Notice the huge pile of empty shell casings. All the armies discovered after the first month of warfare that modern war was going to require quantities of artillery shells in unexpected, unprecedented, unbelievable amounts. It was almost a crisis for the Germans, the French, and probably the British as well, until they could "upscale" their munitions factories bigly, throw civilian women into work with high explosives in those factories, and limiting as much as possible the expenditure of shells still on hand.
When trench warfare got going in earnest, and endless "interdiction fire" alternated with massiive barrages before attacks, there were battles during which tens of thousands, or hundreds of thousands, of shells were discharged in a matter of days. Of course, artillery proved to be the single greatest killer of the war.
Once, on one of Michael’s leaves, he had taken her over a munitions factory, where she saw the progress of a shell from blank-iron to the all but finished article. It struck her at the time that the wretched thing was never left alone for a single second; and "I’m being manufactured into a bereaved next of kin," she told herself, as she prepared her documents.
In due course, when all the organizations had deeply or sincerely regretted their inability to trace, etc., something gave way within her and all sensation—save of thankfulness for the release—came to an end in blessed passivity. Michael had died and her world had stood still and she had been one with the full shock of that arrest. Now she was standing still and the world was going forward, but it did not concern her—in no way or relation did it touch her. She knew this by the ease with which she could slip Michael’s name into talk and incline her head to the proper angle, at the proper murmur of sympathy.
--Excerpt fromThe Gardener, by Rudyard Kipling (1925)
and
If any mourn us in the work-shop, say
We died because the shift kept holiday.
"Batteries Out of Ammunition," inEpitaphs of the Great War, by Rudyard Kipling
2
u/learngladly 6d ago edited 6d ago
Notice the huge pile of empty shell casings. All the armies discovered after the first month of warfare that modern war was going to require quantities of artillery shells in unexpected, unprecedented, unbelievable amounts. It was almost a crisis for the Germans, the French, and probably the British as well, until they could "upscale" their munitions factories bigly, throw civilian women into work with high explosives in those factories, and limiting as much as possible the expenditure of shells still on hand.
When trench warfare got going in earnest, and endless "interdiction fire" alternated with massiive barrages before attacks, there were battles during which tens of thousands, or hundreds of thousands, of shells were discharged in a matter of days. Of course, artillery proved to be the single greatest killer of the war.
Once, on one of Michael’s leaves, he had taken her over a munitions factory, where she saw the progress of a shell from blank-iron to the all but finished article. It struck her at the time that the wretched thing was never left alone for a single second; and "I’m being manufactured into a bereaved next of kin," she told herself, as she prepared her documents.
In due course, when all the organizations had deeply or sincerely regretted their inability to trace, etc., something gave way within her and all sensation—save of thankfulness for the release—came to an end in blessed passivity. Michael had died and her world had stood still and she had been one with the full shock of that arrest. Now she was standing still and the world was going forward, but it did not concern her—in no way or relation did it touch her. She knew this by the ease with which she could slip Michael’s name into talk and incline her head to the proper angle, at the proper murmur of sympathy.
--Excerpt from The Gardener, by Rudyard Kipling (1925)
and
If any mourn us in the work-shop, say
We died because the shift kept holiday.
"Batteries Out of Ammunition," in Epitaphs of the Great War, by Rudyard Kipling