Bedlam

from Jacqueline

Whenever people ask me about “things to do in London,” they’re often surprised when the first place I suggest is the Imperial War Museum. It’s an amazing place, a museum of social history and phenomenal archive where the experiences of ordinary people in times of war are recorded for future generations. It’s housed in what was once part of the Bethlem Royal Hosptial – you may have heard about it by it’s more common name, which in the local dialect was “Bedlam.” The lunatic asylum. I think it is an entirely appropriate place in which to house a museum of war.



There’s much I could tell you about the museum – I’ve been going there for years now. I could tell you about some of the major exhibitions that have moved me to tears: The Trench, about the experience of soldiers in the Great War; From Corsets to Camouflage, an international exhibit on women and war; The Children’s War – been twice, always weep, mainly for my mother who was one of the thousands of children scarred by the experience of evacuation in the Second World War. I’ve used the archive on numerous occasions now, taking my place in the library housed in the dome, which was once the hospital’s chapel, and where the Ten Commandments are still enscribed on the walls (Thou Shall Not Kill ...). I’ve opened old letters written on fine onion-skin paper in faint but clear penmanship, and I’ve held my breath reading letters that might only have been opened once before, when the recipient first slipped a knife into the envelope.

While I was in London, I made a point of visiting one of the exhibitions currently in progress: The Animals War.



There’s no Geneva Convention for animals, yet millions have given their lives for our man-made wars. If animals had never been used in war, I could not even think of the greater number of human lives lost along the way, so here are a some veterans to think about:



Rob, the SAS (UK special forces) dog who made over twenty parachute drops during the Second World War; Roselle, the labrador who led her owner to safety from the 78th floor of the World Trade Center after it was attacked on 11 September 2001; Rin Tin Tin, who was found as a puppy on the Western Front and went on to become a Hollywood legend; Voytek, the bear mascot of the 22nd Transport Company of the Polish Army Service Corps who remained with his masters during action at Monte Cassino in 1944; and Simon of HMS Amethyst, the only cat to have been awarded the ‘animals’ Victoria Cross,’ the Dickin Medal. And then there’s Rats, the corgi-ish terrier mix who took it upon himself to befriend soldiers serving in Belfast in the Troubles. As one soldier said, “He was like an oasis of friendship in a desert of sadness.”

There are two animals, however, who have always touched my heart: Winnie, the bear cub adopted by Canadian soldiers on their way to war in 1914, and Sefton, the stunning bay cavalry horse who was almost killed by an IRA nailbomb in 1982.

Lt. Harry Colebourn, a veterinarian with the Canadian cavalry, was on his way from Winnipeg to the east coast of Canada, and from there to the battlefields of WW1, when he saw a young bear cub for sale - her mother had been killed by a hunter. He bought the bear, naming her “Winnie” after his hometown, and then smuggled her into England where she became the regiment’s unofficial mascot. A favorite with the troops, she was quite tame, however, when it came time for them to go to the front, Colebourn took her to Regent’s Park Zoo to be cared for while the regiment was in France. In the midst of war, Winnie became a star, not only because she could be safely taken on walks around the zoo and was calm and kind with children, but because her carers were serving in the war. Visitors flocked to see Winnie, including A.A. Milne, who brought his son, Christopher Robin, and who was inspired to create stories about a bear called Winnie.



Then there’s Sefton, who for a time became the beacon of hope for a nation. I was working in London at the time, and though we’d heard that a bomb had detonated in Hyde Park, we just all sort of got on with our work because that’s what you did. At lunchtime I decided to wander over to Regents’ Park – it was always lovely to sit by the old bandstand and listen to the band on a summer’s day. I was almost at the entrance to the gate when I heard the bomb, a sound that is nothing like you think it might be from films and TV. And then there’s that split-second of silence that lingers before all hell breaks loose. We were allowed to leave work early that day, and I walked miles with my friend back to her house, where I would stay the night. It was only when we watched the news on TV that we realized the enormity of what had happened that day. After that first bomb, in Hyde Park, men and horses lay dying of their wounds. One horse in particular, with twenty-eight wounds to his body including blood gushing from a hole in his neck, stood still, to attention, until help came. Following eight hours of surgery as vets struggled to save Sefton, the whole country waited to see if he would make it, as if hope itself would be sustained by his survival. And though not a young horse at nineteen, he lived for another eleven years, becoming a household name.





There’s a painting at the close of the exhibition, a bombsite scene that depicts the contribution of animals in times of conflict. By Steve Hutton, it’s called, “Animals: The Hidden Victims of War.” The tank in the picture bears the symbol of a fierce animal, as do many military vehicles. An elephant is dressed for the Roman war, but wears a WW2 gas mask. There’s a dolphin with her snout tied to prevent her from foraging while working, and there are the sea lions used for detecting underwater dangers. The dogs are there, shown in their roles as messengers, sentinels and in rescue operations, and the cat and rabbit signify domestic animals affected by war. The lizard is a symbol for wildlife lost, and there’s a broken tree to remind us of habitats destroyed. Pigs are there too – they’re used for weapons testing and battlefield surgery training, and the rats are not forgotten – researchers implant electrodes into their brains to remotely control them for land mine detection. Primates and other animals are used for testing of biological and chemical weapons. And finally, above the animals finely drawn, the dove of peace surveys the tableau.

In 1982, a children’s book, The War Horse by Michael Morpurgo, was published to critical acclaim. Set in WW1, in one scene a German soldier is talking to the cavalry horse. “That’s what this war is all about, my friend. It’s about which of us is the madder.”



Bedlam. The word eventually came to mean, “a house of confusion.”
A perfect place to record the lunacy of war.



It’s also interesting to know that a two-day conference begins at IWM today, on peace-building.

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