Remembering the Islanders

[anteros_lmc]

I was surprised and very moved to come across this Remembrance Day article about my home town of Stornoway in The Guardian this weekend. The article briefly tells the story of the tragic loss of the HMY Iolaire, the ship that was wrecked within sight of Stornoway harbour on Hogmanay 1919, resulting in the death of 205 sailors and service men returning home from the war. (I've written about the Iolaire here before.) This is one of the very few times I have ever read about the disaster in the national press. It's only recently that the tragedy has been commemorated on the islands, when I was a child people only mentioned the Iolaire in hushed tones before turning their faces away.

The article also refers to the sheer scale of loss that the Hebrides suffered during the war, and the impact this had on island communities.

More men enlisted in Lewis, as a proportion of the population, than in any other part of the UK, Canada, Australia or New Zealand: just over 19% left to fight.

For a community built on agriculture and fishing, it was an extraordinary commitment from the young male labour on which the island’s life depended. The casualty rate was also proportionately the highest of any part of the UK and dominions. Every sixth man died, a total of 1,797.

My grandfather was one of the young Lewismen who enlisted at the age of seventeen, just a few months shy of his eighteenth birthday. He served with the Tank Corps on the Somme, but unlike so many, he was one of the lucky ones who returned to the islands.



Stornoway War Memorial

Comments

[mylodon.livejournal.com]

Thanks for sharing that. The more I find out about WWI, the more I realise I know almost nothing...

[anteros-lmc.livejournal.com]

Indeed. You'd be forgiven for not knowing about the Iolaire tragedy, it's only relatively recently that people have started to commemorate the disaster. A simple memorial was raised in 1958, but it wasn't until 2001 that a plaque was added listing the names of all those that died.

Mind you, I thought I knew most of the island's war history, but I was astonished to learn about HMS Timbertown on a fascinating BBC Alba programme last night.

[charliecochrane.livejournal.com]

How fascinating.

Young Scrimgeour's diaries were an eye opener, too.

[anteros-lmc.livejournal.com]

HMS TImbertown was definitely a new one on me! I must have a read of young Scrimgeour, his diaries sound fascinating.

[mylodon.livejournal.com]

They are waiting on the dining room table (the room is temporarily Santa's grotto) to be enclosed with Christmas stuff. I keep catching sight of his face - such a sweetheart. *sniffs*

[nodbear.livejournal.com]

Yes thanks to anteros

I think the fact that so many personal histories are now being researched gathered and presented means that we sense there is far more to the events of the 1914-18 war than the standard things we have traditionally 'learned in past schooling etc
I am determined to try to make the effort I have been thinking about for years and discover more about my maternal grandfathers time as a POW - maybe by next November 11th...meanwhile I have rediscovered in the last year something of his I might post a pic of for tomorrow.

[anteros-lmc.livejournal.com]

I remember you mentioning your grandfather's time as a POW. I'd love to know if you ever find out more about this.

[nodbear.livejournal.com]

The sense of impact such a proportion of men being taken from a small community and the overwhelming sense of loss with the ship so near home is very moving. It does seem now that these 'smaller' in the sense of lesser known - stories are being told and interpreted in a way that allows some very profound experiences to unfold...

[anteros-lmc.livejournal.com]

For so many to be lost within sight of home after surviving the horrors of the war was a tragedy beyond enduring for many. And of course many of them were sailors who couldn't swim.

The Lewis poet Iain Crichton Smith wrote an intensely powerful poem about the Iolaire which equates the loss of the young men with loss of faith in god.

The Iolaire

The green washed over them. I saw them when
the New Year brought them home. It was a day
that orbed the horizon with an enigma.
It seemed that there were masts. It seemed that men
buzzed in the water round them. It seemed that fire
shone in the water which was thin and white
unravelling towards the shore. It seemed that I
touched my fixed hat which seemed to float and then
the sun illuminated fish and naval caps,
names of the vanished ships. In sloppy waves,
in the fat of water, they came floating home
bruising against their island. It is true
a minor error can inflict this death
that star is not responsible. It shone
over the puffy blouse, the flapping blue
trousers, the black boots. The seagulls swam
bonded to the water. Why not man?
The lights were lit last night, the tables creaked
with hoarded food. They willed the ship to port
in the New Year which would erase the old,
its errant voices, its unpractised tones.
Have we done ill, I ask? My sober hat
floated in the water, my fixed body
a simulacrum of the transient waste,
for everything was mobile, planks that swayed,
the keeling ship exploding and the splayed
cold insect bodies. I have seen your church
solid. This is not. The water pours
into the parting timbers where ache
above the globular eyes. The lsack heads turn
ringing the horizon without a sound
with mortal bells, a strange exuberant flower
unknown to our dry churchyards. I look up.
The sky begins to brighten as before,
remorseless amber, and the bruised blue grows
at the erupting edges. I have known you, God,
not as the playful one but as the black
thunderer from the hills. I kneel
and touch this dumb blonde head. My hand is scorched.
Its human quality confuses me.
I have not felt such hair so dear before
not seen such real eyes. I kneel from you.
This water soaks me. I am running with
its tart sharp joy. I am floating here
In my black uniform, I am embraced
by these green ignorant waters. I am calm.