Some queer goings-on in the trenches

The army was a happy hunting ground for gays during the Great War, writesA D Harvey

In John Buchan's thriller novel Greenmantle, published in 1916, his hero is surprised and a little disgusted by what he sees in the private quarters of his German antagonist, Colonel Stumm:

At first sight you would have said it was a woman's drawing room. But it wasn't. I soon saw the difference. There had never been a woman's hand in that place . . . I began to see the queer other side to my host, that evil side which gossip had spoken of as not unknown in the German army.

It was not exactly unknown in the British army, either. The sexual orientation of the first world war poets Siegfried Sassoon and Wilfred Owen, which has subsequently become celebrated, was not public knowledge at the time, but during the war at least 230 soldiers were court-martialled, convicted and sentenced to terms of imprisonment for homosexual offences.

During the same period a number of other military personnel, having been arrested by the ordinary police, were tried and convicted in civilian courts. Lieutenant Wilfrid Marsden of the Royal Flying Corps was sentenced at the Old Bailey to two years' hard labour for "gross indecency" in January 1916. Found among his papers was a letter from a 20-year-old second lieutenant in the King's Royal Rifle Corps, F R West, which was read out in court:

I had unusual luck after I left you. I strolled passed the Union Jack Club but saw only drunkards etc, so rushed with all possible speed to the old beat where I soon picked up a charming girl very fair with blue eyes and slightly wavy hair who was in the Red Cross show, uniform very becoming, stationed at Yarmouth of all places. He was up on four days leave and was perfectly charming and very affectionate. He gave me his photo. His legs my dear, were too wonderful and I am feeling very tired to-day.

This letter was handed over to the military authorities, and West was brought back from France, where he had been serving in the trenches for the previous three months. He was court-martialled and cashiered.

West seems to have wished to re-enlist as a common soldier: his file contains a letter from an officer in the Brigade of Guards to a lieutenant-colonel in the adjutant- general's department, asking: "Are any special steps to be taken in connection with the enlistment of late officers of the 'Dirty Brigade' and the selection of their future regiments?" Another second lieutenant, H C B Runnals, who was court-martialled on two counts of indecency at about the same time and sentenced to a year's hard labour, was by March 1917 serving as a private in the Army Service Corps.

One might have thought that in the middle of a world war the authorities would have had something more important on their minds than the sexual proclivities of the lads in khaki - and indeed, more officers were convicted of indecency with other men in the 18 months following the end of hostilities than during the 52 months of the war itself. (Or perhaps this is an indication that the opportunities for sexual escapades improved once the troops moved out of the trenches and training camps into properly organised cantonments.)

Of the 17 officers court-martialled for indecency between the outbreak of the first world war in August 1914 and 30 September 1918, ten were tried by courts martial held in the UK during the 12 months ending 30 September 1916 - the period in which Britain's volunteer army was undergoing its most rapid expansion.

A number of "temporary gentlemen" appointed to commissions in the New Army turned out to be not quite officer material: almost a fifth of officers court-martialled in the 12-month period in question were charged either with indecency or with scandalous conduct. (Scandalous conduct, when not referring to sexual misdemeanours, usually meant passing dud cheques.)

By no means all these errant officers were boys who had just escaped from their mothers and had misunderstood the standards of behaviour that were expected of those holding the King's commission. At least two of the gays sentenced to hard labour in the spring of 1915 had been regular army officers during the Boer war. Frederic Llewellyn, having served in South Africa in the Imperial Yeomanry, had been commissioned in the North Staffordshire Regiment in 1900, left the army in 1907 or 1908, rejoined in 1914 and by the time of his arrest was second in command of the 8th (Service) Battalion, the Oxford and Buckingham Light Infantry. S G O Rudderborg saw action against the Boers with Brabants Horse, before being commissioned in the King's Dragoon Guards. By 1914, having left the regular army, he was a lieutenant in the Territorials. Alfred C Boyd, who apparently had been too young to serve in the Boer war, became an officer in the Territorials in 1907. Boyd was tried on nine separate counts of indecency, Llewellyn on six; since their trials belong to a series held at the same venue (the Guildhall at Westminster), it seems not unlikely that they were members of an established coterie of officers who had a long experience of exploiting the army as a happy hunting ground.

It may even have occurred to people in the War Office that the cases of Llewellyn and Boyd might be the tip of the iceberg, but no one seems to have stuck his neck out by writing a memo on the subject. There was a war going on, after all - and in any case, it was whispered that the secretary of state for war, Field Marshal Lord Kitchener, was having a love affair with his good-looking military secretary, Lieutenant-Colonel Oswald Fitzgerald.

This article first appeared in the 15 January 1999 issue of the New Statesman, A slight and delicate minister?

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Puffins in peril

Britain’s best-loved seabird is vulnerable to global extinction.

The boatmen helped us scramble ashore and soon there were 50 people wandering on an uninhab­ited slab of sea-battered dolerite called Staple Island. It is one of the National Trust-owned Farne Islands in Northumberland and among England’s most spectacular wildlife locations. There are 100,000 pairs of breeding seabirds here and they were everywhere: at our feet, overhead, across every rock face. The stench of guano was overwhelming.

While the birds seemed to be boundless, the human beings converged on the grassy knoll where the local star attraction resides. It’s the creature that adorns the boat company’s publicity and is emblazoned on the National Trust’s website for the island, the bird that possesses what the poet Norman MacCaig called the “mad, clever clown’s beak”: the pint-sized, parrot-faced puffin.

The British love for this creature is so intense that it is, in essence, the robin redbreast of the sea. Nearly all of its breeding colonies around our coast are tourist attractions. Just across the water, along the shore from Staple Island, is the town of Amble, which holds an annual festival devoted to the puffin. From Lundy in Devon and Skomer in Pembrokeshire to the Isle of May off the Fife coast, or Fair Isle in the Shetlands, trips to puffin colonies are frequent, sometimes daily, events.

“Every tourist shop on these islands sells puffin merchandise – knitwear patterns, tumblers, carvings, coasters, cuddly toys, clothes and, of course, puffin hats,” Helen Moncrieff, the area manager in Shetland for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds (RSPB), told me.

While the love affair is unquestionable, what seems in doubt is our ability to help the bird now that it is in trouble. Fair Isle once supported a puffin colony of 20,000 birds. In less than three decades, that number has halved. Similar declines have been reported at Britain’s most important puffin site on St Kilda, Scotland, where millions are said to have bred. Now there are fewer than 130,000 pairs, half the total recorded as recently as the 1970s.

The national picture is alarming but the news from elsewhere is even worse. Continental Europe holds more than 90 per cent – five million pairs – of the global total of Atlantic puffins but they are shared primarily between three countries: Denmark (the Faroe Islands), Iceland and Norway. Across this subarctic region, losses have been estimated at 33 per cent since 1979, when monitoring began. But the most striking figure comes from a colony on Røst, Norway, where there has been a fall over this period from nearly 1.5 million pairs to 285,000.

The Westman Islands off the south coast of Iceland hold a substantial proportion of the country’s puffins. Since 2005, breeding success there has been almost nil, and a similar failure has recurred on the Faroe Islands for more than a decade. In both places, where hunting puffins was once a staple of cultural life, catchers today have initiated a self-imposed moratorium.

Puffins are long-lived species and a life­span of between 20 and 30 years is not unusual, yet Euan Dunn, principal marine adviser to the RSPB, explains the implications of persistent breeding failure. “Puffins on Shetland or the Westmans may go on attempting to breed for years, even decades, but eventually all those old adult birds will die off and, if they haven’t reproduced, then the numbers will start to plunge.”

BirdLife International, a conservation network that classifies the status of birds worldwide, has reached the same conclusion. It judges that the Atlantic puffin is likely to decline by between 50 and 79 per cent by 2065. The nation’s most beloved seabird has been declared a species that is vulnerable to global extinction.

To unpick the story of puffin losses, marine ecologists have examined the bird’s oceanic ecosystem and looked particularly at changes in the status of a cold-water zooplankton called Calanus finmarchicus. This seemingly insignificant, shrimp-like organism plays a crucial role in North Atlantic biodiversity and has experienced a huge decline as sea temperatures have risen steadily since the 1980s. While the decline of the finmarchicus coincided with swelling numbers of a close relative, this other zooplankton species is less abundant and nutritious.

As the finmarchicus has suffered, so, too, has one of its main predators, the lesser sand eel. And it is this formerly superabundant fish that is the staple food of puffins in many areas of the Atlantic. At the root of the disruption to marine life are the hydra-headed effects of climate change.

Though no one disputes that an important shift is under way in the sea areas of northern Britain and beyond, not everyone agrees that the present puffin situation is a crisis. A leading British expert, Mike Harris, thinks it is premature to designate the bird an endangered species. There are still millions of puffins and, he says, “We need numbers to plummet before we even start to assume that things are terminal.”

Similarly, Bergur Olsen, one of the foremost biologists studying puffins in the Faroe Islands, believes that the talk of extinction is over the top. “The food situation may change and puffins may well adapt to new prey, and then their numbers will stabilise and perhaps increase,” he says.

***

On Staple Island, the extinction designation does appear bizarre. The Farne Island puffin population has increased by 8 per cent since 2008 and there are now 40,000 pairs. This success mirrors a wider stability among puffin colonies of the North and Irish Seas. The distinction in feeding ecology which may explain the birds’ varying fortunes is that, in the southern parts of the range, puffins can prey on sprats when sand eels are scarce. Sprats appear to have suffered none of the disruption that assails the other fish.

But Dunn says it is important to look at the whole picture. “It’s fantastic that puffins are doing well in places like the Farnes, but remember: Britain holds less than 10 per cent of the world total. Also, the declines that have beset puffins in Shetland and St Kilda are even worse for other seabirds.”

The numbers of a silver-winged gull called the kittiwake have fallen by 90 per cent in Shetland and St Kilda since 2000 and by 80 per cent in the Orkneys in just ten years. Shetland’s guillemot numbers have also halved, and the shag, a relative of the cormorant, has experienced falls of over 80 per cent on many islands since the 1970s – 98 per cent, on Foula. Most troubling is the fate of the Arctic skua, which feeds mainly on fish it steals from other seabirds and is reliant on their successes. Its declines are so severe that Dunn fears its eventual loss as a breeding species in Britain.

While there is disagreement about what to call the puffin predicament, there is unanimity on one issue: much of the data that informs the discussion in Britain is out of date. All of these seabirds, which are of global importance, have been monitored decade by decade since the 1970s. Yet the most recent big audit of our cliffs and offshore islands was concluded in 2000. The full census data is now 16 years old. The organisation that underwrites this work is the Joint Nature Conservation Committee; it is sponsored by the Department for Environment, Food and Rural Affairs, which has suffered deep budget cuts since the 2008 financial crisis. There is no certainty that another comprehensive census will be mounted any time soon.

“Much is made on wildlife television of how special these islands are for wildlife and how much we care about it,” Dunn says. “In the case of our seabirds, one of those claims is indisputably true. Britain holds populations of some species that are of worldwide significance. But if we lack even basic information on those birds and how they’re faring, especially at a time when our seas are in such flux, what message does that send about how much this country cares? And how can we ever act effectively?”

The plight of the puffin is shedding light on the fortunes of our marine wildlife generally and the shifting condition of our oceans as a result of rising carbon-dioxide levels. Now, puffin politics is also starting to show
this government’s indifference to nature.

This article first appeared in the 28 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, Summer Double Issue