Poilu : The Hairy One

An English friend in our village of Caunes told me about a French WW1 soldier who had lived in a neighbouring village. I set out to find out about him. This post is the story of what I discovered.

Poilu is an informal term used for a French soldier, usually from WW1. It means "the hairy one" and over time has become a term of endearment for the French infantry men who spent the 1914-18 war in the trenches in northern France.

Louis Barthas, 1879 - 1952, born in Homps in the Aude, became a barrel maker and lived most of his life in Peyriac Minervois, also in the Aude, until his death in 1952.

 He is buried in Peyriac, which is the next village to my home in the village of Caunes Minervois. He was a "Poilu", 35 years old when war was declared in August 1914. He was married with 2 sons. He was an agricultural worker, later a barrel maker a member of the Socialist party and an active trade unionist

He was a Corporal in the French infantry during the Great War, serving almost the whole duration of the war on the front lines, in the trenches. He survived and was able to return home to family and friends in Peyriac. As a Poilu, he could easily have become just an anonymous survival statistic.....one of the lucky ones. He was much more than that.

Louis Barthas kept incredibly detailed diaries throughout the war. He wasn't supposed to, and his notebooks were hidden and kept secret from the Officers and those in charge. After the war he put his writings together in a series of school-boy notebooks. He transcribed his original notes, which were written on whatever paper he could get hold of. They were mud spattered and gnawed by rats. Letters and cards he sent home from the trenches, postcards, drawings and maps taken from newspapers and magazines were added to his original notes. They amounted to 19 notebooks. He never thought to publish them, and they remained in the back of a drawer for years and were then used by his grandson who was a history teacher, as an interesting source for studying the war with his students. 

 It wasn't until 1978, 26 years after his death, and 60 years after the end of the war, when they were discovered by Professor Remy Cazals of Toulouse University, that they were finally published. Since then, they have been translated into English by Edward M Strauss and published as

                         "Poilu"

( All quotes from the book in this post are from the English translation)

Barthas was a socialist, and his detailed accounts of his experiences at Verdun, the Somme and les Chemins des Dames, show clearly that he hated those in charge of the war. His loathing was for those who made the decisions about holding positions, going over the tops or defending positions against all odds. He hated them  far more than he hated the so called German enemy. He knew that he, along with his French comrades and German enemies were all being used just as cannon fodder 

Following some flooding in 1915, which ended in French and German trench dwellers working together, Barthas wrote in his notes :

"Who knows ? Perhaps some day, in this corner of the Artois, they'll raise a monument to commemorate the spirit of fraternity among men who shared a horror of war and who were obliged to kill each other against their wills " (p.ixiv)

This image is from a contemporary postcard that Barthas included in one of his notebooks, showing the kind of billet infantry regiments were allocated in between their spells in the trenches on the front lines. They were leaking, cold, drafty, wet barns, where men slept on rat and lice  infested straw, after walking miles between trench duties.

In one of the 1917 notebooks he commented :

 "Exasperated and in despair, some men surrendered to the Germans  and some Germans surrendered to the French. "What cowards !" say the patriots in the rear. But if all the soldiers, on both sides had done the same thing, wouldn't that have been sublime ? The generals would have had to fight each other. Poincare could have gone a couple of rounds with the Kaiser. That would have been hilarious '

(p.323 )

In early 1916, after refusing to obey an order which he felt would endanger his comrades, Barthas was stripped of his Corporal's stripes.

" So that was all ! I tore off my stripes and tossed them in the mud. I felt a sense of deliverance from remorse, liberated from chains. By accepting rank, however minor it may be, one took on a bit of authority, of this odious discipline, and one was in some way complicit in all the misdeeds of this loathsome militarism. 

As a simple private, I recovered my independence, my freedom to criticise, to hate, to curse, to condemn this same militarism, the cause of this ignoble worldwide killing spree "

(p.167)

His horror at what he saw is expressed throughout the notebooks. This extract is from his reflections on the defence of Verdun, Cote 34.

"There, human flesh had been shredded, torn to bits. At places , where the earth was soaked with blood, swarms of flies swirled and died. You couldn't really see the corpses, but you knew where they were, hidden in shell holes with a layer of dirt on top of them, from the wafting smell of rotting flesh."

(p.194)

I wish my French was up to reading his original words, but I consider myself lucky and privileged to have read his translated words. I would recommend it to anyone interested in the history of the period and in the power of the words of ordinary men and woman to reflect on the horror and outrage of war.

Many years ago,  I was a history teacher. I taught 15 and 16 year olds about the 1st World War. I was lucky enough to track down a tiny pocket diary of a Leicester infantry man ( someone else who survived the horror) when I worked as an advisory teacher at the Leicestershire Record Office. It became a valuable resource for my teaching. Reading Louis Barthas' words, albeit in translation, has almost made me want to go back to those classroom days. His words are so vivid, his reflections give a real understanding of the horrors, the idiocy and the pointlessness of wars in general, and of that particular series of battles between so called enemies, who had far more in common with each other than with those determining the action.

There is an added element to this story. In our village of Caunes Minervois, a lovely couple, Marie et Francis Boyer bought a house near the abbey, and have developed a beautiful restaurant , salon de the et glacier, ' Le Clos de l'Abbaye". It is a really charming place, serving delicious teas, wines, artisan ice creams and tapas type meals.

They organise delightful musical evenings which are very popular with both   Caunoises and Caunois and us English speaking residents and visitors. I was thrilled to discovered that Marie is actually Louis Barthas' great granddaughter. Louis was  born 3 years after my own grandfather who also fought in those trenches in northern France. Suddenly, Louis's story meant so much more to me. I talked to Marie about Louis. Her pride in him and his amazing contribution to the understanding of the war was clear, he was undoubtedly an incredible man. I have read his words, I have visited his grave and I have hugged his granddaughter. 

Marie gave me a very special bottle of wine, which the Peyriac cave developed to commemorate Louis Barthas in 2022. I'm not sure I will ever drink it. I will certainly treasure it.

Here am I with my bottle of wine.

The label on the bottle, with Louis Barthas' image

Me with Marie

Francis, Marie, me and Mark at Le Clos de l"Abbaye

At the grave of Louis Barthas , barrel maker and Poilu from Peyriac Minervois.

This is a very quick post, just to indicate to those of us that blog, that I have finally recovered my old blog.....and have been able to change a few of the things that needed changing to update it all. So, I am abandoning my two previous attempts at a new blog, and am happy to try to continue with the old one !

Life has changed, Caunes has changed ( a bit) , but basically all is good and now that I feel I have the look of my page nearly right, I will continue.

Photo here, taken in Caunes, this summer, of Mark, me, 5 year old granddaughter Joy and sleeping 20 month Winnie.

Testing 123......

 Somehow Ive managed to get into my previous blog ( Janice in Caunes). Not sure how, or if it will work and if it does, whether I can get back into it again .So, not attempting much here.....just testing.

Aussies in Caunes

After a great Yorkshire week, and a few days exploring London on their own, cousin Linda, and her cousin Helen, arrived in Toulouse.

We had arrived back in Caunes just a couple of days before hand, so had rushed around getting the pool ready, airing rooms and filling the fridge. Luckily our earlier spring visit, when we had spent 2 solid weeks weeding, had paid off, and the garden looked just about presentable.

We did all the things we always do with visitors to Caunes including the tour of the Abbey, which we discovered will not be hosting open air Vendredis Classiques this year. 

It seems that the roaring success of La Cantine du Cure just beyond the Abbey walls means that the classical concerts could not compete with the noise. I am delighted the Cantine is successful. It is packed most nights, attracts the young, and les Caunois, which is excellent as we were starting to feel that many of our favourite eating and drinking haunts were being taken over by people like us...the English speaking residents of the village and tourists. 

However, it is a little sad that the abbey's beautiful outside space will not be used for the regular Friday night summer concerts. Instead they will take place inside the Church, which has outrageously uncomfortable pews, clearly designed to force you onto your knees. I'm not sure I will be able to force myself to attend many of what will be fabulous concerts.....even with the help of some serious cushions.

Breakfast in the bar

We enjoyed coffee in the bar, although French coffee was a bit strong for Helen, and they were impressed by the (we believe) world famous pain aux raisins, sold at our boulangerie. 

Linda had previously devoured all the Kate Mosse books so we visited La Cite to show them the sights they had read about.

It did rain while they were in Europe...but only for about an hour !

We had to shelter in the Church from the wind and rain, which only lasted a short time, but it proved to them that European weather is not always just like an Australian summer. 

Helen and Linda at St Pere de Rodes

We thought it would be amusing to extend their planned European tour of England and France to include Spain. With Australia being so far from anywhere else, they were amused that we could be in Spain in 90 minutes, and that no passports had to be shown. Of course, if they return in a couple of years time, post Brexit, who knows what they will find.

We took them to one of our favourite 'just across the border' spots......St. Pere de Rodes. With clear blue skies and views to die for, lunch and a wander around the restored monastery, I think you could say we all enjoyed ourselves.

Visiting  vide greniers was important, as the cousins had followed my various posts, through blogging and on facebook. I managed to make a few purchases while they were with us, although I think they, like Mark, wonder where on earth I am going to find to put all the treasures I manage to find each week.

Not sure what I was buying here.

Meeting up with relatives can often have its stresses and strains but being with Linda and Helen for 2 of their 3 week European trip was just perfect. We talked and talked for hours. It was as if we had known each other all our lives.

Sitting on the terrace,  on Mike's bench, chatting...again.
Mike, my dad, was Linda's mum's first cousin, and they did not know each other existed. We are making up for that !

We shared family stories, we learned new things about the shared elements of our family. Our shared great grandparents life stories, as much as we know, has been combed over. Why my bigamist grandfather never spoke of his siblings or his war experiences and why Linda's grandfather wouldn't speak of his siblings or his life back in England, or his war experiences, we will probably never know.

There is no doubt that Linda and I share a history, even if it is one that , as for now, remains mostly hidden. Our grandfathers were brothers....so we, are family.

First, the Aussies came to Yorkshire.

It is over a year since I blogged. I felt that my ramblings from England, and those from the Minervois had become tired and I seemed to be repeating myself as the predictable seasonal rhythms in both places continued.

I'm not sure whether dipping my toe back into the blogging pool will be the start of another long term commitment.......but I'm going to see how things develop.

Since last year, our UK base has moved from Hebden Bridge. On return from France last Autumn, we put the house on the market and sold it within days. We quickly found a new UK home, just 20 miles away, on the outskirts of Huddersfield, much closer to all of our grandchildren. We moved into the new house in February, and love it. We see the children more often, the house itself suits us perfectly and I love the garden, and the views across the Colne Valley.

The view from our new garden across the viaduct in Milnsbridge

I am now back in Caunes, and our summer activities are in full swing. There seems to be so much going on. The usual concerts, fetes, repas, vide greniers, cafe des langues meetings, gardening, walking, swimming, drinking coffee/wine with friends and planning for the vists from friends, children and grandchildren are filling our days.

Loving being back in Caunes

So, what is different ? Probably not too much, but having one of my Australian cousins, and her cousin visit us in Yorkshire and here in France has made me look at things a little differently.

It was good to see both our homes, through their eyes. It has confirmed to me how lucky we are to have such a lovely balance in our lives, and maybe it has made me feel more grateful for what we have.

Mark and I always ready to enjoy good food, wine and company.

Our Aussies arrived in Yorkshire on their first ever trip to Europe. Huddersfield is probably not the first port of call for Australian tourists.....but they loved it.

Helen and Linda in Haworth

The weather was kind, in fact it was incredibly , unusually kind. The sun shone, the skies were blue and Yorkshire was at its incredible best.

The Aussies at Bolton Abbey

They visited Haworth, Bolton Abbey, Hebden Bridge, Huddersfield and York. We spent a day in Liverpool, and they joined us for a family party as Huddersfield Town won a play-off final and entered the premier division. ( This was improved for them by the fact that an Aussie player was part of the team ) 

Clark, who actually went to Wembley to see the great victory, while some of us stayed home to watch on TV.

They came with us to the welcome the team back to Huddersfield reception and cheered and shouted along with the rest of us. They were even interviewed on radio one, as they enthused about the team and the town !

The homecoming reception, with Liam and Izzie.

They loved it all...and particularly loved our postman. They were worried that he wasn't wearing long sleeves and a hat in the blazing sunshine. I guess that is something our posties dont usually worry about.

He was very hot.....but was happy to pose for his Aussie fans.

Linda ( my cousin ) and Helen ( her cousin ) left us to spend a few days in London, while we set off for France and Caunes. Their London experience was also excellent....getting into Lords free, as it was Ladies day, crossing the Abbey Road zebra crossing, tea at the Ritz, and walking the streets of London for hours and hours. They loved it all. The perfect guests, and the perfect tourists, wallowing in all their new experiences.

My wonderful Aussie cousins enjoying a glass of wine....in Yorkshire.

( Part two, to follow...... when the Aussies came to Caunes. )

The 40 year old rubber plant

I inherited a small rubber plant from a cousin about 10 years ago. It was in a strange 60s/70s pot that looked vaguely familiar, but I gave it no real thought, and just started caring, in my haphazard way, for my new plant.

A few months after it came into my possession, I was looking through some old photos and found one showing the plant, in its 60s/70s pot, in my parents' front room.

It seemed that my cousin had " inherited" the rubber plant from my mother.... who died over 30 years ago.

It was pot bound, still in its original pot, and had clearly belonged to my mother.

Suddenly this plant took on greater significance. It's survival became paramount ! I could no longer fail to water it. I had to organise a neighbour to look after it if I went away. I had to re pot it..... and actually look after it. I have done that for 10 years. 

Earlier this year I decided the responsibility of keeping mum's plant alive was too much. No one else in the family was prepared to take on the responsibility. So, I decided.... This plant need to have children of its own.

It had grown huge, it reached the ceiling. So, having read various articles about taking cuttings, I took 5 cuttings.

The mother plant became more manageable and I kept my fingers crossed that at least one of the children would survive.

I potted one of the cuttings in my mother's original 60s/70s pot.

Just before I came to France this year, I gave one thriving baby plant to my step daughter in law, Sarah Jane, one to Mark's ex wife, Carole,  one was promised to daughter Jess, and one to step daughter Jodie. 

I have brought the child plant potted in the original pot to France.

 

It is thriving. It has 4 new leaves, and clearly loves the warmth and the sunshine of Caunes Minervois.

So...  a neighbour is caring for mum's original plant while I'm away, and I am the proud owner of a second generation/ back in the original pot/ child of my mother's plant . 

From Kinsale to Skibbereen

I recently spent a few days in County Cork and Tipperary, as a planned trip to see my brother and his family. However, as often happens with plans.....things didn’t quite work out as we thought. My brother is a film editor and goes where the work takes him. It took him to Amsterdam for the week we had planned our Irish trip.

We decided to go anyway, see my sister-in-law and my 2 nephews, and have a couple of days just wandering around, knowing how enjoyable such wandering can be in Ireland.

Seeing the family...even without my lovely brother, was great. It is 4 years since we have seen each other, and surprise surprise....the nephews have grown up !   21 year old Michael has turned into a gorgeous, gentle, interesting young man, about to move to Amsterdam ( where he was born), with his delightful girlfriend Kaylee, for some adventures. 13 year old Thomas has become a polite, sensible, hard working, musically talented teenager. It was lovely to spend some time with them.

We always used to joke about how sitting around sister-in-law Catherine’s kitchen table involved a never ending pot of tea and a revolving kitchen door, through which various brothers/sisters/cousin/neighbours would stream.

No sooner had Mark and I sat down at the kitchen table, with Catherine and the boys and Michael’s girlfriend,  that Catherine’s eldest brother arrived. It was good to see that despite us not being visitors for over 4 years, the open door policy continues.

Anyway, after spending time with family, we wandered off on our own.

We followed the Wild Atlantic route from Kinsale to Skibbereen. It was stunning.

The colours of Kinsale will live with me for years. The early morning sunlight made everything glisten. It was one of those mornings when somethings seems almost too bright to look at.
 We found a lovely cafe for breakfast, drank some fabulous coffee and wandered on.

We had to keep stopping for castles,

 fabulous views across bays,

 incredible bird sightings

 and walks along various beaches.

 We were reminded how long journeys in Ireland take.

 Winding narrow roads, driving behind slow farm vehicles, and stopping frequently to take photos...and just to look, takes its time.

Skibbereen was our target, and we arrived in time for lunch. It was a truly fascinating town.

By the mid 1800s, Skibbereen was quite densely populated, with about 400 people to the square mile. The potato was the staple diet for more than half the population of Ireland, particularly the poor. Apparently, with the addition of buttermilk or fish, it provided all the requirements for a healthy diet, although to do this, it required a man to eat up to 14lbs of potatoes a day !

Anyway....when the potato blight ( phytophthora infestans ) hit.....people died. It was a fungal infection which arrived from north America in the autumn of 1845. It spread rapidly and by 1846 there was a 90% loss of the potato harvest in the Skibbereen area.

In the cold winter of 1846 many thousands died of starvation, some in the totally inadequate work houses, but many, just on the sides of the roads, or hidden away in their tiny mud cottages. There were a few public works schemes that were supposed to provide work, and therefore money, for the poor. Thousands involved in the schemes died as they were so malnourished and sick  that they were unable to earn enough to stay alive.

By 1847, Skibbereen was being referred to as the centre of the famine.

Disease was rife, “famine fever” covered a range of diseases, including typhus, relapsing fever or yellow fever, dysentery, and what became a pandemic of cholera in 1848-9. No one knows how many died. Bodies were piled into mass graves, relatives too weak to bury, mourn or to organise funeral ceremonies, died themselves, and were added to the piles of bodies.

The population of the area covered by the Skibbereen Union fell by 37,000 between the census years 1841 and 1851.

It is thought that at least a million people died in those few years, and within 10 years another 2 million had emigrated. Few from Skibbereen were able to flee though. People in the poorer areas did not have the means to emigrate.

Many of those who were able to escape went to America, but first had to leave Ireland to get to England. Thousands flocked to Liverpool, where most of the trans Atlantic crossings began. The Illustrated London News reported that the treatment of the Irish by Liverpool parish officers was worse than that given to cattle. It is estimated that 100,000 Irish famine migrants died in Britain.

At one stage, famine emigrants who were destitute on arrival in England were classed as vagrants and deported back to Ireland.  Some parishes offered rewards for information leading to the discovery of” illegal immigrants”. Nothing changes !

My great great grandparents, William and Mary Whelan, appear on the 1851 census, in Liverpool. Their birthplace is listed as “ Ireland”, and their eldest child was born in Ireland in the mid 1840s. I don’t know where in Ireland they came from, but they were clearly part of the movement, escaping the famine. Their son, my great grandfather, was born in Birkenhead. His son, was my grandfather, for those of you that know a bit about my family....the bigamist grandfather. 

Our bit of the Whelan family had escaped, and survived. Due to the fact that William and Mary Whelan survived, our family has spread to England, Australia and New Zealand..... and maybe Michael will re settle in Holland, who knows ? Jessie, my daughter, lives in Liverpool, not far from where William and Mary settled and where my grandfather spent part of his youth.

Our trip to Ireland was wonderful. We caught up with family, we visited beautiful places, but the horror of what happened there, not so very long ago was haunting.