I’ve become interested in Norman Dunn (1882-1960) of Birmingham, England, who served long and well as a leader in the Church there. I’ll no doubt have a fuller sketch of his life for posting later, but for today, here’s a taste.
Norman Dunn was a soldier during World War I. The following comes from a letter he wrote in June 1918 to his wife of six years, Florence, and their three-year-old daughter, Nora.
Reflections from the Front
A bright, warm morning in latter-June! Overhead a hazy, grey-blue sky, with relieving patches of fleecy cloud scattered at long intervals. A solitary aeroplane patrols vigilantly to and fro, from above me to a point two or three miles away to the north. Except for the rapid tap! tap! tap! of machine guns— fired with the faint hope of hitting, or at least, of driving away this pertinacious intruder — and for the rare report of a big gun and the consequent shell-burst, one could easily imagine the world to be at peace. Earlier in the morning white mist filled the little shallow valley. From the low hill upon which I now sit there could then be seen but little. Now the mist has risen; the sun has burst through and dispersed the clouds, apparently innumerable flies have awakened anew to frenzied vigour, and they buzz and dart about, their bright colours flashing in the sun’s rays. Hark! a lark trills its old familiar song: its morning anthem to its Maker. Away in the distance another echoes the strain. The first stops, but yet a third takes up the burden of the song. Strong, and full, and free it rises, as though the heart of the warbler overflowed with gratitude and praise to the Heavenly Father; and its song finds an echo and awakens thanksgiving in my heart.
Tall, fading grass almost covers the landscape. It lacks now the scythe or the mowing machine of the erstwhile owners, whose hands were perhaps responsible for the sowing of the original seed in the peaceful days of the past, as also some hand sowed seed which accounts for the growth of yonder patches of lucerne.
But — alas for man! — disfiguring the landscape are heaps of white chalk rock, some large, some small heaps, which have been painfully dug out from the solid rock below by perspiring men in order to provide shelter for themselves and their fellows — in the earth itself from death dealing shells that do come hurtling through the air upon this very piece of land, despite the present peaceful appearance of the scene …
I look toward the right, over the ruined village, past the end of the immense heap of refuse that came from the near coal mine … There I know … are the men who at present are holding the front-line trenches. Ah! How frequently they face danger or death or maimed bodies! How they have to toil and watch! How unceasingly must eyes train to pierce the night’s darkness in search of oncoming, creeping opponents! May the Lord’s protection be over them, and may they turn to Him in their trials and dangers — and in their happier moments …
How many men’s lives have been lost, and how many poor bodies injured upon this piece of land now visible to me? Nevertheless, we have the comforting certainty of the resurrection, and we know that it was not in vain that this blood was shed — …
Again, at sunset, I view the scene.
The brilliant crimson sun shows its lingering rays from over the opposite hill; the cloudless sky takes many and varied hues in the northwest, the colours merging, as the eye descends from zenith to horizon …
To the eye alone everything suggests peace. But to the ear, sounds of war — of frequent cannon-fire, and shell-burst, and deadly machine-gun — are too insistent …
But the grandeur of God’s handiwork, and the sense of perfection and power which a contemplation of it gives, are hope-inspiring, and prevent the stay of pessimistic thoughts in the mind. Sooner or later the rounds of war will cease, and those of nature will be undisturbed except by the hum of industry . . .
— Even though it is man’s sin that has brought about this horrible bloodshed, the Lord will not refuse to control the ultimate issues, which will affect the welfare of this and future generations of mankind.
The lessons which we may learn from contemplation of nature amongst scenes of war may perhaps be summed up in three words: “Work, faith, and hope.”
“For after much tribulation come the blessings.” (Doc. and Cov. 58: 4)
A remarkably upbeat letter from a soldier in his situation. Of course, he had the blessing of not being on the front lines when he wrote this letter. In addition, the German spring offensives of 1918, which led to Allied fears that the Germans might actually break their lines, had been turned back by late June.
So maybe there was some reason for his hope that eventually the war would cease.
I wondered if part of that optimism might not have been a deliberate attempt to reassure his wife.
By the way, his little girl died in 1922. I don’t know how long he was away in the service, but he must have missed a great deal of her short life.
I suspect that there was a lot of false optimism in letters home–partly because nobody who had not been in the front lines could have imagined how hellish awful it actually was. And of course the mail would have been subject to censorship–and soldiers would have shaped their stories to get them passed without a lot of blotting out.