The poetry of the Second World War was quite different from that of the First, reflecting radical differences between the two conflicts. One of the most famous poems from WW2 was by Henry Reed(not to be confused with his contemporary, the poet and critic, Henry Read),and often read on the radio, is called ‘Naming of Parts’; usually in a very solemn tone as if the words of an army NCO in how a basic army rifle works had some powerful metaphysical meaning. In fact this and his other poems in the same collection(brought together in ‘A Map of Verona’ published in 1946)were comic creations with much in common with ‘Dad’s Army,’ which mock the ‘basic training’ delivered to new recruits by NCOs. A brilliant mimic Reed would entertain his friends with a comic imitation of a sergeant instructing his recruits.

Read had noticed that the words of the instructor fell into certain rhythmical patterns which fascinated him and provided the structure of ‘Naming of Parts’. But there is an added complexity; in this and the subsequent ‘Lessons of War’, the military voice is wittily counter-pointed by the inner voice -more civilised and still civilian, of a listening recruit with his mind on other matters. The interplay between the two is even more seamless in the poem ‘Judging Distances’, a subject just as relevant to walkers as well as soldiers.

Judging Distances

Not only how far away, but the way that you say it
Is very important. Perhaps you may never get
The knack of judging a distance, but at least you know
How to report on a landscape: the central sector,
The right of arc and that, which we had last Tuesday,
And at least you know

That maps are of time, not place, so far as the army
Happens to be concerned-the reason being,
Is one which need not delay us. Again, you know
There are three kinds of tree, three only, the fir and the poplar,
And those which have bushy tops to; and lastly
That things only seem to be things

A barn is not called a barn, to put it more plainly,
Or a field in the distance, where sheep may be safely grazing.
You must never be over-sure. You must say when reporting:
At five o’clock in the central sector is a dozen
Of what appears to be animals; whatever you do,
Don’t call the bleeders sheep

I am sure that’s quite clear; and suppose, for the sake of example,
The one at the end, asleep, endeavours to tell us
What he sees over there to the west, and how far away,
After first having come to attention. There to the west,
On the fields of summer the sun and shadows bestow
Vestments of purple and gold.

The still white dwellings are like a mirage in the heat,
And under the swaying elms a man and a woman
Lie gently together. Which is, perhaps, only to say
That there is a row of houses to the left of arc,
And that under some poplars a pair of what appear to be humans
Appear to be loving.

Well that, for an answer, is what we might rightly call
Moderately satisfactory only, the reason being,
Is that two things have been omitted, and those are important.
The human beings, now; in what direction are they,
And how far away, would you say? And do not forget
There may be dead ground in between.

There may be dead ground in between; and I may not have got
The knack of judging a distance; I will only venture
A guess that perhaps between me and the apparent lovers
(Who, incidentally, appear by now to have finished)
At seven o’clock from the houses, is roughly a distance
Of about one year and a half.

Henry Reed, who had a First in Classics from Birmingham University, in 1942, went on to serve at the Government Code & Cipher School at Bletchley during the war, first as a cryptographer in the Italian section and before moving to the Japanese section, where he had to learn the language. After the war he worked for the BBC as a radio broadcaster, translator and playwright.