Great War Diaries - TV Mini-Series

I think he needs a little bandage on his arm.

We, for our part, were "military"

and bandaged little messenger boys In the park.

I do believe we all felt like... doing our bit.

The messenger boys' wounds were always conveniently placed,

and they never screamed and writhed or prayed for morphia

when they were being bandaged.

And shoulders were not shot away,

nor eyes blinded,

nor men's faces mushed.

Ripped By mstoll

Papa!

On this day in August, I was looking for my father

out in the fields.

Papa!

- The bells had been ringing for hours. - Pap!

Papa!

When it is not a feast day,

the bells chime only when there is a fire,

or something really bad has happened.

They were ringing not only in our village,

but also in the neighbouring town.

How different the bells sounded on that day...

Papa!

...as if they were a portent of things to come,

calling for help.

Papa! Papa!

My father was a colonel of the Kuban Cossacks,

a proud, hard man.

On this day, he hugged and kissed me without a word.

He had never done so before.

On a certain radiant morning seven weeks ago,

we learned that a man and woman

had been murdered in a distant country.

We felt deeply for the great family who had known many tragedies,

but the murder of the Grand Duke and Duchess of Austria In the town of Sarajevo

had nothing to do with us...

so we thought.

We were wrong.

War had been declared.

The thing which we had talked of for years had happened.

And with the lifting of the veil of that peace,

which concealed the hate behind it,

Germany stood revealed as England's old and Implacable enemy.

And now, what would the gash of a sabre look like?

Would it cut through the middle of the face?

No, the face must surely be preserved.

Perhaps a slice through the shoulder?

We were not ready, we did not pretend to be ready,

but we meant to fight whether we were ready or not.

Also we meant to go on fighting till the end.

The war was a matter of national honour.

Even though Englishmen do not feel hate,

they very often feel rage.

My, my, I'm terribly excited.

We're going to take care of all these men.

Bandage, wash...

Most importantly, we must smile.

All of you must maintain your smile.

I call it the Patent Patriotic Smile.

It looks somewhat like this.

You must learn to carry it in all situations -

it will keep up the men's courage.

No doubt we should start there.

I, Sarah Macnaughtan, am Scottish and proud of It.

I was born in 1864 Into a wealthy family.

To me, it has always been important to use my wealth

to alleviate the sufferings of others and to do good.

As a Red Cross volunteer,

I have lived through the wars in South Africa and the Balkans,

so it is only natural that I should report for duty

as an auxiliary nurse at the front in Belgium.

Travelling with me is a group of inexperienced young women

who also want to assist the British Army

in the most brutal conflict it has ever faced.

Give me a hand here, would you, dear?

Don't forget your jacket.

Oh, your suitcase.

Allow me, ladies.

I'm Dr Henry Beavis,

and you've been assigned to me.

Sarah Macnaughtan, sir.

Our outfit is complete.

All the women of our group are prepared to partake

in the toughest of tasks to aid the wounded.

The wounded?

My dear ladies, what do you expect you'll be doing?

Forgive me, Dr... Beavis.

I can assure you that with my experience

- in the South African War... - And I can assure you,

this is no mere skirmish with a couple of natives.

Cooking, cleaning and food distribution

are precisely the tough tasks you can look forward to.

Shall we?

Karl argues against it,

with every reason he can think of.

I feel somewhat grateful that he should fight for him.

I am Käthe Kollwitz,

mother, wife, Social Democrat

and, above all, artist.

It is the suffering of the working class that delves me.

I must draw it, must show it to the world.

We, on the other hand, are doing very well.

I am called Germany's most important female artist.

Karl is a successful doctor

and we live with our son Peter in Berlin - where else?

Here, for all its modernity,

power is still in the hands of the arch-conservative Prussian nobility,

and, above all, in the hands of the heel-clicking military

that keeps them there.

At its head is Emperor Wilhelm II,

a ruler who seems unable to distinguish fantasy from reality.

Since the day I was born,

Germany has won all the wars it fought.

We have forged a mighty empire through these victories,

but with it, fear, even hatred, from our neighbours.

We feel, in fact, surrounded by enemies.

A feeling of pressure and inconsolability.

Of the impossibility of sacrificing Peter.

One speaks in vain,

because the boy's silence overwhelms my own Inner feelings.

Our Cossacks were getting their horses ready

to board the train.

The men showed off their courage and contempt of death,

as is required by tradition. They did not show their feelings.

I remembered an old war tradition which my father had told me about.

The women follow the Cossacks as they go to war

and stay as close as possible to the army.

Why should it be any different this time?

I had only one word ringing In my ears -

war, war, war.

Against whom and why

The Tsar had ordered it

and a Cossack never asks.

I am Marina Yurlova and I'm 14 years old.

I live in the south of our mighty Russian Empire,

in a small village by the river Kuban.

As the daughter of a Cossack colonel,

I'm always ready for adventure.

We Cossacks are feared warriors.

Because of this, we form the Tsar's personal bodyguards.

Ordained by God, he rules over all Russians.

Nicholas II seems to me to be a very sad Tsar.

Again and again, he has had to endure horrible news.

He has lost wars

and even faced revolutions.

Now all of Russia seems to be losing Its mind.

We Cossacks are the only ones he can always rely on...

... and he does.

War.

Everywhere, people on the streets.

And within me the feeling

we've endured long enough the pressure, the embrace of the enemy.

Now we are attacked and must defend ourselves.

Now we can live again.

It is as though we are awakened from an oppressive dream.

And now it was all done.

That sacrifice my son drew me to,

and to which we drew Karl.

I must say something about my altered attitude towards the war.

For the first time, I felt the absolute togetherness of the people.

I felt I was beginning anew,

as though none of the old values were left,

as though everything had to be put to the test.

I can't write, can't think connectedly,

can’t get the idea of anything with any fullness.

I simply piffle through the whole of every day,

thinking about what I could do

to hide my few years over the age limit.

I think I have an idea.

I am Charles Edward Montague

and, at 48 years old, getting on a bit.

When I was a young man, I went up to Oxford,

where I became an ardent pacifist.

Today I live in London,

the capital city of the greatest empire the world has ever known.

At the moment, I am working as a Journalist

for The Manchester Guardian.

But since the German attack on Belgium,

I am a pacifist no longer.

This injustice, this barbaric act of violence

against a defenceless people

must be stopped.

And who can stop the Germans, if not us?

The wrath of the ordinary people is incredible.

German stores are ravaged.

Everything that is even remotely reminiscent of the hated Huns

is laid in ruins.

But for me, wrath alone is not enough.

I've decided to volunteer for the Army...

...even though I am some years over the age limit of 42.

Charles Edward Montague.

Mountaineer. Swimmer. Sporting fit.

41 years old, sir.

Do you have a family?

A wife and seven children, sir.

And are things so bad at home that this will be your gift to your wife?

Sir?

Montague.

How old are you?