of the State of Maine: Volume III (Portland, me: Hoyt, Fogg and Donham, 1884), p. 92. See also Melvyn Dubofsky and Foster Rhea Dulles, Labour in America: A History (Wheeling, Il: Harlan Davidson, 6th edition, 1999), p. 20. 9 Scontras, Collective Efforts among Maine Workers, pp. 154-6.

The 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment

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civilians serving in the local militia for brief periods in order to see off external enemies before returning to their civilian lives. Scholars have well documented this tradition and its impact on approaches to military service. Martin and Lender, in documenting the origins of this tradition, argued that those American ideals had their roots in the belief that a standing army was ‘the most noxious tool of impending tyranny’, whereas the value of the citizen-soldier militia had long been extolled by commentators.10 Newell and Shrader further argued that: The traditional American distrust of standing armies and the preference for ‘citizen soldiers’ were strongly reinforced at the beginning of the nineteenth century by President Thomas Jefferson, who believed that a standing army was incompatible with democracy and a drain on the public treasury and that the United States needed only a militia force to repel invasion, which he considered unlikely in any event.11

Similarly, Fred Anderson observed of Massachusetts’s recruits during the Seven Years’ War (1756-1763) – which included men from the region that would later become the separate state of Maine – that their understanding of military service was ‘deeply rooted in the New England provincial culture in which the soldiers, enlisted men and officers alike, were raised’.12 Indeed, these men had an important role model in the figure of George Washington, who, at the conclusion of the American Revolutionary War – and amid some fears that he would attempt to seize political control – famously surrendered his command and went back to farming (albeit only for a brief period).13 Other republican ideals also fed into civilian assumptions about life in the United States. During the American Revolution, the ideas of liberty and ‘unalienable rights’ were, as Martin and Lender argue, the concepts that animated most provincial Americans in 1775.14 Civilians developed the sense that those values gave their militia a character, strength, and quality 10 James Kirby Martin and Mark Edward Lender, A Respectable Army: The Military Origins of the Republic, 1763-1789 (Arlington Heights, il: Harlan Davidson, 1982), pp. 8-9. 11 Clayton R. Newell and Charles R. Shrader, Of Duty Well and Faithfully Done: A History of the Regular Army in the Civil War (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2011), p. 1. 12 Fred Anderson, A People’s Army: Massachusetts Soldiers and Society in the Seven Years’ War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1984), p. ix. 13 Martin and Lender, A Respectable Army, p. 202. Gordon Wood described Washington as ‘the perfect Cincinnatus’, and argued that his resignation ‘stunned the world’. See Gordon S. Wood, The Radicalism of the American Revolution (New York: Vintage Books, 1993), p. 205. 14 Martin and Lender, A Respectable Army, p. 34.

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unknown to British Regulars. Indeed, during the American Revolutionary War much faith was placed in the idealized citizen-soldiers’ ability to defend those republican values from the Regular troops of the tyrannical British crown.15 Another traditional element in this citizen-soldier approach to military service was the importance of an agreement or contract with authorities. During the Seven Years’ War, for example, a prevailing idea was that, upon enlisting, civilians formed a ‘contractual agreement’ between themselves and the authorities of their colony.16 Individuals justified their understandings of the military moral economy with reference to that agreement. Anderson argued, for example, that the behaviour of New England soldiers of the Seven Years’ War: reflected their tendency to base their actions and arguments upon contractual principles when confronted with the pretentions of their redcoat superiors. The agreement – amounting to consensus – among New Englanders over the contractual basis of military authority is nowhere more evident than in the disputes between regulars and provincials in the campaign of 1756. […] Finally, a survey of mutinies and mass desertions among provincial troops shows the same ideas at work in the minds of enlisted men and indicates the centrality of contract in popular understandings of the legitimate exercise of authority.17

Herrera reinforced this point in his broader study of colonial soldiers. He added that during the Seven Years’ War: Military officials who had failed to live up to their contractual obligations relating to food, equipment, or tenure of service nullified any expectations of obedience from the ranks. In this light, mutiny and disobedience were symptomatic of the deep and abiding belief in the power, legitimacy, and universal applicability of mutually binding agreements as embodied in lawful contracts. Recalcitrant soldiers were, therefore, exercising their right to self-governance in one of its most basic manifestations – the right to withhold labor following their employer’s breach of contract.18 15 Martin and Lender, A Respectable Army, p. 32. 16 Charles Patrick Neimeyer, America Goes to War: A Social History of the Continental Army (New York: New York University Press, 1996), pp. 111-12. 17 Anderson, A People’s Army, pp. 167-8. 18 Ricardo A. Herrera, ‘A People and its Soldiers: The American Citizen as Soldier, 1775-1861’, International Bibliography of Military History, no. 33, 2013, p. 21.

The 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment

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The fundamental tenets of this agreement, often unwritten and informal, were that men would serve for the military, often for an agreed fixed period, in exchange for food, clothing, pay, and other associated comforts. When men felt that the contract was breached, they felt justified in engaging in direct action to restore circumstances to the status quo. For example, Private Enoch Poor reported that soldiers garrisoned on the New England frontier in 1759 were ‘of One Mind [and] That was Not to work with thout [sic] Pay’.19 The centrality of contract during this era is also evident, for example, in the language used by Thomas Fitch, Governor of Connecticut, in a letter to Lord Loudoun on 3 August 1756: Your lordship will see that these [provincial] troops were not raised to act in conjunction with the king’s troops […] It therefore seems necessary that these troops be continued under the same command and employed agreeable to the design of their enlistments; otherwise the contract between them and their constituents, made for promoting his majesty’s service in this particular, may be broken and their rights violated. The consequence of which may be greatly prejudicial not only to the king’s interest and the safety of the country at this time but may prove a great discouragement on future occasions.20

Similarly, during the American Revolutionary War, Enoch Poor, by this stage holding the rank of general, wrote to Mesech Weare, Governor of New Hampshire: If any of them desert how can I punish them when they plead in their justification that on your part the Contract is broken? That you promised and engaged to supply them with such things […] this they say they had an undoubted right to expect. You promised they should be supplied with the common necessaries of life at a reasonable rate.21

As will be seen, during the American Civil War the value of a contract – whether it was a verbal agreement, a formal Volunteer Enlistment document,

19 Enoch Poor, ‘Enoch Poor Journal’, 17 October 1759, Huntington Library. Cited in Neimeyer, America Goes to War, p. 112. 20 Anderson, A People’s Army, p. 178. 21 Enoch Poor to Mesech Weare, 21 January 1778, Peter Force Manuscripts, series 7-E, New Hampshire Council, Library of Congress. Cited in Neimeyer, America Goes to War, p. 112.

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or an enlistment ‘bounty’22 – served as the foundation for the development of the military moral economy. These elements of the approach towards military service as citizensoldiers had long shaped assumptions about life in the American militia forces. Throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, men who enlisted in those local militias based their understandings of normal and standard behaviour in that environment, of expectations of treatment by officers, and of military service – and thus their expectations of the moral economy of those militia forces – on those well-established and traditional views of the militia that were originally grounded in republican ideals. Such attitudes persisted through civil society and its military arms during the first half of the nineteenth century. During the American Civil War, in the minds of many Maine recruits, enlisting in the military did not involve the surrendering of those independent and democratic values. Furthermore, the people of Maine continued to maintain their belief in that militia tradition and its role within society. When volunteer units were formed, the men within the units were not considered professional soldiers; they were simply citizen-soldiers who may, at times, contribute their work in the interests of self-defence. As Herrera argued, those recruits ‘served for short periods of time and expected to return to civilian life as quickly as possible. It was only within the Regular Army’s nineteenth-century officer corps that a core of committed professionals existed’.23 Furthermore, those volunteer units were, as John Pullen noted, ‘raised and officered by the states. They took their names from the states, and while making up almost all of the armed force, still remained essentially state troops’.24 In April and May of 1861, the men of Maine enlisted in the 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment with those beliefs, and they were likewise viewed as citizen-soldiers by others. For example, upon arriving in New York in May 1861, the 2nd Maine was welcomed by local residents and dignitaries. One speaker, Dexter A. Hawkins, introduced the men as the ‘Citizen Soldiers of the State of Maine’.25 It is important to establish that there was a considerable difference in the cultures between the two main types of infantry unit that operated in the early years of the American Civil War – state volunteers and federal 22 For many years the enlistment bounty legally bound new recruits to the military. See for example Anderson, A People’s Army, p. 66. 23 Herrera, ‘A People and its Soldiers’, p. 11. 24 John J. Pullen, The Twentieth Maine (Mechanicsburg: Stackpole Books, 2008), p. 8. 25 ‘Citizen Soldiers of the State of Maine’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 20 May 1861, p. 2.

The 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment

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Regulars.26 The belief, widely represented throughout sources of the time, was that Regular soldiers – of whom there were about 16,000 throughout the United States in 1861 – were career soldiers who valued discipline and military regimen, and they were casting aside their independent and democratic values to serve the military. Many Americans who adhered to republican values saw Regular soldiers as representative of the British tyranny that they had fought against during the Revolutionary War. Those republican values thus contributed towards a widespread distrust of Regular units throughout the American states. Jones argued that civilians, and even militiamen, within the usa, held the view that Regular soldiers – particular those trained in the US Military Academy at West Point – were ‘an overeducated elite, filled with impractical theory and lacking in practical knowledge’.27 Herrera took this argument further and suggested that ‘Americans perceived standing armies as more than potential threats to liberty. Professional soldiers were a poor commentary on the virtue and patriotism of the people and spirit of the country’.28 In contrast, militia and volunteers, who would ultimately vastly outnumber the size of Regular forces during the American Civil War, were the heroes of the Revolutionary War and exemplars of the republican values of freedom and liberty. As noted above, they were ultimately civilians in arms, and, although they were content to serve for a temporary period for their state, much like their predecessors, they were not willing to sacrifice their independent and democratic values, and they would never completely submit themselves to the will of their officers. For example, Albion Tourgée, who served with the 105th Ohio Volunteer Infantry Regiment during the American Civil War, commented at length on the democratic principles and practices within volunteer units during this era, and he contrasted those with Regular units that he criticized as anti-democratic: ‘The theory of discipline which prevails in our regular army is purely monarchical and aristocratic […] it is in theory and in practice a disgrace to the republic.’29 As will be shown, beliefs similar to those espoused by Tourgée existed throughout many volunteer regiments during the Civil War, including the 2nd Maine. This system of beliefs had serious implications for the operational culture of those volunteer units of the American Civil War, and for the 26 Later conscript units would also share similar values with volunteer units. 27 Archer Jones, Civil War Command and Strategy: The Process of Victory and Defeat (New York: Simon and Schuster, 2010), pp. 4-5. 28 Herrera, ‘A People and its Soldiers’, p. 11. 29 Albion Winegar Tourgée, The Story of a Thousand (Buffalo: S. McGerald & Son, 1896), p. 43.

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manner in which officers could lead and command their units. The values and beliefs held by recruits shaped their expectations of standard and normal behaviour within the military. As Gerald Linderman argued: Small-town individualism and egalitarianism contributed nothing to military discipline. The first expressed itself as opposition to any development threatening to submerge the individual in the collectivity. Volunteers on both sides fiercely resisted subordination to a military authority.30

From the earliest days of recruitment in April 1861, those men drew on their civilian assumptions to begin shaping their understanding of the military moral economy. In his recollections of service during the Civil War, Tourgée argued that: Save in a few instances, they [officers] directed rather than ordered. The enlisted man sought his officer’s tent for counsel as freely almost as his comrade’s. On the march, they chattered familiarly as they had done at home.31

It took some unfortunate officers time to realize that command of those volunteers often involved more negotiation than might otherwise be expected in Regular units. This inevitably caused problems for authorities, and disciplinary issues associated with these attitudes were rife throughout many of the volunteer regiments during the early months of the war. Many experienced officers lamented the ‘indiscipline’ of those volunteer units, and they often contrasted those units with the professional Regulars. For example, John Gould, a former officer, wrote: It was unfortunate for the country that the government put volunteer troops on this duty [of reconstruction]; for the officers of the ‘regulars’ are commissioned for life, and so they make a life-long effort to keep their commands in good discipline.32 30 Gerald F. Linderman, Embattled Courage: The Experience of Combat in the American Civil War (New York: The Free Press, 1987), pp. 36-7. Linderman also noted that in one Virginia unit, officers elected by the rank and file could even have resignation forced upon them by a petition of the ranks (p. 40). 31 Tourgée, The Story of a Thousand, p. 43. 32 John M. Gould, History of the First – Tenth – Twenty-Ninth Maine Regiment: In Service of the United States from May 3, 1861, to June 21, 1866 (Portland: Stephen Berry, 1871), p. 597.

The 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment

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A commentary published in the Bangor Daily Whig and Courier on 6 August 1861 expressed concern about the state of discipline in volunteer units in general, and its origins in the independent and democratic values of civilians: Our system of education and the general principles of our government tend to impress men with the idea of individual sovereignty, and growing out of this idea is a dislike for subordination, and the feeling is too prevalent that rigid discipline is a species of tyranny. […] Again, a large majority of soldiers and their friends object to a rigid army discipline, and where it is enforced it is brooded over and murmured against like a school would, and unfortunately, many of the officers openly sympathetic with the sentiment, either from a lack of ability to perceive the need of discipline, or the stamina to secure it.33

This is a good insight into how the moral economy forms within the military. The Bangor Daily Whig and Courier acknowledged that education and the ‘general principles of our government’ instil civilians with certain ideals which subsequently shape their assumptions and expectations. Some officers legitimize those expectations, providing a ‘measure of licence’, by being openly sympathetic with the sentiment while, at the same time, other officers challenge those assumptions. Whereas some officers acknowledged, to some extent supported, the relatively independent and democratic assumptions of the rank and file, others were keen to enforce strict discipline and obedience. As explored below, newly appointed officers of volunteer regiments often had no previous military experience, and many simply did not know what military discipline should be like, with many, as the above report in the Bangor Daily Whig and Courier suggests, sympathetic to the views of the moral economy held by the rank and file. During recruitment for the American Civil War, men with experience in military affairs were sought for leadership positions. But such men were not always available, and inevitably, many inexperienced men were commissioned as officers. Leadership problems were further exacerbated by the traditional practice of electing officers. In line with practices carried out throughout much of the United States of America, the Constitution of Maine (ordained in 1820) established in Article VII, Section 1, that:

33 ‘Army Discipline’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 6 August 1861, p. 2.

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The captains and subalterns of the Militia shall be elected by the written votes of the members of their respective companies. The field officers of regiments by the written votes of the captains and subalterns of their respective regiments. The Brigadier Generals in like manner, by the field officers of their respective brigades.34

The Constitution further established that, where officers are not elected, they shall be appointed by the Governor; and the Maine State Archives’ collection of correspondence associated with the 2nd Maine contains dozens of letters addressed to the State Governor requesting appointments to various positions during the American Civil War. The practice of electing officers carried over into Maine’s volunteer regiments during the Civil War. Stanley and Hall reported on several occasions when officers were elected in Maine regiments, and Gould provided a brief account of an election that took place within the 1st Maine in late April 1861: The officers met in the City Council Room and chose [their commanding officers]. […] The vacancies in these companies were at once filled by promotion, – the men choosing their officers and the Governor commissioning whomsoever they selected.35

This practice meant that, during the early months and years of the war, many rank and file men within companies elected their own officers. Lumberjacks, farmers, sailors, and merchants alike democratically voted on, among other appointments, who would command their company. But many of those rank and file men, new to the environment of the military in wartime, had little understanding of the qualities needed in a military officer, and they were just as likely to elect men they felt they could work well with, get along with – and who would represent their needs and interests to

34 Constitution of Maine, 1820, Article VII, s 1, p. xxi. Maine State Legislature. http://www. maine.gov/legis/lawlib/const1820.pdf (accessed 19 November 2014); Richard F. Miller, States at War, Volume 1: A Reference Guide for Connecticut, Maine, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Rhode Island, and Vermont in the Civil War (Hanover, nh: University Press of New England, 2013), p. 154. 35 R.H. Stanley and G.O. Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion: Being an Account of the Principal Local Events in Eastern Maine during the War and Brief Histories of Eastern Maine Regiments (Bangor, me: R.H. Stanley and Company, 1887), pp. 33, 210, 233. For a broader discussion on the practice of elections, see Jones, Civil War Command and Strategy, pp. 4-5; James M. McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988, pp. 326-7. Gould’s recollections appear in History of the Maine Regiment, p. 22.

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those higher up in the chain of command – as they were to appoint a man who would lead them well in battle. This process meant that the 2nd Maine – and indeed other volunteer units of the early war period – did not have the same degree of class distinction between officers and the rank and file that is evident in later military forces, such as the aif and the British Army, as explored in more detail below.36 Men from the working classes could be, and often were, promoted and commissioned as officers. Archer Jones argued that this ‘reflected a basic assumption in this democratic era that any citizen with common sense could undertake any public employment’.37 The recollections of Albion Tourgée again provide a valuable insight into the nature of these relationships within a volunteer regiment. He wrote: The men these officers commanded had been their neighbors, schoolmates, friends. No wall of exclusion separated them; rank made little difference in their relations. They found it not difficult to command, for the only deference they exacted was the formal one their position required.38

Officers did not always look upon this familiarity between the ranks favourably. In June 1861, shortly after being elected commanding officer of the 2nd Maine, Colonel Charles Jameson wrote to Governor Israel Washburn, complaining: We have a number of men in our Reg’t (+ I suppose any other Vol. Regt is afflicted in the same way) that supposed when they enlisted that it was a holiday affair, and that they would have nothing to do + have plum pudding and custard pie every day – those individuals are slightly disappointed.39

Such attitudes were exacerbated by continued attempts by notable Maine civilians, including politicians, to publicly promote the rights of those volunteers as free men. Jameson thus again complained in a letter to the Governor about the ‘many distinguised [sic] citizens of Maine […] continually telling 36 At least at a company level. Class distinction within those Civil War units was more evident at a regimental level (and the rank of colonel and above). 37 Jones, Civil War Command and Strategy, p. 5. 38 Tourgée, The Story of a Thousand, p. 43. 39 Letter from Colonel Charles Davis Jameson to Governor Washburn, dated 21 June 1861. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 4, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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them [the rank and file, that] they were not obliged to do this and do that + all that sort of thing’. 40 Here again we see another example of the dynamics involved in the formation of the military moral economy. The rank and file held particular assumptions about military service which were legitimized through support from ‘distinguished citizens of Maine’ but also challenged by certain officers. Several days later Jameson again wrote to the Governor complaining about the attitude of the volunteers: The whole trouble about rations has grown out of the fact that there [are] a few miserable specimens of humanity in the regiment, that are too lazy to do duty, + spend their time in grumbling. 41

Those practices and sentiments within the 2nd Maine undermined officers’ attempts to instil a strong sense of discipline and to convert these militiamen and volunteers into professional soldiers. It is clear from this correspondence and from reports in local media that the development of a military moral economy within the newly formed 2nd Maine also received input from external sources within society. This situation can be contrasted with the more professional culture of Regular units of the army, as explored later. The practice of electing officers, and the proportional representation of both working-class and middle-class men among the officer class (at least compared to later military forces), was by no means unique to the 2nd Maine. Such practices took place throughout much of the volunteer-based military forces of North America, including both the Union and Confederate volunteer regiments at the start of the Civil War. James McPherson argued that, ‘In the American tradition […] citizen soldiers remained citizens even when they became soldiers. They voted for congressmen and governors; why should they not vote for captains and colonels’. 42 An ideal example of these democratic practices can be seen in the 1st Maine. John Gould recorded the following entry in his diary on 24 August 1861, when the men of the 1st Maine were being reorganized at the completion of the regiment’s three months’ service: 40 Letter from Colonel Charles Davis Jameson to Governor Washburn, dated 21 June 1861. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 4, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. See also Mundy, Second to None, p. 58 (underline in the original). 41 Letter from Colonel Charles Davis Jameson to Governor Washburn, dated 28 June 1861. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 4, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 42 McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom, p. 327.

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Our company held a meeting this afternoon in the old City Hall by order of Governor Washburn, and voted upon questions proposed by him, with the following result: 4 desired no change of Field Officers. 10 desired a change of Major. 23 desired a change of Lieutenant Colonel. None desired a change of Colonel. (Three cheers for ‘old Jacks.’) 20 desired no change of company officers. 6 desired a change of Captain. 1 desired a change of 1st Lieutenant. 28 were not willing to enlist another year, making three years in all, and to be mustered into the U. S. service. 8 of the 28 were undecided in this matter. 4 were ready to go for 3 years!! (Three times three for the plucky four!!)43

Again, these practices simply reflected broader civilian democratic values shared across much of the United States of America during the early to mid-nineteenth century. In contrast with this practice and the values it epitomized, elections did not take place in Regular units at the time, and the practice was generally deplored by Regular soldiers. 44 The ability of the rank and file to democratically elect their officers also cultivated the belief that these men could negotiate with officers, complain and even protest about decisions made, and, in some cases, use their democratic rights to demand certain officers hold positions or demand the removal of unfavourable officers from command. In the 105th Ohio, for example, the dismissal of one officer, Captain Canfield, by the regiment’s commanding officer, Colonel Hall, resulted in complaints and protests by the men of the regiment, including the men of the rank and file and several other officers. 45 Elsewhere, in December 1861 the Confederate Congress, in an attempt to encourage men to re-enlist, enacted legislation that enabled men to change to a new regiment, and even elect new officers if they so desired. 46 McPherson argued that ‘the election of new officers might oust

43 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 80. 44 McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom, p. 326. 45 Mark Elliott, Color Blind Justice: Albion Tourgée and the Quest for Racial Equality from the Civil War to Plessy v. Ferguson (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), p. 92. 46 McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom, p. 430.

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efficient disciplinarians in favour of good ol’ boys’. 47 Many Confederate officers, including Robert E. Lee, felt that this law was ‘highly disastrous’ and conflicted with the military’s desire for discipline within their units, and changes were soon made. 48 These attitudes and practices may well have suited militia officers during peacetime, with their focus on pomp and ceremony; but war, and indeed war on the scale that the American Civil War would escalate to, presented these officers with very different circumstances, and they would need to command and communicate in desperate situations on large fields of battle. A leader in the civil world, or even a militia officer leading a parade, did not necessarily make a good military leader during wartime. Certainly the ranks may have elected men who displayed leadership qualities in their civilian professions, and governors and other civil leaders often directly appointed friends and political allies; but this did not necessarily translate well into wartime environments. McPherson cited the example of a soldier in a Pennsylvania regiment who complained: Col. Roberts has showed himself to be ignorant of the most simple company movements. There is a total lack of system about our regiment […] Nothing is attended to at the proper time, nobody looks ahead to the morrow […] We can only justly be called a mob & one not fit to face the enemy. 49

Where possible, experienced leaders were sought and elected to commands. Jones commented more broadly on the practice and its implications in detail: Despite the use of democratic methods to choose military leaders, the new soldiers tended to elect people of military experience, if available. Thus they sought to entrust their lives to someone who gave the best promise of competence. When they chose from outside the military, they often put their faith in those with marked ability in another area, hoping

47 McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom, p. 430. The Congress later introduced conscription, but McPherson adds (p. 432) that ‘potential draftees could avoid the stigma of the draft by volunteering. If they did so, they could join new regiments and elect their officers just as the volunteers of 1861 had done.’ 48 Cited in McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom, p. 430. On 16 April 1862, the Confederate States of America enacted the first conscription law in American history. 49 McPherson, Battle Cry of Freedom, p. 327.

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this might transfer to the military sphere. Hence many prominent men, lacking any military background, became colonels.50

The election of Charles Jameson as the 2nd Maine’s first commanding officer is one example of the appointment of an experienced officer. Jameson’s military career stretched back to 1851, and he had recent experience commanding an infantry regiment. In contrast, the appointment of both Jameson’s second in command and his major – Charles Wentworth Roberts and George Varney, respectively – was largely linked to the two men’s social standing. Roberts, the son of a local lumber baron, was one of the wealthiest men in the district, and Varney was a prominent local businessman. Nonetheless, both Roberts and Varney would, in turn, command the 2nd Maine, and both proved to be effective leaders. In the post-war years, successful military commands could be converted into successful political careers; and it was not uncommon during the American Civil War for men in political office, or men who desired a future political office, to seek a commission in the army. There are numerous cases where officers were democratically elected or politically appointed based largely on their civil or political leadership, or even their oratory skills; and it was common practice during that conflict, particularly in 1861 and 1862, for religious leaders and politicians to receive commissions and a high rank. In one famous example, James Garfield – a one-time schoolteacher, turned lawyer, turned politician – was, after an extensive period of applying for commands, finally given a commission in the Union Army, and command of a regiment (the 42nd Ohio Volunteer Regiment) largely because of his persistence and his political connections.51 Garfield insisted that ‘Pluck’ was more important than ‘military science’.52 Throughout the war, Garfield deftly balanced his military responsibilities with his political career, and he would later become the 20th President of the United States of America. In another example, Leonidas Polk – a former planter and bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Louisiana – was appointed major general largely based on his friendship with Confederate States of America President Jefferson Davis. While Polk competently commanded his unit, he frequently failed to cooperate with other commanders on the field of battle. Similarly, 50 Jones, Civil War Command and Strategy, p. 4. 51 Peskin noted that years earlier a phrenologist had felt that Garfield possessed the bumps of a general, but it is unlikely that this had any impact on his application for a commission. See Allan Peskin, Garfield: A Biography (Kent, oh: Kent State University Press, 1978), p. 87. For Garfield’s attempts to gain a command, see pp. 87-93. 52 Cited in Peskin, Garfield: A Biography, p. 87.

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Benjamin Butler was appointed brigadier general with the Union Army, commanding a brigade and 6,000 men, largely on the basis that he had negotiated with banks to secure the loans to fund the unit.53 This was not too different from the traditional practice in the British Army, still in effect during the American Civil War period, whereby men would effectively purchase their commission by offering a ‘cash bond’ for good behaviour.54 In fact, the practice of purchasing commissions in the British Army had long been maintained on the partial basis that it ‘safeguarded the Crown from becoming involved in the politics of army promotion’, whereas, remarkably, ‘Selection by merit would make the Crown vulnerable to charges of favouritism and influence’.55 In the pre-war American militia, governors often appointed officers to commands based on social rank and achievement rather than military experience and capability. For example, James Mundy noted that, in 1859, Maine had nine major generals for just 4,000 troops.56 Major general was the highest rank available in the US Army at the time, and men of this rank in wartime typically commanded an entire division, numbering from 10,000 to 20,000 soldiers. The surplus of major generals in the Maine militia in 1859 reflected the use of promotions as political rewards and status symbols rather than military necessities.57 The 2nd Maine exemplif ied the independent and democratic ideals reflected by these practices. James Mundy argued that, ‘This was no terrified batch of eighteen-year-olds quivering in front of professional drill sergeants. The men of the 2d were independent civilians.’58 With a high proportion of lumberjacks, farmers, and labourers among their ranks, the local newspaper described the unit as a ‘fine, hardy regiment’, consisting of men ‘who have been accustomed all their lives to hard knocks […] Men of brawny build […], brave to a fault, and carrying underneath their rough exterior hearts as noble […] as can beat in the human breast’.59 In addition to men from those aforementioned occupations, the 2nd Maine also featured 53 Chester G. Hearn, When the Devil Came Down to Dixie: Ben Butler in New Orleans (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 1997), p. 25. 54 The practice was abolished in the British Army on 1 November 1871 under the Cardwell Reforms. Albert V. Tucker, ‘Army and Society in England 1870-1900: A Reassessment of the Cardwell Reforms’, Journal of British Studies, vol. 2, no. 2, 1963, p. 115. 55 Tucker, ‘Army and Society in England 1870-1900’, p. 115. 56 Mundy, Second to None, pp. 38-9. 57 Beckett argued that this was also the practice in Britain during the nineteenth century. Ian. F.W. Beckett, Territorials: A Century of Service (Plymouth: DRA Publishing, 2008), p. 19. 58 Mundy, Second to None, p. 48. 59 ‘Second Maine Regiment’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 7 June 1861, p. 2.

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a large number of men from middle-class backgrounds. These were men who, as Mundy argued, were ‘more used to giving orders than to taking them’; and the combination of these occupations and the ideals these men brought into the unit meant that ‘The 2d would always have a reputation for independent mindedness, often to the chagrin of their officers and the upper echelons of the army’.60 It is interesting to note that, while the regiment as a whole had a reputation for independent and democratic values, the original ten companies of the 2nd Maine consisted of men from remarkably diverse backgrounds. As with many regiments formed in 1861, the 2nd Maine had a large number of current and former militiamen among its ranks. Throughout the North American states, militia units were often among the first men called up for service during the early weeks the American Civil War. Thus, of the companies contributing towards the 2nd Maine – Company A (the Bangor Light Infantry) and Company I (the Grattan Guards) – were principally made up of militiamen. However, Mundy argued that ‘The militia as a fighting force was a bad joke […] The volunteer companies were made up of men who joined for the camaraderie, pomp and social advantages later provided by exclusive men’s clubs’.61 John Gould, who served in the 1st, 10th, and 29th Maine regiments, argued that ‘public opinion was united in condemning the old militia system as a public nuisance; and to join a “militia company,” of which there were only about twenty in the State, was almost as wrong to many minds, as to neglect business, get drunk, or run in debt’.62 According to Stanley and Hall, the militiamen of Company A consisted mainly of a ‘class of men, that would, in these days of quaint expressions, be termed the “top knots” of the town, or “tony”’.63 The social background of the Grattan Guards could not have been more different. They were the only Irish militia company in Maine, with 59 of the original 96 men being born in Ireland, and most working as labourers and drivers at the time of enlistment. Thus, although experienced in drill and routine, the Bangor Light Infantry and the Grattan Guards should not be considered experienced combat soldiers. The other original companies similarly displayed identifying traits and backgrounds. Thus Company B (Castine Light Infantry), Company D (Milo Artillery), and Company K (Old Town Company) were formed around 60 Mundy, Second to None, p. 48. 61 Mundy, Second to None, pp. 38-9. 62 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 17. 63 Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, p. 27.

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particular towns and localities near Bangor, while Company G (Ex-Tigers & Amory Associates) consisted primarily of former fire-fighters from Bangor.64 A letter dated 20 April 1861 written to Governor Washburn Jr. on behalf of the Ex-Tiger & Amory Associates indicated that the group ‘voted to tender their services to the Government of the United States as a part of the troops sent from this State’.65 In each case, the men who formed these companies had strong civilian connections with each other. They were neighbours, friends, and workmates who spent much time together in civil society. As they joined the military together as a group, those common connections helped reinforce their views of military service. Late in the afternoon of 12 April 1861, news of the Confederate attack on Fort Sumter in Charleston, South Carolina and the commencement of hostilities between the North and the South reached Maine. The outbreak of war was met with a range of mixed responses. Stanley and Hall argued that war had previously been declared ‘inevitable’, and many were already preparing themselves for the forthcoming conflict.66 However, John Gould recalled that ‘Few of us expected it, none desired it, and all were unprepared’.67 Certainly the prospect of war had been on the horizon for some months, but the military were unprepared for its sudden outbreak and the scale on which it would rapidly evolve. In any case, the crisis, and Maine’s response to it, escalated quickly. On 15 April, President Lincoln called for the northern states to unite to contribute 75,000 volunteers, and several days later local newspapers reported on threats to northern security. For example, the 6th Massachusetts Militia were reportedly engaged in fighting against Confederate sympathizers and anti-war Democrats on the streets of Baltimore, and a large Confederate army threatened Washington.68 In the minds of many, the rebellion had to be crushed, and the safety and security of the north preserved.69 64 Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, p. 33. 65 Letter to J. Washburn Jr. from D. White, Ex-Tiger & Amory Associates, Bangor, 20 April 1861. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 2, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 66 Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, p. 17. 67 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 17. 68 Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, p. 26. The incident at Baltimore is variously known as the Baltimore Riot, the Pratt Street Riot, and the Pratt Street Massacre, and took place on 19 April 1861. Whitman and True argue that the 2nd Maine later marched through Baltimore with muskets loaded and bayonets fixed, ‘anxious for an opportunity to avenge the previous insult to Union soldiers’. William Edward S. Whitman and Charles Henry True, Maine in the War for the Union: A History of the Part Borne by Maine Troops in the Suppression of the American Rebellion (Lewiston: Nelson Dingley Jr. & Co., 1865), p. 39. 69 For more on this sentiment see Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, pp. 17-18.

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During this early phase of recruitment in April and May 1861, provisions for the enlistment of soldiers were often rushed and ill thought out. Indeed, the creation of a new regiment during most stages of the war was a hectic process. Gould reported on the formation of the 10th Maine as such: ‘One who has never been “through the mill” has no idea of the difficulties besetting a new regiment. Every one from the Col. down, is harassed by much work and little comprehension of how it needs to be done’.70 This hectic process was further complicated by the manner in which state volunteers would serve within a federal force. Technically, each regiment would be raised within each state, in accordance with state laws. Once formed, each regiment would then be mustered into federal service. During the early months of the war this created some confusion, as many militiamen and existing militia companies transferred to these regiments as volunteer companies. This created a situation where three different military systems, structures, and standards overlapped and interacted, and it gave rise to situations such as that later faced by the 2nd Maine in May 1863. The 1st Maine, recruited during the same period, also encountered issues because of these overlapping systems; and the additional evidence available on the 1st Maine’s experience in 1861, analysed below, sheds light on the similar experiences of the 2nd Maine. As the first regiment created in the state during the early days of rushed provisions, the 1st Maine was only formed up as a ‘three-months’ regiment’. John Gould recalled his experiences in signing up with the unit as follows: The process of enlisting was that of signing a long roll agreeing to serve TWO YEARS in or for the State of Maine – we did not notice which. Why it was two years instead of three months no one knew or cared. The crowd of loafers told us that it was a ‘mere form,’ and that the State of Maine law required all enlistments to be made for two years and there was not time enough to change the law now; but our United States service would be for three months. Few of us stopped to ask questions, for at that day the only idea that possessed the public mind was, that the North would ‘rise in its might’ and squelch treason in a hurry, and you remember, my friends of the ‘1st’, our constant fear was that we should never get away from Maine till after the N. Y. and Mass. Militia had suppressed the rebellion. And for this reason no man cared what kind of a roll he signed, or what old law

70 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 82.

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he conformed to. If memory is good, that blank which we signed caused some of the blankest expressions ever seen before the summer was over.71

Gould noted that it was not until 3 May that the unit was accepted for federal service for the duration of ‘three months from date’; and thus, roughly three months later (on Monday, 5 August), the 1st Maine was mustered out of federal service and the regiment effectively ceased to exist. At this point, many believed that, with the 1st Maine now ceasing to exist, their federal service was complete – and they subsequently sought a discharge. However, with the war continuing to escalate, authorities were keen to quell this idea and instead impress the view upon the men that they were expected to serve for longer periods. Gould recalled: It was Governor Washburn’s intention, we understood, to have us serve our two years out. We heard it straight from our officers that if we did not go back to war we would be made to do duty – or ‘shovel dirt’ as the word was – in Maine. Some of our men had been to Augusta for their discharges, but the Governor had told one of them: ‘It is strange that a man who has received a bounty of $22 and served only three months of the two years should expect to be discharged. His excuse must be very good, very good indeed’.72

While there is no evidence of a collective protest on this occasion, it should have sent a clear message to authorities that their expectations were different to the expectations of the rank and file. The main concerns with these differing expectations lay in the enlistment process. As Gould’s recollections above suggest, few men paid much attention to the forms they signed, its wording, or its duration of service. Mundy noted, for example, that 17 of the original 96 recruits of the Grattan Guards (Company I) of the 2nd Maine signed their enlistment papers with an ‘X’,73 suggesting that a sizeable portion of the company may not have even been able to read what they were signing. The men of the 1st Maine were also told that their period of federal service would only be for three months; and, further reinforcing the unwritten assumptions of military service, they were told that their enlistment papers were ‘mere forms’. Clearly, many men interpreted the terms of their enlistment to mean that their entire period 71 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, pp. 19-20. 72 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 81. 73 Mundy, Second to None, p. 39.

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of service was three months, after which they would be discharged and returned home. This was most likely due to misleading cues provided by officers, such as the suggestion by Gould’s officers that enlistment papers were ‘mere forms’, which were clouded by the general enthusiasm among these men to experience the war before it was over. The men of the 2nd Maine experienced a similar enlistment process, with only small differences. In response to Lincoln’s earlier call for more troops, on 22 April 1861, the Maine State Legislature approved the raising of 10 regiments of volunteers to serve two-year periods each. Thus, in contrast to the three-month duration of the 1st Maine, the 2nd Maine, already in the process of forming up, was formed as a two-year regiment. As a result, in the early months of the war, the 2nd Maine held pride of place as the region’s representative unit. They were the first to leave the state on active service; and, because of the large number of recruits from Bangor and neighbouring locales, they became known as the Bangor Regiment.74 During this early period of recruitment, new recruits into the 2nd Maine signed several different types of enlistment papers. Some, particularly the earliest recruits, signed the existing 90-day militia papers, binding them only to a short period of state military service. They, along with other men who enlisted during the first few weeks of recruitment, would be asked to sign an additional contract binding them to the two-year period of service as authorized by the State Legislature on 22 April, which was also in accordance with the formal service duration of the 2nd Maine. However, several weeks later – upon being mustered into federal service at Willett’s Point, Long Island, New York – many were asked to sign three-year federal service papers; and, from July 1861 onwards, most new recruits also signed three-year papers. In their excitement to serve and to defend the North, many men, similar to those in the 1st Maine, simply signed whatever papers they were given without a second thought.75 An account from Horace Hanson, who served with the Gymnasium Company in the 2nd Maine, recalled the details surrounding this process: Immediately after President Lincoln’s call for seventy-five-thousand men for three month’s service, recruiting offices were opened in various parts of Penobscot county. Several existing militia companies volunteered and 74 Most recruits were from the Penobscot County region in Maine, comprising Bangor, Old Town, and locales along the Penobscot River. 75 Mundy, Second to None, p. 5.

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many other companies were formed. The first papers signed were for three months. Soon after this call the State authorized the enlistment and organization of ten regiments for two years as State Militia. The men who had signed the first papers were requested to sign the latter also, which they did […] The Second [Regiment] completed its organization first and started for Washington before the call for three year’s men, expecting to answer the first call only. Whilst in quarantine at Willett’s Point a United States officer came to muster us in – May 28th 1861, – but declared he had no authority to muster in men for a less term than three years. Thereupon a large part signed new papers for three years, but a considerable number refused. All started, however, for Washington.76

As in Gould’s case with the 1st Maine, and as indicated in Hanson’s recollections, the men of the 2nd Maine were promised that the three-year forms were only a formality, and that they would only serve for up to two years with the regiment. It is also possible that some men were even of the understanding that they were still bound by their 90-day papers and could leave at the end of that period, as explored in more detail below.77 This agreement was widely acknowledged at the time; for example, a report in the Bangor Daily Whig and Courier from 7 June 1861 noted: ‘By a clerical mistake they were ordered to be mustered in for three years when they arrived at New York, but it was subsequently rectified’.78 While many signed their three-year papers out of eagerness and excitement at this early period of war, others were undoubtedly pressured to sign, either by their officers or their peers. A letter written on 28 March 1863 by Alva Bates, a chaplain in the 2nd Maine, suggested that not all men signed the papers willingly. Bates argued that the men who signed three-year papers in 1861: cannot see it justice in as much as violent threats were used to induce it in many instances. I think the boys decided loyal + willing to serve their country till the last, but exceedingly sensitive about their rights, especially since the 7th have had their privilege of going home as a Reg’t.79

76 Statement by Horace F. Hanson, cited in Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, pp. 55-6. 77 Mundy, Second to None, pp. 5-6, 96-7. 78 ‘Local and Maine Items’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 7 June 1861. 79 Letter from Alva Bates to Governor Coburn, dated 28 March 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 29, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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Similarly, on 7 June 1861, John Bridges, whose son Charles was serving in B Company of the 2nd Maine, wrote to Governor Washburn on behalf of his son. John complained that his son had ‘enlisted as he supposed for 3 months’, but subsequently: did not want to back out and put his name down for 2 years and wanted him to sign for 3 years at N. York but he did not to sign and he does not like the drinking of much of the field officers and he has got uneasy and would like to get a discharge and come home.80

John Bridges’ letter makes it clear that his son Charles felt pressured by the circumstances and ‘did not want to back out’. But Charles, perhaps already feeling a sense of regret, refused to sign for three years, and subsequently sought his father’s assistance in gaining a discharge. Whatever these Maine men had signed on paper, they were largely of an understanding – based on verbal promises made by their officers – that their service was to be either 90 days or two years. As noted above, the local newspaper reported this belief, and in early June it further reported that: The Bangor Regiment [the 2nd Maine] of volunteers is among the troops mustered into the United States service for three months only, under the original call for 75,000 men. At the end of that time they can return home or re-enlist.81

The innocence, inexperience, and naivety of these men contributed towards their irreverence and, ultimately, their decision to resort to protests against military authorities when they felt there was a breach in their agreement. On 14 August 1861, shortly after the end of that 90-day period, about 200 men within the regiment ceased work and demanded they be allowed to return home.82 This incident would test the citizen-soldier assumptions of these men. The Bangor Daily Whig and Courier reported:

80 Letter from John Bridges to Governor Washburn, dated 7 June 1861. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 4, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 81 ‘Local and Maine Items’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 7 June 1861, p. 2. 82 On the day, some were ordered to perform artillery duty while others were allocated picquet duty. An almost identical incident occurred in the 4th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment, another unit whose formation was rushed during the early weeks of the war. On 21 September 1861, 97 men of the 4th Maine stopped work, claiming that they were only three-month men and that they deserved to return home. Whitman and True, Maine in the War for the Union, pp. 87-8.

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A portion of the Second Maine Regiment have been pleading that they could not be held for service more than three months under the terms of their enlistment, and have, therefore, refused to do duty. As in the case of the Seventy ninth, a strong force of infantry was marched to their camp, and peace soon followed. Sixty two of the disorganizers were arrested and placed under guard. […] It appears that the plea of the men is that all volunteers are militia, and therefore they cannot be made to serve more than three months at a time. It is almost needless to say that after the volunteers are mustered into the service for three years the plea is absurd.83

As this report makes clear, the central issue was that the men believed they were not Regular soldiers – merely volunteers for state service akin to the militia – and thus they could not be held longer than regular militia service periods. Horace Hanson’s account once again sheds light on this incident: At the end of three months the men who had not signed the long term papers expected, and some demanded their discharge. They had answered the first call, had participated in the battle at Bull Run and cited the First Regiment which had been sent home without having been in battle. Some 66 men, finding they could not gain a discharge refused to do duty, and these, together with some New York men, in a similar predicament were tried by court-martial in a lump.84

In line with the report in the Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, Horace’s account attributes the cause of the protest primarily to an issue with enlistment papers, and with expectations of what that contract meant. These men felt bound by an agreement with military authorities, and they felt those authorities should honour their part in that agreement. However, there were other background factors contributing to their decision to protest on this occasion. The men had recently, on 21 July 1861, suffered a defeat at the Battle of Bull Run during which they were, according to a report from the Assistant Quartermaster General, ‘pretty badly cut up […] having lost 150 men’.85 The Confederate victory in that battle, following 83 ‘The Mutineers’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 19 August 1861, p. 2. 84 Hanson, in Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, pp. 55-6 (italics in original). 85 Letter from George Dyer, Assistant Quartermaster General for Maine regiments, to Israel Washburn Jr., Governor of Maine, dated 23 July 1861. Maine State Archives online, http://www. maine.gov/tools/whatsnew/index.php?topic=arcsesq&id=123755&v=article (accessed 14 October 2014).

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previous expectations of a Union victory, resulted in a large Union retreat that demoralized the northern soldiers. Reports from the 2nd Maine at the time indicated that, ‘Our boys, owing to fatigue, ragged clothes, no money, &c., are not in the best of humour, as may be supposed […] Time alone will heal the present shock’.86 But the men were not given the time they needed. Instead, after the retreat from battle, the 2nd Maine was based near Fort Corcoran, described by their lieutenant colonel as located on a ‘miserable and unhealthy spot, which during a rain is hardly fordable’.87 Another described it as ‘not a very healthy location [and] not troubled with extreme neatness’.88 In addition, the unit was low on supplies, particularly food and clothing,89 and many had lost their packs including their personal belongings during the hurried retreat from Bull Run. Frustration among the rank and file was further exacerbated at the time because their officers were trying to convince them to replace their two-year enlistment papers with three-year papers. This was poor timing. The men had just suffered a defeat in battle, a long retreat, they had lost their packs including their personal belongings, they were low on supplies, and were camped in a miserable location with little to do – and then, on top of all this, officers were trying to convince the men that they should serve for a longer term. One soldier in the regiment, Stephen Dawson, an 18-year-old mariner upon enlistment, reported in a letter home to his parents: ‘All we do is stand guard formation, no clothes, no money, and not half enough to eat’.90 As Horace Hanson’s account, cited above, suggests, the men of the 2nd Maine also contrasted their situation with that of other men in similar units. At the First Battle of Bull Run, the 2nd Maine was part of Erasmus Keyes’ 1st Brigade alongside the 1st Connecticut, 2nd Connecticut, and 3rd Connecticut. All three of those Connecticut regiments were formed in late April or early May 1861, at the same time as the 2nd Maine. The men of all four units enlisted at the same time (primarily in April and May), and all 86 Correspondence from ‘Stephen’, Headquarters 2nd Maine, 27 July 1861, published as ‘Correspondence of the Whig & Courier’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 2 August 1861, p. 2. 87 Letter by Lieutenant Colonel Charles Wentworth Roberts to Israel Washburn, Governor of Maine, dated 15 August 1861. Cited in Mundy, Second to None, p. 94. Roberts became colonel and commanding officer of the 2nd Maine several weeks later following the resignation of Colonel Charles Jameson. 88 Correspondence from ‘Stephen’, Headquarters 2nd Maine. 89 This was particularly hard felt as other units (such as the 3 rd and 4th Maine) were receiving new issues of clothing. Mundy, Second to None, p. 94. Linderman noted that the inability of both Union and Confederate armies to provide such provisions to their forces was a key factor contributing towards indiscipline during the war. Linderman, Embattled Courage, p. 55. 90 Letter from Stephen W. Dawson to his parents, cited in Mundy, Second to None, p. 96.

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had left their home states at roughly the same time. In fact, the 2nd Maine departed their home state several days before the men from Connecticut; the 2nd Maine even departed Maine before the 1 st Maine did.91 Horace Hanson noted in his statement that the protestors cited the 1st Maine who had recently returned home and were mustered out.92 Why then, these men of the 2nd Maine wondered, were their comrades who had enlisted at roughly the same time, who were of similar regiments, and who they had fought alongside in the same brigade being returned home to their families and friends after their 90 days’ service, when the men of the 2nd Maine were forced to continue fighting? Robert Carter, in his semi-biographical history, also provided evidence that this was a key reason for the protest by arguing that, ‘Having enlisted during the first excitement, for two or three years, or for the war, when they saw the three months’ regiments returning home after the disastrous Battle of Bull Run, their dissatisfaction broke out in open mutiny’.93 These various issues played on men’s minds; and clearly, although the direct cause of the protest was the end of their 90-day period and a sense of injustice at not being allowed to return home, there were other factors contributing towards their resentment of the authorities and their decision to protest. Approximately 66 of the men maintained their protest, and were ultimately arrested. They were initially imprisoned and threatened with hard labour for the duration of the war, but on 4 October 1861, they were unconditionally pardoned by President Lincoln, and transferred to the 2nd New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment. Several months later, on 31 July 1862, they were transferred back to their original unit, the 2nd Maine; but, within the 2nd Maine, the immediate impact of the protest was the improvement in working conditions. New uniforms were issued in September 1861, and the supply situation rapidly improved.94 The message received by both the protesters and their comrades in the 2nd Maine was that protests – particularly of the type utilized on this occasion involving the peaceful withdrawal of labour – while potentially damaging to the men involved, could be effective for the unit. Thus, this protest of the 2nd Maine in August 1861 established an important precedent for their subsequent protest in May 1863. 91 The men of the 2nd Maine left on 14 May, compared to 18-19 May for the Connecticut units. Due to illness, the 1st Maine did not leave the state until 1 June. Whitman and True, Maine in the War for the Union, p. 28. 92 Hanson, in Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, pp. 55-6. 93 Robert Carter, Four Brothers in Blue: A True Story of the Great Civil War from Bull Run to Appomattox (Washington: Press of Gibson Bros., Inc., 1913), p. 43. 94 Mundy, Second to None, p. 99.

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It is fair to conclude that the men of the 2nd Maine were relatively inexperienced in the customs of military life. Independent men, particular the farmers who made up the most common profession within the 2nd Maine, were unaccustomed to having daily demands made upon them by authorities. This meant that, after the initial excitement and wonder of military life had subsided, the demands for drill, order, and obedience within the military came as quite a shock. Their original colonel, Charles Jameson, wrote on 7 May 1861: ‘We are trying to improve in drill + camp duty, but I assure you it is up hill […], I am getting pretty tired’.95 These men did not expect a long war, and most believed they would be home and back to their civilian jobs and lifestyles within a few short months. For example, on 17 May 1861, a recruiting officer, Nathaniel Dustin, advised Maine’s Adjutant General Hodsdon that he had recruited a new company ready for service. His letter provides a revealing insight into the eagerness of these men, and their expectation of a short service time: Many of the company have given up good jobs for the Season and inlisted [sic] with a view to Serve their country and will be very much dissatisfied if they are rejected at this time, hope you will give them a chance if possible.96

As a result of these factors, the transition from civilian to soldier was a slow and difficult process, and men never fully transitioned into the ideal model of a soldier as expected by authorities. Instead, the type of soldier that went to battle was formed as a result of a compromise between civilian ideals and military necessities. By May 1863, the men of the 2nd Maine were no longer rookie volunteers. They were hardened veterans with over two years of active service, including involvement in large battles such as First Bull Run, Antietam, Fredericksburg, and Chancellorsville. They were accustomed to the modus operandi of the military, and had adjusted to the routines of daily life in a military environment. And yet, at heart they maintained their civilian identities, and, ultimately, their primary objective was to see out their military service and return home to their civilian lives.

95 Letter from Charles Davis Jameson to Adjutant General John L. Hodsdon, dated 7 May 1861. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 3, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 96 Letter from Nathaniel Dustin to Adjutant General John L. Hodsdon, dated 17 May 1861. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 3, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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In early 1863, this objective was in sight, and the men of the 2nd Maine became increasingly conscious that the two-year service term of their unit was approaching. Their unit had been mustered in during May 1861, which meant that they should be mustered out during May 1863. This consciousness led to a change in attitude amongst the men of the regiment. For example, James Mundy noted that, whereas the winter of 1862-1863 saw Union Army desertion rates at an all-time high, the 2nd Maine did not have much of a desertion problem at all, ‘for most of the men believed they were “short timers”’,97 and thus, they would be home within a few months. This change in the attitudes of soldiers during the final period of their service period, colloquially known during later conflicts as ‘Short-Timer Syndrome’,98 has been observed among military units in general, and was found to be particularly prominent during the Vietnam War. During the Civil War, it caused men, both officers and the rank and file, to be particularly mindful of their safety and to attempt to avoid risky situations. Thus, in the early months of 1863, both the officers and the rank and file of the 2nd Maine increasingly wished to avoid large combat engagements. They were close to being sent home; they just had to stay safe for a short time more. Mundy reported that one soldier, Charlie Nickerson, wrote home: ‘All are hoping we shall not be obliged to go into a fight when our time is so near out’.99 Similarly, the 2nd Maine’s commanding officer at the time, George Varney, wrote in a letter: ‘The men in our regiment generally feel that they have done about their share of the fighting and are anxious to go home’.100 In early 1863, rumours circulated throughout the regiment that they would all be kept on for an additional year of service. This resulted in several months of desperate letter writing where men sought to gain an understanding of their situation. In particular, many sought to clarify exactly what forms they had signed back in 1861. For example, on 30 January 1863, Samuel Nash wrote to the Adjutant General of Maine requesting ‘a duplicate of my enlistment form’.101 Similarly, on 20 February 1863, Harrison Gould asked 97 Mundy, Second to None, p. 225. The term ‘short-timer’ came to prominence during the Vietnam War to refer to soldiers who only had a short time of active service remaining before they would return home. 98 This term was used to describe the same phenomenon during the Vietnam War. See for example Margaret Brown, That Time, That Place, That War (Bloomington: Xlibris, 2011), pp. 230-31. 99 Letter from Charlie Nickerson to Nellie, cited in Mundy, Second to None, p. 225. 100 Letter from George Varney to State Adjutant General John Hodsdon, dated 14 February 1863, cited in Mundy, Second to None, p. 225. 101 Letter from Samuel Nash to Adjutant General John Hodsdon, dated 30 January, 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 28, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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the Adjutant General if he ‘will forward my “enlistment papers”’.102 Evidently receiving no reply, Gould chased up the matter again in April 1863. A letter to Adjutant General Hodsdon from C.P. Brown indicated that Gould, ‘is here on a short furlough, and wishes to have an abstract of the enlistment roll in your Office, showing the date and terms of his enlistment, for what time, Certified by you’.103 These men were clearly hoping to check the details on their papers to see when they were due to return home. Much of the confusion stemmed from a mass of administrative paperwork. As noted in earlier, men signed several different papers, for varying terms of service. Their unit, the 2nd Maine, was bound to two years of service, while their service duration was also recorded on Volunteer Descriptive Lists and Muster Rolls. Repeated inconsistencies across those various records, in addition to the fact that those records often went missing during the war, exacerbated the initial concerns. Thus, in a letter written to Adjutant General Hodsdon on 19 March 1863, William Wade explained that he had ‘enlisted in Bangor 25th of April 1861 to serve the USA [for] the Period of two years in the 2nd Maine Regt’; but, after being invalided to hospital, he found that his Descriptive List erroneously stated that his ‘enlistment was for 3 years’. Like many other men at the time, Wade sought clarification on the ‘correct list of my enlistment’.104 Other men similarly wrote home expressing clarification on their service duration, and that of their unit as a whole. Thus, on 2 March 1863, Leroy Atkins sought clarification from the Adjutant General on when he would return home: I have done my duty as a soldier in the 2nd Maine regt since its organization in Bangor. I have been in every fight and skirmish that the regt has been in; have not been away from the regt since I enlisted. A part of us voted when on Willits [sic] Point to go for three years: I call it voting for we were not properly sworn in: we repeated an oath. As I am a minor and a widow’s son my brother siged [sic] papers consenting for me to serve two years: and as my term of service expires next April, I

102 Letter from Harrison Gould to Adjutant General John Hodsdon, dated 20 February 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 28, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 103 Letter from C.P. Brown to Adjutant General John Hodsdon, dated 16 April 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 30, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives (underline in original). 104 Letter from William J. Wade to Adjutant General John Hodsdon, dated 19 March 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 29, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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then wish to go home. […] If you will be kind enough to write and inform us whether the 2nd is a two years regt or not, you will greatly oblige.105

Atkins’s letter reveals the anxiety felt by these men at the time. After nearly two years of service, Atkins felt he needed to defend his record of service with the unit; but it is also clear, in his specific request to ‘inform us’, that he was making enquiries on behalf of other men in the unit. Leonard Carver also revealed the broader sentiment within the regiment, in a letter dated 12 March 1863: We hear the government intends to keep our Regt another year. Many of the men are regularly enlisted but for two years and any attempt to keep them longer will cause trouble. I am enlisted but for two years, yet I intend to stay until the war is ended. […] Many of the men are anxious to get home this Spring, and there is continual uproar about it.106

As Carver’s letter indicates, the potential for the uncertain service duration to ‘cause trouble’ was evident at least as early as March 1863, and there was already ‘uproar’ about the issue. By late March 1863, while there was still some uncertainty, it was generally believed that the original two-year men would return home but that those who had signed three-year enlistment papers would be held back to serve for an additional twelve months. A letter from Alva Bates, a chaplain in the regiment, to Governor Coburn conveyed this understanding and alerted the Governor to the concerns of those three-year men. Bates noted, ‘the result will be a breaking up of our organization, unless some of the two year men, with the officers volunteer to serve another year’.107 The uncertainty continued into April, and extended throughout all ranks of the regiment. On 18 April 1863, the 2nd Maine’s commanding officer, Colonel Varney, wrote to Adjutant General Hodsdon requesting clarification on the issue: I take the liberty to ask if you can inform me as to whether any decision has been made on the question of the term of service of this regiment. 105 Letter from Leroy Atkins to Adjutant General John Hodsdon, dated 2 March 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 29, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 106 Letter from Leonard Carver to W. Banton, dated 12 March 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 29, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 107 Letter from Alva Bates to Governor Coburn, dated 28 March 1863. Folder 29, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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[…] There seems to be an impression among the officers + men that the whole regiment will be mustered out of service at the expiration of two years. If so I should like to be informed or if not so. The time is so near at hand that it is quite important that the matter should be settled. […] I have not forgotten the affair at Fort Corcoran in August 1861, and do not wish it repeated.108

Clearly, the possibility that these men may not respond well to the order to continue serving for the full three years had been anticipated in advance by Varney.109 Indeed, evidence suggests that officers within the regiment sympathized with the men and sought to represent their interests to authorities. Lieutenant George Brown, commanding B Company of the 2nd Maine at the time, wrote to Adjutant General Hodsdon on behalf of several men within his company. According to Brown: [The men] claim to be to be enlisted for two years only […] Their Descriptive lists were lost in Co. D. consequently they have nothing to show. Their names were enlisted in the Muster Rolls as enlisted for 3 years as it was supposed that no men were enlisted at that date for a shorter period. […] If you can furnish a true statement of their case it will enable me to do the right thing by them, for they are excellent soldiers and only ask that justice may be done them.110

The importance of ‘justice’ and upholding citizens’ and volunteers’ ‘rights’ were common themes throughout these letters. As noted above, numerous men sought to attain copies of their enlistment papers as direct evidence of the contract they had signed and thus expected to have honoured. Throughout early 1863, men like Nash, Gould, and Atkins counted down the months, then the weeks; and, as one day led into the next, they began to wonder when officers would inform them of their future directions. Finally, in late May 1863, the bulk of the 2nd Maine was returned home, where they were welcomed as heroes by the people of Penobscot County. The Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, which had closely followed the experiences of the 2nd 108 Letter from Colonel George Varney to Adjutant General John Hodsdon dated 18 April 1863. Folder 30, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives. 109 Varney took command of the regiment on 10 January 1863, following the retirement of Charles Roberts. 110 Letter from George Brown to Adjutant General John Hodsdon, dated 22 April 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 30, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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Maine for the past two years, celebrated the return of the ‘Gallant Second’ with a series of published tributes. Of the celebrations that took place on the Bangor wharf when the Expounder, the steam ship carrying the men, arrived, the paper reported: ‘We have never seen so much excitement’.111 But, while most of the men of the unit returned home as heroes, a small number were noticeably absent from the celebrations. Some 170 members of the 2nd Maine were told that they must see out the full three-year term of service, as stated on their enlistment papers.112 Originally the number of men intended to be held back was larger, but a small compromise was made when it was agreed that all of the ‘original’ men – those who had signed up in April and May 1861 – would be sent home, regardless of what contracts they had subsequently signed. This was a welcome relief to those originals; but it also served to exacerbate the anguish felt by the poor men who had signed three-year papers from June 1861 onwards, and who were now required to serve out their full three years. James Mundy argued that amongst those three-year men were a large group who had signed their papers in July 1861, and they were not deemed ‘originals’. Those numerous July recruits fought in all the regiment’s campaigns; and Mundy argued that, given how close they were in circumstances to the ‘originals’, it is likely that they were the leaders of the subsequent protest.113 Adding to the concerns of those three-year men was the fact that they were told that, as their unit, the 2nd Maine, was being mustered out (and thus would no longer exist), they would be required to see out their remaining twelve months with other units. They were not allowed to continue serving under the banners of their beloved 2nd Maine, or even under its name. Formally, the 2nd Maine, with their commanding officers and colours, had returned home in late May and the unit was formally mustered out on 9 June 1863.114 This left the remaining three-year men without a unit, without regimental officers, and, effectively, without a home. 111 ‘Return of the Gallant Second’, Bangor Daily Whig and Courier, 27 May 1863, p. 1. 112 Desjardin noted that 170 men were formally transferred (on paper), but many of these were ‘absent sick or on detached duty’ and were thus not physically present for the transfer. Approximately 125 men were physically present at the time. Thomas A. Desjardin, Stand Firm Ye Boys from Maine: The 20th Maine and the Gettysburg Campaign (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp. 17, 210. 113 Mundy, Second to None, pp. 6-7. 114 The original two-year men had been mustered out on 6 June 1863, while the original threeyear men were mustered out several days later on 9 June 1863, with their discharge papers reading ‘having enlisted for three years are discharged by reason of the expiration of time of service’. Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, pp. 56-7.

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It is important to emphasize here that, for those men, their company and their regiment had been their home and family.115 Indeed, Mundy noted that, unlike other regiments that were typically recruited from the states at large, the 2nd Maine was recruited from a relatively small geographical area and ‘some of the companies in the 2d were quite literally family. It was not unusual to have a father, a son and an uncle and cousin in the same outfit’.116 Throughout their military service, these men spent just about every hour of every day with their comrades within their regiment. As explored earlier, the nature of recruitment for individual companies within the regiment further linked men with their home areas and/or associations.117 Upon enlisting, men were initially loyal to those companies, and many had signed up in companies alongside family members, friends, or colleagues in order that they might serve together, side by side. For example, Gould recalled of the 1st Maine: At that time [May 1861] the company was the unit; we cared little for the regiment, as the regiment had no existence. In fact we never had in the ‘1st,’ that esprit de corps so requisite in any body of troops.118

Regimental loyalty and identity, and the sense of the regiment being a broader home and family, developed in time within the 2nd Maine, and the esprit de corps of the regiment would eventually become as important as unit cohesion within the company. This sense of esprit de corps and regimental loyalty became increasingly important as the war progressed. As men became disillusioned and homesick, the motivation to continue fighting was increasingly tied to

115 General Reub Williams described a body of troops as ‘something like a family on a large scale’. Reub Williams and Sally Coplen Hogan (eds.), General Reub Williams’s Memories of Civil War Times: Personal Reminiscences of Happenings that Took Place from 1861 to the Grand Review (Berwyn Heights, md: Heritage Books, 2006), p. 4. Similarly, Mitchell described the company as the soldiers’ ‘new home’ and an ‘extension of the soldier’s home community’. Reid Mitchell, ‘The Northern Soldier and His Community’, in Maris Vinovskis (ed.), Toward a Social History of the American Civil War: Exploratory Essays (Cambridge: Press Syndicate of the University of Cambridge, 1990), pp. 80-81. Mitchell argued that, particularly within newly formed regiments, new soldiers were intimately involved in the creation of regimental traditions. 116 Mundy, Second to None, p. 75. 117 Mundy provides an analysis of these units and the principal occupational backgrounds of their respective members in Second to None, pp. 39-43. 118 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 22.

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regimental pride and that sense of esprit de corps.119 This esprit de corps was further strengthened by those pre-war connections such as links with friends, associations, and locales.120 Men fought for their unit and for their friends and family that made up that unit, and less so for their state or the nation or their initial individual motivations for going to war. The mustering out of the 2nd Maine in 1863, at the completion of its two years of service, removed much of the motivation for those three-year men to continue fighting. Their camaraderie and identity with their unit which had developed through two years of warfare was ending, and their comrades were returning to their civilian homes and families. But while the ‘originals’ looked forward to putting that experience behind them and readjusting to civilian lives, the three-year men were expected to serve for a further twelve months in a new unit with complete strangers and with an unfamiliar set of regimental traditions and cultures. Many volunteers clearly believed that their service would only be with the 2nd Maine. They believed they were signing on to serve with a specific company and a specific regiment. For example, Horace Hanson, a private who served in Company G of the 2nd Maine, stated, in regard to those threeyear men, that: ‘These recruits – or a certain part of them – refused to serve as orderd [sic], claiming the implied contract was that they should return with the regiment’.121 Frank Grindle explained his views in a letter home: ‘I enlisted to serve in the 2nd Me. and as there is no such Regt in the field, I have reasons for thinking myself entitled to a discharge’.122 Similar themes had arisen in protests among men of the 1st Maine when their unit was mustered out in 1861. Those men, having signed on with the 1st Maine, believed that they had a right to be discharged when the 1st Maine was mustered out of service; the same views were expressed by the three-year men of the 2nd Maine two years later. Their leaders in the 2nd Maine had also returned home with the rest of the unit, and the remaining three-year men felt they were without a 119 Gerald Linderman noted the ‘intensification of ties with comrades’. See Embattled Courage, pp. 252-3. Dunkelman also provides a detailed analysis of the importance of this esprit de corps in American Civil War units. See also Mark Dunkelman, Brothers One and All: Esprit de Corps in a Civil War Regiment (Baton Rouge: Louisiana State University Press, 2004), p. 6, and, in particular Chapter 10: ‘Morale and Regimental Pride’, pp. 226-50. 120 Joseph Allan Frank and George A. Reaves, ‘Emotional Responses to Combat’, in Michael Barton and Larry Logue (eds.), The Civil War Soldier: A Historical Reader (New York: New York University Press, 2002), pp. 391-2. 121 Hanson, in Stanley and Hall, Eastern Maine and the Rebellion, p. 56. 122 Letter from Frank Grindle to ‘Mr. Wilson’, dated 22 May 1863. Civil War Regimental Correspondence, Folder 31, Box 36 (2nd Maine), Maine State Archives.

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voice and without representation. Many turned to written appeals for help to authorities in Maine; and, in doing so, they revealed their belief that the military authorities were breaching the military moral economy. For example, Grindle, purportedly one of the leaders of the protest, wrote the following revealing letter to his recruitment officer back in Maine: we have no chance to speak for ourselves. perhaps you will see that a fair statement of the case is given to Governor Coburn […] The officers in our Regt appeared to be doing all they could before they left for our good [sic]. but since circumstances have come to light that show a concerted scheme to keep us in the service if possible. orders were rec’d at regimental headquarters and not read to us, because they declared that when a regt was mustered out the entire Regt was included, another very poor mean trick was the way in which they left us. the old members were ordered into line and marched away. and no officer gave a parting word to us. we number 118. most of which have been in all the regt has seen. except the 1st Bull Run. we were left without arms. guard. officers. or rations. and have had none appointed since. of our own number we have appointed one to take charge. and we have set a guard. Gen Barnes has sent word to us that he shall transfer 70 into the 3rd Mass Battery. and if we don’t mind what he says. and be good he will have us all court martialled and sent to the 20th Me. The men have been very quiet so far but we consider all this as humbug and are anxious to have our case represented in the right light. and to the proper authorities. If you will use what means appear to you the most efficient you will have our thanks and I am authorized to say that any expense you may incur will be paid by the members of Co. B.123

Once again there was a clear emphasis in this letter on a ‘fair statement of the case’ and having their ‘case represented in the right light and to the proper authorities’. But Grindle also criticized what he saw as a ‘concerted scheme’ and a ‘very poor mean trick’. Clearly Grindle felt that some of the officers of the 2nd Maine had conspired against the three-year men. This was not the case, and the evidence suggests that the officers were as uncertain as the men regarding the situation facing those three-year men. Nonetheless, the three-year men felt abandoned and unwanted by their former officers, and they inevitably directed their anger in that direction. 123 Letter from Frank Grindle to ‘Mr. Wilson’. ‘Co. B’ was Company B, Grindle’s company in the 2nd Maine.

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Those three-year men of the 2nd Maine had their homes, friends, families, and identities stripped from them. Their core values of unit cohesion and esprit de corps were shattered. To make matters worse, upon receiving their orders to transfer, the three-year men remaining in the 2nd Maine were threatened by Brigadier General James Barnes.124 As Grindle noted in his letter, Barnes explained that half of the men might be transferred into the 3rd Massachusetts Battery (an artillery unit not even from their home state), and if they refused they would be court-martialled.125 Such threats only served to further raise the ire of the three-year men. Once again, those three-year men must have contrasted their situation with that of other men in similar circumstances. While they were being ordered to serve for a further twelve months in an increasingly brutal and horrific war, their former comrades of the 2nd Maine were returning home to friends, family, and civilian lifestyles. It was perceived as a gross injustice that the men who had enlisted in April and May 1861, the ‘originals’, were allowed to return home but the men who had enlisted barely a month later were not. Contrasts could also be made with the experiences of their officers. Their first commanding officer, Colonel Jameson, had retired his commission in August 1861, and their second commanding officer, Colonel Charles Wentworth Roberts, had recently retired his commission in November 1862. Once again, it seemed unfair that officers could simply leave the army when they chose but the rank and file, who had volunteered for service willingly, were required to continue serving against their will – and in units entirely different to those they originally enlisted with.126 As Alva Bates’ letter from 28 March 1863, cited earlier, indicated, the men also contrasted their situation with that of the men of the 7th Maine, who had earlier returned home with their regiment.127 These various factors culminated in the 2nd Maine’s protest of May 1863. The concerns Varney expressed in his letter to Adjutant General Hodsdon on 18 April 1863, were justified; and when the order came for those remaining three-year men to transfer to other units, they refused. As noted above, they had enlisted to serve in the 2nd Maine: the regiment was their home and their family; and they had helped build its culture, customs, and traditions. 124 Barnes had recently taken over command of 1 st Division from Brigadier General Charles Griffin on 5 May 1863. 125 Mundy, Second to None, p. 7. 126 Of course, requests to resign their commission had to be approved by authorities. 127 The 7 th Maine had been so badly depleted due to casualties that they were sent home to recruit new troops for several months, between October 1862 and January 1863. The 7th Maine was mustered out on 21 August 1864 after three years of service.

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By 1863, they had experienced enough of the horrors of war and many simply did not want to experience a further twelve months. In protest against their orders to transfer to different units, the remaining three-year men of the 2nd Maine withdrew their labour and refused to follow orders to transfer. The nature of their protest was simple, and it was directed right at the point of their concerns. The men were ordered to physically march to a different unit, and they refused. Accounts suggest there was nothing much more to the protest than this simple refusal to follow orders. This was not necessarily a refusal to fight, or to continue serving – although those issues are implicit. Rather, this was, first and foremost, a refusal to serve with a different unit. As citizen soldiers, as volunteers with democratic and independent backgrounds, as men who had formed a home and an identity within the 2nd Maine, and as men who had witnessed previous protests within the military, these men felt that this order to serve elsewhere was an injustice that they could not abide by. It is important to note, particularly given the history of violence in this unit, that there is no evidence to suggest that the protest was violent or aggressive in any way. These men had experienced two years of warfare, including, as previously noted, participation in several major battles. They had also previously cleared the field during the infamous ‘Whiskey Riot’ – a large brawl involving the 2nd Maine, the 22nd Massachusetts, and the 118th Pennsylvania in January 1863. And they were understandably frustrated and angry at not being allowed to return home with the rest of their unit. Even so, their protest remained non-violent. These men were not attempting to usurp authority or to replace their commanding officers. They were simply trying to retain their links with their home – the 2nd Maine – and return the situation to the status quo ante. But, from the perspective of authorities, this was not the time to be protesting. The Union Army of the Potomac had recently suffered a humiliating defeat at Chancellorsville in early May 1863, and morale was low. Many other two-year units were also in the process of returning home to be mustered out, and thus there was a steady decline in the army’s strength. In this climate, authorities were not inclined to provide any clemency for rebellious behaviour. The protest was deemed a mutiny by military authorities, and the 2nd Maine protesters were placed under armed guard by men from the 118th Pennsylvania – the same men they had brawled with earlier in the year.128 Under this guard, the protesters were forcibly marched to their 128 The 118th Pennsylvania served alongside the 2nd Maine in the 1st Brigade, 1st Division, V Corps, under command of James Barnes at the time.

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new unit, the 20th Maine. It was here that they would encounter their new commanding officer, Joshua Chamberlain, who would then play a key role in managing these men – understanding their concerns and seeking a resolution to their protest. There is limited evidence available on the protest itself, and it is difficult to determine precisely how many of the men sustained the protest or for what duration. In one account, Chamberlain recorded that there were ‘One hundred and twenty of these men’ from the 2nd Maine who had ‘refused to do military duty, and had been sequestrated in a prisoners’ camp as mutineers, waiting court-martial’.129 In this account, Chamberlain seems to suggest that all of the three-year men were ‘mutineers’, and he makes no suggestion that any of them were complying with the orders to transfer. Ellis Spear, an officer in the 20th Maine, noted in his diary on 24 May that ‘Second Maine men came in 40 under guard’; but he made no other mention during this period of any other men arriving under guard.130 The Consolidated Morning Reports of the 20th Maine shed further light on events. Reports completed in late May and early June reveal that the men of the 2nd Maine were gradually transferred to the 20th Maine in small groups over several weeks from 23 May to 11 June.131 Details in these reports reveal that, as the men of the 2nd Maine arrived, many decided to sustain their protest, while others commenced duty with the 20th Maine. For example, on 30 May the Consolidate Morning Report of the 20th Maine noted ‘26 privates transferred from 2nd Maine under arrest’.132 These reports also recorded the number of men held ‘in arrest or confinement’ over time, and remarks on these reports often reveal the reason for those men being held. Thus, on 31 May, it reported ‘31 privates from 2nd Maine under guard for mutiny’.133 These figures also give a clear indication of how long men sustained their protest for. Thus, by 7 June, the report showed

129 Joshua Chamberlain, Through Blood and Fire at Gettysburg: General Joshua Chamberlain and the 20th Maine (Gettysburg: Stan Clark Military Books, 1994), pp. 11; originally published in Hearst’s Magazine, vol. 23, no. 1, 1913, pp. 894-909. 130 Ellis Spear, diary entry dated 24 May 1863, in Abbott Spear, Andrea C. Hawkes, Marie H. McCosh, Craig L. Symonds, and Michael H. Alpert (eds.), The Civil War Recollections of General Ellis Spear (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1997), p. 210. 131 According to the reports, they arrived in seven groups in sizes of 1, 69, 9, 2, 26, 30, and 16 totalling 153 transfers. See Consolidated Morning Report, 26 May 1863, Maine State Archives. 132 Consolidated Morning Report, 30 May 1863. 133 Consolidated Morning Report, 31 May 1863.

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only 15 men ‘in arrest’; by 10 June there were only 9; and by 28 July there were only 4 men ‘in arrest’.134 It seems the likely case that most, if not all, of the men were initially involved in airing their grievances and complaining about the situation; but when threats were made, and as time wore on, most of these men gradually returned to duty, and by the time they arrived in the camp of the 20th Maine only a small number were maintaining the protest and were actually under armed guard. It is interesting to note that the 2nd Maine was not the only regiment with a mix of two- and three-year men. Similar confusions and miscommunications surrounding soldiers’ terms of service can be seen in a number of volunteer regiments that formed early in the war. There are remarkable similarities, for example, between the experiences of the 2nd Maine and the 10th Maine, and the following analysis of the 10th Maine’s experiences helps shed light on the 2nd Maine’s protest. When the 1st Maine was mustered out after three months of service, the remaining men were sent to the newly formed 10th Maine. The 10th Maine, in line with the 2nd Maine, was formed in accordance with the Maine State Legislature’s 22 April 1861 call-up of ten new regiments. This meant that, as with the 2nd Maine, the 10th Maine was mustered out as a unit in May 1863. When this occurred, only the two-year men were mustered out; the threeyear men of the regiment were told that they were required to continue serving to see out their full three years. However, in contrast to the situation in the 2nd Maine, there is no evidence to suggest that there was any significant protest among the three-year men of the 10th Maine upon being ordered to continue serving instead of returning home with the two-year men. John Gould noted that, towards the end of the 10th Maine’s two-year service time, rumours circulated suggesting that all the three-year men ‘were stuck’ (and would thus have to serve out a further twelve months) and, as a result, ‘fever ran high this day’.135 Indeed, Gould suggested that the main source of the concern (or ‘fever’) felt by those three-year men was the uncertainty over not knowing whether they were staying in their unit or going home, and this is evident in his description of

134 It is possible that other men from the 20th Maine (i.e. in addition to the 2nd Maine transfers) were held under arrest during this period. See Consolidated Morning Report, 7 and 10 June 1863 and 28 July 1863. 135 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 302.

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daily events. For example, he noted that the three-year recruits ‘began to feel that their case was a hopeless one’.136 At the time (in April 1863), there was general uncertainty about when anyone in the unit would be heading home, as the two-year men expected their time was almost complete. But anxiety was particularly high for the three-year men who were unsure if they would be returning home with those two-year men or twelve months later. Of the general situation Gould noted: Every orderly was watched by us from the moment he left the brigade headquarters [to see what news they bore]. […] A civility natural to well trained soldiers kept us from gathering too near headquarters, but we anxiously looked to see if Trudeau, the Sergt. Major, had a smile or a frown on his face as he came out of the Colonel’s tent, carrying the order from the Colonel to the captains.137

Finally, on 26 April 1863, orders were received that only the two-year men would return home, and the three-year men were ordered to continue serving. Leonard Jordan, who served with the 10th Maine, later recalled that, upon three-year men receiving the order that they would continue serving: Great disappointment and almost consternation were felt by many of the regiment on the promulgation of this order. The enlisted men referred to in it had for the most part, even up to this time, indulged the hope that they would either be discharged with the regiment, or granted a furlough, which would enable them to visit Maine with the returning regiment.138

In contrast to Jordan’s view, Gould suggested that the order ‘rather pleased the three-years men – at least it ended their suspense’.139 Instead of protesting like the men of the 2nd Maine, the three-year men of the 10th Maine reportedly responded by teasing the two-year men about their impending return home, with Gould noting that there was ‘much forced laughing from both sides’.140 136 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 303. 137 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 303. 138 Leonard G. Jordan, ‘History of the Tenth Maine Battalion’, in Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 339. 139 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 303. 140 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 303.

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Why then did the men of the 10th Maine not protest like the men of the 2nd Maine in similar circumstances? There are a few key distinguishing factors that help explain this. Firstly, many of the three-year men who formed up in the 10th Maine were retained within their existing company structure, thus retaining their primary group unit cohesion. Thus, on 26 April 1863, A and D Companies in the 10th Maine were made up of a total of 109 threeyear men, while an additional 137 men were with other companies. When the 10th Maine mustered out, the men of those two companies remained within those companies. As much as these men identified closely with the regiment, it was at least some compensation that their closest comrades, those of their company, were continuing to serve with them. Thus, although they somewhat lost their regimental identity, they retained the close bonds within their company. Furthermore, those companies, plus a small number of three-year men from other companies, immediately formed an entirely new unit – the Battalion 10th Maine Infantry. This unit would serve as provost guard with the 12th Corps.141 Thus, whereas the men of the 2nd Maine lost everything and were threatened with the possibility of serving with an artillery battery from a different state (the 3rd Massachusetts Battery), the men of the 10th Maine retained the name of the ‘10th’, retained their company identities and camaraderie, and, according to Jordan, were enthused by the general direction of the war at the time.142 It may also be relevant that the three-year men of the 10th Maine physically marched out of camp before the two-year men. They actively left camp and marched off to their new roles and responsibilities. In contrast, the three-year men of the 2nd Maine were left behind in camp without any clear plans, and with a sense of uncertainty about their future, as the two-year men marched out of camp on their way home. As noted above, Grindle wrote that the two-year men of the 2nd Maine simply ‘marched away’ and officers gave no ‘parting word’.143 The psychological impact of these two different practices should not be underestimated. In the latter case, the three-year men of the 2nd Maine were left behind feeling very much abandoned and morally offended, as Grindle’s letter made clear. Finally, Jordan noted that in the 10th Maine, ‘orders had been issued to distribute eight days’ rations […] [Soldiers] gained the impression that more attention was being paid to the details of their necessities, and that their 141 Jerry Desmond, Turning the Tide at Gettysburg: How Maine Saved the Union (Lanham, md: Down East Books, 2014), p. 114. 142 Jordan, ‘History of the Tenth Maine Battalion’, p. 342. 143 Letter from Frank Grindle to ‘Mr. Wilson’, dated 22 May 1863.

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commanders knew just how much ought to be expected of them’.144 In contrast, the 2nd Maine men were left without rations.145 The impact of those extra rations on morale within the 10th Maine should also not be understated. The right to subsistence formed a core part of the military moral economy, and the lack of rations was another insult to the men of the 2nd Maine. Even so, the men of the 10th were not entirely without complaint about being forced to continue serving. Jordan noted in relation to the incident that, ‘In soldier fashion, many harsh things were said of the government at Washington, and of all the officers supposed to have any influence in the matter’.146 The men of the 10th Maine involved simply stopped short of engaging in direct action like the men of the 2nd Maine. Clearly, the men of the 2nd Maine were morally outraged at the prospect of being removed from their unit and forced to serve with strangers. They were offended at the perceived injustice of being forced to serve for a further twelve months while men who signed up several weeks before them in 1861 were going home. And they were offended at their treatment by authorities throughout this crisis: they felt abandoned, they had their weapons and rations removed, and they were threatened by officers. All of these were deemed breaches of the moral economy and of the expectations of standard and normal behaviour that had been operating within the 2nd Maine – and the men responded by refusing to obey orders until justice was served. When the first of the 2nd Maine protesters arrived in the camp of the 20th Maine in late May 1863, their new commanding officer, Joshua Chamberlain, had been in command for less than a week. Chamberlain had recently taken over command of the unit on 20 May from Adelbert Ames and was still getting to grips with the demands of commanding a regiment. The situation with the 2nd Maine protesters thus presented Chamberlain with his first serious test as a regimental commander.147 As explored below, Chamberlain’s response to that situation, his approach to the men, and the decisions he made would ultimately determine the outcome of the protest.

144 Jordan, ‘History of the Tenth Maine Battalion’, p. 342. 145 Letter from Frank Grindle to ‘Mr. Wilson’. 146 Jordan, ‘History of the Tenth Maine Battalion’, p. 340. 147 Chamberlain took over command from Colonel Adelbert Ames on 20 May 1863, the same day the bulk of the 2nd Maine were sent home to Maine. The remaining men of the 2nd Maine arrived in the 20th Maine’s camp on 24 May 1863. Alice Rains Trulock, In the Hands of Providence: Joshua Chamberlain and the American Civil War, Chapel Hill: University of Carolina Press, 1992, pp. 114-15.

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Much has already been written about Joshua Chamberlain,148 the man who would become a Union war hero because of his leadership and actions on Little Round Top, near Gettysburg, on 2 July 1863. Indeed, Chamberlain himself wrote numerous works reflecting on his wartime experiences.149 Other biographical accounts such as those by Alice Trulock, Willard Wallace, and John Pullen accord universal praise to Chamberlain’s leadership style.150 A large part of why Chamberlain has been praised so strongly is because of his surprisingly strong performance for someone who was not a professional soldier and who had limited pre-war military experience. Just like the men he commanded, Chamberlain saw himself as a temporary volunteer; and, just like the men in the ranks, he expected to return home to his civilian employment after the war. Before the war, Chamberlain had displayed relatively little interest in military affairs. Chamberlain’s father, also named Joshua, had taught his sons how to fence with broadswords, and he had sent young Joshua to Major Whiting’s military academy at Ellsworth with a view to later sending him to West Point Military Academy in preparation for a career in the military. Thus, young Joshua experienced some of the regimen of military life; but even at a young age he was more interested in learning and teaching, and he soon began to pursue the training required to be a minister. His college education further fuelled this interest, and in 1855 he was offered a position as an instructor at Bowdoin College in Brunswick, Maine.151 When war broke out in 1861, Chamberlain, at the time still at Bowdoin, denounced the South’s cause; but for over a year he resisted the temptation to volunteer his efforts for the Union Army. Eventually, following a series of Union defeats and another call by President Lincoln for an additional 300,000 volunteers on 2 July 1862, his resistance expired and he offered his services to Governor Washburn of Maine. In a letter to Washburn, dated 14 July 1862, Chamberlain wrote: 148 Chamberlain was born Lawrence Joshua Chamberlain, but preferred the name Joshua and adopted that as his first name throughout most of his life. 149 Joshua L. Chamberlain’s works include ‘Bayonet! Forward’: My Civil War Reminiscences (Gettysburg: Stan Clark Military Books, 1994); The Passing of the Armies (New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1915); and ‘Through Blood and Fire at Gettysburg’, Hearst’s Magazine, vol. 23, no. 1, 1913, pp. 899-900. 150 Trulock, In the Hands of Providence; Willard M. Wallace, Soul of the Lion: A Biography of General Joshua L. Chamberlain (Gettysburg: Stan Clark Military Books, 1995); John J. Pullen, Joshua Chamberlain: A Hero’s Life and Legacy (Mechanicsburg: Stackpole Books, 1999). See also Desjardin, Joshua L. Chamberlain and Stand Firm Ye Boys from Maine. 151 Wallace, Soul of the Lion, pp. 21-35.

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I have always been interested in Military matters, and what I do not know in that line, I know how to learn. […] I fear, this war, so costly of blood and treasure, will not cease until the men of the North are willing to leave good positions, and sacrifice the dearest personal interests, to rescue our Country from Desolation, and defend the National Existence against treachery at home and jealousy abroad. This war must be ended, with a swift and strong hand; and every man ought to come forward and ask to be placed at his proper post. Nearly a hundred of those who have been my pupils, are now officers in our army: but there are many more all over our State, who, I believe, would respond with enthusiasm, if summoned by me, and who would bring forward men enough to fill up a Regiment at once. I can not free myself from my obligations here until the first week in August, but I do not want to be the last in the field, if it can possibly be helped. I am sensible that I am proposing personal sacrifices, which would not probably be demanded of me: but I believe this to be my duty, and I know I can be of service to my Country in this hour of her peril. I shall acquiesce in your decision Governor, whether I can best serve you here or in the field. I believe you will find me qualified for the latter as for the former, and I trust I may have the honor to hear a word from you.152

Chamberlain’s enthusiasm for the northern cause was clearly evident in this letter, and this enthusiasm appealed to Washburn, who supported Chamberlain’s case. Also of appeal was Chamberlain’s eagerness to learn. He presented himself as ‘interested in Military matters’ and, importantly, knew ‘how to learn’. Given the shortage of experienced officers, these were important characteristics. In a letter to his wife Fanny, dated 26 October 1862, he noted with emphasis: I study, I tell you every military work I can find. And it is no small labor to master the evolutions of a Battalion & Brigade. I am bound to understand every thing. And I want you to send my ‘Jomini, Art of War’ in a package Lt. Nichols is to have sent soon. The Col. & I are going to read it.153

152 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to Governor Washburn, dated 14 July 1862. Maine State Archives online, http://www.maine.gov/tools/whatsnew/index.php?topic=arcsesq&id=118870 &v=article (accessed 15 January 2015). 153 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to Frances ‘Fanny’ Chamberlain, dated 26 October 1862, in Mark Nesbitt (ed.), Through Blood and Fire: Selected Civil War Papers of Major General Joshua Chamberlain (Mechanicsburg: Stackpole Books, 1996), p. 27 (underline in original).

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And of course, in the midst of a new recruitment drive, his potential to draw pupils into the ranks of the army appealed to the authorities. Chamberlain elaborated on this claim in another letter to Governor Washburn several days later: I believe I can get together a thousand men in a very short time, and shall hold myself entirely at your Excellency’s command in so doing. Several young graduates of the College have come to me of their own accord, and say they will go with me as privates or any way.154

In response, the Governor offered Chamberlain command of an entire regiment.155 Over the preceding year, many other men had appealed at great length for such an opportunity; and, as the Maine State Archives reveal, they had drawn upon countless reputable referees to support their applications. But, upon this offer being made to Chamberlain, he refused, indicating instead that he would prefer a slightly lower position where he could learn more about the requirements and responsibilities of higher command. Thus, Chamberlain entered the 20th Maine as an inexperienced but very enthusiastic lieutenant colonel. He was not entirely accustomed to military ways, but he was accustomed to learning and teaching, and he took the rank and file of the 20th Maine under his wing much as he did his pupils at Bowdoin College. Mark Nesbitt argued that Chamberlain’s letters show ‘a compassion, a fatherly concern, for the common soldier’.156 Thus, when the men of the 2nd Maine came into camp in late May and early June 1863, merely days after Chamberlain had received command of the 20th Maine, Chamberlain approached the disgruntled men sympathetically. He knew what it was like to be a civilian in arms. He knew what it was like to be away from family and home. And, after serving for close to a year as an officer, he was well versed in the frustrations presented by military administration. Furthermore, Chamberlain had anticipated the arrival of the 2nd Maine men eagerly. These were veterans of two years of warfare, and Chamberlain felt that these Maine men from his home area of Penobscot County would be a fine addition to the 20th Maine. In a letter to his brother John, dated 22 May 1863, he noted, ‘I am in command here now. We receive the three years men of the 2d Maine tomorrow morning, & that will make us by all 154 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to Governor Washburn, dated 17 July 1862, in Nesbitt, Through Blood and Fire, p. 12. 155 Pullen, The Twentieth Maine, p. 20. 156 Nesbitt, Through Blood and Fire, p. 57.

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odds the best Regt. from Maine’.157 However, their arrival under armed guard did not create the immediate sense of unity that Chamberlain had hoped for. As a result of their protest, a number of the 2nd Maine men had been placed under armed guard, were threatened with execution, and were without rations. They were thus angry, exhausted, and hungry. They felt powerless, without a voice, and without representation. Chamberlain later recalled that, upon receiving the men, he was ordered ‘to take them into my regiment and “make them do duty, or shoot them down the moment they refused;” these had been the very words of the Corps Commander in person’.158 From Chamberlain’s perspective, execution was out of the question. He needed these men as reinforcements for the 20th Maine, and he wanted them to serve willingly. Furthermore, these were not only Maine men but also men from Chamberlain’s home county. John Pullen argued that the execution of these men ‘would make the State of Maine a highly uncomfortable place if he ever wanted to return there’.159 Chamberlain’s immediate response was to ride to speak to the commanding officer of the Army of the Potomac, Major General George Meade, to request permission to deal with the protesters in his own way. With Meade’s approval, Chamberlain dismissed the armed guard and immediately commenced an empathetic approach towards the men of the 2nd Maine, which included feeding them and listening to their complaints.160 He later recalled: I had them called together and pointed out to them the situation: that they could not be entertained as civilian guests by me; that they were by authority of the United States on my rolls as soldiers, and I should treat them as soldiers should be treated; that they should lose no rights by obeying orders, and I would see what could be done for their claim.161

Chamberlain sympathized with the claims made by the men, making his feelings clear in a letter to Governor Coburn dated 25 May 1863. This is an important letter as it reveals both the claims of the protesters and Chamberlain’s response thereto:

157 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to John Chamberlain, dated 22 May 1863, in Nesbitt, Through Blood and Fire, p. 58. 158 Chamberlain, ‘Through Blood and Fire at Gettysburg’, pp. 899-900. 159 Pullen, The Twentieth Maine, p. 80. 160 Pullen, The Twentieth Maine, p. 80; Wallace, Soul of the Lion, p. 68. 161 See Chamberlain, Bayonet! Forward, p. 23-4.

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The transfer of the ‘three years men’ of the 2d Maine has been so clumsily done, that the men were allowed to grow quite mutinous – left uncared for in their old camp after the 2d had gone for several days, & having time and provocation to work themselves up to such a pitch of mutiny that Gen Barnes had to send them to me as prisoners, liable to severe penalties for disobedience of his orders. You are aware, Governor, that promises were made to induce these men to enlist, which are not now kept, & I must say that I sympathize with them in their view of the case. Assured as they were that they should be mustered out with the 2d, they cannot but feel that they are falsely dealt with in being retained & sent to duty in other Regts. They need to be managed with great care & skill; but I fear that some of them will get into trouble for disobedience of orders or mutiny. My orders are to take them & put them on duty – which they have already refused to Gen. Barnes & others. I shall carry out my orders whatever may be the consequence; but I sincerely wish these men were fairly dealt with by those who made them their promises. All their papers say they are enlisted for three years – just as the men of this Regt. are, & for us in the field there is no other way but to hold them to it.162

Chamberlain’s feelings about the situation faced by the three-year men are evident in this letter. He noted that they were ‘quite mutinous’ and worked up, and thus ‘need to be managed with great care & skill’. His reminiscences, cited earlier, also reveal his careful treatment of the situation. He was mindful that the men ‘should lose no rights’, and he would follow up on their claims. A subsequent letter sent to Governor Coburn also suggests that Chamberlain did not press the 2nd Maine men immediately to service, but instead gave them time to rest and adjust to their new environment. That letter, dated 27 May 1863, noted: The men of the ‘2d’ are quite unhappy; still feeling that great injustice has been done them in holding them to service longer[.] I have taken a liberal course with them, because they are nearly all good & true men, but I shall be obliged to carry a firm hand. They are now ordered on duty, & their orders must be carried out. […] They are expecting to hear from you, in reply to a communication of theirs & their expectation of this keeps them

162 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to Governor Coburn, dated 25 May 1863, in Nesbitt, Through Blood and Fire, pp. 59-60 (underline in original).

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in an undecided state of mind as to doing duty. […] I sympathize with the men, but while under my orders, they will be strictly held to obedience.

It is also possible that Chamberlain wanted to convey a clear impression to Governor Coburn that he was in firm control of the situation and was appearing to hold the men ‘to obedience’. At the same time, to further appease the 2nd Maine protesters and assist in a smooth transition into the 20th Maine, Chamberlain promoted one of their numbers, Andrew Tozier, to the rank of colour sergeant.163 It is clear from this correspondence, particularly in Chamberlain’s attention to ‘justice’ and the ‘rights’ of these men, that he also believed that there had been a breach in the moral economy. He identified the moral outrage of the protesters and adopted an approach that sought to repair the damage done. He ‘sympathized’ with the ‘good & true men’ and urged that they be ‘fairly dealt with’. However, he also clearly recognized, and acknowledged as much to the protesters, that a return to the status quo was simply not an option that he could take. Chamberlain appreciated the importance of regimental esprit de corps, but he recognized that those 2nd Maine men were now in the 20th Maine – and their loyalty should now be directed to his unit and not the old 2nd Maine. Thus, he distributed the 2nd Maine men throughout the companies of the 20th Maine to, in his own words, ‘equalize companies, and particularly to break up the “esprit de corps” of banded mutineers’.164 Chamberlain hoped to convey to the 2nd Maine men that, while their old home (the 2nd Maine) was gone, they had a new home that they should embrace among the men of the 20th. Records suggest that, gradually, most of the 2nd Maine men ceased their protest. By June 25, roughly one month after arriving with the 20th Maine, only nine of the protesters were listed on the roll as under arrest with the regiment; the remainder had returned to duty with their new unit.165 Then, on 2 July 1863, during the Battle of Gettysburg, Chamberlain released the prisoners and provost guard in his unit so that they could serve with their companies during the fighting, and all but three of the 2nd Maine protesters took up duty again.166 163 This involved carrying the colours of the unit, and was a prestigious but very dangerous position to hold. 164 Chamberlain, ‘Through Blood and Fire at Gettysburg’, pp. 899-900. 165 Desjardin, Stand Firm Ye Boys from Maine, pp. 19, 210. 166 Desjardin noted that the three hold-outs were Charles Brown, Henry Moore, and William Wentworth. Stand Firm Ye Boys from Maine, pp. 39, 230. Charles Brown enlisted on 15 July

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On that infamous second day of the three-day Battle of Gettysburg, Chamberlain, a novice regimental commander, was ordered to take his unit – the 20th Maine, a large part of which was made up of former members of the 2nd Maine – to the extreme left flank of the Union position and to hold their position above Little Round Top at all costs. By this stage Chamberlain had been in command of his regiment for only six weeks, but he led the newly strengthened 20th Maine in a desperate defence, and received the Medal of Honor for ‘daring heroism and great tenacity in holding his position on the Little Round Top against repeated assaults’.167 Chamberlain’s approach to the protesters worked. He later reported that ‘all but one or two had gone back manfully to duty, to become some of the best soldiers in the regiment’.168 Indeed, several former 2nd Maine men went on to receive commendations during their time with the 20th Maine, including Andrew Tozier (noted above), who was also awarded the Medal of Honor during the Battle of Gettysburg. Some 2nd Maine men who went on to serve with the 20th Maine also re-enlisted at the completion of their three years of service; they included Frank Grindle, one of the leaders of the May-June protest, and John O’Connell.169 Chamberlain was proud of the fact that these 2nd Maine men had ceased their protest and willingly served with his unit. On 19 September 1863, Chamberlain wrote proudly to Governor Coburn: ‘I obtained the release of those men of the 2d Maine against whom charges had been preferred for mutiny, & they are on duty, & are good soldiers’.170 His respectful treatment of the 2nd Maine men also featured prominently in his Civil War reminiscences.171 Chamberlain was clearly the key factor in resolving the protest conducted by the men of the 2nd Maine. The 2nd Maine officers had returned home and 1863 and William Wentworth signed up on 2 July 1863. Both had served during every major engagement with the 2nd Maine and were only just outside being classed as the ‘originals’ deemed worthy enough to be discharged in 1863. Incidentally, Wentworth re-enlisted for a further three years in 1864. See Maine Civil War Soldier Registration Cards for Charles Brown, Henry Moore, and William Wentworth. Maine State Archives. 167 Desjardin, Stand Firm Ye Boys from Maine, p. 155. 168 Chamberlain, ‘Through Blood and Fire at Gettysburg’, pp. 899-900. It is interesting to note Chamberlain’s use of the word ‘manfully’ in this sentence. He seems to imply that it was unmasculine for men to engage in protests within the military. Instead, as men, they should do their duty and obey authorities. 169 Frank Grindle re-enlisted with the 20th Maine while John O’Connell enlisted to serve with the 11th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment in 1864, and went on to forge a long-term career in the military. Mundy, Second to None, pp. 8-9. 170 Letter from Joshua Chamberlain to Governor Coburn, dated 19 September 1863, in Nesbitt, Through Blood and Fire, p. 57. 171 See Consolidated Morning Reports, 25 June 1863 and 28 July 1863, Maine State Archive.

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largely ignored the plight of the three-year men. Brigadier General Barnes had threatened severe punishment if the 2nd Maine refused to follow orders; and authorities at home seemed either disinterested or powerless to act within the military system. But Chamberlain listened, and conveyed to those men the belief that he would be just, fair, and present their claims to higher authorities. Ultimately, Chamberlain was limited in the actions he could take within the broader military system, but his empathetic approach to these men was, in most cases, enough to see them end their protest action and return to duty. Within the broader context of the military moral economy, it is important to consider why Chamberlain’s approach worked and why the protesters ceased their action. Their feelings of moral outrage at a breach in the moral economy were initially appeased by their new commanding officer’s expression of sympathy and support. The protesters felt satisfied, to some extent, to know that their actions were recognized as legitimate by members of authority. Beyond this initial response, while Chamberlain did not have the power to return the men to their unit, he could promise that, within the 20th Maine, he would honour and defend the standards and norms of the moral economy that had operated in the 2nd Maine. He fed the men, cared for them, and sought to rebuild a new sense of community, unit cohesion, and esprit de corps within the 20th Maine. The end result then was not a return to the status quo in the sense of men remaining with the 2nd Maine; but there was a return to the type of military moral economy that these men were accustomed to and that they felt they could, to some extent, honour and abide by.

3

The Australian Imperial Force

By the beginning of the First World War, Australians were increasingly identifying as somewhat different to their predominantly British ancestors.1 Poets, artists, and literary figures in particular were keen to emphasize those differences and stress that the Australian character was different to the British character. Indeed, C.E.W. Bean asserted in the opening pages of his Official History that ‘Australians came to exhibit a peculiar independence of character. Their fathers, usually men of an assertive and forcible disposition, had cut loose from tradition and authority when they left the British Isles’.2 Whereas independent and democratic American values of the 1860s were rooted in the republican tradition, similar Australian values were rooted in the assertion of that unique Australian character. By the 1910s, the Australian working classes had incorporated values of independence, irreverence, and egalitarianism into their class identity; and those values formed the basis for their assumptions within the civilian moral economy. While Australians increasingly asserted their identity as a different people, links between Australia and Britain remained strong. When war broke out in 1914 many young Australian men and women felt a sense of duty to the British Empire, to their king, and to their country, and they voluntarily enlisted in the military in their hundreds of thousands. Indeed, throughout the war, some 417,000 men and women enlisted in the Australian Imperial Force (aif).3 In Ernest Scott’s analysis of the occupational backgrounds of members of the aif he noted that 112,452 men were previously tradesmen, 99,252 were labourers, 57,430 came from ‘country callings’, 6,562 were from seafaring occupations, and an additional 14,122 were from miscellaneous occupations. 4 Tradesmen, labourers, and men from country callings alone formed 81.36 per cent of those who embarked; and those typically workingclass men would also form the bulk of the rank and file. As with the 2nd Maine, the rank structure of the Australian military quickly came to reflect the class structure of civil society. Middle-class 1 The Commonwealth of Australia was formed following the federation of six colonies in 1901. According to the 1911 census, 13.37 per cent of the population were born in the United Kingdom. Commonwealth Bureau of Census and Statistics, Commonwealth of Australia Year Book 1914, Section 4 (Melbourne: McCarron, Bird & Co., 1914), pp. 94-5. 2 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, pp. 4-5. 3 Gammage, The Broken Years, Appendix 2, p. 313. 4 E. Scott, Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-1918, Volume XI: Australia during the War (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1941), p. 874.

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men became officers while working-class men made up the rank and file.5 The same pattern of relationships that those men had experienced in civil society was experienced within the military. Likewise, as with the men of Maine in the 1860s, as those Australian civilians entered the military from 1914 onwards they carried over their civilian attitudes and values as the basis for their assumptions and expectations of both military life and, in particular, of interactions with their officers. Indeed, many Australian soldiers treated their commanding officers as they did authorities within their civilian workplaces:6 as outlined in more detail below, they had left one job under one boss simply to take up another job under another boss. It is difficult to generalize too much about Australians’ motivations for enlistment; motivations changed as the war progressed, and different social circumstances resulted in different reasons for serving. Bill Gammage aptly argued that, of the 1000 Australian soldiers he examined in his study, there were ‘a thousand particular and personal reasons for enlistment’.7 But we can identify some common reasons for serving. In line with the principal British motives for joining the war, many felt, in 1914, that they must defend ‘little Belgium’ from Germany and help curb German military power around the world. This could also be an opportunity to both prove their personal prowess and demonstrate the strength of the developing Australian character. Others were motivated to enlist more by self-interest. Some saw the war as an opportunity for an adventure: they could enlist in the military and see the world – Europe in particular: and for a large number, the motives to enlist were economic. Economic motives were particularly pronounced among the working classes. In a period with high unemployment and a large itinerant workforce, the military offered the prospect of secure, steady employment – and, of course, income. Robson and Dawes argued that enlistment in the aif was another way in which men could economically support their families;8 and one soldier recorded:

5 Nathan Wise, ‘The Myth of Classlessness in the Australian Imperial Force: A Commentary’, Australian Historical Studies, vol. 43, no. 2, 2012, pp. 287-302. 6 See for example Dale Blair, Dinkum Diggers: An Australian Battalion at War (Melbourne: Melbourne University Press, 2001), pp. 53-4; Nathan Wise, Anzac Labour: Workplace Cultures in the Australian Imperial Force during the First World War (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014), pp. 37-45. 7 Gammage, The Broken Years, p. 10. 8 J.N.I. Dawes and L.L. Robson, Citizen to Soldier: Australia before the Great War. Recollections of Members of the First AIF (Carlton: Melbourne University Press, 1977), p. 14.

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as army pay as a Corporal at 10/- per day for 7 days a week, plus food and uniform, was far more beneficial than working in the gold mines at Boulder 2 miles from Kalgoorlie in West Australia (as I was working underground at [the] 3,200 feet level as a trucker for 10/- per day of 6 days a week) […] the money also was of benefit to my mother who was a widow (my father, the late Hugh McKenzie late Sub-Editor ‘Kalgoorlie Miner’ died in 1912 leaving 4 younger children for me to support) and as the allotment plus her allowances were of great assistance at the time.9

Some men and women enlisted for the long-term economic benefits but many others were pressured to enlist due to ‘economic conscription’, where civilian employers would refuse employment to young men eligible for service. But whatever their motivation for serving, most of these recruits, particularly those who enlisted for a term of employment, saw themselves as independently minded citizen-soldiers. As with the men of the 2nd Maine, they were content to serve for a temporary period, but they would never fully submit to the will of their officers. Graham Seal argued that the Australian soldier of the First World War was never a professional soldier; instead: He is a temporary bearer of arms and uneasy wearer of uniforms. He is ‘an ordinary bloke’ doing a job of work for a reasonable day’s pay. That this work was in the interests of the Empire to which Australia belonged was a commonplace of the time.10

These economic motivations to enlist also resulted in approaches to military service as a job of work. These approaches have been analysed in detail in Anzac Labour,11 which found that the approach to military service as a job of work resulted in approaches towards issues and concerns within the military through the lens of workplace relations. If working hours were too long, men would go on strike; and if an officer was too overbearing, he would be singled out for bullying by the rank and file. In short, men responded to unsatisfactory conditions within the military workplace in much the same way that they had previously responded to unsatisfactory conditions in their civilian workplaces. One of the most well-known 9 Dawes and Robson, Citizen to Soldier, p. 92. 10 Graham Seal, Inventing Anzac: The Digger and National Mythology (St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2004), p. 3. 11 Wise, Anzac Labour.

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examples took place in February 1915, when several thousand Australian soldiers from the Casula and Liverpool training camps marched through George Street in Sydney in protest against the changes to their training routine that would increase their hours of work. They carried a placard at the front of the procession proclaiming in clear language: ‘STRIKE – WE WON’T DRILL 40½ HOURS’.12 Although a large proportion of those recruits had experienced compulsory military training, and a small number had seen previous military service,13 the vast majority of recruits simply did not know what to expect of regular, daily life in the army under a military contract.14 Eric Leed’s argument that ‘Those who marched onto European battlefields in 1914 had a highly specific and concrete image of what war meant, an image that was deeply rooted in the past and in their culture’, simply did not apply to the Australian soldier.15 They had no ‘deeply rooted’ military history or well-established military culture. There were few accurate assumptions of war, of drill, of the demands of officers, and of the general day-to-day running of the military regimen. Similarly, when John Laffin identified the British tradition – where ‘soldering meant service and sacrifice without complaint. The Victorian attitude of “Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die,” was strongly held’16 – he wrote exclusively of commanders at battalion, brigade, and division level. Rank-and-file Australians held very different mentalities, and Bean argued that ‘Such men could not easily be controlled by the traditional methods of the British Army’;17 the masculine standards of independence and irreverence prevalent in Australia at the time simply would not allow it. For example, Gammage argued that many new recruits in the aif:

12 Wise, Anzac Labour, pp. 26-7; Michael Darby, ‘The Liverpool-Sydney Riot’ (BA Hons thesis, University of Western Sydney, Macarthur, 1997), p. 48; and Blair, Dinkum Diggers, facing p. 119. For more examples and an analysis of these techniques see Wise, ‘In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers’. 13 Men who had served in the Boer War were eagerly sought for the first contingent of the aif, particularly as leaders in the officer class. Bean, Official History: Vol. I, pp. 37, 54. 14 Indeed, the worth of compulsory military training was such that Bean explained these forces away as having ‘consisted almost entirely of boys of from 19 to 21’. See Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 34. 15 Eric J. Leed, No Man’s Land: Combat and Identity in World War I (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), p. 69. 16 John Laffin, British Butchers and Bunglers of World War One (Gloucester: Alan Sutton, 1988), p. 177. 17 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 48.

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considered the army a job which should be regulated by the conventions attached to any employer-employee relationship. Out of working hours their time was their own, and men cheerfully left their training camps after work to go home or to town, reporting for work the next day as a matter of course.18

As growing numbers of civilians enlisted, they carried over these civilian (and predominantly working-class) ideals into the military environment. As explored in more detail below, these characteristics were reflected in the behaviour and actions of the rank and file of the aif, and in their shaping of the military moral economy.19 Thus, in 1914, the aif was largely a blank slate upon which recruits carried over their civilian values and beliefs to build their new military traditions and cultures. Glenn Wahlert argued that, much like the republican values of the American militia, ‘the essentially civilian attitude of [Australian] military trainees meant that they objected to the many restrictions placed on their freedom by the military and enforced by the military police’.20 Evidence of these values being reflected in the behaviour and actions of men can be seen throughout the war. For example, within the training camps of Australia, new recruits competed for the job of guard duty because of the bribes they could receive from soldiers returning after hours; they smuggled liquor into camp, and they frequently jumped camp fences to avoid the guards and the punishment for being absent without leave (AWOL).21 In these situations the aif resembled an inexperienced and recalcitrant workforce struggling to live with their new and overbearing working conditions. This was a fact not lost on officers. The aif’s official historian C.E.W. Bean noted: 18 Gammage, The Broken Years, p. 31. 19 Nathan Wise, ‘Fighting a Different Enemy: Social Protests against Authority in the Australian Imperial Force during World War I, International Review of Social History, 52, 2007, pp. 225-41. Wise, ‘In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers’. 20 Glenn Wahlert, The Other Enemy: Australian Soldiers and the Military Police (South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1999), p. 20. 21 See Gammage, The Broken Years, p. 30. For examples see John Bruce, No. 34710, Telephonist, Paddington, Australian War Memorial (hereafter awm) PR87/115, diary entries dated 25 November 1916, 8 December 1916, and 1 March 1917; and James Green, No 2658, Labourer, Darlinghurst, ml mss 1838, undated diary entry. For more on this, see G.E. Rich, New South Wales Royal Commission Appointed to Inquire into the Administration of the Liverpool Camp, Report of Proceedings and Minutes of Evidence of Royal Commission Appointed to Inquire into the Administration of the Liverpool Camp (Sydney: William Applegate Gullick, Government Printer, 1915), pp. 15-19.

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From the British Staff Officer’s point of view the Australian troops were unlikely to be so efficiently organised or disciplined as those coming from the British army depots, where the tradition of the British regular army and the efficiency of the British regular non-commissioned officer served as the foundation on which to build the new army.22

Instead, the Australian men who enlisted in 1914 were the first to inhabit the newly formed military camps and to establish patterns of daily life in the Australian Imperial Force. They were the first to put on the new uniform and to receive the first rifles sent to Australian troops. They were the first to receive their training on what it meant to be soldiers, and the first to be crowded into tents and taught the hardships of sleeping amongst other men. These first men laid the foundations of the Australian military tradition, of how service was to be approached, and how the uniform was to be worn. They had enlisted for the duration of the war, or until their services were no longer needed, for a temporary term of employment. They would work, receive the pay, and, when necessary, fight. It was because of this attitude that Bean argued: The Australian then, and to the end of the war, was never at heart a regular soldier. Off parade he was a civilian bent upon seeing the world and upon drawing from it whatever experience he could, useful or otherwise, while the opportunity lasted.23

For these men military life was a new opportunity. It was an occupation full of wonder; and for some this was part of the adventure. These attitudes persisted as the men headed to the various theatres of war. In early January 1915, the disciplinary problems with the aif led William Throsby Bridges, commanding the 1st Australian Division, to send home a number of ‘dissenters’. In order to avoid criticism and to side-step ‘the raising of questions as to why the men were returned’,24 Bridges asked Bean, who was then serving as a war correspondent, to write to the Australian press and outline the reasons for the former’s action.25 It was hoped that Bean could win over the public with his explanation, and warn the men in Egypt against further acts of indiscipline. It failed. Australians 22 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, pp. 29-30. 23 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 127 24 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 129. 25 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 129.

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were shocked by the news of their soldiers being sent home in disgrace before seeing combat.26 Meanwhile, the men of the aif, seeing their name besmirched by an ‘honorary captain’ working for the press, resented the comments and fought back in their own style. The rank and file crafted poems to criticize Bean and make him regret the letter he had sent home. One poem, passed through hands and posted up for all to see, gave Bean advice on how to ingratiate himself with the rank and file: Aint yer got no blanky savvy Have yer no better use, Than to fling back home yer inky Products of your pens abuse. Do you think we’ve all gone dippy, Since we landed over here, Is a soldier less a soldier! Cos he socks a pint of beer. Let me ask you Mr Critic Try and face things with a smile, Don’t be finding all the crook-uns, Studying them blokes all the while. Then write home nice and proper, ‘Bout the boys that all true blue, And they’ll love yer better mister, This is my advice to you.27

The poem made clear the men’s grievances against Bean and, of particular pertinence, openly displayed the sense of irreverence felt by rank and file soldiers. In the eyes of the men of the rank and file, a man was no less of a soldier simply because he took advantage of his leisure time and occasionally ‘socks a pint of beer’. Clearly, the well-educated Bean’s understandings of what made a soldier differed considerably to those of the newly recruited men of the rank and file. These attitudes also extended to discipline and negotiations with officers. Bean argued that:

26 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 129. 27 Cited in Williams, ‘Discipline on Active Service’, p. 13.

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Most Australian soldiers had never in their lives known what it was to be given a direct order undisguised by ‘you might’ or ‘would you mind?’ Since the discipline of the much-harassed bush school-teacher, they had never known any restraint that was not self-imposed.28

In a later volume of the Official History Bean reinforced this point, adding that ‘A doubt had sometimes risen as to whether the discipline necessary in an effective army or navy could ever be tolerated by young Australians’.29 Dale Blair argued that, in the early months of the war, the ‘overburdened military infrastructure’ had difficulty containing these ideals.30 As a result, those ‘first occasions’ of 1914 were critical in shaping the cultures and the moral economy of the aif,31 while the reactions of the freshly commissioned officers – typically appointed straight from Australia’s middle classes32 – were pivotal in determining the way subsequent officers would, and could, handle their men throughout the rest of the war. Most Australian men who enlisted in the rank and file of the aif formed their own understandings of what soldiering entailed, and they subsequently lived by those understandings. Later recruits subsequently looked to those who had gone before them in order to understand what military life was like and how it was to be approached. Bean described those circumstances later in the war: The young Australian recruits, drafted in like half-wild colts, many with an almost complete disrespect for custom and authority, were probably moulded more powerfully by these senior comrades of Anzac and Pozieres, and by certain natural leaders among their officers and mates, than by any other influence since they left their mothers’ knees.33

Most telling in this quote is the scarcity of ‘any other influence’ prior to enlisting in the military: Australians had no ‘deeply rooted’ military history or military culture, and among Australian recruits there were few accurate assumptions of war, of drill, of the demands of officers, or of the general day-to-day running of the military regimen. As a result, those men borrowed heavily from their civilian values, and their understanding of the civil moral 28 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 47. 29 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 6. 30 Blair, Dinkum Diggers, p. 39. 31 Blair, Dinkum Diggers, p. 38. 32 Wise, ‘The Myth of Classlessness in the Australian Imperial Force’. 33 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 5.

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economy, in developing their assumptions and expectations of the military moral economy. Camp life introduced those new recruits to the military system. But, while military life in the training camps of Australia was a shock to these men, it was also a poor initiation to the seriousness of war and of military service. As was the case with the 2nd Maine in 1861, the rush to send an Australian contingent off to war in 1914 resulted in inadequate preparations. Before the military camps could be organized, recruits were dumped in showgrounds or open paddocks.34 Uniforms were scarce, shelter was inadequate, and many soldiers only handled their first rifle after arriving in Egypt in December 1914, often several months after their date of enlistment.35 James Green introduced his diary with a brief summary of what this involved: training was brief for one thing, not sufficient rifles, and equipment, On guard to day [sic] rifles sup[plied] being without bolt and bayonet being held on by a bit of string.36

Government concerns surrounding insufficient training and supplies for those recruits eventually led to a Royal Commission, and the hearing gave some frustrated recruits an opportunity to voice their complaints. Joseph Henry Taggett stated at the hearing that after seven weeks of training he had yet to receive underclothes, trousers, or socks, and had only received an overcoat five weeks after enlisting.37 William Talbot reported a similar experience, receiving his overcoat, underclothes, and dungarees after ‘four or five weeks’ in the Liverpool Military Camp.38 Other men embarked with incomplete kit after being told their remaining equipment would meet them when they arrived at their destination.39 Thus, although the aif in Australia publicly presented a serious and regimental outlook, first-hand accounts from rank-and-file men reveal experiences of poorly managed and inadequately maintained camps. Much like the circumstances faced by the 2nd Maine in April and May 1861, the conditions faced by the Australians did not help build any sense of professionalism amongst the men. The work was demanding, but the civilian outlook of the raw recruits and the initially poor standards of discipline 34 Gammage, The Broken Years, p. 29. 35 Gammage, The Broken Years, p. 30. 36 James Green, ml mss 1838, undated diary entry. 37 Rich, New South Wales Royal Commission, p. 15. 38 Rich, New South Wales Royal Commission, p. 17. 39 Rich, New South Wales Royal Commission; see for example pp. 15-19.

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led to the beginning of the patterns of resistance that quickly formed a core part of the ‘digger’ culture. 40 For example, on 26 December 1914 – after only months of military service – the 2nd Battalion’s parade was cancelled because of a lack of men: 60 were in prison and a large number were absent without leave. In addition to this, within three weeks of arriving in Egypt the 1st Battalion had committed over 220 offences. 41 When subsequent recruits came into the aif they followed the paths set by their predecessors, both in the training camps and in the front lines. These new recruits thus fostered a novel approach to military service that was accompanied by the development of novel attitudes and responses. As Jeffrey Williams argued: The Australians […] never fully unconsciously subjugated their wills to the usually mechanical army discipline. The initiative and individuality in battle for which they were feted arose not from blind adherence to the commands of superiors but rather from their determination to ‘do the job’ and only as long as they were free from pompous constraints and inflexible edicts. 42

Their refusal to ‘subjugate their wills’ complemented the common approach towards military service as job of work and contributed greatly towards a culture of passive protest within the aif. 43 Nonetheless, despite their irreverent and egalitarian values, Australian soldiers highly valued their perceived status as ‘effective combatants’ in the eyes of other nations. They were happy to be seen as irreverent and egalitarian, but they did not want to be seen as ineffective in battle. Pride in themselves and in their new nation came from performing their combat duties well and succeeding in battle; in contrast, they took no pride in respecting officers and obeying useless commands. These men believed that the job of the soldier was to fight, and they wanted to do that job well. This was how the men of the rank and file perceived their contract with authorities. In signing their attestation papers, Australian men knew that they would be expected to fight for the military; but they would not 40 For a recent analysis of this resistance see Wise, ‘In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers’. See also Wahlert, The Other Enemy, pp. 18-47; and Williams, ‘Discipline on Active Service’. 41 Williams, ‘Discipline on Active Service’, p. 11. 42 Williams, ‘Discipline on Active Service’, p. 117. 43 For a detailed analysis of this approach to military service as a job of work, see Wise, ‘The Lost Labour Force’ and Anzac Labour.

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surrender their independent values. The troopship paper The Euripides Ensign supported these claims through a humorous anecdote in May 1915: A young officer at Broady was crossing the parade ground one morning when he encountered a newly arrived recruit who failed to give the necessary salute. ‘Halt, that man’, snarled the officer, ‘why don’t you salute? Do you call yourself a soldier?’ ‘No Sir’, came the reply, ‘not till I’ve been to France.’44

Similar thoughts were reflected in the diaries and letters of these men. Norman Silvester Hollis wrote from a training camp in Egypt: ‘We are all anxious to earn our pay which we are not doing at present’. 45 Here was a clear desire to prove their value and ‘earn their pay’ as soldiers by engaging in combat. Bean even suggested that the experience of the ‘real work’ of war modified relations between the rank and file and their officers: Another result of the heavy fighting of the landing [on Gallipoli] was that it fixed once and for all the relation of Australian men to their officers. Until this first actual trial, there had lingered in most Australian battalions a vague resentment against the institution of officers. As has been said before, most of the men since their childhood had never known a direct command unqualified by ‘You might’ or ‘If you please’. They obeyed for the most part, but with a touch if indignation. There were not wanting at Mena mutterings that the severity shown by particular officers would cost them their lives in the first battle; the shooting of officers was said to have been not unknown in Continental wars and even in South Africa. But from the morning of the landing these evil whispers disappeared so utterly that those who lived among the troops never once heard from that day forth even the faintest breath of them. 46

This was the view presented by Bean. However, sentiments expressed within the diaries and letters of rank-and-file men, and accounts of various incidents throughout the war, suggest that the situation was slightly different. Resentment was held by the rank and file against many officers throughout 44 The Euripides Ensign, May 1915, p. 2, cited in David Kent, ‘Troopship Literature: “A Life on the Ocean Wave”, 1914-1919’, Journal of the Australian War Memorial, no. 10, 1987, p. 8. ‘Broady’ was a reference to the Broadmeadows Training Camp in Australia. 45 Norman Silvester Hollis, No. 186, awm 2DRL/0412, letter to ‘Ern’ dated 26 February 1915. 46 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 549. Mena was a reference to the camp near Cairo, Egypt, where the bulk of the aif were based in late 1914 and early 1915.

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the remaining years of the war; and, while orders were generally obeyed, particularly in the front lines, acts of defiance and protest were relatively common behind the lines when lives and reputations were not at stake – and men carefully selected the circumstances to protest in order to minimize the possibility of punishment. 47 As with the men of the 2nd Maine, some of the units of the aif that participated in the protest in September 1918 had a history of minor protests against authorities during the war. A particularly pertinent case is that of the protest of members of the 19th Battalion in February 1916. The 19th Battalion was raised at Liverpool in March 1915, and after a period of training the unit eventually saw service on Gallipoli from mid-August 1915 until the evacuation during 18-20 December 1915. Following a brief rest on Lemnos Island and then in Cairo, the men of the 19th Battalion were sent into the Sinai Desert, arriving in their new camp near Ismailia on the Suez Canal on 19 January 1916. After their restful and relatively comfortable break in Cairo, the men of the 19th Battalion were disappointed with the conditions out in the desert. They were working on rotating shifts, with half the battalion allocated to digging trenches while the other half trained. 48 An incident during this period also reveals that unit identity and esprit de corps had already formed amongst men of the 19th Battalion, and those values played a key role in the rank and file’s view of the moral economy. On 24 January, when men of the 19th Battalion were ordered to fall in with the 18th Battalion, several of their ranks refused to do so. In the view of these men, the 19th Battalion had their own officers and their own methods of working, and they would not submit to the strange and unfamiliar officers and routines of the 18th Battalion. To even ask these men to do so was unconscionable and was considered an offence to their proud identities as 19th Battalion men. One of the protesters, Thomas Smith, allegedly stated: ‘We don’t belong to the 18th Bn […] I am not going to fall in […] He [an officer of the 18th Battalion] has nothing to do with us’. 49 But this was only the first sign of a rapidly developing distrust between officers and the rank and file. Several days later a more organized protest took place among a small number of men of the 19th Battalion.

47 See also Wise, ‘Fighting a Different Enemy’. 48 Wayne Matthews and David Wilson, Fighting Nineteenth: History of the 19th Infantry Battalion AIF, 1915-1918 (Loftus: Australian Military History Publications, 2011), p. 64. 49 ‘Statement of Service’ in service records of Thomas Charles Smith, No. 663, National Archives of Australia (hereafter naa) B2455.

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After living in their new camp for a little more than one week, a delegation of soldiers from the 19th Battalion approached a duty sergeant to request a meeting with the company commander, the aim being, according to Matthews and Wilson, ‘to air their grievances about poor food and inadequate rations’.50 But the sergeant refused the request for a meeting, and instead told the men to prepare their packs for a route march in the desert. This initial request for a meeting reflected a core principle of both civil and military moral economies – the right to negotiate with managers. Such a request for a meeting with the company commander was not an uncommon occurrence within the aif, and there are numerous accounts of men of the rank and file appointing delegates to speak with officers, to air their grievances, and to seek improvements in their general living conditions. One of the more well-known examples of this took place during the aforementioned strike on 16 February 1916 in the Liverpool and Casula training camps in Australia. On that occasion, before conducting the strike, the men of the camp first sent a delegation to negotiate with commanding officers.51 The camp commanding officers listened to the complaints, but the delegates were unhappy with the outcome and thus a strike was organized. In the case of the 19th Battalion’s attempt to send a delegation, however, they were refused permission to even negotiate; and, as a further insult, they were ordered to begin preparing for a pre-planned long and tiring route march in full packs through the hot and dry desert. When the order formally came through to fall in for the route march, eight men refused in protest.52 The service records of the 19th Battalion protesters suggest that they were typical of the many naive and inexperienced Australian recruits of 1914 and 1915. Several of them, including Morton Gervase Alcock, cited no prior military experience; but they listed occupations where union membership was typically high during this era, and where they would have experienced workplace negotiation and industrial action. In particular, Alcock listed his previous occupation as a ‘wharfinger’ (harbourmaster); and, as a large part of his civilian work involved resolving disputes on the docks, it is little wonder that he played a key role in the incident. Clearly, these men of the 19th Battalion had carried their pre-war understanding of workplace relations and negotiation into the military. As previously noted, it was common within the aif for minor incidents such as this to be downplayed or quietly settled by ncos and officers before 50 Matthews and Wilson, Fighting Nineteenth, p. 64. 51 For more on this see Wise, ‘In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers’, p. 165. 52 Matthews and Wilson, Fighting Nineteenth, p. 64.

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matters escalated. But in the case of the 19th Battalion’s protest, authorities quickly escalated the situation and they treated the incident as a mutiny. The protesters were placed under arrest and charged with ‘joining in a mutiny’ and ‘disobeying a lawful command’.53 However, there is little evidence to suggest that their protest was violent or aggressive in any way. The men simply refused to obey the orders to join the route march. The scant evidence available on the protest suggests that authorities over-reacted to this relatively minor protest against conditions in the camp. Each protester allegedly ‘did not put on his pack when ordered to do so by Major Norrie’.54 A symbolic refusal to put on their packs in protest against poor living conditions was unlikely to unravel the entire command structure, and this was certainly not an attempt to wrestle control of the unit away from commanding officers. Nonetheless, given the recent disorder within the unit, authorities may have been attempting to make an example of these men, and to quell any idea that men could resort to protest to get their way. As such, the protesters were duly sentenced to 18 months’ imprisonment with hard labour.55 Aggressive or violent mutinous behaviour was rare within the aif, but it was certainly not uncommon to see small-scale protests such as that made by the men of the 19th Battalion. Throughout the war, the nature of protests depended largely on local factors such as living conditions and the temperament of officers. Bean emphasized numerous times in the Official History that ‘the Australian soldier is exactly what his commanding officer makes him’.56 Of course this was not unique to the aif during the First World War; the same could be said of many military units throughout history. Indeed, Bean’s view of discipline and command is remarkably similar to that of John Gould during the American Civil War. In contrasting his experiences in the 1st, 10th, and 29th Maine regiments, Gould remarked, ‘officers make or spoil a regiment’.57 The difference in discipline, and the different response of authorities to protests, simply reflected the different approaches officers adopted to the men under their command.58 53 ‘Casualty Form – Active Service’ in service records of Morton Gervase Alcock, No. 1651, naa B2455. 54 ‘Casualty Form, Morton Gervase Alcock. Similar descriptions appear in the records of the other protesters. 55 ‘Form for Assembly and Proceedings of Field General Court Martial on Active Service – Proceedings’ in service records of Morton Gervase Alcock. 56 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, pp. 95-6. 57 Gould, History of the Maine Regiment, p. 311 (italics in original). 58 See for example, Bean, Official History: Vol. I, pp. 95-6.

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By late 1918, the rank and file of the aif had established a clear history of negotiating with their officers and protesting against unsatisfactory conditions and breaches of the moral economy. Ashley Ekins noted that, despite the far smaller size of their force, ‘More Australian soldiers than any other British or Dominion troops were tried for mutiny before courts martial during the war – a total of almost 300 men’.59 J.G. Fuller also argued that, in March 1918, 9 out of every 1000 Australian solders were serving time in a military prison. This contrasts with 1 out of every 1000 British soldiers and 1.6 out of every 1000 Canadian, New Zealand, and South African soldiers.60 These accounts of indiscipline within the aif, and the over-representation of Australian soldiers in trials for mutiny and other offences, reflect the dearly held Australian values of egalitarianism and irreverence, coupled with a strong history of unionism and class solidarity in civil society. But within this military environment they also reflect the different understanding of the military moral economy that developed within those Australian units compared to other British and dominion forces of the time. Australian soldiers believed they had more rights and privileges than their officers were willing to accord, and they were more prepared to protest against breaches in the moral economy that challenged those beliefs. As outlined below, the frequency of these protests increased dramatically in September 1918. By that September, after several years of warfare – including a particularly harrowing series of battles throughout 1918 – the men of the Australian Imperial Force were exhausted. Bean argued that ‘most of the Australian divisions were recognized as having, since March 1918, been worked to the limit’.61 Only two of the five Australian divisions were deemed fully fit for action; and the men of the aif, while enjoying military success throughout the latter half of the year, were in desperate need of a rest. In late August, General Joseph John Talbot Hobbs, commander of the 5th Division of the aif, warned General John Monash, then commander of the Australian Corps, that his division was ‘approaching the limits of endurance’.62 Bean also argued that regimental officers were aware that continued attempts to push the men may ‘precipitate a local mutiny’;63 and on 22 September a courts-martial officer with the 3rd Australian Division similarly expressed concern about the work then being demanded of the Australians during 59 Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 112. 60 See Fuller, Troop Morale and Popular Culture, p. 169. 61 C.E.W. Bean, Anzac to Amiens: A Shorter History of the Australian Fighting Services In The First World War (Canberra: Australian War Memorial, 1946, p. 487. 62 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 875. 63 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 875.

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this period. The officer remarked, ‘there’ll be trouble if they’re kept at it much longer’.64 The warnings were accurate, if a little too late.65 Already, on 5 September, three platoons of the 59th Battalion, 15th Brigade had refused orders to go into the front lines.66 The men had recently served in the front lines where, Bean argued, they had experienced ‘a week of repeated efforts and continuous strain [and] had no sooner reached its bivouac and settled to sleep than it was summoned to the line again to follow the enemy’s retirement’.67 The 59th Battalion’s War Diary simply reported that the men ‘refused to go forward’.68 On this occasion, their officers empathized with the protesters, claiming the men ‘believe their action to be the only way they can impress the (higher) authorities with their needs’.69 The protest was eventually stopped, but, as Bean noted, it reflected broader sentiment throughout the aif at the time.70 Indeed, Ross McMullin argued that, in response to the 59th Battalion’s protest, Major General Harold ‘Pompey’ Elliott, commanding the 15th Brigade, ‘urged his battalion commanders to nurse the men at every opportunity. They had to be rested as much as possible’.71 Ekins also noted a similar incident that took place on 25 September in the 3rd Australian Tunnelling Company, when 13 men refused orders to go into the front lines. The men were charged with mutiny and sentenced to between one and two years’ imprisonment with hard labour.72 A more serious incident occurred in the 1st Battalion. On 21 September 1918, a large part of the battalion refused to go into the front lines.73 The men had participated in a successful attack on the German lines and were advised that they would be given a rest. A Brigade Order dated 19 September 1918 indicated that they, along with the 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Battalions that made 64 Cited in Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 108. 65 In addition to several examples noted, Bean added that ‘There had during this period been slighter incidents, of which only hints are given in the records.’ Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 875n. 66 Bean erroneously cites this event as taking place on 14 September, but the 59th Battalion War Diary records events in detail as taking placing on 5 September. See entries for 4 and 5 September 1918. 67 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 875. 68 See 59th Battalion War Diary, entries for 4 and 5 September 1918. 69 Cited in Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 875. 70 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 875. See also Joan Beaumont, Broken Nation: Australians in the Great War (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 2013), p. 490. 71 Ross McMullin, Pompey Elliott (Melbourne: Scribe, 2008), p. 486. 72 Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 121. 73 This incident is covered in detail by Dale Blair in Dinkum Diggers, pp. 157-64. See also Wise, ‘In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers’, pp. 167-8.

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up the 1st Brigade, would be relieved by the four battalions of the 2nd Brigade on the night of 20 September.74 However, the following day those orders were cancelled,75 and rumours began to circulate that the men would be ordered back onto the offensive. This caused much distress among the ranks, and so, in the standard manner, a delegation of non-commissioned officers (ncos) sought to communicate their concerns to their commanding officers. As with the case of the 19th Battalion’s mutiny in 1916, the men were told that nothing could be done, and that they should return to their platoons and prepare for an attack.76 Unsatisfied with this reply, the men began to protest against their unfair treatment and refused to join in the attack. The military treated their protest as a mutiny, and harsh penalties were handed down to those involved, particularly to the ncos who had supported the rank and file and represented their views to officers. A report on the incident by Lieutenant Colonel Bertie Stacy, commanding the 1st Battalion at the time, provides some insight into the sentiment of the men. Stacy noted that ‘the men seemed very dissatisfied at having to make another attack after expecting to be relieved’, and ‘the feeling existed that they were “not getting a fair deal” and “were doing other people’s work”’.77 As in the case of the 19th Battalion’s mutiny, the protest was non-violent, and there is no evidence to indicate that the men acted in an aggressive way towards their officers. Indeed, Stacy commented in his report: ‘I can say that there was no appearance of hostility to their Officers or to me in any man I saw’.78 Instead, as Stacy noted, the men ‘just picked up their gear, including Lewis Guns, and walked away’.79 The primary cause of this protest was that the men received an order to attack instead of being relieved; but there were a range of other contributing factors. Stacy noted in his report that ‘the loss of their own Officers and the disorganisation following on the attack were greatly responsible for such a breach [of discipline]’.80 Dale Blair supported this in his analysis of the incident; he found that 50 per cent of the protesters had joined the battalion after mid-1917 and that 50 per cent had returned from hospital during the six months prior to the mutiny. These men may have been mindful of becoming 74 Brigade Order 121, dated 19 September 1918. Appendix 24, 1st Brigade War Diary. awm4, Class 23. 75 Order dated 20 September 1918. Appendix 25, 1st Brigade War Diary. 76 Blair, Dinkum Diggers, pp. 158. 77 Report by B. V. Stacy, dated 20 September 1918. Appendix 26A 1st Brigade War Diary. 78 Report by Stacy. 79 Report by Stacy. 80 Report by Stacy.

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casualties and were thus more susceptible to mutinous behaviour.81 Blair further argued: The Battalion’s cohesion and trust in its officers had been compromised by the losses it had incurred. Only a few men had undergone the natural progression from 1914 through to 1918. The majority were short on experience and not sufficiently imbued with the esprit de corps that is fostered to overcome the discomforts, dangers and dissatisfactions that are so much a part of war.82

There were also short-term factors to consider. For example, Stacy indicated that ‘shelling has been fairly constant near their dugouts and their nerves seemed on edge and they made themselves believe they were not fit to take part in an attack’. 83 However, as he also observed: ‘The men have NOT had a hard time as we have known hard times in the past’.84 This begs the question, why did this large 1st Battalion protest take place at this time, in September 1918, and not earlier in the year when the men also experienced ‘hard times’? The answer to this question, explored below, helps us understand the reasons behind the so-called ‘mutinies of disbandment’ and the other protests that also took place during September 1918. The balance of the war swung back and forth several times throughout 1918. The Treaty of Brest-Litovsk enabled the Germans to transfer 50 divisions from the Eastern Front over to the Western Front. They used these units in a large offensive, known as the Spring Offensive or the Ludendorff Offensive, which was launched on 21 March 1918 and aimed at bringing the war to an end quickly before the United States could deploy their military resources to the Western Front.85 This offensive made substantial gains in the Somme, but was eventually halted by late April. On 8 August 1918, the Allies commenced a large counter-offensive that would continue to push German forces back, and, when coupled with other setbacks for the German Empire, culminated in the Armistice on 11 November 1918. The intensity of this fighting over sustained periods, particularly between April and September, regularly drew in Australian forces. From August, the Australians effectively served as ‘shock troops’ leading this Allied 81 Blair, Dinkum Diggers, p. 160. 82 Blair, Dinkum Diggers, p. 160. 83 Report by B. V. Stacy, dated 20 September 1918. Appendix 26A 1 st Brigade War Diary. 84 Report by Stacy. 85 Strategically, the offensive initially hoped to pin British troops against the English Channel, and thus pressure the French into signing an armistice.

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advance. By September, the Australians were exhausted. Certainly they were experiencing victories, capturing prisoners, and advancing the front line; but they were suffering heavy casualties in the process.86 For example, between April and early October 1918, the Australians suffered over 50,000 casualties.87 This experience further modified Australian attitudes towards the war, and towards authorities. Australians had long held the view that the punishment for protesting could not be much worse than the punishment they experienced in front-line combat. Gammage argued that, after the horrific experience of Pozières in 1916, the ‘aif’s severest penalty for indiscipline, repatriation to Australia in disgrace, became no longer effective’.88 By 1918, this attitude seemed even more pervasive. In mid-1918, British army censorship of Australian soldiers’ letters revealed rebellious attitudes. One soldier wrote, ‘It’s a bastard in the line and it’s a bastard out. A man would be better off in the clinc doing a couple of years’.89 By September 1918, there were clearly many Australians who believed that the penalty for failing to follow orders was more preferable than following those orders. Another consideration is that the Australian military successes increased their sense of skill and their perceived value to the Allied war effort. During the Hundred Days Offensive, between August and November 1918, this gave the Australians considerable bargaining power, and they attempted to use this power in negotiations with authorities in September 1918, with mixed success. For example, Blair’s analysis of the 1st Battalion protesters found an over-representation of men from labour-intensive occupations; and he concluded that ‘working-class soldiers were more receptive to demonstrating their grievances than those from white-collar backgrounds’.90 Many of those men were familiar with methods of industrial action, and they attempted to employ their knowledge within this military environment.91 The ‘mutinies of disbandment’ that took place within the aif during September 1918 must be understood within this broader context. By 1918, the men of the aif often knew when, where, and how to protest against breaches 86 Ashley Ekins argued that ‘The final battles of 1918 on the Western Front involved some of the most sustained and costly fighting of the war.’ Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 111. 87 Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 114. 88 Gammage, The Broken Years, p. 174. 89 Cited in Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 111. This may also partly explain the high rate of incarceration among Australian soldiers, as noted earlier. ‘Clinc’ (clink) was a colloquial term for gaol. 90 Blair, Dinkum Diggers, p. 162. 91 For more on this see Wise, ‘In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers’.

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of the moral economy effectively. As argued elsewhere, ‘aggressive action would bring the full attention of the military authorities with their near limitless power of judgement and punishment’, and men rarely protested during military operations. However, Australians developed effective practices for non-violent protests and complaints.92 This knowledge, coupled with their increased status and confidence following combat victories throughout mid-1918 and their exhaustion after extensive periods in the front lines, set the stage for the intense period of protests of September 1918. The citizen-soldier approach to military service, the strong continuation in understandings of the moral economy from civil to military environments, coupled with the cultural values nurtured by the aif, particularly the ideals of independence, irreverence and egalitarianism, resulted in a high frequency of protests within the aif. This was by no means unbounded protest: men had to select their circumstances and the nature of their protest carefully to minimize the risk of punishment, and they often adopted non-violent styles of protest in an effort to avoid punishment. For example, humour was often incorporated into these protests in an attempt to pacify potentially violent situations, to reduce the aggressive tone of the complaint, and to appeal to authorities’ sense of humour.93 As will be shown below, Australians learned that they could protest against breaches in the moral economy within an otherwise strict and hierarchical military environment, and that attitude established a pattern that culminated in the protests of September 1918. The ‘mutinies over disbandment’ within the aif followed remarkably similar patterns to that of the 2nd Maine’s protest. As with the men of the 2nd Maine, by the time the Australian battalions engaged in their protest, they had experienced several years of warfare and were far from rookie volunteers. They had played a key role in Allied operations throughout 1918, and in August and September in particular they led many Allied offensives from the front, effectively as shock troops for the Allied advance.94 With this experience came an increased sense of status and value to the military. The Australians, and their commanders, had demonstrated their skill and ingenuity through the practice of ‘peaceful penetration’, which secured substantial territorial gains and the capture of numerous prisoners and enemy matériel at a relatively low cost in casualties. But, by mid-September, 92 Wise, ‘Fighting a Different Enemy’, and ‘In Military Parlance I Suppose We Were Mutineers’, p. 227. 93 Wise, ‘Fighting a Different Enemy’, pp. 227-8. 94 Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 112.

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many Australian soldiers were exhausted by the war and by their role in it. Men of the rank and file increasingly expressed the belief that they had ‘done enough’; they felt they deserved a rest, and that it was time for other forces to take a larger role in the offensive. In many cases these sentiments were shared by commanding officers.95 Australian battalions were being fielded with fewer and fewer men, and, as previously noted, the risk of rank-and-file resistance was increasing. The steadily declining strength of aif battalions had been a concern for several years. In an effort to increase the strength of those battalions, and increase Australia’s participation in the war in general, the Australian government had tried to introduce conscription, but an appeal for public support had failed in two independent plebiscites in 1916 and 1917. The failure of those plebiscites, coupled with ongoing casualties, meant that the strength of Australian battalions deteriorated further; and, in February 1918, approval was given to disband one battalion in each Australian brigade and to use those men to strengthen the remaining three battalions.96 It was intended that the process would be carried out slowly, on a case-by-case basis as deemed necessary.97 Over the next seven months, only three battalions were disbanded – the 36th, 47th, and 52nd; and by mid-August, the disbandment of additional battalions was deemed a high priority.98 In September, following heavy Australian involvement in the commencement of the offensive in August, the strength of Australian battalions was reduced even further, and in some cases they were at desperately low levels. For example, Bean noted that in September 1918, the battalions of the 4th Australian Division averaged ‘only 19 officers and 405 other ranks (including headquarters)’;99 and in one case, following the previously noted protest by many of its members, the 1st Battalion went into battle on 21 September 1918 with only 10 officers and 84 other ranks.100 95 Ekins, ‘Fighting to Exhaustion’, p. 114. 96 There were, at the time, fifteen brigades in the aif. Two (16th and 17th Brigades) had been formed in England in March and April 1917, but were shortly thereafter disbanded before seeing action. 97 Australian brigades typically consisted of four battalions. Britain, France, and Germany had previously adopted this measure of disbanding the fourth battalion in a brigade. Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 935. 98 An Army Council letter, drafted on 29 August 1918, asked that the reduction of Australian battalions be made a priority. Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 936. 99 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 896. 100 1st Battalion War Diary, September 1918, awm4, Class 23; and 1st Infantry Brigade War Diary, September 1918, pp. 135-7. In addition to non-combat troops in headquarters, a ‘nucleus’ of a

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Although participation in the offensive had caused heavy casualties, thus exacerbating the problems with weak units and increasing the need to disband battalions, the continued success of those weakened battalions in battle gave many men, including officers, cause to think that no changes were required. Even at reduced strength, the Australian battalions continued to succeed in battle. Bean noted that ‘Australian battalions had never been so effective as in the last month when they were all far below strength’.101 Given these successes, many believed their battalions should be allowed to continue together. Even Monash asked that the changes be postponed until the following year.102 General William Birdwood (commanding the Australian Imperial Force) rejected the request; but the concession was that none of the original 16 battalions (in the original four brigades) would be reduced.103 On 12 September 1918, Monash received orders that the first of the ‘1914 Special Leave’ men were to leave their units and return home to Australia.104 The programme was instigated by Australian Prime Minister William ‘Billy’ Hughes, and offered two months’ furlough to the ‘originals’ – the men who had embarked from Australia in 1914.105 It was the first time in the war that Australians were offered leave to return to Australia; they would embark almost immediately for home, and it was originally planned that they would return to Europe during spring 1919. This special leave would further reduce the strength of the Australian battalions, and, although the decision had already been made to disband a number of battalions, it would help justify the decision after the fact. Divisional commanders consulted their brigadiers, and after some deliberation seven battalions were selected for disbandment: the 19th Infantry Battalion (5th Brigade), 21st Infantry Battalion (6th Brigade), 25th Infantry Battalion (7th Brigade), 37th Infantry Battalion (10th Brigade), 42nd Infantry Battalion (11th Brigade), 54th Infantry Battalion (14th Brigade), and 60th Infantry Battalion (15th Brigade). The 29th Infantry Battalion (8th Brigade) battalion was kept out of battle, and in case of heavy casualties this nucleus allowed a unit to ‘survive’ until replacements made up the losses. The recorded nucleus of the 1st Battalion on 21 September 1918 was 122 men. Thus the possible fighting strength of the 1st Battalion was, on this occasion, considerably less than the recorded strength, while the actual fighting strength was notably less. 101 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 936. 102 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 936. P.A. Pedersen, Monash As Military Commander (Melbourne: Monash University Press, 1985), p. 279. 103 The original four were the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th Brigades. 104 Regular leave during the war was usually taken in France or Great Britain. 105 Pedersen, Monash As Military Commander, p. 278.

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was later selected for disbandment in October as it took time to secure the approval of their brigade commander, Joseph John Talbot Hobbs. As noted, several other battalions had disbanded earlier in April and May 1918, including 36th Infantry Battalion (9th Brigade), 47th Infantry Battalion (12th Brigade), and 52nd Infantry Battalion (13th Brigade). The different battalions were informed of the impending disbandment at different times. For example, in the 37th Battalion the possibility of disbandment was raised as early as 14 September, and on that day the unit’s War Diary reported that ‘All ranks are very upset on hearing of the news of the possibility of the Battalion being disbanded’,106 while the following day the it reported: ‘Men are still very upset at the possibility of the Battalion being disbanded’.107 The commanding officer of the 21st Battalion, Bernard Duggan, reported that he received news of his battalion’s disbandment at a ‘Conference held at Brigade Headquarters on 20th [September]’.108 Duggan passed the information to the officers and other ranks within the battalion on the same day. The unit’s War Diary reported on that day: ‘This sudden and unexpected blow caused great dismay amongst all concerned’.109 Confirmation of the 37th Battalion’s disbandment was received on 18 September and officers were advised that, following parade on 23 September 1918, they were to march out from their battalion and join other units. The response to these orders, from both officers and other ranks, was one of great sadness and, in some cases, anger. The immediate reaction to the news of these impending orders was for the men to group together to discuss their options. Among both officers and the rank and file, deputations were formed to represent the views of their respective groups. Some commanding officers even appealed the decisions to their superiors. For example, in the 37th Battalion, Colonel Charles Story wrote several letters protesting against the orders, not only to his brigadier but also to Birdwood, Monash, and General John Gellibrand (commanding the 5th Division). And, in the 21st Battalion, Lieutenant Colonel Duggan reported on a series of negotiations with his brigade commander.110 Within the 21st Battalion, a deputation of officers and a separate deputation of men from the rank and file both independently raised a number of 106 37 th Battalion War Diary, entry for 14 September 1918. awm4, Class 23. 107 37th Battalion War Diary, entry for 15 September 1918. 108 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 26B. Duggan, Report on Action Taken in Connection with Disbandment of 21st Battalion, 27 September 1918, awm4, Class 23. 109 21st Battalion War Diary, entry for 20 September 1918. 110 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 26B. Duggan, Report on Action Taken in Connection with Disbandment of 21st Battalion, 27 September 1918.

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issues for clarification. Their views were put down in writing on 21 September and copies of these, available in the 21st Battalion’s War Diary, provide a revealing insight into the range of sentiments felt by those men, and partly explains their reasons for protesting. One of the first points raised by the 21st Battalion’s officers was that many felt that the end of the war was in sight, and thus there was no need for drastic changes to the unit structure. As an example of this widely held view, the commanding officer of the 21st Battalion had written in his report for September 1918 that ‘The end of the war now appears to be in sight, and all display more zeal and energy at the good prospects ahead’.111 The officers’ deputation also shared a similar sentiment, and they drew upon this belief in their appeal against disbandment: We are not now fighting with our backs to the wall. Excellent news is coming in from all fronts and prospects of peace are brighter than ever before […] Surely we, who are so few in numbers and have done so much, are not of such vital importance that we cannot be spared a little now that America’s millions are arriving and peace is in sight […] Why should the Unit now be disbanded? Especially when we consider victory within our grasp.112

This echoed the sentiment expressed by Monash, as noted earlier. However, the army had already delayed these disbandments by several months, and they were not prepared to delay any longer. A report from the 6th Brigade noted: ‘The time has now arrived when the necessity for action has arisen. The War Office has pressed for an immediate carrying out of the same reorganisation of the remaining Brigades, in order to secure uniformity throughout the Army’.113 Another key sentiment expressed was that the battalion was home for these men, and the focus of their esprit de corps. The men of the aif identified strongly with their unit, and throughout their service time they had helped build up the customs, cultures, and traditions of their unit. Bean argued in the Official History that ‘Australian soldiers had experienced few ties of loyalty in their civil lives; and a public loyalty once conceived was 111 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 31B. Duggan, Commanding Officer’s Report for Month of September 1918, 30 September 1918. 112 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 19 – Copy of Minutes of [Officers’] Deputation to G. O. C. Division, September 1918. 113 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 18A – Report from 6th Brigade on Disbandments, September 1918.

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sustained with a flaming zeal disconcerting to those who had encouraged it’.114 Despite overlooking the many ties of loyalty that bound men in civil society, Bean nonetheless recognized the importance of loyalty in those units targeted for disbandment. The battalions of the aif also liked to see themselves as like a large family; and again, as with the 2nd Maine, there were many family members who signed up together in the same unit. For example, Wayne Matthews and David Wilson’s analysis of the 19th Battalion found several family members serving together, including brothers Harrie and William Trenerry, and cousins Adrian and Harry Hind, among numerous others.115 Disbandment potentially meant breaking up these families and their customs, destroying the esprit de corps that had developed, and removing these men from their homes. The 21st Battalion officers’ deputation asked: Have the authorities appreciated the spirit of a Battalion in the A.I.F? It is more than something abstract. It means everything to a Unit. The very fighting power is dependent on it. The love of one’s Unit had been the predominant factor resulting in the building up of such glorious fighting records by the A.I.F. in the past […] This Battalion has had 3 ½ Years Active Service, and, during that period, has laways [sic] carried out with credit the tasks allotted it. A spirit of camaraderie, a love of Unit and associations have grown up second to none […] Why should we now have to abandon our name, our colours, our records, our associations, and our traditions of 3 ½ Years, when Units that were formed twelve months later are allowed to retain theirs? Our one aim is to fight on and return to Australia with our Battalion, at the termination of the war, proud of its name.116

As indicated in this extract, many of the appeals from these men cited the traditions of the unit and its long three and a half year history. The deputation later argued: ‘Over 7,000 men and their relatives and friends have been associated with our Battalion and all honour the traditions that have been built up by it. Why should these now sink into oblivion?’117

114 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 940. 115 Matthews and Wilson, Fighting Nineteenth, p. 18. 116 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 19 – Copy of Minutes of [Officers’] Deputation to G. O. C. Division, September 1918. 117 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 19.

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The deputation of other ranks from the 21st Battalion expressed similar sentiments: By disbanding the Battalion with all its traditions and the honourable name it has made for itself, the greatest injustice would be done to the men who have gone before, and who have helped to build up those traditions, whilst we who are now with the Unit, who have helped in our several ways to build up and uphold those traditions, are now expected to see these count for nothing, whilst anything of merit that may be performed in the future by us will go to the credit of another Unit.118

And similarly, after receiving word of the order to disband, the official entry in the 54th Battalion War Diary noted: So deep a sentiment had the men for their Battalion that its sacrifice to the interests of the Brigade and incidentally the Australian Corps was to them nothing less than being turned out of a home which held associations so strong and recollections too deep and vivid to be left without regrets.119

Throughout these comments, the clear message was that these men, both officers and other ranks, considered the battalion their home and their family, and thus the disbandment of their battalion would cause a considerable drop in morale. As with the men from the 2nd Maine, they used the language of justice and fairness in expressing their concerns and their sense that these orders were a breach of the moral economy that they had nurtured within their units. Authorities tried to address these concerns by agreeing to transfer members of the disbanded battalions to other units within their brigades. It was argued that it was possible: to ensure that at least all ranks will be retained in their own Brigades and this is a substantial concession, because, after all, it is the Brigade and not the Battalion which is the fighting Unit. No Battalion ever fights by itself, but only as part of its Brigade.120 118 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 17 – Copy of Minutes of [Other Ranks’] Deputation to Brigadier, entry for 20 September 1918. 119 54th Battalion War Diary, entry for 22 September 1918. 120 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 18A – Report from 6th Brigade on Disbandments, September 1918.

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This was a weak argument, and it initially failed to convince the men to accept the orders. As with the 2nd Maine, the men of the aif also contrasted their situation with that of other units, and a common question they asked was ‘Why us?’ Bean argued that, ‘To officers and men of these [disbanding] battalions, the blow was overwhelming. The step might be necessary – but why should their battalion be chosen’.121 This was the question that concerned men the most. They interpreted the order as an insult to their battalion and to their combat history, and they inferred that they were considered the worst-performing unit of their brigade. Within the 21st Battalion, the first question the other ranks’ deputation asked was ‘Why should the 21st Australian Infantry Battalion be disbanded?’122 In their appeal, the men of the 21st Battalion then went on to defend their military performance and reputation. They argued that they were ‘the first Battalion formed in the 6th A. I. Brigade. It was the first in action […] It is therefore the senior Battalion in the Brigade’.123 In a desperate move, the men also implied that other battalions in the brigade deserved to be disbanded before them.124 Thus, the 21st Battalion deputation cited their ‘202 Decorations and Mentions [in dispatches] as against 199 of the 23rd Battalion’, and noted: Our present weakness in strength is partly due to having to perform tasks which other Battalions in the Brigade failed to accomplish. As our weakness is due to the effective carrying out of our duties are we to be punished on this account?125

The men also argued that recent reinforcements were sent to the 22nd Battalion instead of their own, and this partly explained their present weakness. As noted above, the original 16 battalions of the original four brigades formed in 1914 were exempt from disbandment, and the 21st Battalion officers’ deputation also raised this, arguing:

121 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 937 (italics in original). 122 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 17 – Copy of Minutes of [Other Ranks’] Deputation to Brigadier, 20 September 1918. 123 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 17. 124 Similar actions were taken by Colonel Charles Story, who accused two other battalions – the 38th and 39th in the 37 th Battalion’s brigade (the 10th Brigade) – of misconduct in the field. See Bomford, Beaten Down by Blood, p. 326. 125 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 17 – Copy of Minutes of [Other Ranks’] Deputation to Brigadier, 20 September 1918.

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It is not at present intended to disband any of the Battalions of the first four Brigades. The original men of these are now being returned to Australia. Although we still have a high percentage of original men we are asked to sink our identity and begin again. Other Units mean nothing to us compared with our own. It is only the love of Our unit that has kept us always ready to fight for its honour and glory. Crush the Unit and you kill that spirit which is the essence of all morale.126

The Special Leave given to the 1914 ‘originals’, as discussed earlier, not only reduced the strength of the battalions; it also meant that large numbers of men were returning home while others were forced to stay behind and fight. Hector Brewer, a lieutenant serving in the 54th Battalion during the protest, noted on the day the disbandment was announced that ‘Captain McNabb of “A” Coy. Q.M.S. Macdonald and two other N.C.O.s all 1914 men are to leave for “Aussie” tomorrow morning’.127 This created a situation very similar to that seen in the 2nd Maine in 1863. While large numbers of men were returning home to their families, others would have to leave their beloved unit, their comrades, and transfer elsewhere, where they would have to continue fighting with strangers. There is little evidence of bitterness about the leave among the men ordered to remain behind, but it undoubtedly exacerbated their negative feelings about the orders to disband. As with the men of the 2nd Maine, the men of the aif contrasted their circumstances both with that of other units not being disbanded and with other men returning home – and this contributed towards a sense of injustice. Ultimately, the frustrations felt by these men culminated in the protest of September 1918. The process of disbandment was meant to be relatively simple. The men within the targeted units would form up in marching order, and then march to their new battalions where the transfers would take place. They would separate from their comrades and, as with the men of the 2nd Maine, join a new unit with complete strangers, and with an unfamiliar set of traditions and cultures. However, the advanced notice of disbandment in some of these units gave the men ample time to discuss the issue and organize a response.

126 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 19 – Copy of Minutes of [Officers’] Deputation to G. O. C. Division, September 1918. 127 Hector Brewer, No. 820, Groom, ml mss 1300, diary entry dated 22 September 1918. ‘Coy’ is the abbreviation for company.

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Thus, upon receiving the order to form marching order, the universal response from the men, throughout the targeted battalions, was to refuse to follow the order. Duggan, commanding the 21st Battalion, reported: It came to my knowledge that the men held a meeting at 6 p.m. when they decided to carry out any orders or attend any parades, but they would not fall in in marching order to move out to another Unit.128

Similarly, Duggan later noted that ‘the Company Commanders reported that the men refused to fall in in marching order but would fall in in drill order prepared to carry out the syllabus’.129 As Duggan’s entry indicated, the men agreed to adhere to all other orders, with the exception of any orders that would lead to them disbanding and joining other units. They were focused on one objective: returning the situation to the status quo ante. Other units did not require much time to organize their response. The 54th Battalion War Diary reported that meetings were almost immediately held by the men to determine what action they would take.130 Hector Brewer provided an officer’s perspective on the events: The companies were paraded under their respective company commanders at 10 A.M. and the men told to move off to their respective battalions but not a man budged an inch. They refused to recognise any other Bn for themselves but the 54th.131

Similar plans for protest were made, and carried out, throughout the other battalions ordered to disband. At the moment that the rank and file of those battalions were ordered to move to their new units, they universally refused. The 54th Battalion War Diary reported: In every Coy. the men refused to move to their new units, and stood on their Parade Grounds in silent protest against the order […] it had become 128 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 26B. Duggan, Report on Action Taken in Connection with Disbandment of 21 st Battalion, 27 September 1918. The diary entry for 24 September also reported that ‘it came to the knowledge of the C.O. that the men had decided to carry out all duites [sic] required of them with the one exception of falling in in marching order to proceed to another Unit’. 129 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 26B. 130 54th Battalion War Diary, entry for 22 September 1918, awm4, Class 23. 131 Hector Brewer, No. 820, Groom, ml mss 1300, diary entry dated 24 September 1918.

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plain that neither an order or an appeal would bring any change in the situation.132

Throughout this protest, the men continued to follow other orders to work and went about their regular duties throughout the incident. Bean provided a detailed account of the situation in the 37th Battalion: The officers then reluctantly obeyed an order to fall out; after them the sergeants did the same – and one corporal and one private. The remainder were told that, if they did not join their new units that afternoon, they would be posted as absent without leave. Being left to themselves they at once re-established strict military form in the battalion, choosing from their own number commanders to carry on temporarily the absent officers’ duties. It was noticeable that those selected were not the ‘bad hats’ or of the demagogue type, but the men most fitted to lead in action, and strict discipline was maintained. The battalion marched back to its huts; men already in detention for various offences were retained under guard; the medical aid-post was re-formed by the orderlies, and church parade for next day arranged with the padre, who went with the men. The ‘commanders’ had meals with the men, rations being obtained through the support of other units who ‘lost’ occasional boxes of food from their own waggon-loads as they passed near by.133

Order was maintained in the camps and all orders were followed, with the sole exception of the order to move out. Because of the peculiar nature of the protest, the soldiers involved felt uncertain about how to classify and describe their actions. Reynold Potter, serving in the 21st Battalion, revealed his feelings within his diary: I didn’t know how much attached to the Battalion I was until ordered to report to another. I am glad to be able to say now, that, for the present at least, we are to remain of the 21st Batt. For one day we were officially in the 22nd but on that day we were all absentees. When it came to the official handing over; and the relinquishing of his command over the Battalion which he had lead [sic] and worked for almost since its inception, our grand Old Colonel (Duggin) [sic] broke up completely and had to leave the 132 54th Battalion War Diary, entry for 23 September 1918. 133 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 938. Bean noted that the ‘chief commander’ organizing these orderly activities among the protesters was a corporal.

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heart breaking business to Major Reid. So when we should have reported to our respective new O.C’s we refused to be disbanded; and remained and drilled under our Sergeant-Majors as a protest against the business.134

Upon being informed that the 54th Battalion would have to disband at a future date, Hector Brewer recorded details of the response: Rotten news. It has been on the cards for some time now that the 54th Bn. should be broken up to reinforce the other Battalions. The crash has come at last. […] I remember in Egypt at Tel-El-Kebir when the 2nd Bn was split up and I was sent to the 54th never had I felt so miserable or friendless. After going through all the training with the old 2nd Bn. at Mena through the Gallipoli campaign and then to be cast into another unit like a derelict ship at sea. […] My sympathies therefore are with the boys, but duty must be done and the men are simply being allotted by the company Commanders to the various battalions. The men are all standing together like good Australians and I admire their spirit but of course they are quite wrong in taking up such an attitude I am looking at it from an officers point of view of course. […] The men all held a meeting about 5PM to discuss the matter and decide what they should do. It rained heavily all the while but the meeting lasted a full hour out in the open near the Stadium. After the meeting a deputation of representatives of all Coys [companies] waited on the C.O. [commanding officer] to put their case before him. I asked the C.O. what their case was and he told me that the men took a reasonable view of the whole affair but that they did not wish to be broken up without a making a protest.135

This entry from 22 September 1918 suggests that some of these men realized they could not change the circumstances, but they wanted to make their moral outrage clear through a focused act of defiance. But Brewer later also employed the language of industrial action to describe this protest. As noted earlier, the men of the aif had often used such language to describe similar actions during the war, and Brewer employed it again on this occasion. For example, on 25 September, he briefly noted ‘Our boys still on strike’,136 and the following day he noted ‘This morning I watched the boys of the 54th that 134 Reynold Clive Potter, No. 6080, Carpenter, ml mss 2944, transcript of diary, originally written in shorthand, undated entry (c. September 1918), pp. 38-9. 135 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 22 September 1918. 136 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 25 September 1918.

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is the strikers as they might be termed hold a battalion parade under the command of a full blown private and they behaved splendidly.’137 As has been covered in this section, although there were subtle differences in the responses throughout the battalions to be disbanded, there were also several common factors. Firstly, in response to the news, deputations of men of the rank and file (and sometimes even deputations of officers) met to discuss how they would respond. In many cases, these deputations presented a case to their commanding officers, often with a set of alternative suggestions. Then, upon receiving the final order to march to their new unit, there was a universal refusal to obey that particular order. Bean remarked on the reason for these similarities in his account of the events, noting: ‘There was keen sympathy for these troops throughout the force and, one after the other, the other selected battalions, when ordered to disband (mostly on September 24th and 25th) took the same action’.138 This united protest then, was an act of solidarity by the typically working-class rank and file of the Australian Imperial Force in expressing their outrage at a breach of the military moral economy. Each unit, individually, adopted the same action as the other targeted units to demonstrate their universal disregard for the disbandment order. It was a powerful statement to authorities, and, as will be seen, it was one that officers were forced to listen to carefully. Because the protests of the aif took place across different battalions, in different brigades, and in different divisions, they were, at first, handled independently by their battalion and brigade commanders. In each case, the personalities of those commanders, and the approach they took towards the protesters, were often critical in determining how the protesters responded and how the protests were resolved. As with the rank and file, officers were rarely happy with the decision to disband their battalions. Officers had also shared the sense that their unit was a home, and they valued a similar sense of esprit de corps to the men of the rank and file. Brewer recorded the sentiment of his battalion commander in his diary: The Colonel called a meeting of all officers and gave us the ‘dinkum oil’. He was very much upset himself over the matter and considering that he has commanded four battalions up to the present date he must feel it keenly.139 137 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 25 September 1918. 138 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 938. 139 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 22 September 1918.

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The following day Brewer added: The Battalion was formed up on the Battalion parade ground and addressed by the Colonel and later on by the Brigadier (Gen. Steward). He could tell us nothing beyond what we already knew and sympathised with all concerned […] The other Battalions in the Brigade sympathise with us deeply as they realize it would have been equally hard for their own bns to be split up like this. Most of the boys look at it in this light too though of course it is no consolation to them. I feel like a wet rag myself.140

The decision also created some uncertainty among off icers; it meant that they could be transferred elsewhere and that they might lose their commands. Officers thus adopted a sympathetic and, at times, an openly supportive approach towards their men. In several cases, commanding officers received advanced warning of the planned protest, and they too had time to plan their response. Thus, Bernard Duggan, commanding the 21st Battalion, was fully informed that his men intended to carry out all orders except the order to move out to another unit.141 Officers could also learn from the experiences of those earlier protests taking place in other battalions and attempt to head off the complaints of their own men. Thus, in the 19th Battalion, the brigade commander, Edward Martin, communicated the orders to disband on 25 September 1918. Perhaps mindful of the trouble spreading throughout other brigades, he had tried to pre-empt the usual arguments and grant initial concessions that were being demanded elsewhere. According to the 19th Battalion’s War Diary, Martin allowed the following: The 5th Training Battalion in England would be known as the 19th Bn […] At the cessation of hostilities officers and men of the 19th Bn would be reunited for return as a Battalion to Australia. Authority was being sought for the wearing of miniature color patches in addition to colors of the battalion to which men were being sent. Whole companies would be transferred, ie. ‘A’ Coy to 17th Bn, ‘B’ to 18th and ‘D’ to 20th. Whilst ‘C’ Company of 3 platoons would be distributed among the three battalions.142

140 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 23 September 1918. 141 21st Battalion War Diary, Appendix 26B. Duggan, Report on Action Taken in Connection with Disbandment of 21st Battalion, 27 September 1918. 142 19th Battalion War Diary, entry dated 25 September 1918. awm4, Class 23.

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Martin also argued that ‘There was no question of efficiency or fighting value involved: it was simply an order from higher authority following similar actions on the part of British Army authorities at earlier stages of the war’.143 There is little evidence of rank-and-file hostility being directed towards officers within the battalion, and evidence suggests that the refusal to follow orders was both communicated clearly and conducted in a civil manner. Officers tried to reason with the men rather than simply demanding an adherence to orders. Dale Blair noted that: During the French mutinies of 1917, a preferred method for the defusing of the demonstrations of the mutineers was to have officers known to the men speak to them gently in an attempt to see reason (as the commanders saw it). This succeeded in a number of instances.144

Similar strategies were employed during the protests of September 1918, with mixed success. Battalion and brigade commanding officers often attempted to speak directly to the protesters and make personal appeals for them to cease their action. For example, Brewer described the situation in the 54th Battalion: The C.O. therefore called a muster parade and told the men that their efforts to reform the Bn. would be fruitless and asked representatives from each company to come go out to him and state their reasons for not obeying orders. After a little talk with these men the C.O. advised them to rejoin their companies and ask the men if they would go to the other units straight out. The reply was a unanimous No. The Brigadier came along and addressed the Bn. again and again advised them to obey orders but to no purpose. The Acting Divisional Commander then put in an appearance and also appealed to the men to go over to the battalions to which they were allotted pointing out the futility of their present a course of action. Still no response from the men.145

In the same entry Brewer reported that, while the rank and file continued to protest, the ‘late 54th officers were welcomed into the 55th Battalion officers

143 19th Battalion War Diary, entry dated 25 September 1918. 144 Blair, Dinkum Diggers, p. 159. 145 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 24 September 1918 (underline in original).

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[sic] Mess tonight’.146 Thus, while the rank and file protested, the officers began to make their move to their new battalions. Although officers generally treated the protesters with empathy and respect, at times threats were made against the men. In the 42nd Battalion, an extract from the Manual of Military Law was posted on company notice boards in early October. This advised the rank and file of the following: (1) Men present on parade, or present accidentally, or induced by false pretences to attend a meeting, where a mutiny is begun or contrived will be guilty of an offence under this paragraph although they took no active part, and therefore can hardly be said to have joined in the mutiny. (2) Each one of a body of men not marching or not coming from their barrack room when duly ordered, is guilty of mutiny, if he cannot show that his disobedience was occasioned solely by reason of compulsion. (3) A private soldier, for example, would properly without delay inform his Sergeant of any actual or intended mutiny or tradition in any of his Majestys [sic] Forces, and information so given would be held to be given to his Commanding Officer within the meaning of the section. (4) Provocation by a superior, or the existence of grievences [sic] is no justif ication for mutiny or insubordination, though such circumstances would be allowed due weight in considering the question of punishment.147 Officers had been lenient during the protests in September, and this was an attempt to head off any repeat of those earlier incidents. Similar threats were made in the 60th Battalion, which had earlier avoided disbandment alongside the 52nd Battalion in April-May 1918. At the time, their Brigade Commander, ‘Pompey’ Elliott, had attempted to cable the following concerns to the former commander of the 60th Battalion, Harry Duigan: aif authorities decree 60th Battalion too weak [to] carry on […] no other reinforcements available. 60th Battalion fought hardest, penetrated farthest [into] enemy’s ranks, killed most, lost most men [at] VillersBretonneux. For such a deed as this [the] French grant Croix de Guerre, 146 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 24 September 1918. 147 42nd Battalion War Diary, Appendix 1 – Memorandum on Mutiny and Insubordination, dated 12 October 1918. awm4, Class 23.

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the Germans the Iron Cross to their regiments, ensuring men immortal renown. Australia leaves hers to perish like sheep in drought time to please her Bolsheviks. Such regiments are not bred in a day […] In all Melbourne [are] there not a thousand volunteers to save this regiment created from is suburbs, blood of its blood, flesh of its flesh, bone of its bone, having won imperishable fame, from dissolution and the Brigade robbed of its right arm?148

However, when orders came through to disband the battalion in September 1918, Elliott appeared to have changed his stance, and he arranged for the disbandment to proceed. When orders were communicated to the men on 26 September, the men followed the path set by those in other battalions over the preceding days – and they too refused to comply. Elliott had been sympathetic to protesters in the battalion earlier in the month, but on this occasion it seemed his patience had worn out. He berated the men and threatened to transfer them to a different brigade. He also warned the men that the death penalty could be imposed for desertion or mutiny, and that even if they did not shoot everyone, they may just shoot the ringleaders or one in every ten of the men involved.149 Elliott eventually changed tack, and began to appeal to the men’s rationale. He read out his earlier cable to Duigan, and indicated that this time there was no alternative. After Elliott gave the men of the 60th Battalion some time to consider the situation, and after a round of further discussions, the protesters all eventually ended their protest and marched off to their new unit, the 59th Battalion. This was the only battalion where such a quick resolution was reached, and both Bean and McMullin argue that it was due to the personal power Elliott had in maintaining the discipline of his men and enforcing his orders.150 Elliott reflected on the situation as such: ‘By using my influence to its utmost I managed to sway the men over the line, and they marched off in grand style. My Brigade is the only one in which the reorganisation was successfully accomplished’.151 In the other battalions, after several days of discussion and consultation between commanding officers (and amidst ongoing protests), orders came through to temporarily delay or ‘hold over’ the order to disband – Monash 148 Draft of cable from ‘Pompey’ Elliott to Harry Duigan, dated 14 May 1918. According to Ross McMullin, the cable was blocked by Birdwood. Cited in McMullin, Pompey Elliott, p. 488. 149 McMullin, Pompey Elliott, p. 489. 150 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 939; see also McMullin, Pompey Elliott, p. 491. 151 Cited in McMullin, Pompey Elliott, p. 491.

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had successfully sought Haig’s approval to postpone the order for fourteen days. Thus, following a peaceful protest by the men of the 21st Battalion, the unit’s War Diary reported that, ‘for the present the disbandment would be in abeyance’.152 The 54th Battalion War Diary reported that ‘a wire was received intimating the Battalion would be reformed temporarily on account of the impending movements of the 5th Australian Division’.153 The 42nd Battalion War Diary was generally quiet on the issue and made no mention of a protest; instead, it simply recorded: ‘This order to disband was postponed at the eleventh hour, and Coys dismissed to their billets’.154 The following day the 42nd Battalion War Diary simply reported: ‘Normal routine was carried out’.155 Brewer, while initially critical of the protest, wrote gleefully in his diary: The boys have had a win though we are assured that is only a temporary arrangement. […] we are going into action as the 54th Bn. The good old 54th. Every body is delighted. The men are taking it very soberly though.156

The need to organize these battalions and get them back into the front lines was deemed, in late September, more important than enforcing an administrative order. The rank and file of those units had stood their ground during their protest, and, for the time being at least, had forced their officers into a compromise. In late September, the men of the aif were sent back into the front lines to support the offensive against the Hindenburg Line. The units targeted for disbandment were to serve in battle for one final time before disbanding. This action depleted the units even further. According to Bean, between 28 September and 2 October 1918, the 29th Battalion lost a further 1 officer and 79 other ranks; the 37th Battalion lost 7 officers and 106 other ranks; the 42nd Battalion lost 4 officers and 32 other ranks; and the 54th Battalion lost 5 officers and 58 other ranks.157 When those units eventually left the front lines, officers once again put the issue of disbandment in motion. This time, however, they gave further concessions to the men, coupled with some thinly veiled threats, and there was little further resistance from the rank and file. 152 21st Battalion War Diary, entry for 25 September 1918. 153 54th Battalion War Diary, entry for 25 September 1918. 154 42nd Battalion War Diary, entry for 25 September 1918. 155 42nd Battalion War Diary, entry for 26 September 1918. 156 Hector Brewer, diary entry dated 27 September 1918. 157 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 1013.

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When the men of the 42nd Battalion were originally informed that their unit was disbanding, they were told they would be ‘put in Pltns and Pltns transferred […] to 3 other Bns of Bde with their Pltn officers if possible’.158 This would redistribute the men throughout three other units and largely destroy their sense of company and battalion unity and esprit de corps. However, after their protest and much discussion, officers reached a compromise and the men were all transferred to different companies of the 41st Battalion, with the bulk going into B Company, which was intended to be composed entirely of former members of the 42nd Battalion. They were further informed that: All future deeds and actions of ‘B’ Coy. 41st Battalion, will be recorded as the Historical records of the 42nd Battalion and this Coy. (‘B’ Coy) will, when wastages occur in it, be reinforced by members of the 42nd Battalion absorbed [elsewhere] in hq ‘A’, ‘C’, ‘D’ Coys. 41st Battalion.159

The men were also advised that ‘the 42nd Battalion will […] become the Training Battalion of the 11th Inf. Brigade’. However, much like Chamberlain’s approach to the 2nd Maine men, those of the 42nd Battalion were encouraged to wholeheartedly accept their new home, and thus the 42nd Battalion men ‘will wear the colour patches of the 41st Battalion and will foster the “esprit de corps” of 41st Battalion’.160 The importance of the colour patch should not be underestimated; Bean noted that men ‘became intensely attached to these colours’.161 Similar compromises were reached elsewhere. In the 60th Battalion, ‘Pompey’ Elliott assured the men that a training unit would be known as the 60th Battalion (thus keeping the name alive) and they could continue to wear their 60th Battalion colour patches.162 In the 25th Battalion, which joined the 26th Battalion, orders received on 12 October 1918 indicated that ‘C’ and ‘D’ companies of the 26th Battalion were intended to be dedicated to the 25th Battalion men, and would be commanded by former officers and ncos of the 25th battalion. Furthermore, ‘the designation “25th Battalion” will 158 42nd Battalion War Diary, entry for 21 September 1918. ‘Pltns’ was the abbreviation used for platoons, ‘Bns’ for battalions, and ‘Bde’ for brigade. 159 42nd Battalion War Diary. October 1918. Special order by Lieut. Colonel A. R. Woolcock dated 13 October 1918. 160 42nd Battalion War Diary. October 1918. Special order by Lieut. Colonel A. R. Woolcock dated 13 October 1918. 161 Bean, Official History: Vol. I, p. 139. 162 McMullin, Pompey Elliott, pp. 490-91.

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apply to the Training Battalion in England of the 7th A. I. Brigade’.163 This contrasts with the situation in the 19th Battalion, whose War Diary reported that the final resolution was that the men were ‘distributed by platoons to the 3 battalions [of the brigade]’.164 The compromises made by officers seemed to satisfy most of the men of the rank and file throughout those battalions targeted for disbandment. As had happened with Joshua Chamberlain in the 20th Maine, officers clearly empathized with the men and recognized that this was an unfair situation that breached the moral economy that operated within these units. Officers also worked to achieve a resolution to the protest by specifically addressing those values and reassuring the men that the moral economy would be restored within their new units. Ultimately, this approach worked, the protests ceased, and the orders to disband went ahead in October 1918. The caring approach utilized by certain officers meant that long-term protests were non-existent. The 37th Battalion’s War Diary entry for 11 October 1918 simply reported that the men ‘are very downhearted over the breaking up of the Battalion’, but they moved out nonetheless.165 Officers also refused to punish the men for their actions, and Bean noted that, of the thousands of men who protested, ‘No man was punished for his part in the disbandment mutiny’.166 Clearly, the lack of punishment also indicates that officers also felt that this was a breach, and they were not comfortable punishing their men for what they felt was a response to legitimate concerns.

163 25th Battalion War Diary. October 1918. Special order by Lieut. Colonel W. M. Davis dated 12 October 1918. awm4, Class 23. 164 19th Battalion War Diary. October 1918. Diary entry for 10 October 1918. 165 37 th Battalion War Diary, October 1918. Entry for 11 October 1918. 166 Bean, Official History: Vol. VI, p. 935.

4

The 50th and 51st Divisions of the British Army

The British Territorial Army of the Second World War was a far more disciplined force than both the Australian Imperial Force (aif) and the 2nd Maine of earlier conflicts. Whereas both the 2nd Maine and the aif displayed general patterns of protest throughout their respective wars (including, in each force, incidences of mass protest), the 50th and 51st Divisions of the British Army during the Second World War displayed a generally strict adherence to authority. Class differences and antagonisms in the British military during the 1930s and 1940s were certainly evident to the men of the rank and file, and, once again, those differences replicated the class differences of civil society; but a key difference was that those men of the rank and file rarely resorted to any form of direct action within that military environment. However, as will be seen, all men had their limits; and, much like their American and Australian counterparts, the rank and file of those Territorial Army divisions would not tolerate a gross breach in the military moral economy that they had nurtured and seen legitimized by familiar officers over several years of exhausting warfare. A small group of men from the 50th and 51st Divisions had their limits tested in September 1943. The men of the 50th and 51st Divisions were drawn from a vast geographical area encompassing Northumberland, Durham, Yorkshire, and the Scottish Highlands. By the start of the Second World War, the units formed in these areas had established long and proud histories of service with the British Army. Following the Act of Union in 1707, men from the Highlands had served within the military forces of the British Crown; and by the end of the nineteenth century Highland regiments such as the Black Watch, the Seaforth Highlanders, and the Gordon Highlanders, among others, were regarded as among the army’s elite. Battalions from those regiments made up the core of the 51st Division during the Second World War. Similar regiments from the region – such as Yorkshire’s Green Howards and the East Yorkshire Regiment, and the Durham Light Infantry – also shared similar prestigious reputations upon which the 50th Division was built. But, as explored below, despite this long history of service from the region, and the proud traditions of their military units, the British Army of the Second World War was different to the British Army of earlier eras, and much had changed in the nature of volunteers and in their approach to military service.

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Much like the sentiment in the usa, the British had also long expressed concerns about the social and political implications of a large standing army, particularly fearing that it could encourage military despotism.1 For centuries, Britain had relied on the Royal Navy for the defence of their interests, and that had always proved sufficient. As such, and again much in line with the sentiment in the usa, the preference had long been for the raising of amateur and temporary soldiers who could be brought into existence when required.2 For several centuries, this sentiment had been expressed through different auxiliary systems in Britain. Various militia forces such as the Exact Militia, the New Militia, and the Supplementary Militia – all operating under different rules – had existed at different stages, but they were generally regarded as a form of conscription.3 Ian Beckett argued that ‘true volunteer bodies, in the sense of defending their local communities’, only emerged in the seventeenth century, and even then they were only called upon ‘at times of great emergency’. 4 The Boer War forced a change in those sentiments. The early setbacks experienced by the British during the war, particularly during the ‘Black Week’ of December 1899, led to serious reflections on the quality and quantity of the British Empire’s armed forces; on the standards of manliness in the Empire; and on the militaristic values of British society.5 The subsequent Haldane Reforms of the 1900s and early 1910s thus sought not only to reorganize the armed forces, but also to instil military virtues into the British people, with youth targeted in particular.6 Part of these reforms included the reorganization of the Volunteers/Yeomanry into a new Territorial Force, focused on home defence and based around geographical loyalties. The new units of that Territorial Force (later known as the Territorial Army) were subsequently raised and to a large extent managed by local County Territorial Associations.7 As a result of this formation, the units of the Territorials developed a clear geographically based identity. 1 Beckett, Territorials, p. 3. 2 Beckett, Territorials, p. 3. 3 Beckett, Territorials, pp. 4-6. 4 Beckett, Territorials, p. 6. 5 Joanna Bourke, Dismembering the Male: Men’s Bodies, Britain and the Great War (London: Reaktion Books, 1996), p. 13. See also Beckett, Territorials, p. 26. 6 Beckett, Territorials, p. 28. The reforms were named after Richard Burdon Haldane, Secretary of State for War. 7 These associations, made up of civil and military members, were ‘responsible for clothing, equipment, upkeep of buildings and ranges, and jointly with the units for recruiting’. Edward Riddell and Muirhead Collins Clayton, The Cambridgeshires, 1914 to 1919 (Cambridge: Bowes and

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While the British Regular Army had long been steeped in authoritarian traditions, and was renowned for its adherence to strict disciplinary standards, the Territorial Army developed a different set of traditions. Further changes came in the aftermath of the First World War, and the stories of trench warfare that emerged from the conflict destroyed any remaining romantic or glorious images of war. In the 1920s and 1930s officers wanted obedient soldiers, but they were increasingly dealing with men who questioned authority and were far from the ideal soldier. David French noted that, during the late 1930s, ‘Three-quarters of recruits for the rank and file were unskilled, urban labourers’, many of whom could ‘scarcely read or write’,8 and who were of a generation that ‘would not offer unquestioning obedience to their officers’.9 British civilians were willing to serve in their local units, but not on the same strict terms that their predecessors had. For example, the Territorials developed an attitude where they preferred to be asked, rather than ordered, to perform a task. Richard Forbes, who served as an officer with the 9th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry (dli), thus recalled that many of his initial experiences with the battalion revolved around managing the men of the rank and file: It was really training you how to behave yourself, how to control other people, and [how to] control them with respect still remaining. Which was a rather tall [order]. That was really what they were trying to do. In the Regular Army, a Regular Army officer, you’ve got your other ranks, ‘you do this’, and that was the end of it, full stop. If you got a bit of respect from them, fair enough. But in our case with the Territorials, you had to get the respect first, as well as [lead them], otherwise it just wouldn’t work you see.10

As Forbes’ comments suggest, officers had to concentrate on working with their men, rather than just directing them. Forbes elaborated that, as an officer, ‘you had to have a sense of comradeship and working together in

Bowes, 2012), p. xvi. Beckett also noted that these associations were responsible for promoting military virtues in civil society. Beckett, Territorials, p. 28. 8 David French, Raising Churchill’s Army: The British Army and the War against Germany 1919-1945 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 49. 9 French, Raising Churchill’s Army, p. 14. French added that a key factor in this was the removal of the death penalty in 1930. 10 Interview with Richard Forbes by Harry Moses, Imperial War Museum (hereafter iwm), Catalogue no. 16714, Reel 2, 10:00-10:50.

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the TA, because otherwise it just fell apart’.11 Forbes also added that to gain the respect and the obedience of the Territorial rank and file, he: treated them, first of all, as individuals, not talking down to them, showing them how you think it should be done, and then expecting them to follow. But if you could do it as well as, and in most cases, better, than they could doing their best, that was the thing to aim for. In other words it was learning how to drive a carrier or fire a rifle or strip down a machine gun, you had to be able to do that as well as, or better, than they could. So that meant a lot of extra private practice on your own part, to show them that that’s the standard to aim for, we’re not telling you to do something that we can’t do ourselves. That was the basic principle.12

This not only reflected a new approach towards leadership, but also recognition of the levels of respect demanded by the typically working-class recruits of the rank and file. It was clear that, as much as life in the military changed those recruits and their outlooks on life, so too did the military authorities have to modify their approach to suit this type of soldier.13 As a result of these attitudes, Territorial units in the pre-war years were plagued by issues of indiscipline, which were exacerbated by government neglect.14 Accounts of the Territorial Army at the time typically refer to the lack of equipment and its impact on training. For example, Peter Lewis remarked in his history of the 8th Battalion of the dli, that, ‘because of the appalling lack of equipment, coloured flags had been used to represent Bren guns and mortars’.15 Similarly Bernard Ferguson recalled of the Black Watch that, ‘The battalion had 22 Bren guns instead of 50; its anti-tank rifles were represented by lengths of gas piping stuck into pieces of wood; its carriers by blue flags; and its mortars and anti-tank guns not at all’.16 And Richard Forbes recalled of the 9th dli:

11 Interview with Richard Forbes, Reel 2, 14:50-15:00. 12 Interview with Francis Waterston by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 16713 Reel 3, 13:00-14:00. 13 Alan Allport, Browned Off and Bloody-Minded: The British Soldier Goes to War, 1939-1945 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2015), p. xvi. 14 French, Raising Churchill’s Army, p. 54. 15 P.J. Lewis (assisted by I.R. English), 8th Battalion the Durham Light Infantry 1939-1945 (Uckfield: Naval and Military Press, 2011), p. 1. 16 Bernard Fergusson, The Black Watch and the King’s Enemies (London: Collins, 1950), p. 18.

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even [at] the last camp, we had one vehicle, one vehicle, that was all, one Bren gun, one Boys anti-tank rifle, and that was the lot. And then every man had a rifle, but that was all we had. And this was the year the war started. It was absolutely appalling when you come to think of it.17

Territorial units were starved of new equipment, of sufficient and competent officers, of opportunities for training, and even of sufficient numbers of recruits.18 The recruits those units did manage to secure (after weeding out many who failed the medical checks) were generally deemed by authorities to be poor quality;19 they were men who prided themselves on their relaxed and casual approach to military service, and who contrasted themselves with the professional stature of the Regulars. Indeed, few men enlisted in the Territorial Army because they wanted to fight in foreign wars or serve as professional soldiers like the Regulars. Instead, as Peter Dennis argued: [M]any men joined the Territorial Army because of the positive rewards it offered – an annual camp, often in pleasant surroundings, a yearly bounty and good rates of pay at camp, the comradeship of the unit, and the social activities associated with the Territorials.20

Their reasons for enlisting, largely revolving around such social benefits, subsequently shaped their expectations of and their approaches towards military service. In particular, many of these men saw themselves, much like the men of the 2nd Maine and of the aif, as citizen-soldiers, and the Territorial Army developed a peace-time reputation for military inefficiency aligned with that outlook. The Territorials would never be recognized as having the same status as the Regular Army. As David Fraser argued, during the early years of the Second World War in particular: Regular units possessed a basic discipline and standard of administration which Territorial units had in many cases had too little time to acquire, and too little experience to develop. Regular units had at least a 17 Interview with Richard Forbes, Reel 3, 21:30-21:55. 18 French, Raising Churchill’s Army, p. 54. 19 French, Raising Churchill’s Army, p. 54. 20 Peter Dennis, The Territorial Army, 1907-1940 (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1987), pp. 152-3. However, Dennis acknowledges that there was an increase in men enlisting for patriotic reasons in 1938-1939.

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tradition of a high standard of skill at arms, which the majority worthily maintained.21

Even by 1940, Fraser adds, the Territorial brigades had had all too little chance and help to develop the fundamental qualities of the soldier. They had been starved of equipment. They had suffered from an unplanned and unprepared expansion, and the equally unprepared introduction of conscription just before the war. Their soldiers had not the experience which a long tradition of National Service gives to successive generations.22

Colonel E.J. King of the Middlesex Association thus recorded his observations in 1943 on Regular Army officers’ treatment of Territorials: ‘The less intelligent type of staff officer, in the sacred name of discipline, lost no opportunity of showing his contempt in the most offensive and provocative manner for the TA and all its ways’.23 Such disrespect was not universal, however, and Richard Forbes remarked on the level of respect he and other Territorial officers of the dli received from some Regular Army officers: They were very good the Regular Army officers, and recognising that we [the TA] had a part to play. That was one thing I always found with all dli officers, Regular in particular, they did not talk down to the Territorial officers. Now some regiments did this, ‘Oh he’s only a TA chap, we won’t bother with him very much’, but the dli officers never did that. They just treated you as equals and gave you the best of their time and experience.24

In many ways, the differences between the Territorials and the Regular Army reflected the differences between the volunteer/militia units and the Regular units of the Union Army during the American Civil War. British Regulars were seen as professional, career-oriented soldiers, whereas the Territorials were akin to regional militia, oriented towards home defence and based around geographical areas. While, from September 1939 onwards,

21 David Fraser, And We Shall Shock Them: The British Army in the Second World War (London: Bloomsbury, 2011), p. 42. 22 Fraser, And We Shall Shock Them, p. 58. 23 Cited in Dennis, The Territorial Army 1907-1940, p. 256. 24 Interview with Richard Forbes, Reel 2, 24:00-24:45.

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the distinction between the Regular Army and Territorials may have been removed for official purposes, the cultural differences remained. One notable distinction was that Territorial officers found it relatively more difficult to gain command positions and promotions, while Regular Army officers often expressed resentment at the idea of serving under a Territorial Army officer.25 This was not without justification, as Territorial officers typically received far less officer training than Regular Army officers. For example, David French argued that, whereas Regular officers were ‘trained to assume appointment two ranks above their current job, Territorial officers were trained to carry out only their existing appointment’.26 Fraser took this argument further, arguing that Territorial officers ‘knew too little; the blind had too much to lead the blind’.27 Fraser also suggested that their early war failures were due to ‘lack of training and time’.28 From September 1939 onwards, despite the different forces now all serving under the united British Army, Territorial officers were still treated differently. One Member of Parliament (mp) told the British House of Commons in 1944: I submit that after five years of war it is not unreasonable to say that man for man the Territorial Army officer and the Regular Army officer ought to be of the same standard of efficiency, but it may be said that it would be easier for a cable to go through the eye of a needle than for a Territorial Army officer to aspire to a rank higher than that of major, and certainly the command of formations such as brigade and higher seems to be almost exclusively though not entirely, reserved for Regular officers.29

In another blow to Territorial aspirations, any promotions Territorial officers gained during the war were only considered temporary, in contrast to Regular officers, who could keep their wartime rank in the post-war years.30 Much like the American militia system, the original aim of the Territorial system was home defence. In a memorandum dated 23 November 1906, Haldane recorded his view that the new force should ‘garrison naval

25 Jeremy A. Crang, The British Army and the People’s War, 1939-1945 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2000), p. 52. 26 French, Raising Churchill’s Army, p. 63. 27 Fraser, And We Shall Shock Them, p. 58. 28 Fraser, And We Shall Shock Them, p. 328. 29 House of Commons Debate, 13 March 1945, vol. 409, cc 95-202. 30 Beckett, Territorials, p. 122-3.

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ports, replace regular garrisons and provide defence against hostile raids’.31 Furthermore, while intended as a reserve force, Haldane hoped that up to a quarter of Territorials would volunteer for overseas service.32 While the Armed Forces (Conditions of Service) Act 1939, explored in more detail below, changed the role and identity of those Territorial units, the local connections remained strong. Such a local geographical focus on the recruitment and intended operations of these units further helped to solidify the identity and esprit de corps of those divisions. Ian Beckett noted that local employers supported the activities of the Territorials, with some businesses even insisting that their local employees serve as Territorial volunteers.33 Andrew Madden, who served with the 8th and 11th Battalions of the dli, recalled that, in 1939: ‘They were trying to get people into the TA, even the firms were saying “Okay, if you join, no problem, we’ll give you time off”. And the firms encouraged it, and that’s how a lot of fellows did join’.34 Although the Territorial units underwent a range of changes in the years leading up to the Second World War, the 50th and 51st Divisions had long been established entities. The 50th Division was originally formed in 1908 as the 50th (Northumbrian) Division, part of the new Territorial Force created under the Haldane Reforms. The division saw extensive service on the Western Front during the First World War, and was reformed along with other divisions of the Territorial Force in 1920 to become the Northumbrian Division of the new Territorial Army. In 1938, the division was selected for transition to become a motorized formation, and became the 50th (Northumbrian) Motorised Division. Following the outbreak of the Second World War, the division was sent to France to join the British Expeditionary Force, where it was primarily tasked with establishing defences on the FrenchBelgian border. It was reorganized back into an infantry division in May 1940, to become the 50th (Northumbrian) Infantry Division. The 51st Division was also originally formed during the creation of the Territorial Force in 1908 as the 1st (Highland) Territorial Division and then, from 1915, as the 51st Highland Division. As Richard Doherty noted, they were recruited ‘from the Highlands and Islands north of the Clyde and Forth valleys’ and incorporated twelve battalions of the five Highland regiments, including units from the prestigious Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, 31 Ian F.W. Beckett, Britain’s Part-Time Soldiers: The Amateur Military Tradition, 1558-1945 (Barnsley: Pen and Sword Military, 2011), p. 215. 32 Beckett, Britain’s Part-Time Soldiers, p. 215. 33 Beckett, Britain’s Part-Time Soldiers, p. 218. 34 Interview with Andrew Madden by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 16728, Reel 2, 21:00-21:20.

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Gordon Highlanders, Seaforth Highlanders, and Cameron Highlanders.35 However, the continuity of cultures and traditions was greatly disrupted by the surrender of the vast bulk of the division to German forces in France in June 1940. While some members managed to escape, the division was effectively rebuilt from the ground up under a new commander, Douglas Wimberley, and comprising new battalions (although still predominantly consisting of Highlander battalions). Following the surrender of most of the 51st Division, Wimberley made a concerted effort to rebuild the reputation, identity, and esprit de corps of the division. He attempted to rally the new reinforcements around himself as their new commander, and he became known affectionately as ‘Big Tam’ or ‘Tartan Tam’. To assist with this, Wimberley made himself personally visible and approachable to the men of the division. Roderick Grant argued that: He believed in the outward and visible signs of corporate pride as a stimulus to the inner springs and he made sure that, wherever 51st Division went in its long trail of battle, the world should know that it had passed that way. It was a duty of his Military Police to write large the simple divisional emblem of HD [Highland Division] all along that honourable trail.36

Wimberley continually led the 51st Division throughout the North African campaign and the invasion of Italy, from June 1941 through to August 1943, and he thus had a profound impact on the identity and esprit de corps of the division. A key trait in the identity of these divisions was their geographical origins. The 50th Division’s emblem, two linked Ts, represented the Rivers Tyne and Tees between which many of the men were recruited. Similarly, the 51st Division’s emblem, a linked HD, proudly proclaimed these men as Scottish Highlanders. Indeed, Wimberley also made concerted efforts during his command to make the 51st an all-Scottish unit. He discouraged Scotsmen from transferring out of the unit and encouraged Scotsmen in other units to transfer into the 51st to take the place of Englishmen in the unit.37 For example, upon a visit to 155 Reinforcement and Transit Camp in Tripoli, he instructed the camp staff to encourage Scotsmen serving in

35 Richard Doherty, None Bolder: The History of the 51st Highland Division in the Second World War (Stroud: Spellmount, 2006), p. 3 36 Roderick Grant, The 51st Highland Division at War (London: Ian Allan, 1977), p. 39. 37 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p.139.

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other divisions to volunteer to transfer to the 51st Division.38 The idea was that the men would be bound by both loyalty to the 51st Division and loyalty to Scotland. The geographical focus of these divisions gave rise to what David French described as ‘local patriotism’, which, he argued, ‘could be just as powerful a force as county or civic patriotism in encouraging a sense of common identity between civilians and soldiers’.39 This local patriotism extended throughout the individual battalions and brigades within these divisions. For example, David Rissik’s history of the Durham Light Infantry during the Second World War, published shortly after the war in 1953, proudly traced the local connections that the Durham infantry units had long forged with the region. He argued that, ‘The territorial basis of the Regiment has always been strong’, with Rissik tracing connections between local nobility and Durham militia back to 1685. 40 This local patriotism can also clearly be seen in the sentiments of the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions, and their respective battalions and brigades. Local patriotism helped forge a connection in these men between their roles as civilians and soldiers. Prior to September 1939, members of those Territorial units experienced that military environment as part of their civilian lives. They worked in mines or factories throughout the week, and, on Saturday nights, they contributed several hours to Territorial training. The values and beliefs they nurtured throughout the week were brought to the Territorial training halls on Saturdays. This helped create a sense of continuity in their lives. In peacetime, the men of the unit lived in the same town, often in the same street, and they frequently worked in the same occupation under the authority of the same managers. They shared similar values and assumptions about life, about their rights, and about their place in the broader social structure, all of which contributed towards their views of the moral economy that developed in those military environments. Just like the men of the 2nd Maine and the men of the aif, the typical Territorial recruit of the 50th and 51st Divisions identified as a citizen-soldier. Doherty argued that, during the inter-war years, men came to the 51st Division to become ‘Saturday night soldiers’, 41 so called because drills and 38 Examination of csm R. Green, Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 2 November 1943, Court Martial Papers, The National Archives (hereafter tna), WO 71/819, p. 67. 39 David French, Military Identities: The Regimental System, the British Army, and the British People, 1870-2000 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 240. 40 David Rissik, The D. L. I. at War: The History of the Durham Light Infantry, 1939-1945 (Uckfield: The Naval and Military Press, 2012), p. 2. 41 Doherty, None Bolder, p. 3.

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parades typically took place during Saturday evenings. 42 For example, he noted of the 51st Division: Each volunteer soldier spent an annual camp with his unit as well as several weekends and, usually, one night a week as part of the training programme, attending drill halls throughout the Highlands and Islands.43

Such men approached their time in the Territorials as a casual interest. This was not full-time military service and they did not see themselves as professional soldiers. Indeed, as noted earlier, few men even considered the prospects of fighting a ‘real’ enemy. When Francis Waterston was asked if he was looking forward to going abroad in 1939, he replied simply that he ‘never thought no much about it’. 44 Many Territorials never considered that their casual Saturday evening of drill would result in full-time military service abroad. Thomas Myers reflected on the casual approach he took to service in the Territorials: In May 1939, the trendy thing to do then was to join the Territorials […] everybody wanted to be in the Territorials […] You get a weekend away, different places, you’re well looked after, and then you get an annual camp, you get away for a fortnight, oh that’ll be good, and then we go on the Territorials. […] You just went up to the drill hall […] When you went in they said sit in the men’s room, they had a men’s room with a bar in, and they called you in, wanted a chat and took your particulars, and at the end all those who gave their particulars, they called you in the office and they swore you in, together you took the oath […] No medical, and no exam, just this little bit of paper what you just filled in. 45

As Myers’s recollections suggest, many soldiers enlisted in the Territorials in a group, with friends, family members, or co-workers. In many cases, men were following in the footsteps of their forebears. For example, George Ledger’s father had served with the 8th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry during the First World War, and George remarked that he and his brothers were all forced by their father to also serve with the 8th Battalion 42 Robert Roberts, A Ragged Schooling: Growing Up in the Classic Slum (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1997), p. 155. 43 Doherty, None Bolder, p. 7. 44 Interview with Francis Waterston, Reel 7, 3:30-3:40. 45 Interview with Thomas Myers, Reel 2, 13:00-14:30.

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when they became eligible.46 Those close-knit civilian communities – often centred on workplaces, streets, or villages – along with their values and beliefs were replicated within the Territorial Army. Francis Waterston, who would also go on to serve with the 8th Battalion of the dli in the 50th Division, reflected on his reasons for enlisting in the Territorial Army: We lived in a street, Mortland Street, and in that street there were a lot of families, with lads and lasses, and in that street we were all friends, everybody in the street was firm friends. And what one did the other did, and where one went the other went, and what one played at the other played at. And because my brother was the more active of the lot, he was the ringleader […] We signed a form, we got the King’s shilling. 47

Because many men joined the Territorials alongside friends and family, Saturday evening drill was often a precursor to a longer night of socializing and heavy drinking. Thus, Robert Roberts reflected on public attitudes towards the Territorial Army in its early years: People complained that the Territorials had attracted nothing but ‘scruff’, out for beer money and a free holiday in camp, and certainly in late ‘set-to’s’ on Saturday night it was no uncommon thing to see, among those rolling in the gutter, several who soiled His Majesty’s uniform. 48

Recruits later in the war also adopted this casual approach to military service. Three decades on, the Haldane Reforms had achieved part of their intended purpose: that is, civilians were willing to serve in the Territorial Army, but they did so on their own terms. This citizen-soldier approach to service was sustained throughout service during the Second World War, and was even noted by high-ranking officers. Montgomery, for example, recalled in his memoirs: The Eighth Army consisted in the main of civilians in uniform, not of professional soldiers. And they were, of course, to a man, civilians who read newspapers. It seemed to me that to command such men demanded not only a guiding mind but also a point of focus: or to put it another way, 46 Interview with George William Ledger by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 16722, Reel 1, 11:00-12:00. 47 Interview with Francis Waterston, Reel 2, 11:30-13:10. 48 Roberts, A Ragged Schooling, p. 155.

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not only a master but a mascot […] To obey an impersonal figure was not enough. They must know who I was. 49

Much like the 2nd Maine during the American Civil War and the aif during the First World War, the rank and file of the Territorial Army was generally made up of men from civil societies’ working classes, whereas officers were overwhelmingly from the middle and upper classes. Richard Forbes provided an officer’s perspective on the other ranks that emphasized the distinction between the social classes, and how these distinctions were replicated in the military: [The rank and file] went to school, where they probably left school at 14. Had to work very, very hard, either down the pit or in factories or somewhere or in shipyards. And the opportunity for sport and getting fit weren’t there. Whereas officers on the other hand of course, had been right through school, played rugby, tennis, cricket, whatever it happened to be, you see, and in general were all a very, very fit lot. And in general, of course, had much better education.50

George Ledger, who rose through the ranks to serve as an nco with the 8th Battalion of the dli, had much respect for his officers, but he too recognized the privileged background of those commissioned men: ‘Those men, they might have been money folk, they were money folk, but they were doing a job which had been passed onto them by their own fathers’.51 As the above quotes suggest, many men, both officers and other ranks, were conscious of these class distinctions and how they affected relations within the military environment. It was common, for example, for men to comment on the occupational background of their officers and, in particular, to highlight the prestigious positions they had held in civil society. Francis Waterston recalled: WATERSTON: Mr Scott, was another lieutenant, he was manager of Horton Colliery, McClarren was manager of Horton Colliery. INTERVIEWER: So they were all men in the managerial and professional classes? 49 Bernard Law Montgomery, The Memoirs of Field-Marshal the Viscount Montgomery (London: Collins, 1958), p. 101. 50 Interview with Richard Forbes, Reel 2, 10:00-10:50. 51 Interview with George William Ledger, Reel 4, 5:45-6:10.

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WATERSTON: They were all colliery managers and all that, nearly all of them.52

In some cases, men found themselves serving under a man in the Territorial Army who they had previously been employed by in civil society. For example, Ledger recalled that his company commander, Captain Dixon, had previously employed him as a clerk in his offices.53 Just as in the 2nd Maine and the aif, the rank hierarchy of the military, the opportunities and privileges available to men of different ranks, and the relationships those men had with each other all reflected the class structures and relationships of civil society. Within the Territorials, as with the 2nd Maine and the aif, relationships between the rank and file and officers were further shaped by individual personalities. A good officer could be liked and respected by his men, whereas an arrogant, overbearing, or incompetent officer (in the view of the men under his command) could be the subject of much scorn. For example Thomas Myers recalled the diverse relationships he had with his officers, ranging from ‘a little snot if ever there was one’ (who ‘got worse as the war went on’) through to a ‘marvellous’ company commander.54 A distinguishing factor, according to Myers, was ‘the manner of their approach, the way they handled you’.55 Thus, Myers further reflected on ‘one officer called Were [who] had a business at South Shields […] he was well above us, you know, in social standing and everything. Sort of didn’t want to know us, couldn’t be bothered’.56 While there were some unhealthy relationships, it seems that, by and large, relations between officers and other ranks in the Territorial Army were generally based around the central theme of respect. As noted earlier, Territorial officers needed to understand that the men they were commanding were not Regulars, and they approached military service in a more casual manner. When officers respected their men, they earned respect in return. Myers thus recalled of one officer:

52 53 54 55 56

Interview with Francis Waterston, Reel 3, 11:20-11:50. Interview with George William Ledger, Reel 4, 3:30-4:00 Interview with Thomas Myers, Reel 4, 27:50-28:20 Interview with Thomas Myers, Reel 4, 27:50-28:20. Interview with Thomas Myers, Reel 4, 27:50-28:20

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You’d think at times when they were talking to you […] you’d think you were his son or his cousin. He could bring the best out of you […] He seemed to bring the qualities out of people, the best qualities.57

One of the great challenges for Territorial officers was balancing their familiarity and respect with their men with the need to enforce discipline and military standards. As a result, many officers maintained their distance, and a sense of distinction, between themselves and the men of the rank and file, particularly when behind the lines. Oswald Mottram recalled, INTERVIEWER: Did you see much of the officers? MOTTRAM: Only when we were out on parades or doing anything special, you know, any manoeuvres or shooting or out on the range or anything like that, they turned up. INTERVIEWER: Essentially your instructors were ncos? MOTTRAM: Yes, you didn’t often get anything much above a corporal. You get lance corporals, full corporals, then you got to sergeant, and they were sort of top dog, they didn’t do all the work. It was well organized, there was no danger about it. Mind you, it didn’t work with everyone, everyone didn’t enjoy it, you know.58

Relationships were different between the rank and file and ncos. ncos were more likely to have worked their way up through the ranks; they were more visible on a daily basis, often sharing in the workload with the men of the ranks; and they were thus more likely to be on more familiar terms with the men they were supervising. Francis Waterston noted that in the 8th Battalion of the dli, the ncos were ‘all lads that had worked their way up, lance corporals, corporals, and sergeants’.59 Ledger made similar remarks: To my mind, they were just human beings, doing exactly the same job as I was hoping I would do eventually. And when they used to speak to you, with a word or command, I didn’t take it as a disciplinary sort of command, I used to take it as a ‘please do that’ […] I didn’t look up to

57 Interview with Thomas Myers, Reel 4, 27:50-28:20. 58 Interview with Oswald Mottram by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 27306, Reel 2, 18:00-20:10. 59 Interview with Francis Waterston, Reel 2, 13:10-13:30.

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them and say ‘Oh, he’s a sergeant-major’, I just felt that I was on the same plane.60

This attitude led to close relationships between ncos and other ranks. For example, Oswald Mottram recalled his relationships with the ncos: MOTTRAM: I got on very well with them all; I was the sort of chap I could mix with anyone. Some of them you could do very well without them […] Some of them were a bit, like to try it on, you know, but it wasn’t uncomfortable, it was good living I think.61

Similarly, Waterston reflected: ‘A private never liked a sergeant, but Bob Henderson was my best friend’.62 As these comments suggest, the friendships these men carried over into the military, within these locally formed units, helped strengthen the units’ camaraderie, cohesion, and esprit de corps. The longer these men served together, the stronger these bonds became. Ledger recalled the effect his promotion had on his relationship with his comrades: I was still as friendly with them as a lance corporal as I was as a private […] the family atmosphere was there with Territorials, you all come from the same street, more or less. You knew each other, you drank with one another. Your life was bound together, your families, you knew one another that close as Territorials.63

Similarly, Ronald Mallabar recalled: You have a close-knit band of men around you; you rely on them implicitly, and they rely on you, and you don’t want them to think you’re afraid, and presumably they think exactly the same. You keep going forward and subdue this fear because you’re determined not to show it.64

60 Interview with George William Ledger, Reel 2, 27:30-28:20. 61 Interview with Oswald Mottram, Reel 2, 18:00-20:10. 62 Interview with Francis Waterston, Reel 2, 09:00-09:15. 63 Interview with George William Ledger, Reel 4, 24:10-25:00. 64 Interview with Ronald Mallabar by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 11211, Reel 4, 29:30-30:00.

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The connection these men formed with their ncos and officers was vital to the continued successful operation and maintenance of discipline within their units; and, as will be shown, without leadership those elements could rapidly deteriorate. By the late 1930s, as war with Germany loomed, efforts were made to improve the fighting ability of the British armed forces. Following the Munich Crisis (late 1938 to early 1939), the size of the Territorial Army was effectively doubled. This certainly addressed the need for a larger military force; but it also added to the already great pressures of training and equipping these men, and disrupted the balance of the workforce among the civilian population, resulting in 12,000 Territorials being asked by the government to return to their civilian employment during the first three months of the war.65 Reminiscent of the preparations for war made by the 2nd Maine and the aif, these poor provisions did little to build a sense of professionalism amongst the Territorials. Nonetheless, changes to the nature and status of the Territorial Army continued throughout 1939. In September, with the Declaration of War on Germany, the British Parliament passed the National Service (Armed Forces) Act 1939, which superseded the earlier Military Training Act and enforced full conscription on males aged 18 to 41.66 Parliament also passed the Armed Forces (Conditions of Service) Act 1939, which effectively brought the Regular Army and the Territorial Army under the same system of rules as part of a broader attempt to merge these forces into the all-encompassing British Army. In theory, this was designed to remove distinctions between the different forces and ensure that all soldiers were treated equally. But the reality was far different. Men who had enlisted in the Territorial Army now also became liable for overseas service and could be transferred between units without restrictions,67 while under the Military and Air Forces (Prolongation of Service) Act 1939 their terms of service were ‘deemed not to expire until the end of the emergency’.68 The war and these sudden changes to the nature and purpose of the Territorial Army shocked the men and their units into action. Discipline hardened, and with it came a simultaneous hardening of soldiers’ approach to military service. During the first week of September 1939, men of the 65 Beckett, Territorials, pp. 106-7. 66 National Service (Armed Forces) Act 1939, s 1(1). 67 Armed Forces (Conditions of Service) Act 1939, s 4(1). 68 Military and Air Forces (Prolongation of Service) Act 1939, s 1(2). Under the Armed Forces (Conditions of Service) Act 1939 the service of Territorials was bound to the ‘present period of embodiment’ of the Territorial Army at the time of the passing of the Act.

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Territorial Army rushed to put their affairs in order and join the mobilization. A ‘comb-out’ or ‘weeding’ commenced within these units, and continued for several months; which saw men who were medically unfit, underage, or serving in reserve occupations transferred to ‘second-line’ or ‘duplicate’ Territorial units. Where units were then left under-strength, gaps were filled by the placement of conscripts who had completed their basic training. However, the introduction of conscripts among their ranks further undermined the capabilities of the Territorials. In addition to men who initially volunteered to serve in the military on a casual basis, there were now men who were forced to serve. David Fraser argued that, ‘there was conscripted every resentful or maladjusted misfit, provided he passed the simple medical test imposed […] They were a tiny minority, but they heightened the disturbance felt by the majority at the sudden plunge into uniform’.69 Recruits who joined the Territorials during the war – either by volunteering or by being conscripted – encountered a different environment to those who had served before September 1939. Many simply had no previous experience of military life, and the transition from civilian to soldier was often rough. Oswald Mottram, for example, recalled that, when he was conscripted in 1942, the men he was working alongside struggled to adjust to military life: MOTTRAM: I’d had a pretty hard life; it was not hard, but tough sort of thing, and I could cope with anything like that, and I’d been used to working around, shall we say rough men. It didn’t go down hard with me, I could mix with anyone. INTERVIEWER: You were used to, as you say, a pretty active and physical life weren’t you? MOTTRAM: Yes, but it was pitiful some of the lads that came with me, you know; you see lads of 19 and 20 crying, actual tears, crying because they couldn’t go back home. To me that was, maybe call it childish.70

The mix of Territorial volunteers and conscripts also prompted an angry response from the Territorial units and their County Associations. Even the King and Queen protested to the Army Council, who noted in their minutes:

69 Fraser, And We Shall Shock Them, pp. 134-5. 70 Interview with Oswald Mottram, Reel 2, 13:20-13:50.

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Their Majesties expressed dissatisfaction with the drafting of TA personnel to units with which they have no territorial connection, and the filling up of TA units with personnel from the Militia, who have no territorial connection with the unit to which they are posted.71

These changes caused much resentment among the Territorials, as it forced a split in their units (into ‘front line’ and ‘second line’ units) and separated friends from each other. As an example of this, in January 1940, Joseph Weddle was transferred from the 9th Battalion of the dli to their ‘duplicate’ battalion, the 12th Battalion. However, at this stage the 12th Battalion was also in the process of being modified to become the 1st Battalion of the Black Watch (Royal Highland Regiment). Weddle noted that this left him deeply upset: I didn’t like it one little bit, I had to hand all my gear off, all my Durham’s gear; the Black Watch was taking over then, which made it worse […] I’d taken all my gear, took my Durham badges off and everything.72

Peter Caddick-Adams noted that the 48th (South Midland) Division lost about half their strength during this comb-out.73 Similarly, an officer of the Royal Warwickshire Regiment remarked: They’re a good lot, but only about thirty per cent of the old Territorials are left, the others having been sent back because they’re unfit or under age, or have gone to other units, and they’ve been replaced by old reserves, soldiers who were once Regulars and had left the Army. Some are real sweats, who left the Army ten to fifteen years ago.74

While these steps were designed to rapidly prepare the Territorials for war, many felt that the changes were taking place too quickly and that the Territorials, as members of the British Army, were being sent off to war in 1940 without adequate preparations.75 71 Army Council meeting of 1 December 1939. Cited in Peter Caddick-Adams, ‘Phoney War and Blitzkrieg: The Territorial Army in 1939-1940’, Royal United Services Institute (rusi) Journal, vol. 143, no. 2, 1998, p. 68. 72 Interview with Joseph Weddle, iwm, Catalogue no. 12247, Reel 4, 7:00-7:25. 73 Caddick-Adams, ‘Phoney War and Blitzkrieg, p. 68. 74 C. L. Potts, Gordon and Michael: A Memoir (privately published, 1940), p. 34. Cited in CaddickAdams, ‘Phoney War and Blitzkrieg’, p. 68. 75 Fraser, And We Shall Shock Them, p. 58

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The 50th and 51st Divisions were two of the three Territorial divisions selected to join Regular units of the British Expeditionary Force (bef) in France in January and February 1940.76 The 50th Division had spent the final few months of 1939 training in the Cotswold area of Oxfordshire, while the 51st Division was sent to Aldershot in Hampshire, and it was during this time that men of the divisions’ composite units first spent extended periods of time together. P.J. Lewis recalled of the 8th Battalion dli: ‘It was a period when all ranks really got to know each other and when that esprit de corps, which was so vitally necessary and quickly forthcoming in the difficult years that were to follow, first became apparent’.77 Indeed, aside from their annual ‘holiday’ camp as Territorials, this was the first time these men had spent extensive time together as a military unit. They suddenly had a clear purpose in their work, and they found a renewed sense of a duty: instead of just showing up and socializing with friends on a Saturday evening, they were now focused on defeating the enemy. Training with these Territorial units suddenly took on a more serious tone. Older officers, many veterans of the First World War, were transferred to the second line duplicate units to make way for younger, fitter officers in the front line units.78 Equipment shortages were, for the first time in a long while, finally addressed. Standards of discipline also began to change within the Territorial units. Richard Forbes recalled: INTERVIEWER: What was the system of punishments for various misdemeanours that may occur? FORBES: Well, in Territorial days, before the war started, there was very little apart from taking them off and saying ‘don’t do that again, or you’ll be out of the battalion altogether’. But there was nothing we could do. We could stop pay perhaps, but there was really nothing you could do, and this is why I come back to this question of respect for. Whereas once the war started it was quite different. You were under Army regulations then.79

The language that officers used in describing their men also changed. Lewis, for example, noted that Brigadier J.A. Churchill of the 8th dli stressed to 76 The third was the 48th (South Midland) Division. By 10 May 1940, they had been joined by five other Territorial divisions. Beckett, Territorials, pp. 127-8. 77 Lewis, 8th Battalion The Durham Light Infantry, pp. 4-5. 78 See for example, Rissik, The D. L. I. at War, p. 6; and Lewis, 8th Battalion The Durham Light Infantry, p. 3. 79 Interview with Richard Forbes, Reel 3, 14:45-15:15.

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his men that ‘the Territorial Army was no longer a force of amateurs’. 80 Symbolic changes were also made. In September 1939, Territorial officers were ordered to remove the ‘T’ symbol from their shoulder straps; and in January 1940, the Scottish units of the 51st Division were ordered to exchange their traditional kilts for standard battle dress. Both changes were met with some protest. In the 5th Gordon Highlanders, for example, the commanding officer ordered that a kilt be burned on the barrack square as a symbolic gesture, and the men of the battalion also erected a stone memorial to their lost kilts.81 George Ledger recalled that public attitudes towards the Territorials also changed. According to Ledger, before the war, civilians would comment that ‘they were just the Territorials’; but, once the war started, ‘I never heard a “just Territorials” after that’.82 By the time the 50th and 51st Divisions arrived in France, the men had become more accustomed to the regimes of military life and were beginning to identify as a more professional type of soldier. The men of these Divisions felt privileged to be among the first Territorials selected for overseas service, and with that they also felt that they were worthy to be ranked alongside the Regular troops then serving in France. In addition, more than ever before, they felt a stronger connection to their battalions and divisions, and a stronger sense of esprit de corps. In the 2nd Maine during the American Civil War and in the aif during the First World War that sense of esprit de corps was commonly expressed as the bonding of men within their regiment or battalion, respectively. David Fraser argued that, among men of the Regular Army with longer service periods, the focus for esprit de corps and loyalty was traditionally directed towards the regiment. However, among newer recruits, and among the men of the Territorial Army, this esprit de corps was generally tied first and foremost to their battalion. For example, Ronald Mallabar recalled how central the battalion was to military life for soldiers: MALLABAR: Life consisted of the battalion, and, in fact, when you’re away from the battalion you want to be back, you feel lost away from it even though you know you’re going back perhaps to be killed. I was in hospital in this country, and I was just longing to go back to the real world, which was the battalion. It sort of dominated your life, there was nothing else. 80 Lewis, 8th Battalion The Durham Light Infantry, pp. 2-3. 81 Doherty, None Bolder, p. 10. 82 Interview with George William Ledger, Reel 4, 26:00-26:50.

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INTERVIEWER: Was that a common feeling among your comrades? MALLABAR: Yes, surprisingly enough, they couldn’t wait to get back. Because you had such a bond with the fellows that you worked with, you knew that you would have to rely on them, perhaps many a time to save your life, and you would do the same for them, and you loved each other and you just wanted to be with them.83

But while the battalion was home, a sense of pride was also consolidated within broader unit structures such as regiments, Territorial Army divisions, and, under Montgomery in particular, within the Eighth Army as a whole. For example, Thomas Myers recalled: [The Durham Light Infantry] was your county, that was your name, that was your family regiment, that was your family. Which later on you found it to be true, as time went on, that your regiment was your family. When war came on, you’ll find how to become a family and what it really meant to you.84

George Ledger made similar remarks: In other regiments, where people have come from different villages and they join the regiments, they’re strangers to one another […] But where they’re such closely knit mining places, like ourselves, they were all for one another.85

George Elliott suggested that his sense of connection to his unit, and his identity as a ‘Durham’, began to develop shortly after training: Once I became more and more and more in the Durhams, you became a Durham and you were a Durham. No argument about that. It was a hard regiment, it was a tough regiment, but it was a good regiment.86

Much of this sense of pride and esprit de corps depended on how long an individual served with a particular unit. Thus, both Elliott and Myers served 83 Interview with Ronald Mallabar, Reel 2, 8:50-9:55. 84 Interview with Thomas Myers, Reel 2, 27:20-27:50. 85 Interview with George William Ledger, Reel 4, 25:00-25:15. 86 Interview with George Dennis Elliott by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 10602, Reel 6, 14:20-16:15.

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with several different battalions; but all were within the dli, and thus both men described their family as the regiment as a whole, and they identify broadly as ‘Durhams’ rather than linking their identity with any particular battalion, whereas other men tended to focus their pride, identity, and sense of home on their battalion. The above entries from Myers also reveal how, much like the men of the 2nd Maine and the aif, the men of the Territorial Army often used the language of ‘family’ to describe their unit. Like Myers, George Iceton also recalled: ‘One thing I must say about the battalion, it was a family battalion’.87 Indeed, as with the 2nd Maine and the aif, many of those men were family members. In this environment of war, particularly at the height of the conflict from 1940 to 1944 when many men would not see their family for three to four years, their comrades were certainly the closest things to family that these men had; and, as will be shown below, they dearly valued and would risk their lives to preserve those connections. The community-focused nature of recruitment and training helped develop this esprit de corps among recruits from an early stage. Many men were familiar with the history and traditions of their unit before they even signed up. As noted earlier, many followed their forebears by serving in the same military unit, while local patriotism, as also described earlier, was reflected through the proud promotion of the history of local units throughout the community. Joseph Weddle, for example, recalled how he was taught about the history and achievements of the 9th Battalion as a boy: ‘We knew the best part about the 9th before I joined up. Because when you went to drill hall as a kid you could see everything, the record, on the wall’.88 As Mallabar noted earlier, men would often feel ‘lost’ and vulnerable if removed from their unit, be it their battalion or their regiment.89 David Fraser supported this view, arguing that a soldier ‘could feel isolated and bereft if moved from [his battalion], even to another battalion of the same regiment’.90 This sense of connection to the battalion, and the sense of safety and wellbeing provided by the battalion, was strengthened through years of service and participation in combat. For example, when men were separated from their units in 1939, during the split in the Territorial divisions, there was some sadness and disappointment but no evidence of widespread protest or 87 Interview with George Edward Iceton by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 11108, Reel 2, 15:30-15:50. 88 Interview with Joseph Weddle, Reel 3, 0:50-1:15. 89 Interview with Ronald Mallabar, Reel 2, 8:50-9:55. 90 Fraser, And We Shall Shock Them, p. 126.

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indiscipline. By September 1943, these men had been through several years of war with their comrades in their battalion, and the separation of some of these men from their homes was devastating. By that stage, the bonds of esprit de corps within the battalion were recognized as vital by both rank and file and officers. Much like the men of the 2nd Maine and the aif, that sense of esprit de corps motivated the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions to continue fighting through several years of exhausting warfare. Those friends, neighbours, and co-workers who signed on as citizen-soldiers in the Territorial Army served abroad together not only to defend king and country and defeat Germany, but also to support each other and, increasingly, to defend the proud reputation of their unit. Richard Forbes recalled how he, as an officer, encouraged this esprit de corps among the men of the 9th dli: FORBES: We wanted the men to feel that they were proud to be in the 9th, for various reasons, and that of course is the thing that takes you through battle. If you’re proud of what you belong to, and things are getting tough, you’ll stick together, whatever happens. And that’s how Montgomery summed it up in his foreword to that history of the dli. That you can always rely upon the Durhams. INTERVIEWER: And the men, as you say, would be learning the traditions of the battalion and the regiment combined? FORBES: Oh yes, every man would have got this potted history of the battalion when he joined, so he got to know what they stood for.91

Similarly, James Nicholson recalled, ‘As a newcomer, these things [traditions and the regimental history] are drilled into you very quickly, right from the outset’.92 Nicholson also hinted at the importance of local connections within his platoon of the 8th Battalion of the dli, commenting that: They all came from the same village, they all knew each other, they’d probably all been to the same school, they all worked at the same pit, they all had a common background; it was a good system really, in that respect, that people pulled together and helped each other […] There

91 Interview with Richard Forbes, Reel 3, 12:10-12:55. 92 Interview with James Baker Nicholson by Harry Moses, iwm, Catalogue no. 11108, Reel 3, 6:00-6:25.

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was a lot of esprit de corps, if you like to call it that, and people got along together and helped each other.93

As Forbes and Nicholson indicate, the development of esprit de corps, founded on those local geographical connections and strengthened throughout the war helped the men to endure and stick by their comrades during the difficult times. While pre-war discipline in the Territorial Army was lax, the gradual development of esprit de corps also assisted in maintaining general standards of discipline within the unit during wartime. These men developed pride in their unit and its record, and acts of indiscipline risked damaging that pride. Of course, no units were without their disciplinary problems, and most soldiers, at some stage in their service career, encountered difficulties with military authorities. However, there is little evidence of any organized protest in these units prior to the Salerno incident of 1943. Indeed, Edward Smalley argued that within the bef during 1939 and 1940, Territorial infantry battalions displayed the highest levels of discipline among British Army forces, although he cautions that ill-discipline was under-recorded within the bef in general during this period.94 Indeed, while the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions often reflected on accounts of crime and indiscipline, they were relatively minor crimes. For example, upon arriving in France in 1940, it was evident that many Territorial men were still struggling with the adjustment to full-time military life. At St. Remy, the 8th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry were accused of making raids on local wine cellars. Similarly Richard Forbes, when asked if he had disciplinary problems with the men under his command in France, replied: Not as such, but the usual sort of things did apply […] French wine was so cheap, the troops just used to buy it like beer, and drink it like beer […] So invariably some of them got not only drunk, but violently drunk and causing an awful lot of trouble and damage, not only to themselves and others in the battalion, but sometimes to civilians.95

93 Interview with James Baker Nicholson, Reel 3, 7:30-8:55. 94 Edward Smalley, The British Expeditionary Force 1939-40 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015), p. 141. 95 Interview with Richard Forbes, Reel 6, 0:30-2:00.

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Unlike the 2nd Maine and the aif, there were no previous large-scale protests or mutinies to establish a precedent for behaviours or responses within the 50th or 51st Divisions, as had happened in the 2nd Maine and the aif. In the 2nd Maine, in the aif, and in the 50th and 51st Divisions, the foundations of the military moral economy were legitimized through officers’ acceptance that they were not dealing with professional soldiers among the rank and file, but with citizen-soldiers who demanded fair and just treatment (as they understood it) in exchange for their service. This moral economy evolved as circumstances changed. In the pre-war years, disciplinary standards in Territorial units were lax. This changed as the units went to war, but disciplinary cultures still stood apart from those in the Regular forces. Most importantly, the longer these men served together, the stronger their bonds became, and both the rank and file and officers accepted that those bonds should not be broken. Despite their rough beginnings, by the time of their protest in September 1943, the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions were experienced soldiers. The 50th Division saw extensive service in France in 1940 before being relocated to the Middle East in 1941 as part of the British Eighth Army. There they played key roles in many of the major battles in the theatre – such as the Battle of Gazala, the Second Battle of El Alamein, and the Battle of the Mareth Line in Tunisia. The 51 st Division followed a different path. Because most of the original men of the 51 st Division were captured in France in 1940, the division had to be rebuilt from other units and reinforcements. After their rebuild, the division served for nearly two years on home defence before being transferred to North Africa in June 1942, just in time to contribute to the Second Battle of El Alamein in October and November of that year. From there, they saw extensive service in the drive west through Libya and Tunisia, followed by participation in the invasion of Sicily and Italy. As a result, by 1943, both divisions were showing signs of fatigue and war-weariness. Converse argued that the men of the 50th Division ‘were in a bad mood after the Tunisian campaign (of early 1943), and some writers later criticised the 50th for a lack of drive during the advance to Primosole [in Sicily]’.96 Rates of desertion and shell shock increased during the year,97 and Converse argued that the division was becoming ‘increasingly isolated

96 Allan Converse, Armies of Empire: The 9th Australian and the 50th British Division in Battle 1939-1945 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 179. 97 Shell shock was typically class as nyd (n), ‘Not Yet Diagnosed (Nervous/Neurosis)’.

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from the rest of their army and from the civilian populations of their home countries’.98 He further added: With each passing campaign, the bonds between the soldiers and the army became looser. More and more, veteran troops came to view their relationship with the army as contractual. The men would fight on, but only if their rights were respected and their expectations met.99

Just like the men of the 2nd Maine and the aif, the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions had, by 1943, modified their motivations for serving – which were no longer tied to their initial motivations for enlisting. These men increasingly served for each other and for esprit de corps, with a view primarily to ending the war and returning home to their civilian lives. Saul David further argued that the continued strength of this esprit de corps in 1943 stemmed largely from success in the North African campaigns. Following the final surrender of Axis forces in Tunisia in May 1943, David argued that ‘the lion’s share of victory laurels went to Montgomery’s troops, strengthening their esprit de corps and belief that no other formation was comparable, particularly the unheralded First Army’.100 By that stage, the conflict had also taken its toll in both dead and wounded. In time, as some of those wounded men recovered, they were sent to transit camps, where they waited for an opportunity to make their way back to their unit. Thus, in September 1943, a large number of 50th and 51st Division men, along with over 9000 men from other units, found themselves in the 155 Reinforcement and Transit Camp in Tripoli.101 The camp was not a comfortable place for soldiers to be based. Transit camps such as the 155 were notorious for the negative mental and physical effect they had on soldiers. For example, the infamous Deolali Transit Camp, near Bombay in India, gave its name to the phrase ‘Doolally Tap’ – slang for ‘going crazy’ – due to the feeling of extreme boredom and restlessness experienced by those temporarily stationed there.102 155 Transit Camp presented similar problems for men. Although staffed by 20 officers and 200 men, the reinforcement population fluctuated. David noted that ‘discipline was lax, training unsystematic, and entertainment limited’, and there were 98 Converse, Armies of Empire, p. 181. 99 Converse, Armies of Empire, p. 181. 100 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 2. 101 Saul David noted that the camp could hold up to 12,000 men. David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 15. 102 N.A. Martin, ‘The Madness at Deolali’, Journal of the Royal Army Medical Corps, vol. 152, no. 2, 2006, pp. 94-5.

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‘no guards and no wire surrounding the perimeter’.103 According to Archie Newmarch, a private of the 5th Battalion, East Yorkshire Regiment, 50th Division, who would later be involved in the protest at Salerno: Everyone appeared to be left to their own devices, particularly within their own lines. The only bugle calls taken notice of were reveille, chowup or fall-in. No passes were in evidence, nor were any guards on duty. The whole of the camp appeared very demilitarised: no one seemed to known who was who, where the different groups had come from, and no information was forthcoming, either verbally or otherwise.104

Spending time in the camp demoralized the men, and increased their desire to return to their home units. It was in this camp, on the evening of 14 September 1943, that reinforcements were desperately sought for the Allied force that was under pressure at Salerno. In the rush to secure men for the Fifth Army on the beachhead, administrative staff took the desperate step of calling for Eighth Army reinforcements, including the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions. Hugh Fraser later described that moment in detail: Following discharge from hospital in Tripoli I went to a transit camp – the notorious 155 Transit Camp. I can’t remember how long I was there but I certainly remember one night, later on or perhaps early morning, we were all told to come out on parade. There was a large number of us – I can’t remember how many – but I, I was curious as to where we were going so I spoke to the sergeant major who was in charge of the camp and I can remember the chap yet; I remember his name – it was Green – and I said to him, ‘What’s this all about? Are we going to back to our own units?’ ‘Yes you are’. So that was fine. That was just what I and all the other lads who had been discharged from hospital wanted to do – get back to our own mates again and our own battalions and our own divisions. We were formed up on parade; our names were called. One of the chaps in my battalion, the Camerons, who hadn’t been named on the draft, he was so keen to join that he came onto the draft unofficially. That was the case with all of us; we were keen to get back to our own mates again, no matter where they were. I personally, I’d no idea where the 5th Camerons 103 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 15. 104 Archie Newmarch, ‘Hijack to Mutiny’, unpublished memoir, pp. 94-5. Cited in David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 15.

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were at that time. I left them in Sicily. As far as I was aware they were still there. So this was fine. We were going back to our own mates again and that’s just what we wanted.105

According to Fraser’s account, he was clearly told that the men were returning to their units. Almost identical statements were made by a range of other soldiers interviewed about the events, and they were further supported by statements made by the senior nco in charge of the infantry at 155 Reinforcement and Transit Camp in September 1943, Company Sergeant Major R. Green.106 The misinformation about returning those men to their units came directly from staff within the transit camp, based on a combination of staff understanding of standard operating procedures and orders and the refusal of the camp commandant, Lieutenant Colonel Richards, to disseminate what he deemed confidential information. Indeed, Green later noted in a statement that, ‘In the majority of cases they [the men of 155 Transit Camp] will return to their own units’, and that ‘except for those in for transfer, 100 per cent [of men are returned to their own units]’.107 However, the urgent reinforcements needed for the Fifth Army on 14 September 1943 caused a diversion from standard procedures, and, as noted above, officers took the rash step of drawing upon Eighth Army reinforcements. Furthermore, to ensure that the 1500 men were swiftly and easily secured for the draft, without fuss, those men were not told where they were heading. David argued that ‘the truth was hidden even from the camp staff ncos organising the draft’, and even the administrative records of the camp indicate that the men were returned to their units.108 As for Richards’s desire to keep the message confidential, this has widely been interpreted as a deception to trick the men into embarkation. This may well be the case; but given the perilous voyage across the Mediterranean Sea that lay ahead for those 1500 men, and the loose standards of discipline in the camp, it is also possible that he simply wanted to keep those men, and the information surrounding their travel, safe from the enemy. A statement from Captain Albert Lee indicated that Richards shared the direction of the 105 Interview with Hugh Fraser for ‘Moray Firth People’, file 1664 (2/15). 106 See for example the statements made by Raymond Whitaker and Charles Daley of the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders; Fred Jowett of the East Yorkshire Regiment; and Andy Scott of the Gordon Highlanders. David, Mutiny at Salerno, pp. 16-17, 20, 22-3. 107 Examination of csm R. Green, Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 2 November 1943, p. 99. 108 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 19.

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transfer with him, but asked him not to tell the other men on the transfer. Lee elaborated: ‘I had received an order from Officer Commanding 155 Transit Camp, who gave me the information, that the troops were not to be informed’.109 Even so, this silence surrounding the movements of this transfer – and indeed, the likelihood that they were intentionally misled to encourage them to join the draft sailing to Salerno – was a break from general policy in the Eighth Army. Montgomery had earlier adopted a clear policy of openness and communication with the men of the Eighth Army, an attribute for which he was widely admired. Fennell noted that in Montgomery’s inaugural address to the headquarters of the Eighth Army, he stated: ‘All the soldiers must know what is wanted; when they see it coming to pass there will be a surge of confidence throughout the Army’.110 The policy was practised on a regular basis in Montgomery’s Eighth Army, and it, along with other factors, resulted in a significant boost to morale. For example, the morale report for August to October 1942, observed that: Morale reached its peak as a result of the Army Commander’s message to his troops on the eve of the offensive, and of the fact (commented on widely in the mail) that all ranks, down the whole chain of command, were taken into confidence about the plan of attack. [The information] brought the spirit of the troops to a new high level and intensified their assurance and grim determination.111

The practice extended throughout the divisions of the army, and officers of the 50th Division had been directly alerted to the importance of open communication. Fennell again noted that: A 50th Division report, on the ‘Main Lessons Learned’ in the months of May, June and July 1942, pointed out that the troops were ‘often completely 109 Captain A. G. Lee (156750), sworn statement, Summary of Evidence, p. 13. Lee also declared in a sworn statement: ‘I knew that our destination was to be Salerno, but this had not been communicated to the troops. After sailing, the troops were informed by the ship’s officers that their destination was Salerno.’ Summary of Evidence, p. 10. 110 ‘Address to Officers of hq Eighth Army by General Montgomery on taking over command of the Army, 13 August 1942. tna, CAB 106/703. Cited in Jonathan Fennell, Combat and Morale in the North African Campaign: The Eight Army and the Path to El Alamein (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011), p. 211. 111 Morale Report, August to October 1942, tna, WO 193/453. Cited in Fennell, Combat and Morale in the North African Campaign, p. 212.

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in the dark as to what is happening’. The report viewed it as ‘important that [troops] should be given as much accurate information as possible, in order to heighten morale and to discourage wild rumours’.112

After becoming accustomed to clear and direct information, it came as a serious shock to the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions upon realizing they were ‘misinformed’ and were being sent not back to their units as advised, but to a dangerous beachhead at Salerno, Italy, where they would eventually be ordered to serve with different units. Having been told that they were to rejoin their units, the selected men had eagerly boarded the awaiting ships; they were excited about the prospects of returning to their comrades and their ‘home’. Hugh Fraser suggested that many of his comrades ‘should still have been hospital cases but […] they were so keen to return to their own units, they came notwithstanding they were unfit’.113 Indeed, a scheduled medical inspection in 155 Transit Camp to ensure the men were fit enough for transfer was cancelled, and many of the men who joined the draft were soon returned to hospital with relapses of their illnesses, including one who died several weeks later.114 Just as in the 2nd Maine and in the aif, that sense of esprit de corps was strong among the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions, and formed a core part of the moral economy. It was clearly strong enough to see them join a transfer back to their unit despite their life-threatening illnesses. While military forces around the world have always been interested in finding ways to make soldiers fight more effectively, during the Second World War their interests increasingly turned to the field of military psychiatry. By analysing soldiers both in and out of action the military hoped to understand more about what made soldiers fight – and, of course, what made them refuse to fight. For example, S.L.A. Marshall established in his famous study Men Against Fire that the chief motivation for men to fight typically came from their primary groups, such as the men in their section or platoon.115 The protest at Salerno, one of the largest cases of mutiny in the history of the British Army, presented the opportunity for a valuable case study for analysis, where it was hoped valuable lessons could be learned. Thus, in late 1944, Ronald Adam, Adjutant General of the British Army, appointed 112 Fennell, Combat and Morale in the North African Campaign, p. 211. 113 Interview with Hugh Fraser for ‘Moray Firth People’, file 1669 (5/15). 114 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 76. 115 Marshall, Men Against Fire, see for example pp. 75, 170-72.

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the army psychiatrist Lieutenant Colonel Thomas Main of the Royal Army Medical Corps to conduct a psychological examination of the protesters. Main interviewed the protesters and produced his f inal report, titled ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, to Adam in January 1945.116 The report provides a revealing insight into what Main called the ‘emotional events’ preceding the protest. Main also remarked on the loyalties the protesters felt towards their units. He noted that the men of the 51st Division, while expressing a sense of battalion esprit de corps, also expressed a strong sense of loyalty to their division as a whole. In the 51st Division, according to Main, ‘the men had been taught that it was good soldiering to rejoin their own division and an intense pride in it had been fostered’.117 In contrast, within the 50th Division, ‘Pride in the Division was there but it was over-ridden by battalion loyalties’.118 Main also noted that ‘the men of the dli [exhibited] a peculiar family affection for the dli brigade’.119 Main further summed up the sentiments of the men at this stage, and their various reasons for joining the draft in 155 Transit Camp: When it sailed for Tripoli, the draft was in general contented at the turn in events and the men on it satisfied or glad at the prospect of rejoining their own divisions. Several factors made this so; many have recently been discharged from hospital, and were eager to get back into the community to which they belonged; some were glad to exchange the disorder and inevitably difficult man-management of the transit camp for their own familiar officers and unit efficiency; some looked forward again to the freedom and friendliness of regimental life in the field; others, a proportion of whom were ‘battle weary’, had heard or suspected that the 50th and 51st Divisions were likely to go home and were anxious not to be left behind in C.M.F.; and a few were the nervous ‘bomb-happy’ men that any draft of experienced soldiers contains.120

Those men felt strong bonds with those formations and with their comrades within those formations. Those battalions, regiments, brigades, divisions, 116 Thomas Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, P07-A-01 Box No. 127, Institute of Psychoanalysis. 117 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 1. 118 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 1. 119 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 1. 120 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 1.

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and armies created a sense of home and of belonging which provided vital psychological benefits to soldiers at war. It was only once embarked and on their way to Salerno that the men were informed that they were not rejoining their units. Fraser recalled the situation in detail: We were embarked on ships – I can’t remember which one I was on. There were – I can remember the names of the three of them – there was the Scylla, the Euryalus, and the Charybydis, or something like that. So we were embarked on these ships and, as I’ve said, we were – I was told definitely that we would be returned to our own units and I told other lads this. However, we were halfway across the Med when, all of a sudden, a stark, cold announcement came over the tannoy system, ‘You’re not being – you’re not going back to your own units, you’re being transferred to the 46th Division. You’re going to Salerno, to the 46th Division.’ I had no idea what the 46th Division was; I’d no idea where Salerno was. There was a hushed murmur throughout the whole ship. It was obvious then that some of us – someone had told us a lie; we’d been deceived. From that moment on I was determined I was not going to any other unit and when I think of what we had all been through prior to that I was really upset that persons in authority could have told us such a blatant lie. And that is something which sticks in my mind and it has done for the past 50 years. We’d been blatantly deceived. It eventually came to light that those in authority at the camp – those in high authority at the camp – were well aware where we were going but instructions had been given not to tell us where we were going. So there’s no doubt – there’s no doubt in my mind – that we were very, very, profoundly deceived. If I’d been told at the camp that I was going to the 46th Division, my reactions would have been the same. I would have said to whoever was in charge, ‘I’m not going there, I’m going back to the 5th Camerons.’121

Fraser’s anger is still evident in that interview, which took place 50 years after the events. He stated quite clearly his belief that he had been lied to and ‘deceived’, and that he had made up his mind at that point, aboard the ship, not to serve with other units. Those circumstances, and Fraser’s response, are very similar to those of the 2nd Maine men in 1863. Those 2nd Maine men were also left without their units, without their officers, and without clear

121 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1666 (3/15).

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instructions on where they were heading. Like Fraser, they too responded angrily by claiming they were deceived and lied to by authorities. The situation then faced on Salerno by the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions was again remarkably similar to that faced by the men of 2nd Maine. Upon arriving at Salerno, and realizing they were misled, the men were then left alone, without sufficient leadership, and without any clear idea as to what their next move would be. Often in difficult and trying times, officers will put men to work in order to keep their minds occupied on a task. But in two of these circumstances – that of the 2nd Maine in 1863 and the 50th and 51st Divisions in 1943 – there were insufficient officers around to direct such tasks. Instead, as with the men of the 2nd Maine, the men sent to Salerno were left alone and without clear leadership. Ludovic Kennedy noted that: No officer came to put them in the picture, and for two days they were left to cool their heels in a field near the beach, stewing in the heat by day, bedding down on the bare earth by night, without medical attention and with time to brood.122

Thomas Main noted in his comments on the incident that three key themes emerged in the discussions between the men: ‘a growing doubt in extra-divisional authority, an anxious need for news and direction, and the discussion of illegal methods should the need arise of rejoining their own division’.123 As it turned out, when the convoy carrying these men arrived on Salerno the emergency on the beachhead had passed, and the reinforcements were not needed immediately. In fact, nobody seemed to want the men at all, and they received no clear information on what they were doing or where they were heading. Fraser again recalled: We landed at Salerno. We were moved about there for several days – I don’t know how long – but it was a bit of a shambles. Nobody seemed to be in charge of us; nobody seemed to know what was happening.124

122 Ludovic Kennedy, ‘Foreword’, in David, Mutiny at Salerno, pp. xi-xii. 123 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 2. 124 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1667 (4/15).

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Archie Newmarch similarly recalled: There was nobody there to meet us and we didn’t know what was happening. Nobody came to tell us to join this division or that division, we were in a right muddle. While some men sat and stewed in the sun, others started wandering all over the bloody place, looking in the surrounding vineyards for grapes.125

For several days following their arrival, those men were left without clear information on their future direction. The men were first ordered to a nearby transit camp, where they were only provided with bare rations and where many were forced to sleep out in the open. Fraser noted: ‘Our morale was very, very, very low at the time because we were sleeping out in the open; we didn’t have much food; and things were kinda rough’.126 Furthermore, because of the rush to send these men to Salerno, they had not been sufficiently equipped. Fraser added: ‘I think I had a rifle; I’d no ammunition. Some of the other lads had no rifle, no ammunition. Some had ammunition, no rifles. It was a most disorganized affair altogether’.127 As Converse argued, Montgomery ‘ensured that his army would fight only when it was ready and had ample weapons and supplies. He radiated absolute confidence, and he communicated this confidence to the rest of his army’.128 In contrast, in their rushed transfer to Salerno these men found themselves short on just about everything they needed: food, weapons, ammunition, shelter, and information.129 Finally, on 19 September 1943, the men were ordered on parade, where they were informed that they were to transfer to the 46th Division.130 For various reasons, the bulk of those 1500 men complied with the orders to transfer. The men that made up that transfer came from various units throughout the 50th and 51st Divisions and did not, as a group of 1500, develop a sense of esprit de corps together. Rather, the numerous small groups of men that 125 Archie Newmarch, cited in David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 40. 126 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1669 (5/15). 127 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1669 (5/15). Saul David also commented on the rushed preparations in David, Mutiny at Salerno, pp. 23-4. He also noted that, by orders of ghq Cairo, men were required to leave 155 Transit Camp with a ‘rifle, bayonet, water bottle and 50 rounds of small-arms ammunition’. David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 30. 128 Converse, Armies of Empire, p. 129. 129 Kennedy, ‘Foreword’, pp. xi-xii. 130 The possibility of joining the 56th Division was also raised. See David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 43.

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made up that 1500-strong draft felt several different bonds of esprit de corps with their respective home units – namely, their battalion, regiment, or (in some cases) their division, which they had become separated from before heading to 155 Transit Camp. Saul David suggested that the presence of officers among the bulk of those 1500 men contributed to their compliance, whereas a key factor among the men who protested was that they were largely without leadership. Furthermore, many of the men who complied with the transfer orders were relatively inexperienced ‘rookies’, and they may not have developed the same sense of esprit de corps and unit loyalty as the more experienced men who protested.131 While most of the men did comply with the order, about 350 of the 1500 in the draft initially refused. Those 350 were the men who had generally served the longest and endured the worst. They placed greater value on unit cohesion and esprit de corps, and, by 1943, they had developed an understanding of the military moral economy that had clearly been legitimized by officers in their units. By 19 September, those 350 men had been discussing their situation for four days, and had had ample time to determine what their response would be. Indeed, many claimed they had made up their mind en route to Salerno, upon immediately learning they would not be returning to their units as promised. Archie Newmarch noted: The army just didn’t do things like that. If [CSM] Green had not said in the first place, ‘You’re going back to your units,’ then the whole situation would never have arisen. But it was that which caused it.132

Like Newmarch, Hugh Fraser also recalled that he had made up his mind on the voyage over not to serve with another unit.133 Fraser elaborated on the moment he was ordered to transfer: I was led to believe there were about 1500 [troops involved in the transfer] all told […] Captain Lee – he gave us an order three times and I can remember it yet, ‘Pick up your kits. Fall out on the road, and march off to the 46th Division.’ Now he give us this order three times. Many of the lads fell out of the parade and went away. But eventually there were, as it turned out, 192 of us left on parade. There was no coercion – nobody tried to twist anybody’s arms. In fact, I spoke to several of the chaps who 131 David, Mutiny at Salerno, pp. 42-4, 51. 132 Archie Newmarch, cited in David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 35 133 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1666 (3/15).

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were along with me and I said, ‘If you want to go, you go. I’m not going.’ So, it was an individual decision; each man made up his own mind.134

Just like the men of the 2nd Maine in 1863 and of the aif in 1918, those 350 men of the 50th and 51st Divisions took the simple action of standing their ground and refusing to move. The unit the men were ordered to transfer to, the 46th Division, was a British division largely consisting of units from northern England, including a battalion of the Durham Light Infantry whose other battalions formed part of the 50th Division. Even so, it is unclear if this information was available to the men at the time; and, in any case, these were not the battalions the men had served in, and the men were clearly not returning to their comrades as promised. Furthermore, while battalion loyalty was strongest, these men had also developed a loyalty to their divisions and to the Eighth Army under Montgomery, whereas the Fifth Army was a joint US-British force consisting of the US VI Corps and the British X Corps under the command of US Lieutenant General Mark Clark. Thus, the men of the 50th and 51st had gone from a proud history of serving their units and their divisions, with their regional loyalties, to being ordered to serve with strangers in different units, and under a foreign commander. Warnings had earlier been issued in the Eighth Army about the problems that arose when men were transferred to unfamiliar units. To address the impact this practice had on morale, Montgomery openly adopted a policy in the Eighth Army of having divisions fight together as a whole.135 Recognizing the value of esprit de corps, he disliked the practice of too frequently breaking up and reorganizing divisions as, according to Fennell, this prevented ‘commanders and men from creating meaningful and effective organisation relationships’.136 Ludovic Kennedy also argued that Montgomery ‘made them feel a part of one big family; he stressed the importance, after any period of enforced separation, of soldiers being returned to their own units. That way you kept esprit de corps’.137 Indeed, Montgomery had long recognized the factors that helped maintain morale in his units, and he was open and reflective about his practices. For example, in 1946, in an address given to the Royal Society of Medicine 134 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1667 (4/15). 135 See for example, Converse, Armies of Empire, p. 129; Fennell, Combat and Morale in the North African Campaign, p. 215. 136 Fennell, Combat and Morale in the North African Campaign, p. 215. 137 Kennedy, ‘Foreword’, p. xi.

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and later published in the British Medical Journal, Montgomery reflected on the factors that increased morale among troops.138 As noted above, this was an era where military psychiatrists were increasingly querying the relationship between the intensity of combat and physical and morale factors such as the importance of unit cohesion.139 For example, wartime studies revealed that units with high morale suffered fewer combat stress casualties.140 Montgomery’s paper thus provides some revealing insights into the typical British soldier of the Second World War, and on troop morale in general. He identified several important factors that influenced morale: leadership, discipline, comradeship, and self-respect – with a fifth factor, devotion to a cause, deemed desirable but not necessary for all soldiers.141 Of particular interest in Montgomery’s analysis is his moderation on the value of unit traditions. He argued that while such traditions may be ‘contributory factors’, they are not: a basic factor of morale, because in the crisis of battle the majority of men will not derive encouragement from the glories of the past but will seek aid from their leaders and comrades of the present. In other words, most men do not fight well because their ancestors fought well at the Battle of Minden two centuries ago, but because their particular platoon or battalion has good leaders, is well disciplined, and has developed the feelings of comradeship and self-respect among all ranks on all levels.142

Indeed, a key point, Montgomery argued, was that: Morale cannot be good unless men come to have affection for each other; a fellow-feeling must grow up which will result in a spirit of comradeship […] Comradeship is based on affection and trust, which between them produce an atmosphere of mutual good will and a feeling of interdependence. Men learn to have faith in each other and to depend on each other 138 Field-Marshal Viscount Montgomery, ‘Morale in Battle’, British Medical Journal, 2, November 1946, pp. 702-4. 139 Franklin D. Jones et al., War Psychiatry (Washington dc: Office of the Surgeon General at TMM Publications, 1989), p. 12. 140 Jones et al., War Psychiatry, p. 14. 141 The factors that Montgomery identified are similar to many modern understandings of morale. For example, Burk identified the elements of military culture as discipline, professional ethos, ceremony and etiquette, and esprit de corps. James Burk, ‘Military Culture’, in Encyclopedia of Violence, Peace and Conflict: Volume 2 – F-Pe (San Diego: Academic Press, 1999), pp. 448-54. 142 Montgomery, ‘Morale in Battle’, pp. 704.

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according to the abilities of each. Comradeship is a great antidote to fear because it gives men friends […] comradeship surrounds a man with an atmosphere of warmth and strength at the very moment when he is feeling cold and weak. It encourages his finest instincts and the demands of friendship serve to strengthen him in battle.143

Throughout his commands, Montgomery was proactive in encouraging the development of morale among his troops, particularly their sense of camaraderie and esprit de corps. Douglas Wimberley, who commanded the 51st Division between mid-1941 and late 1943, adopted a similar stance; and he too urged absent men to return to their home units if they found themselves separated. Wimberley later reflected in his autobiography: I had often told the officers and men of the 51st when in North Africa, that if wounded etc and sent to the base, they should not allow themselves to get drafted to other Divisions, but should see that they came back to us.144

This instruction was also reflected in a statement that Captain H.P. Samwell made during the mitigation at the subsequent trial of the Salerno protesters. Samwell noted that he had been ordered to establish divisional pride among his men: It was their bounden duty to ensure they were not inveigled into joining any other unit and they were to leave no stone unturned to return to their own unit as soon as they were fit to do so. This I did on the orders of my commanding officer.145

Wimberley also expressed these views directly to Montgomery: I do not think I could have stood for long and seen the breaking up of formations, (indeed already threatened the week I arrived), and the lack of understanding of those little psychological matters, which, nevertheless, with soldiers […] makes all the difference between their fighting 143 Montgomery, ‘Morale in Battle’, pp. 703. 144 Douglas Wimberley, ‘Scottish Soldier’, unpublished autobiography of Major-General Douglas Wimberley, Volume II, p. 209. Churchill Archives Centre, GRB/0014/WIMB. 145 Examination of Samwell, Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 2 November 1943, p. 104.

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really hard and their fighting more half heartedly, except of course in the imagination of the writers of the sit[uation] rep[ort]s, the intelligence summaries and the War Diaries where these things get covered up!146

After hearing of the transfer of the Eighth Army men to Salerno, Montgomery complained, ‘If I had know what was to be done I would have said “No”’.147 It was clear that those commanding officers understood the importance of comradeship and esprit de corps, and, while not openly condoning the actions of the protesters on Salerno, they certainly empathized with the men. Such sentiments were also clearly expressed by the rank and file of the th 50 and 51st Divisions, including those involved in the protest. Thomas Main reported that, for some of the protesters: It was regarded as praiseworthy in their own divisions if they rejoined their own units by illegal means. Among some men there arose a belief in the existence of such a crime as ‘honourable desertion’ or which they would get praise. A few individuals remained calm and determined in the decision that they would rejoin their own divisions either with or without the co-operation of the transit officers.148

Hugh Fraser also reflected on these sentiments, remarking that: Each of us belonged to the best section, the best platoon, the best regiment in the British Army and this was – this went throughout the whole division and the 50th Division as well. There was great rivalry between the 50th and the 51st but there was a kind of friendly rivalry. Each of us belong to the best unit in the British Army and it had been instilled in us that if ever we should become parted from our units, [we should] make all efforts to return to them, no matter how difficult it would be. General Wimberley himself, of course, he was a Cameron and being a Cameron myself I could – I was well aware of his feelings towards the Cameron Highlanders.149

146 Letter from Wimberley to Montgomery, dated 9 June 1953. iwm blm 57. Cited in Fennell, Combat and Morale in the North African Campaign, p. 217. 147 Letter from Bernard Montgomery to Ronald Adam, dated 10 April 1944. Cited in David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 12. 148 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 2. 149 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1666 (3/15).

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Clearly, men were encouraged by their commanding officers to value their battalion, brigade, division, and army above all others, and to make every effort to return to their units. Indeed, the preference for returning wounded men to their original units had earlier been codified in British law. Section 4(1) of the Armed Forces (Conditions of Service) Act 1939 established that a soldier of the Territorial Army could ‘be posted without his consent to any regiment battalion or other military body within the corps to which he has been appointed or to which he may have been transferred’. However, the same section also added that if that transferred soldier; continues in territorial army service and so desires, there shall, as soon as may be convenient after the end of the present period of embodiment, be taken all such steps as are necessary to enable him to serve again in the corps, and in the regiment, battalion or other military body (if any), in which he was serving at the time when he was first so transferred.150

Wartime necessities may demand that men be transferred to other units, but only in dire circumstances, and when this happens, men should be returned home as soon as possible. Authorities made numerous attempts over the coming days to stop the protest. Mid-afternoon on 19 September 1943, the commander of X Corps, Lieutenant General Richard McCreery, arrived in an attempt to talk the men down. McCreery acknowledged that mistakes had been made, but that the men were now needed, and they must follow orders or suffer the punishment. By acknowledging that mistakes had been made, McCreery inadvertently gave a further sense of legitimacy to the protesters’ complaints. McCreery’s approach divided the men even further. About 50 men ceased their protest and joined their new units, but the others booed McCreery’s threats of punishment, and by the close of day 300 men remained. The following day, 20 September, several other officers spoke to the protesters and managed to persuade a further dozen to join their new units. Later in the day officers separated the men into two groups and again addressed them. This time they made it clear that the protest would be considered an act of mutiny, the penalty for which could be death. This persuaded another group of men to march off under the new orders, but still a dedicated group

150 Armed Forces (Conditions of Service) Act 1939, s 4(1).

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remained, and some were heard to remark ‘It’s not mutiny’.151 The officers also separated three ncos from the men and offered them promotions if they would persuade the men to cease the protest, but all steadfastly refused.152 Finally, facing a group of men who refused to follow orders to move to a new unit, officers ordered that the protesters be arrested. Leadership was clearly a core issue for the protesters. Many felt that they were simply following the instructions of trusted and respected leaders like Wimberley and Montgomery to return to their home units. The presence of similarly respected leaders convinced the bulk of the original 1500 men from 155 Transit Camp to head to their new units on Salerno; and, gradually, the intervention of other leadership figures weakened the resistance of the 350 men who initially began the protest until they were whittled down to a core of 192. Indeed, Wimberley later commented on the importance of the presence of a regimental officer among the 1500 men transferred: The men of one Highland Regiment had, luckily, one of their own regimental officers with them, who they knew. He spoke to them and explained matters, and in the case of that regiment all was well. The Jocks of the other Highland regiments had, it seemed, none of their own known officers with them. They were harangued by various strange officers, and even, I believe, by the Corps Commander himself. They remained, however, stubborn and mulish that they wished to get back to their own Divisions, as ‘Jocks’ and ‘Geordies’ certainly become, when they think they have really been mishandled and let down. No doubt, they had among them, some real ‘bad hats’, as were to be found in wartime in every regiment and Division, but a lot of them, I soon discovered, had been excellent soldiers, who had fought with us in many battles, had been wounded in action, and some of them had, when with us, been decorated for gallantry in battle. However, as both Jocks and Geordies alike have an intense sense of loyalty to their Comrades, as soon as the ring-leaders appealed for solidarity, they responded; and that was that!153

Among the 192 remaining men there was an absence of respected and trusted leaders. The men had been lied to by unfamiliar officers, told they were returning to their units; and they were not inclined to place any faith 151 Examination of Captain A. Lee. Second Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 30 October 1943, p. 19. 152 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 55. 153 Wimberley, ‘Scottish Soldier’, p. 209.

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in any other officers they did not know. Captain Lee, who addressed the protesters several times on 20 September and warned them of the potential punishments for their actions – and who gave the direct order for the men to move out to the 46th Division – later acknowledged in a sworn statement: ‘I do not know the names of the men I so warned’.154 Lee was just another unfamiliar and untrusted face among a larger group of officers. During the subsequent trial of the protesters, one member of the defence team, Lieutenant W.J. Howat, suggested that had some of their own officers been present, or ‘had even a little understanding been shown, this offence would never have been committed’.155 Those familiar officers of their home units had given their licence to the rank and file view of the moral economy; but when external authorities breached that moral economy, those familiar officers were not available to support their men. Indeed, aside from these few exceptions, it appears that few other officers or ncos among those 1500 men did anything to dissuade the protesters from their actions. As Thomas Main argued: Officers and N.C.O.s in the draft did little or nothing to settle doubts, and certain officers appear to have comforted the men by saying that if they stood firm it might be possible to get back to their divisions.156

For several days, little notice was taken of the 1500 men who waited in the fields near Salerno; and when several hundred waged a silent protest, very few people cared about their reasons for doing so. This highlights another important point of difference between the three protests. As seen in Chapter 2, in 1863, Joshua Chamberlain’s 20th Maine was low on numbers and eager for reinforcements from the 2nd Maine. These newly arriving 2nd Maine men were also from his home state and, indeed, his home region. It was in Chamberlain’s best interests as a new regimental commander to cease the protest by the men of the 2nd Maine and ensure they joined his ranks. Similarly, in 1918, the men of the Australian Imperial Force built a strong reputation as outstanding combat troops and were highly valued by their officers. The extent of the protest, spreading across several battalions, could have had a terrible effect on morale if allowed to escalate, or if officers decided to press for charges to be laid. But, in 154 Captain A. G. Lee (156750), sworn statement, Summary of Evidence, p. 10. 155 Howat’s speech in mitigation. Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 2 November 1943, p. 114. 156 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 2.

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contrast to those earlier events, in 1943 the protesters of the 50th and 51st Divisions were, at the time of their protest, not desperately needed in the front lines;157 they had little status in the eyes of Fifth Army officers around Salerno, and, as such, there was little incentive for officers to exhaust all efforts in an attempt to cease the protest. This is not to say that officers did not try, and numerous attempts were made over several days to bring these men back to order. But a more sympathetic officer – one who knew these men, who had earned their trust, and who understood their view of the moral economy – may not have been so rash as to arrest them and threaten them with the death penalty. Unfortunately, there were no such officers around at the time. As with the men of the 2nd Maine and the aif, the situation in 50th and 51st Divisions was a non-violent protest. As noted earlier, Hugh Fraser described it as ‘the quietest mutiny which ever happened’.158 He elaborated: We stood still, there was no uproar […] If they didn’t want to go, well they could stand still with me. And it was the quietest mutiny that has ever been known. There was no shouting, no fury. It was all done very, very quietly.

Throughout their incarceration, transportation, and trial the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions maintained their non-violent and dignified position, which even extended to the maintenance of a tidy prison enclosure. Fraser recalled: We kept the camp, the enclosure in which we were kept, it must have been one of the smartest in the, in the area, and we ourselves we kept ourselves exceptionally smart. We were determined that we were going to be the best-dressed and the best-behaved soldiers in the entire area.159

Given the absence of any officers, this was a remarkable achievement. The men also continued to maintain discipline and order throughout; and, much like the men of the 2nd Maine and the aif, they continued to follow every order issued to them, with the exception of the order to move out to different units. Captain Lee, who sought to order the men to move 157 By the time these men protested, the crisis that demanded their transfer to Salerno had passed. 158 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1669 (5/15). 159 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1665 (9/15).

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out to the 46th Division on Salerno, later recalled: ‘The men obeyed any other order but just did not wish to join other than their own divisions’.160 Lee further added that the men were ‘quiet and obedient’ during their protest.161 However, unlike the protests of the 2nd Maine and the aif, there appears to have been no individual leadership in this protest. Fraser repeatedly stated in his interview that every man made up his own mind, and that the result was simply a collection of individual protests. When questioned on this point, Fraser was adamant: It was an individual effort. Each one of us, strange to say, we had our minds made up just more or less at the same time. From the time that announcement was made over the tannoy on the ship in the Mediterranean our minds were made up then. Each man had made his own mind up. There was no – no little groups discussing the thing saying, we should do this or we should do that. It was utterly and entirely an individual effort.162

Edward Russell, who brought the men to trial, also supported this view. Russell argued: There were over a hundred of them and there were no ringleaders. The four young corporals had apparently taken no active part in suborning the others, and I could see no alternative but to try them all together. To have tried them by separate courts in small batches would have been most unsatisfactory, and I considered that the whole story and all the facts should be put before one General Court-Martial.163

Leaders of military mutinies are typically subject to the harshest punishment, often execution, and in this case the prosecution focused many of their efforts on attempting to ascertain who the leaders were. In their failure to identify clear protest leaders, they instead targeted the next best thing – the non-commissioned officers among the men. Fraser’s claim that there were ‘no little groups discussing the thing’ is questionable. The men had several days on the beachhead, with no officers around, to casually discuss their options. Even if there were no clear leaders or attempts to incite men 160 Examination of Captain A. Lee. Second Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 30 October 1943, p. 15. 161 Examination of Captain A. Lee. Second Day, p. 15. 162 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1669 (5/15). 163 Edward Frederick Langley Russell, That Reminds Me (London: Cassell, 1959), p. 164.

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to protest, it is reasonable to assume, given the collective action taken, that the possibility of refusal to obey orders was at least raised and the merits of the action debated. And indeed, this was an inference that the deputy judge advocate at the trial, Major Geoffrey Raphael, would later suggest was open to the court to draw.164 Again, it is interesting to contrast the experiences of the protesters with other men in similar circumstances. Indeed, important comparisons can be made between the 192 men who sustained the protest and the remaining 1308 in the draft sent to Salerno from Tripoli. As noted, leadership was clearly a defining factor. Many of the men who marched off to the 46th Division were influenced to do so by the presence of trusted officers among them. Saul David, for example, noted that Lieutenant J.A. Coulter persuaded a large body of men from the Black Watch (51st Division) to cease their protest and join the 46th Division.165 The highest rank among the 192 remaining men was sergeant, of whom there were three; and none of those three men were inclined at the time to persuade their comrades to cease the protest. Another discerning factor, as also noted above, was the strong connection the protesters had formed over several years of demanding military service with their home units, and the vital sense of esprit de corps they had formed in those units. This can be contrasted with the many relatively new recruits among the other 1308 men of the draft, who had not yet formed such strong attachments and who were more obliged to follow the order to transfer. And finally, these factors must be considered alongside the ever-important issue of morale. While all men at 155 Transit Camp suffered from declining morale, it hit those 192 men, most of whom were veterans of the North African campaign, the hardest because of those issues of leadership and esprit de corps. There were no familiar officers to lift their spirits, and the crushing of their hopes of returning to their unit also crushed their faith in military authority. Valuable insight can also be gained by contrasting these with other circumstances. For example, it was not uncommon for men to transfer between several different units during their service careers, particularly after recovering from injury. For example, one of the more famous Salerno protesters, John McFarlane, had originally enlisted in the Argyll 164 David, Mutiny at Salerno, pp. 115-16. This suggestion was contested by the defence team, who argued that, even if small groups did discuss resistance among themselves, there was no unifying conspiracy linking the men from different battalions, regiments, and divisions in the one coordinated act of mutiny. David, Mutiny at Salerno, pp. 116-17. 165 David, Mutiny at Salerno, pp. 43-4, 73.

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and Sutherland Highlanders but had been transferred to the Durham Light Infantry. This move upset McFarlane, but it came relatively early in the war – before he had developed strong attachments to the unit and his comrades – and thus there was no strong protest from him. With the dli McFarlane went on to serve throughout North Africa; earned the Military Medal at Mersa-Metruh; became bonded to his unit through what David called ‘the crucible of combat’;166 and stood with the protesters at Salerno in September 1943. By 1943, McFarlane had developed the view, with the support or ‘licence’ of his commanding officers, that men should not be forcibly transferred out of their home unit as a core principle in his understanding of the military moral economy. Ronald Mallabar provides another interesting example of the strengths of the different loyalties men felt towards battalions and divisions. Mallabar, who served with the 9th Battalion of the Durham Light Infantry in the 50th Division, recalled that, after recovering from wounds and experiencing a period of leave in England, he endeavoured to return to his home battalion, the 9th Battalion of the dli. He recalled: I was originally sent to a battalion of the Duke of Wellington’s Regiment which was stationed somewhere in County Durham, and I was a bit anxious at this because I was anxious to get back to my own battalion, the 9th dli, and eventually I was sent off to reinforcement holding units in France and Belgium and I arrived back with the battalion sometime in November 1944.167

However, changes were occurring at the divisional level at the time. In November 1944, Montgomery decided to return the core structure 50th Division to England to serve as a training division for reinforcements. The 9th Battalion of the dli were thus transferred to the 7th Armoured Division, known as the ‘Desert Rats’. Upon his return, Mallabar thus found himself back in his old battalion, but in a new division. His memory of this provides a revealing contrast between the esprit de corps of the battalion and that of the division: When I got back to the battalion I found that I was now a member of the 7th Armoured Division, the 50th Division had gone and the 9th dli had joined two other battalions to reform the new 131 Lorried Infantry Brigade of the 166 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 51. 167 Interview with Ronald Mallabar, Reel 3, 0:50-1:25.

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7th Armoured Division. So I had to take my double-T divisional signs off and put the desert rats up […] Certainly we were very pleased to stay with a formation like the 7th Armoured Division rather than go back home, although I dare say some people might have been keen to go back home.168

Mallabar’s recollections suggest that the 7th Armoured Division’s strong reputation was enough to satisfy any concerns he had about moving to a new division. This was further helped by the fact that, during the Second World War, the 7th Armoured Division had a similar combat history to the 51st Division and the divisions had often served side by side; both had fought in major battles of the North African Campaign, in the Italian Campaign, and during the Normandy Invasion. His recollections also reveal the difference between the value of the battalion and the value of the division. Battalions were home to soldiers, and most of the protesters of Salerno had their battalions in mind when they refused to follow orders to head elsewhere. In contrast, divisions (and to some extent armies, particularly the Eighth Army) were a source of pride that bound men of the constituent battalions together in a sense of camaraderie. For example, throughout the 51st Division’s participation in the North African Campaign, Scottish civilians could far more easily use the press to follow the exploits of the 51st Division as a whole, rather than follow the exploits of any particular battalion, and battle accolades were far more conveniently accorded to divisions than to individual battalions. As Mallabar’s recollections suggest, while it could be upsetting for men to lose their division and the sense of achievement they shared with the men of that division, such a loss was less likely to motivate them to protest. In contrast, as the Salerno protest reveals and as further reflected by Mallabar’s recollections, men could become anxious if they lost their battalion, and it could result in protests. It was not uncommon in desperate circumstances to send men from reinforcement and transit camps to units other than their own, and we can again look at examples of this for comparison. Indeed, the 51st Division were the recipients of such a group of men earlier in 1943. After suffering heavy casualties in the Battle of Wadi Akari in April 1943, the 51st Division received reinforcements from various English regiments in order to enable them to continue the pursuit of Axis forces during the final operations of the Tunisian Campaign. Ever mindful of the value of esprit de corps and of the

168 Interview with Ronald Mallabar, Reel 3, 6:00-7:30.

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attachment those soldiers had to their home units, Wimberley, commanding the 51st Division at the time, explained: We at once arranged to send these men by whole platoons, still wearing their own regimental cap badges and Divisional flashes, etc, to be attached to certain of our regiments. Moreover they were, there and then, told as they arrived, that as soon as the fighting was over at Enfidaville, any who wished, would be returned to the Corps reinforcement camps, as a step towards getting themselves posted back to their proper regiments and Divisions.169

While the move may have met with some dissatisfaction among those Englishmen being ordered to serve with a proud Scottish division, there was no protest or mutiny. Again, the outstanding reputation of the 51st Division and their recent successes in the campaign may have further contributed towards the contentment of those men being transferred; but Wimberley’s consideration of their esprit de corps and his careful handling of that situation was clearly a factor.170 One clear difference in the event of 1943 compared to the incidences of 1863 and 1918 was that the protesters at Salerno, while generally sharing divisional loyalties, were nonetheless drawn from a broad range of battalions within those divisions, and even included several men from units outside the 50th and 51st Divisions. The protesters of 1863 and 1918 consisted of groups of men who knew each other, and their willpower and solidarity in protesting reflected their bonds with each other. This raises the question of the extent to which similar bonds and motivations existed between the protesters in 1943. Certainly, as noted earlier, the 51st Division fostered a sense of divisional loyalty; and, as Scottish troops in a predominantly English army, they may have felt a sense of bonding around that national identity. But, more broadly, Thomas Main suggested that ‘The draft was unified by past battles shared, by mutual immediate emotions and by the common prospect of rejoining their own units in the field’.171 The principal ‘mutual immediate emotion’ was, of course, the feeling of moral outrage. Furthermore, within the large draft group, Main argued 169 Douglas Wimberley, ‘Scottish Soldier’, p. 210. 170 It should be noted that the Salerno protesters of September 1943 were also told that efforts would be made to return them to their units, but only after several days of unclear directions and misinformation. David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 54. 171 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 1.

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that ‘smaller groups formed along regimental lines’.172 According to Main’s analysis, these small groups tended to be sensitive to the opinions of subgroups, and adopted similar attitudes while also being ‘sensitive to opinion brought to it by its own authority figures – an N.C.O. or officer of the same Battalion or Division’.173 Thus, whereas in 1863 and 1918 the protesters appeared to be generally united as a single force based on existing bonds, in 1943 it appeared that multiple smaller groups formed that all shared the same concerns, and they became bound together in protest by the shared sense of injustice and moral outrage. Main concluded that the protesters consisted of: the man of high divisional morale who hoped that his action would be subsequently approved; the angry affronted patriot of high personal morals, who believed he was right whatever the consequences; the man whose sense of justice was outraged and who had been encouraged in this by the attitude of the draft officers and ncos, and by the number of his companions who were taking the same course; a few men whose anxiety about future battle in strange company led them to follow the firm lead given them; and a few useless men who preferred idleness to discipline and service in any formation.174

Main further added that it was those ‘with the highest divisional morale and a combative family spirit’ that ‘grouped themselves together in the decision to refuse all divisions but their own’.175 It seems as though the bonds of camaraderie that silently bound these men together during the stress of combat also silently bound them together in protest in the fields near Salerno. As has been shown, there were clearly several key factors contributing to the protest at Salerno in September 1943. First and foremost, the men who protested were predominantly drawn from units that had experienced a slow and steady decline in their morale over several years of exhausting warfare. This was particularly bad among the protesters as, after recovering from a range of injuries and illnesses, they were sent for a long and exhausting wait at 155 Transit Camp. Finally, these men were clearly told that they

172 173 174 175

Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 2. Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 2. Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 3. Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 3.

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would be returning to their beloved units, their home, their comrades, their family and friends – and for a brief time it seemed their morale was boosted. Many men, still clearly unfit for active service, presented themselves, voluntarily, as willing to return to service as long as it meant a return to their unit and an escape from the drudgery of camp. However, the belief that they were returning to their unit was shattered upon being informed that they were being sent to an entirely different division on Salerno. Along with the destruction of that belief came a simultaneous destruction of their morale and of their faith in local authorities. Often, when morale drops, men find faith in the comradeship of familiar faces and in the encouragement of familiar officers. In 1943 however, that comradeship was limited as men associated loosely with others from the same battalion or regiment (and not necessarily the same platoon or company), and there were no trusted leaders around. The bonds of esprit de corps that kept men serving and fighting for one another, and for the reputation of their unit, were weakened in that isolated environment of Salerno. Finally, feeling betrayed and alone, the men were threatened with the punishment of death if they refused to comply with orders to join new units. While this convinced a small number of the original 350 protesters to cease their action and join the new units, it only hardened the stance of the remaining 192 men. The officers threatening those men were clearly not the officers they knew or trusted; nor where they the same officers who gave licence and legitimacy to their understanding of the moral economy, and, as such, few attempts were made to empathize with the men’s position. Several of these factors – the lies, the transfer to different units, and the threats made by officers – were deemed breaches in the military moral economy that operated within those respective battalions and regiments of the 50th and 51st Divisions, and, indeed, within the Eighth Army as a whole; and the protest conducted by the men on Salerno was aimed at restoring circumstances to the status quo, that is, securing their return to their home units. The response by officers, and the ultimate resolution of the protest of the 50th and 51st Divisions in September 1943, was markedly different to the events of 1863 and 1918. In both 1863 and 1918, officers generally approached the protests carefully and were often hesitant to refer to the incidents as mutinies. In both of those cases officers empathized with the protesters and carefully negotiated an outcome with them. In contrast, in 1943, there was little empathy among the British officers, who generally took a stern approach to the protesters; and many officers maintained that approach to the men throughout the rest of the war.

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After repeatedly refusing to move out to their new unit, the 192 protesters were finally placed under arrest. They were disarmed and had their kits searched before being escorted to an ad hoc prisoner of war cage where they were temporarily kept alongside a similar cage holding German prisoners.176 Within the cage the men were kept on ‘iron’ rations, and Hugh Fraser recalled that they had to suffer ‘hard tack – bully [beef] and biscuits’ with water from discarded petrol cans.177 The men also had their cigarette rations cancelled while the neighbouring Germans were allowed to keep theirs. The harsh treatment of the protesters was all the more ridiculous because, as noted earlier, by the time they arrived at Salerno they were no longer needed – the emergency following the German counter-attack had passed and the Allies had secured the situation. This fact was later raised during trial by the defence team, but appears to have had little impact on the outcome. The men involved in the protests were drawn from a range of units, predominantly the 50th and 51st Divisions of the Eighth Army. Men from the 6th, 8th, and 9th Battalions of the dli made up 75 of the 192 protesters – including 3 sergeants, 4 corporals, and 7 lance corporals. The remainder included 29 other men from 50th Division: 23 members of the 5th East Yorkshires, 5 from the 1st Devons, and 1 from the 1st Dorsets.178 Alongside those were a further 83 men from the 51st Division: 23 from the Seaforth Highlanders, 20 from the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, 22 from the Queens Own Cameron Highlanders, 16 from the Gordon Highlanders, and 2 from the Black Watch. Five other protesters had no affiliation with either the 50th Division or the 51st Division.179 On 22 September, the 192 protesters were escorted aboard the LST 305 transport and taken to Bizerte in Tunisia. From there, they travelled 400 miles west to the 209 Prisoner of War Camp near Ouled Rahmoun in French Algeria, were they were held for several weeks. In the meantime, plans were already underway to try these men. Lieutenant General Humfrey Gale, the senior British officer in the region, instructed Edward Russell, the senior army legal officer in the region, to initiate proceedings. Russell then selected Captain Lionel Daiches as the assistant prosecutor to put together the case for the prosecution, with Major Robert Money to lead 176 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1670 (6/15). 177 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1672 (7/15). Saul David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 62. 178 The 1 st Devons and 1st Dorsets had only recently joined the 50th Division. David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 58. 179 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 59.

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as the chief prosecutor. According to Russell, because there were so many protesters, and no clear ringleaders, the decision was made to try the men together as a single group.180 However, it seems clear that this decision also helped reinforce the prosecution’s case that the men had planned and acted together to conduct a mutiny rather than acting independently or in small groups, as claimed by the defence. The trial was scheduled to take place in the city of Constantine, and the protesters arrived in their new compound on 17 October 1943. From the very beginning, the odds were stacked against the protesters and their defence team. Whereas the prosecution worked throughout October to identify witnesses and evidence and build their case, the defence team only met together for the first time on 23 October, six days before the trial started. While the defence team featured some highly competent legal experts, they were nonetheless in a rush to prepare their case and faced some serious obstacles. Most notably, few of the administrative staff at 155 Transit Camp were willing to admit any wrong-doing; some, such as Commandant Richards, were even deemed potentially ‘hostile’ to the defence.181 Furthermore, the defence team was limited by the resources available, and in the six days they had to prepare for trial together they overlooked a number of important aspects. For example, Saul David noted that no reference was made during the trial to McCreery’s attempt to talk the men down on Salerno, during which he admitted that mistakes had been made. On the first day of the trial, 29 October 1943, the defence team’s request for an adjournment to give them more time to secure evidence and witnesses and plan their case was denied.182 Further attempts during the trial to refute the charge of mutiny – on the basis that there was ‘no combined design on their part to resist authority’ and that they were only disobeying orders (a far lesser charge) – were also rejected on the basis that a conspiracy to commit mutiny can be inferred at the discretion of the court.183 Given the circumstances, it was difficult for the defence team to effectively defend the charges. The men admitted that they had refused to obey orders, and they even maintained a sense of pride and legitimacy in their actions throughout the trial. Thus, one strategy the defence team adopted 180 Russell, That Reminds Me, p. 164. 181 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 87. 182 First Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 29 October 1943, p. 6. 183 Appeal by Captain Quennell, Third Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 31 October 1943, p. 67; and Fourth Day, 1 November 1943, p. 75.

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was to begin compiling a list of the defendants’ battle honours (that is, a list of the many battles they had participated in) in the hope that this might encourage lighter sentences.184 The defence team also sought to establish that the men were misled by the commandant of 155 Transit Camp, and they utilized Company Sergeant Major Green’s account of events as the basis for their argument. The defence team also argued that, in protesting, the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions were simply honouring instructions received from their own divisional officers to seek to return to their home units.185 Under Section 7(3) of the Army Act, the men faced the following charge at trial: When on active service joining in a mutiny in his majesty’s military forces in that they in the field on or about 20 September 1943 joined in a mutiny by combining together and with other persons unknown to resist lawful authority and to disobey the orders of their superior officers.186

Saul David argued that the charge was kept intentionally vague to enable the prosecution to argue that the men had engaged in a lengthy action that was a concerted attempt to resist authority and engage in a mutiny, rather than merely a simple refusal to follow orders.187 Despite open acknowledgement that the men refused to follow orders to move out to new units, they all pleaded ‘not guilty’ to the charge of mutiny.188 Few, if any, of the men believed at any stage that what they were doing comprised a mutiny. Even so, the serious nature of the charges first threatened, and ultimately laid, against the protesters – that of mutiny with the risk of punishment of death – did little to deter the actions of the men or to alter their views on the legitimacy of what they had done. Hugh Fraser reflected on the first mention of mutiny on Salerno: It was explained to us for the charge which we were alleged to be committing was in fact mutiny and the penalty for mutiny was death. And quite honestly my thought then was if the penalty is death well put us up – put me up against a wall now and shoot me. I was utterly and completely demoralised, and I was quite prepared to be stood up and shot if I weren’t 184 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 81. 185 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 83. 186 Schedule B, Court-Martial Papers. 187 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 92. 188 First Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 29 October 1943, p. 4.

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to be returned to my – to the 5th Camerons. Simple as that. It’s perhaps diffi – it’s perhaps difficult to realise that but, as I said, I and many of the others were so demoralised at the time – we had been treated rather roughly – and if that was the decision, if they were going to charge us with mutiny, if they wanted to shoot us, well, shoot me now.189

Fraser recalled that throughout this period – as he was first arrested, then moved to a prisoner of war camp, and then transferred back to North Africa – he felt confident that he was in the right, and that: somebody would see the light and realise that what we were doing was purely and simply a matter of principle. Like the rest of them […] we had our principles and belief in the truth. We were truthful to ourselves and we believed that other persons would be telling us the truth.190

Wally Innes expressed a similar sentiment. Innes was one of the three sergeants initially sentenced to death following the trial; and, after being told that his sentence would be suspended if he agreed to join units fighting in Italy, Innes reportedly asked ‘Do I go to the Durham Light Infantry, sir?’191 After such a long period in detention, through the trial, and after facing the prospect of the death penalty, Innes still hoped for a return his unit. As with the men of the 2nd Maine, the protesters in 1943 maintained their belief that they were in the right; that the circumstances they were in were unjust; and that they simply needed somebody to understand this for justice to be done. Lieutenant E. G. Everett, who was in charge of the prisoners during their incarceration at Camp 209, remarked that throughout their incarceration their morale was ‘extraordinarily high’ and the men ‘actually run the show inside the compound for me’.192 Even throughout the trial, morale among the men generally remained high, as they remained confident that they had performed a just action in unjust circumstances, and that the court would recognize this. But they were wrong. On 1 November, the court found the men guilty.193 On 2 November, the defence team were given one final attempt to summarize 189 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1667 (4/15). 190 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1673 (8/15). 191 ‘Did Someone Blunder?’, Reynolds News, 8 February 1959. 192 Examination of Lieutenant E. G. Everett, Third Day, Proceedings of a Field General CourtMartial, 31 October 1943, pp. 61-2. 193 In line with standard procedures, the finding was not announced in court, but was later confirmed by senior officers. David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 135.

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the circumstances in the hope of mitigating the sentences. Captain Hugh Quennell, who effectively led the defence team, appealed to the court by contrasting the actions of the protesters with those of strikers back home in England. In particular, there were two strikes that occurred in Britain at around the same time as the Salerno protest, and those civilian strikers received no punishment for their actions. In an attempt to liken these citizen-soldier protesters to civilian strikers, Quennell argued that the strikers had also committed ‘acts of collective insubordination for which no punishment was awarded’, and he asked that the lack of punishment in those incidents be taken into account.194 Another member of the defence team, Captain Evers, spoke to similar sentiments and reminded the court that these were not Regular soldiers: The bulk of these men are civilian soldiers who have taken up arms in defence of ideals that have been inculcated into them since the day they were born. Do not, please, be too hard on them for seeking in a civilian manner to right what in all conscience they considered an injustice. Let them, of your charity, soon be restored to their rightful place in the struggle for the preservation of all they hold dear and for which purpose they have left their homes and their loved ones.195

The defence team also once again highlighted the strong esprit de corps the men had formed with their units. One member of the defence, Captain Samwell, a company commander in the 7th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders of the 51st Division, went so far as to describe this esprit de corps in the 51st as ‘almost a religion’.196 Another member of the team, Lieutenant Howat, who had formerly served in the 7th Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders, elaborated on this point: To these men […] General Wimberley is their military God and the sign ‘HD’ is the altar at which they worship. So much so, that to ask a soldier of the Highland Division to fight with another division is, in my mind, akin to asking a Hindu to worship Mohomet [sic]. Such a thing is unthinkable. Remove the Highland men from their Highland Division 194 Quennell’s speech in mitigation. Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 2 November 1943, p. 107. 195 Evers’s speech in mitigation. Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 2 November 1943, p. 113. 196 Examination of Samwell during mitigation, Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General CourtMartial, 2 November 1943, p. 104.

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and you have torn them from their military altar and cast them out into utter darkness.197

In further summarizing the reasons why the men protested, Howat suggested that: ‘Their natural reaction was that they stood dumbfounded – such as thing [transferring to another unit] was unthinkable. Therefore the offence was committed’.198 These comments are very telling; while Howat was referring explicitly to the 1943 incident at Salerno, his summary could aptly apply to both the men of the 2nd Maine in 1863 and the men of the aif in 1918. All shared the sense of being dumbfounded by an unthinkable, unacceptable order, and of being outraged at a breach in the military moral economy. After some deliberation, the court determined that the three sergeants would be sentenced to death; the corporals would serve ten years of penal servitude; and the lance corporals and privates would serve seven years.199 Given the circumstances within which the protest took place, these were considerably harsh penalties. Saul David concluded that the court was clearly operating on the basis of setting an example, which was absurd given that the details of the trial were kept secret and the ‘example’ set would never be publicized for others to learn from.200 Finally, before the sentences were enforced, they first had to be reviewed and approved by the senior British officer in the area, Lieutenant General Humfrey Gale. Gale confirmed the guilty convictions, but for the sergeants he commuted the death sentences to twelve years of penal servitude (with the first two years to be served outside Great Britain) and reduction to the ranks.201 Throughout this entire process, it seemed that the opinions of British military authorities were stacked against the men. But there came one final brief, but valuable, reprieve. On 17 November, Ronald Adam – Adjutant General and one of the most senior officers in the British Army – arrived in Bône, French Algeria, to meet with Gale. In stark contrast to most British officers who were involved in the case, most of whom sought to attribute responsibility entirely to the protesters, Adam 197 Howat’s speech in mitigation. Fifth Day, Proceedings of a Field General Court-Martial, 2 November 1943, p. 114. 198 Howat’s speech in mitigation. Fifth Day, 2 November 1943, p. 114. 199 There were a few exceptional circumstances. One soldier, Private Kemp, was given five years of penal servitude on the basis that he had offered to transfer to the 46th Division on 21 September. David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 148. 200 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 153. 201 General Gale’s decision on the convictions, 13 November 1943.

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believed that the blame for the incident lay largely with others, and he thus ordered that the sentences should all be immediately suspended provided that the men agree to join units of the Eighth Army fighting in Italy. When it was proposed to the protesters that they could end their incarceration by serving with other units, they took up the offer, and within 24 hours of receiving this news they were released and on their way to the Italian Front. But, while they were being sent back to the Eighth Army, they were not going back to their original battalions. John McFarlane, for example, was drafted to the Lancashire Fusiliers, but he refused to accept promotions in this new unit because, as he stated, ‘I’m going back to the Durhams’.202 Furthermore, it was communicated to the men that they had brought shame on themselves, which they must work to rectify; and many were effectively ostracized as ‘mutineers’ and ‘cowards’ within their new units. Far from being able to rebuild esprit de corps in their new units, these men were often treated as criminals and outsiders. Thomas Main reported: Most men believed they were to be given a dangerous job, and there was even a small rumour that they were to be deliberately used as cannonfodder. In their gloom, some saw penal servitude as the only alternative to death in a strange, hostile unit and few argued against such a deduction.203

The fear of being used as cannon-fodder was, in some cases, warranted. Many of the protesters were repeatedly selected for dangerous tasks in their new units; and in early 1944, when those new units were pulled out of the front line prior to a period of rest, the protesters were explicitly ordered to remain behind and to continue serving in the front lines with the next regiment to arrive.204 As a result of this ongoing mistreatment, many immediately commenced requests to transfer to their original units, but with little success. Facing what seemed a hopeless situation, and with their morale at an all-time low, some of these men began to request a return to penal servitude, while others went absent without leave.205 The initial protest by the 350 men on Salerno was never intended as a refusal to serve, or to fight. It was purely a desire to return to the status quo, to return home and serve with their units. Hugh Fraser thus recalled; 202 ‘Did Someone Blunder?’ 203 Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 6. 204 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 177-8. 205 Thomas Main, ‘General Matters in the Salerno Mutiny’, p. 6. Eventually all those who went absent either gave themselves in or were arrested, and the bulk of them had their suspended sentences activated. David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 182-5.

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It wasn’t a case of refusing to fight, we’d have fought anywhere, provided we were back with our own units again; if I was back in my 5th Camerons, if others of us were back in the Seaforths or back in the dli, we would have gone anywhere with them.206

Indeed, after this incident Wally Innes continued to refuse opportunities to serve with units other than the Durham Light Infantry, and he was eventually reconnected with a dli battalion.207 Incidentally, many of the 1308 men transferred to Salerno who did not protest, and who were sent to other units, were eventually offered the opportunity to return to their home units.208 However, it is interesting to note that, while many took up this opportunity and found their way home, many others decided to stay with their new units in the 46th Division. Saul David suggested that, in at least one case, this was because the individual, Alec McMichael, had found a more comfortable position managing the stores of his new unit, and he was disinclined to rejoin his old unit when they were rumoured to be preparing for the invasion of France.209 This reluctance for many of those 1308 men to return to their original units also reinforces the point made earlier – that those men who did not protest at Salerno may not have held the sense of unit cohesion and esprit de corps as core principles in their moral economy, as the 192 protesters did. In 1863 and 1918, when the protesters were transferred to different units, they were encouraged to believe that the military moral economy would be repaired and defended within their new units. The protesters of 1943 were given no such encouragement, and they continued to suffer ongoing breaches of the moral economy by being excluded from the esprit de corps of their new units and by being forced to continue serving in the front lines (thus threatening their safety) when the remaining members of their new units received a rest. These breached the core principles of the military moral economy, namely, the right to the best chances of survival and the assumption that officers would do their utmost, within reason, to prevent soldiers from being placed in situations where they risked dying. Indeed, in these circumstances officers were intentionally keeping these men in such risky situations as a form of punishment.

206 Interview with Hugh Fraser, file 1670 (6/15). 207 ‘Did Someone Blunder?’ 208 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 75. 209 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 75.

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The repercussions of this brief protest by men of the 50th and 51st Divisions in 1943 were far greater than they were for the men of the 2nd Maine or the aif in the earlier protests. Unlike the situations in 1863 and 1918, there were few compromises, there were no clear effective leaders available to persuade the men to cease their protest, there were few attempts to empathize with the men or appreciate their perspective on events, no lenience was shown during their trial or sentencing, and few genuine attempts were made to rebuild faith in the military moral economy. While the circumstances leading up to the protest at Salerno in 1943 were similar to the circumstances leading up to those earlier protests of 1863 and 1918, the outcome was very different. Even after their sentences were suspended, the men in 1943 continued to suffer as a result of their actions. Many of them never recovered their morale; they lost all faith in military authority, and they were ostracized by both authorities and their new comrades. Despite these challenges, some of the protesters did readjust to military life after the protest. Some found new friends and sympathetic officers in their new units and continued to serve out the rest of the war. Of those protesters who continued to serve, thirteen were killed in action while, after a great struggle, some did eventually make it back to their old home battalions and their old comrades. They even found support in some of the highest echelons of the military, with Wimberley, Montgomery, and Adam continuing to agitate in their interests throughout 1944 and 1945. The efforts of those officers, along with work by family members and local Members of Parliament back in Britain, culminated in the War Office’s decision, in May 1945, to release all men still held in prison – on the condition that they agree to an extended period of service in the army. The vast majority of the men agreed to this condition, but there were a few holdouts, including men such as Ray Whitaker, who had lost all faith in the military.210 By late 1946, most of the men, including those incarcerated, had been demobilized and had returned to their homes, families, and friends in Britain.

210 David, Mutiny at Salerno, p. 199.

5 Conclusion Within the three military environments analysed in this book, certain moral standards and values held by the rank and file developed into a moral economy that was, over time, legitimized by officers and accepted as standard practice. As employees of the military, as citizen-soldiers paid to do a job, those rank-and-file men expected certain core principles to be honoured by their officers. Officers would respect and maintain unit cohesion and esprit de corps; and, as much as was practical in the environment of war, they would feed, clothe, and equip their men, and keep them out of unnecessarily risky situations. To the rank-and-file men of those military forces, the importance of that moral economy was so central to the nature of their agreement or contract with authorities that a breach was simply unfathomable and unconscionable. These men were in an extremely dangerous line of work: they frequently risked their lives and suffered extreme hardships, but they typically accepted those risks as part of the demands of military life. They would go into a dangerous battle if called on, endure enemy fire, and accept the hardships of military life; but they would not tolerate a breach in those core principles of the moral economy. Most previous studies of moral economies have focused on a single environment, be it a peasant community, a workplace, or an economic system. In contrast, this study has sought to compare three different military environments in three different eras. In doing so, it has shown how moral economies developed in those environments, and how they were fundamentally the result of a negotiation between the fundamentally civilian expectations of rank-and-file recruits and their military authorities. New recruits brought their civilian values and attitudes into the military, and they borrowed heavily from their civilian principles in developing their understanding of the military moral economy. While this was a new environment for those men, the foundation of that military moral economy was inherited from those established traditional civilian expectations of the right to subsistence and survival, and thus, the military moral economy developed quite rapidly. Within each of those military environments, the moral economy functioned much as it did in civil societies. It bound opposing parties, groups, or classes into an accepted and practised system of standards and norms that, when broken, caused moral outrage and incited the outraged parties to engage in protest to seek a return to the status quo. In the three environments studied, those military moral economies were also built on citizen-soldier assumptions about military service. Unlike

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more professional Regular troops, the men of the 2nd Maine, the Australian Imperial Force (aif), and the 50th and 51st Divisions largely identified as citizen-soldiers who expected a little more disciplinary leeway from officers; and they felt entitled to more rights and privileges compared to Regulars. In particular, many felt that they should have a say in the management of their unit, and they were more inclined than Regular troops to challenge decisions made by their officers. As a result, in the 2nd Maine and the aif in particular, those soldiers displayed a history of protesting against orders and against conditions that they felt were unfair or unjust. As part of their agreement with the military, the rank and file also believed that there were some things the military would never do. A central tenet was that officers would not, unless it was absolutely necessary, forcefully separate men from their beloved unit. The sense of esprit de corps must never be broken by force. Men endured those extreme dangers and hardships for the strength, cohesion, and reputation of their unit. The longer these men served together, and the more they endured together, the stronger those bonds became. Thus, they maintained formation under deadly fire, they stuck together in the trenches, and they endured horrific artillery bombardments for each other. Their unit became their home, a central part of their identity, and a core factor motivating them to struggle to survive. Those men believed that their unit was the best place to be in those circumstances, and no other unit could compare to the bonds that had formed among their comrades. This belief was so important it was even nurtured and protected by military authorities. Officers also shared the value of esprit de corps and the sense of pride in the strength, cohesion, and reputation of their unit. Officers also recognized that soldiers endured hardships because of those values, and so they worked to maintain that spirit and the strength of the unit’s identity. Commanders like Douglas Wimberley and Bernard Montgomery, for example, made it clear that if men under their command were separated from their unit, they were to be returned as soon as possible. They also directly informed their men that they were to strive to return to their home unit at any cost. There were clearly many factors contributing towards the decision to protest, but these were grounded in rank-and-file understandings of the military moral economy. E.P. Thompson made similar arguments with regard to English peasant revolts. He noted: It is of course true that riots were trigged off by soaring prices, by malpractices among dealers, or by hunger. But these grievances operated within

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a popular consensus as to what were legitimate practices in marketing, milling, baking, etc. This in its turn was grounded upon a consistent traditional view of social norms and obligations, of the proper economic functions of several parties within the community, which, taken together, can be said to constitute the moral economy of the poor. An outrage to these moral assumptions, quite as much as actual deprivation, was the usual occasion for direct action.1

In 1863, 1918, and 1943, the men who protested were all bound by a sense that authorities had breached those moral standards, particularly revolving around the importance of maintaining unit cohesion and esprit de corps as core factors in their right to subsistence and survival. After several years of belonging to a unit, working alongside certain comrades, and developing a sense of collective workplace pride, their sense of identity and their feeling of safety and well-being were being stripped away by orders that they felt were simply unacceptable. They used common language to describe those breaches as an injustice and as unfair. Furthermore, they all felt that engaging in a protest, with the objective to return the situation to the status quo, was a legitimate response to those breaches. Once again, they all urged their respective authorities to investigate their claims and understand the ‘truth’ about the breach, and thus appreciate the legitimacy of their actions. The fact that many officers within those units expressed sympathy for the protests – and in many cases acted in support of the protesters and their causes – suggests that they too recognized that there were clear breaches in the moral economy. In many cases those officers had worked hard over several years to build the sense of community and esprit de corps that was being torn apart by those breaches: they had given a ‘measure of licence’ to those rank-and-file views, helped legitimize the military moral economy; and it hurt them too to see such values disregarded by external forces. Fortunately, in many cases those officers worked to help those protesters to resolve their situations. While a return to the status quo was not necessarily practical, they nonetheless sought acceptable outcomes to the situations that unfolded. When measured by the objectives set – that is, to return the situation to the status quo – each of the three protests failed. In 1863, the men of the 2nd Maine were transferred to the 20th, Maine where they were forced to serve for a further twelve months, and many of them lost their lives while doing so. In 1918, the men of the aif were forced to disband their battalions and 1

Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’, pp. 78-9.

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transfer elsewhere. And in 1943, the men of the 50th and 51st Divisions were court-martialled, found guilty of mutiny, and, only after a reprieve, forced to serve for a time with other units. However, it is important to point out that in all three cases the breach in the moral economy was caused by officers outside the home units. Officers of the 2nd Maine did not have the authority to allow these men to return home, and they made no decision regarding where the three-year men would serve. Officers of the aif battalions vigorously protested against the orders to disband, but they were fighting a battle against far superior officers who were determined to force the changes through. And in 1943, there were no familiar or friendly officers available to help the protesters of the 50th and 51st Divisions. Instead, they were dealt with by a predominantly unsympathetic group of officers from other regiments, divisions, and armies. Within their home units, the moral economy was built, strengthened, and legitimized through mutuality with familiar officers. Those familiar standards and norms meant nothing to external authorities who had other priorities in mind. This study also reveals much about the character of these soldiers. Clearly, far from these men being soldiers who ‘do or die’,2 these incidents reveal that soldiers were not always obedient servants, and they very clearly carried over their sense of agency from civilian life into the new world of the military. They both shaped and defended the customs, cultures, and values of their unit. Linderman argued that, ‘the Civil War soldier, moving from peace to war but seldom severed from civilian influences, suffered little serious sense of discontinuity […] he found little cause to doubt that he remained master of his own destiny’.3 This argument also rings true for Australian soldiers in the First World War and British Territorial soldiers in the Second World War. J.G. Fuller similarly argued in his analysis of British and dominion soldiers during the First World War that: The fact that there was a large decree [sic] of continuity in enthusiasms and attitudes from civilian to military life is significant not only in its effects but also in what it says about the nature of the war experience. It suggests that for many men the war was not quite the chasm, cutting across individual and collective experiences and sundering past from future, that it is sometimes depicted. 4 2 To cite the words of Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem ‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’ (1854). 3 Linderman, Embattled Courage, p. 42. 4 Fuller, Troop Morale and Popular Culture, p. 154.

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Although these three events took place decades apart, in three very different wars, and involved three different military forces, they were remarkably similar in the sentiments expressed, in the nature of the protest, and in the objectives set by the protesters. These similarities point towards a common sense of moral outrage, the strength of which should not be underestimated. Thompson’s theory of moral economy, while originally rooted in a specific time and place, clearly has immense value in understanding broader patterns of protest.5 In protesting, these men in 1863, 1918, and 1943 risked their lives to defend their view of the moral economy and to seek a return to the status quo. They were scolded by officers and threatened with the death penalty, and yet they persisted. As Thompson suggested in his discussion of moral economies, the sense of moral outrage at a breach of the moral economy is typically so strong among protesters that it overrides their fears or inclinations to defer protests.6 In the three protests studied, men clearly risked their lives and faced the threat of punishment of death to defend their sense of ‘right’, ‘justice’, and ‘morality’.

5 For more on this argument, see Norbert Götz, ‘“Moral Economy”: Its Conceptual History and Analytical Aspects’, Journal of Global Ethics, vol. 11, no. 2, pp. 147-62. 6 Thompson, ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd’, p. 78.

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Pierson, Michael D., Mutiny at Fort Jackson: The Untold Story of the Fall of New Orleans (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2008). Pond, Hugh, Salerno (London: William Kimber and Co., 1961). Posusney, Marsha Pripstein, ‘Irrational Workers: The Moral Economy of Labor Protest in Egypt’, World Politics, vol. 46, no. 1, 1993, pp. 83-120. Pugsley, Christopher, On the Fringe of Hell: New Zealanders and Military Discipline in the First World War (Auckland: Hodder & Stoughton, 1991). Pullen, John J., The Twentieth Maine (Mechanicsburg, pa: Stackpole Books, 2008). Pullen, John J., Joshua Chamberlain: A Hero’s Life and Legacy, (Mechanicsburg, pa: Stackpole Books, 1999). Rich, G.E., New South Wales Royal Commission Appointed to Inquire into the Administration of the Liverpool Camp, Report of Proceedings and Minutes of Evidence of Royal Commission Appointed to Inquire into the Administration of the Liverpool Camp (Sydney: William Applegate Gullick, 1915). Riddell, Edward, and Clayton, Muirhead Collins, The Cambridgeshires, 1914 to 1919 (Cambridge: Bowes and Bowes, 2012). Rissik, David, The D.L.I. at War: The History of the Durham Light Infantry, 1939-1945 (Uckfield: The Naval and Military Press, 2012). Roberts, Robert, A Ragged Schooling: Growing Up in the Classic Slum (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1997). Royster, Charles, A Revolutionary People at War: The Continental Army and American Character, 1775-1783 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1986). Rubin, Gerry R., Murder, Mutiny and the Military: British Court Martial Cases, 1940-1966 (London: Francis Boutle Publishers, 2005). Russell, Edward Frederick Langley, That Reminds Me (London: Cassell, 1959). Salmond, J.B., The History of the 51st Highland Division 1939-1945 (Edinburgh: The Pentland Press, 1953). Scates, Bruce, and Oppenheimer, Melanie, ‘“I Intend to Get Justice”: The Moral Economy of Soldier Settlement’, Labour and the Great War: The Australian Working Class and the Making of Anzac, Labour History, no. 106, May, 2014, pp. 229-53. Scontras, Charles A., Collective Efforts among Maine Workers: Beginnings and Foundations, 1820-1880 (Orono: Bureau of Labor Education, University of Maine, 1994). Scontras, Charles A., Two Decades of Organized Labor and Labor Politics in Maine 1880-1900 (Orono: Bureau of Labor Education, University of Maine, 1969). Scott, E., Official History of Australia in the War of 1914-1918, Volume XI: Australia during the War (Sydney: Angus and Robertson, 1941). Scott, James C., The Moral Economy of the Peasant: Rebellion and Subsistence in Southeast Asia (New Haven: Yale University, 1976). Seal, Graham, Inventing Anzac: The Digger and National Mythology (St. Lucia: University of Queensland Press, 2004). Sellwood, A.V., The Saturday Night Soldiers: The Stirring Story of the Territorial Army (London: White Lion Publishers, 1974). Smalley, Edward, The British Expeditionary Force, 1939-40 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2015).

202 

The Pursuit of Justice

Spear, Abbott, Hawkes, Andrea C., McCosh, Marie H., Symonds, Craig L., and Alpert, Michael H. (eds.), The Civil War Recollections of General Ellis Spear (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1997). Strachan, Hew (ed.), The Oxford Illustrated History of the First World War (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1998). Stanley, Peter, Bad Characters: Sex, Crime, Mutiny, Murder and the Australian Imperial Force (Sydney: Pier 9, 2010). Stanley, R.H., and Hall, G.O., Eastern Maine and the Rebellion: Being an Account of the Principal Local Events in Eastern Maine during the War and Brief Histories of Eastern Maine Regiments (Bangor, Maine: R.H. Stanley and Company, 1887). Sakurai, Keiko and Adelkhah, Fariba (eds.), The Moral Economy of the Madrasa: Islam and Education Today (Abingdon: Routledge, 2011). Taylor, A., Liberty Men and Great Proprietors: The Revolutionary Settlement on the Maine Frontier, 1760-1820 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1990). Thompson, E.P., The Making of the English Working Class (London: Penguin, 2013 [first published 1963]). Thompson, E.P., Customs in Common (London: Penguin, 1991). Thompson, E.P., ‘The Moral Economy of the English Crowd in the Eighteenth Century’, Past and Present, no. 50, February, 1971, pp. 76-136. Tosh, John, ‘What Should Historians do with Masculinity? Reflections on Nineteenth-Century Britain’, History Workshop, no. 38, 1994, pp. 179-202. Tourgée, Albion Winegar, The Story of a Thousand (Buffalo: S. McGerald & Son, 1896). Trulock, Alice Rains, In the Hands of Providence: Joshua Chamberlain and the American Civil War (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1992). Tucker, Albert V., ‘Army and Society in England 1870-1900: A Reassessment of the Cardwell Reforms’, Journal of British Studies, vol. 2, no. 2, 1963, pp. 110-41. Vinovskis, Maris (ed.), Toward a Social History of the American Civil War: Exploratory Essays (Cambridge: Press Syndicate of the University of Cambridge, 1990). Wahlert, Glenn, The Other Enemy: Australian Soldiers and the Military Police (South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 1999). Wallace, Willard M., Soul of the Lion: A Biography of General Joshua L. Chamberlain (Gettysburg: Stan Clark Military Books, 1995). Ward, Russel, The Australian Legend (South Melbourne: Oxford University Press, 2003). White, Richard, Inventing Australia: Images and Identity 1688-1980 (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1981). Whitman, William Edward S. and True, Charles Henry, Maine in the War for the Union: A History of the Part Borne by Maine Troops in the Suppression of the American Rebellion (Lewiston: Nelson Dingley Jr. & Co., 1865). Williams, J., ‘Discipline on Active Service: The 1st Brigade, First AIF 1914-1919’ (LittB thesis, Australian National University, 1982). Williams, Reub, and Hogan, Sally Coplen (eds.), General Reub Williams’s Memories of Civil War Times: Personal Reminiscences of Happenings that Took Place from 1861 to the Grand Review (Berwyn Heights, md: Heritage Books, 2006). Wise, Nathan, Anzac Labour: Workplace Cultures in the Australian Imperial Force during the First World War (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014).

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Index 155 Reinforcement and Transit Camp 135, 153-162, 168, 172, 176, 179-180 209 Prisoner-of-War Camp 178, 181, 185 1914 Special Leave 108, 114 Adam, Ronald 157-158, 183, 186 American Revolutionary War 28, 31, 39-43 Ames, Adelbert 78 Armed Forces (Conditions of Service) Act 1939 134, 143, 167 Armistice [11 November, 1918] 104 Australian Imperial Force 9-18, 32-36, 47, 87-123, 127, 131, 136, 139-140, 143, 147, 149-150, 153, 157, 163, 170-171, 183, 186, 188-190 3rd Australian Tunnelling Company 102 1 st Battalion 28, 96, 102-105, 107 2nd Battalion 96, 102-103, 117 3rd Battalion 102-103, 108 4th Battalion 102-103 17 th Battalion 119 18th Battalion 98, 119 19th Battalion 10, 98-100, 103, 108, 111, 119-120, 125 21st Battalion 10, 108-123 25th Battalion 10, 108, 124-125 29th Battalion 10, 108, 123 36th Battalion 10, 107, 109 37 th Battalion 10, 108-109, 113, 116, 123, 125 42nd Battalion 10, 108, 121, 123-124 47 th Battalion 10, 107, 109 52nd Battalion 10, 107, 109, 121 54th Battalion 10, 108, 112-123 59th Battalion 102, 122 60th Battalion 10, 108, 121-124 Anzac Leave see 1914 Special Leave Baltimore Riot 54 Battle of Central see Liverpool-Casula Protest Battle of Sydney see Liverpool-Casula Protest Bean, Charles Edwin Woodrow 10, 12-13, 16-17, 87, 91-97, 100-102, 107-125 Birdwood, William 11n, 108-109, 122 Boer War 90, 128 Bowdoin College 78, 81 Brewer, Hector 114-123 British Army 9, 12-13, 31-32, 47, 52, 90, 127-191 7 th Armoured Division 173-174 46th Division 159-163, 169-172, 183-185 50th Division 9-10, 127-191 51 st Division 9-10, 127-191 Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders 134-135, 155, 172, 178, 182 Black Watch 127, 130, 145, 172, 178 Durham Light Infantry 132, 134, 149, 158-159, 173, 178, 185

6th Battalion 178 8th Battalion 130, 134, 137-139, 141, 146-147, 150-151 9th Battalion 129-130, 145, 149-150, 173, 178 11th Battalion 134 12th Battalion 145 5th East Yorkshires 154-155, 178 Gordon Highlanders 127, 135, 147, 155, 178 Lancashire Fusiliers 184 5th Queens Own Cameron Highlanders 135, 154, 159, 166, 178, 181, 185 Seaforth Highlanders 127, 135, 178, 185 Bull Run [Battle of] 60-63, 71 Camps [military] 28, 90-92, 95-100, 116-117, 154 Chamberlain, Frances ‘Fanny’ 35, 80 Chamberlain, Joshua 35, 74, 78-86, 124-125 Citizen soldiers 23, 33, 39-40, 42, 47-48, 59, 73, 89, 106, 131, 136, 138, 150, 152, 187 Civilian mentalities 19, 21-25, 28, 33-34, 39-50, 54, 63, 88, 91-95, 136-138, 187 Class relations 19-30, 47-48, 88, 127, 139-140, 187 Compromises 23, 63, 104, 123-125 Conscription 89, 107, 128, 143-144 Constantine 178 Contract 22, 25, 29, 34, 40-41, 57, 60, 67-70, 96, 153, 187 County Territorial Associations 128, 144 Cowardice 12-13, 184 Death sentence 17, 122, 129, 167, 177, 180-181, 183-184 Decorations 85, 113, 168, 173 Defence team [of Salerno protesters] 168, 172n, 178-185 Delegations [during industrial action] 99, 103 Deolali Transit Camp 152 Disbandment 107-25, 189-190 Discipline [including indiscipline] 14-15, 43-45, 92-96, 100-105, 130, 146, 151-155 Direct action see protest Duigan, Harry 121-122 Egalitarianism 44, 87, 96, 101, 106 Eighth Army 138, 148, 152, 154-156, 163, 166 El Alamein [Second Battle of] 152, 156, 198 Elliott, Harold Edward ‘Pompey’ 102, 121-124 Enlistment 20-21, 25, 32-34, 41-42, 55-70, 87-95, 131, 137-138 Equipment shortages 61, 95, 130-131, 146 Esprit de corps 21, 27, 30-33, 69-72, 110-111, 124, 134-135, 146-189

206  Family 9, 69-72, 111, 137-138, 148-149, 158, 163, 176-177 Food 41, 61, 99, 161 Fort Corcoran 61, 67 Fort Jackson 13 Fort Sumter 54 Fraser, Hugh 11, 154-171, 178-185 French Mutiny 34, 120 Gale, Humfrey 178, 183 Gazala [Battle of] 152 Gettysburg [Battle of] 84-85 Gould, John 44, 46, 48-49, 53-58, 64-69, 75-76 Green, James 95 Green, R. 154-155, 162, 180 Grindle, Frank 70-72, 77-78, 85 Haig, Douglas 11n, 123 Haldane Reforms 128, 133-134, 138 Hindenburg Line 123 Home 9, 12-13, 25, 59, 69, 73, 84, 110-112, 118, 124, 148-150, 157, 159, 162 Howat, W.J. 169, 182-183 Hughes, William ‘Billy’ 108 Hundred Days Offensive 105 Identity 9, 19-20, 69-70, 73, 77, 87, 128, 134-136, 148-149, 188-189 Individualism [see also Republicanism] 44, 96 Industrial action 17, 33, 38, 99, 105, 117 Jameson, Charles 47-48, 51, 61, 63, 72 Justice 17, 28, 62, 67, 73, 78, 83-84, 112-114, 176, 181-182, 189, 191 Leadership [see also Officers] 11-12, 45, 50-51, 79, 130, 143, 160, 162, 164, 168 Lee, Albert 155-156, 162, 169-171 Lee, Robert E. 50 Legitimacy [in protesting] 22, 25-28, 33, 40, 45, 48, 86, 125, 127, 152, 162, 167 Liberty [see also Republicanism] 39, 43 Lincoln, Abraham 54, 57, 62, 79 Liverpool-Casula Protest 89-91, 99 Local patriotism 136 Loyalty 30-32, 69, 84, 110-111, 136, 147, 158, 162-163, 168 Ludendorff Offensive 104 Main, Thomas 158, 160, 166, 169, 175-176, 184 Maine (history) 37-42 Mareth Line [Battle of the] 152 McCreery, Richard 167, 179 Meade, George 82 Military and Air Forces (Prolongation of Service) Act 1939 143 Monash, John 101, 108-110, 122 Montgomery, Bernard Law 138-139, 148, 150, 153, 156, 161-168, 173, 186-188

The Pursuit of Justice

Morale 31-32, 78, 156-157, 161-186 Mutiny 10-17, 40 National Service (Armed Forces) Act 1939 143 Non-commissioned officers 141-143 Non-violence 73, 103, 106, 170 Officers Politics 50-52 Promotions 46-47, 51-52, 133, 142 Relations with rank-and-file 19-20, 25, 33, 87-91, 97-99, 139-142 Sympathy for protesters 67, 81-86, 117-119, 122 ‘Originals’ 68, 70, 72, 85, 108, 114 Ouled Rahmoun 178 Pratt Street Riot see Baltimore Riot Pride [see also Esprit de corps] 21, 30-31, 70, 96, 131, 135, 148-151, 158, 174, 179 Professional soldiers 23, 29, 33-34, 42-44, 48, 131-132, 137-139, 147, 187-188 Prosecution team [of Salerno protesters] 171, 178-180 Protest 10-36 Psychiatry 157-159 Punishment 14, 17, 30, 86, 91, 105-106, 113, 125, 146, 169, 171, 177, 182 Quennell, Hugh 179, 182 Rations see food Recruitment see Enlistment Regular soldiers see Professional soldiers Republicanism 38-43, 87, 91 Richards, T.R. 155, 179 Roberts, Charles Wentworth 51, 61, 72 Royal Navy [British] 11 Russell, Edward 171, 178-179 Samwell, H.P. 165, 182 Seven Years’ War 39-40 Short-Timer Syndrome 64 Skill [at soldiering] 21-22, 33, 105-106 Special Leave see 1914 Special Leave Strike see Industrial action Tourgée, Albion 43-44, 47, 49 Tozier, Andrew 84-85 Treaty of Brest-Litovsk 104 Union Army 1 st Connecticut Volunteer Infantry Regiment 61-62 2nd Connecticut Volunteer Infantry Regiment 61-62 3rd Connecticut Volunteer Infantry Regiment 61

207

Index

1 st Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment 46, 48, 53, 55-58, 62, 69-75 2nd Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment 9-10, 36-86 10th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment 10, 53, 55, 75-78 20th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment 9, 15, 35, 71-86 29th Maine Volunteer Infantry Regiment 53, 100 Battalion 10th Maine Infantry 77 3rd Massachusetts Battery 72-77 6th Massachusetts Militia 54 22nd Massachusetts Volunteer Infantry Regiment 73

2nd New York Volunteer Infantry Regiment 62 105th Ohio Volunteer Infantry Regiment 43, 49 118th Pennsylvania Volunteer Infantry Regiment 73 Unionism 38, 99, 101 Varney, George 51, 64, 66-67, 72 Wadi Akari [Battle of] 174 ‘Whiskey Riot’ 73 Wimberley, Douglas 135, 165-168, 175, 182, 186-188