Rough and unpalatable, often unwholesome: a nineteenth-century British soldier’s diet

Cross-posted from How to be the hero of your own kitchen

Thanks to Rocio C. for asking me to combine two of my life’s obsessions: food and research!

Recruiting sergeants, while plying potential soldiers with drink, waxed lyrical about the comforts of army life. Regular, daily meals and a bed to himself would have seemed luxurious to many men who joined the army, because most recruits were among the poorest in society. But the quality and quantity of food served to the British soldier during the nineteenth century was poor and inadequate. Even worse, the unlucky recruit soon discovered that he had to pay for that food out of his meagre daily wage of 1 shilling as part of a ‘stoppages’ system, whereby soldiers paid for their own clothing, boots, food and equipment. 1 While the Treasury and War Office slowly, reluctantly improved soldier’s living conditions, it wasn’t until the complete collapse of the provisioning system during the Crimean War that public attention was focused on the soldier’s diet and accommodation.

Until 1844, a soldier was served just 2 meals a day: breakfast and dinner. The 1 pound (450g) bread ration was served in the morning accompanied by tea or coffee. If a man did not eat this hunk of bread immediately, he had no place to store it so it was invariably stale within hours. This illustration of the barrack room shows the room where men ate, slept and relaxed. It was not a room designed with food storage in mind, although some rudimentary cooking was possible on the open fire.

Barrack Room, New Brunswick, 1854
Barrack Room, New Brunswick, 1854

Source

At midday, the only hot meal of the day was distributed. Each man was allocated three-quarters of a pound (340g) of raw beef or mutton a day but when it had been boiled and deboned, it probably only weighed half that. The meat was always boiled because there were no other cooking facilities available and it was served in a broth that had been thickened with potatoes, peas or flour. Any other vegetables had to be bought by the men themselves and, luxuries like sugar and fresh milk were purchased by the men as a group, from levies made on their pay. Soldier’s families were given half rations but only if the marriage had been permitted by the commanding officer. Service families ‘on the strength’ lived in the barrack rooms until married quarters became common in the late nineteenth century, but regulations permitted just 6% of men to marry. 2 Many soldiers married without permission, and those families ‘off the strength’ received no food, save what rations men could share.

All across Britain and the Empire, from Bandon to the Bahamas, the British soldier ate the same food. Foreign stations imported their meat from Britain, salted and packed in barrels to survive the long journey. In the heat of the tropics, a diet of salted meat and dry bread created a raging thirst among men who had little to drink but spirits. 3 Soldiers abroad were supplied by the Board of Ordnance, whose inadequate supervision of food quality drew complaints. Bread supplied under contract to the Board had stale crusts, cigar buts and candle wicks added to it by unscrupulous bakers trying to extract maximum profit from government contracts. 4 The other arm of the supply system was the Commissariat, a centralised provisioning agency that supplied food during wartime and at home when serious food shortages, such as the Irish Famine, threatened soldiers’ diets. 5

But most soldiers ate food sourced and purchased by their commanding officers. For traders in garrison towns, supplying the local barrack was a profitable enterprise. Under this regimental system there could be considerable variation between units. A conscientious commanding officer could carefully inspect the food purchased for his regiment, to ensure that, for example, the  meat was not mostly bone and fat. On the other hand, men under the command of disinterested officers were at the mercy of contractors who hardly had the army’s interests at heart. Some officers realised that two meals a day was a paltry diet for adult men whose duties included standing guard outdoors for many hours. Perceptive commanders also noticed that soldiers drank beer and spirits to assuage their hunger. 6 During the 1830s, many regiments organised a third meal in the afternoon to break the almost 20 hour fast between dinner and breakfast. In 1844, army regulations were changed to reflect this initiative and more bread, washed down with tea or coffee, was served in mid-afternoon but only ‘when the price of provisions and other circumstances admit.’ Unfortunately for soldiers serving in North America and Gibraltar, prices were too high and they went without the third meal. 7

At War in the Crimea 1854-56
When the army went to war in the Crimea, the food supply chain broke down alarmingly quickly. The Commissariat, unaccustomed to provisioning the army at home because regiments so often catered for themselves, could not supply thousands of men and horses in wartime conditions. When travelling, or fighting, soldiers were issued with hard biscuit instead of a bread ration. While the biscuits did not go stale they were unpalatable and difficult to eat without cooking facilities. But the Commissariat and the regiments were slow to establish canteens. Without regular hot food, the harsh Crimean winter was intolerable. In contrast the French army was well-organised: soldiers were fed from canteens and women cantinieres or vivandieres, wearing a modified version of a soldier’s uniform, were an important part of the provisioning system.

French vivandiere in the Crimea
French vivandiere in the Crimea

While the French refreshed themselves daily with hot coffee, even this was culinary comfort eluded the British soldier, whose coffee ration, unbelievably, was issued as unroasted green coffee beans. 8 (A drink can be made from green coffee beans but it is horribly astringent, with no coffee aroma.) The war correspondent, William Russell, whose reporting exposed the terrible conditions in the Crimea, blamed much of the army’s sickness on ‘exposure, hard work and poor feeding’. 9 The skewed priorities of British commanders were shown when the Commissariat’s pack animals were requisitioned for military use. 10 Without sufficient mules and horses to transport food to depots close to the front line, the Commissariat could not feed the troops. It was a Frenchman and famous cook, Alexis Soyer, who finally tackled the catering problems of the British army. He even invented a fuel-efficient cooking stove, which he believed would save thousands of pounds of fuel per day. 11

Soyer and officers in front of his stove
Soyer and officers in front of his stove

Source

After the publicity surrounding the terrible living conditions in the Crimea, a spate of reform initiatives were proposed and implemented in subsequent decades. Sanitation in barracks finally began to improve, as washing facilities were installed and barrack rooms enlarged. But while reformers fretted over the cubic square footage of air allocated to each soldier in a barrack room, the army diet escaped close scrutiny. Until 1874, soldiers continued to pay for their basic meat-and-bread rations. The first Army School of Cookery was established in 1885 but the sergeants cooks were not required to train there until 1890. 12 Food continued to vary enormously between regiments even into the twentieth-century when the War Office observed that officers who made a ‘hobby’ of soldier’s provisioning were responsible for most improvements.13 The story of British soldiers’ rations is as much a story of conscientious leadership as it is of hunger and thirst.

You talk o’ better food for us, an’ schools, an’ fires, an’ all:
We’ll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don’t mess about with the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow’s uniform is not the soldierman’s disgrace.
For it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ “:Chuck him out, the brute!”
But it’s “Saviour of ‘is country” when the guns begin to shoot;
An’ it’s Tommy this, an’ Tommy that, an’ anything you please;
An’ Tommy ain’t a blooming fool-you bet that Tommy sees!

Last verse and chorus of ‘Tommy’, from Rudyard Kipling’s Barrack Room Ballads (1890)

  1. ‘Barrack Life’ in David Chandler, Oxford History of the British Army (2003), p 173.
  2. Myna Trustram, Women of the Regiment: Marriage and the Victorian Army (1984), p 30.
  3. Tony Hayter, ‘The Army and the First British Empire 1714-1783’ pp 112-131 in David Chandler, Oxford History of the British Army (2003), p 117.
  4. Hew Strachan, Wellington’s Legacy: the Reform of the British Army 1830-54 (1984) p 58.
  5. Strachan, p 59.
  6. David French, Military Identities: the Regimental System, the British Army, and the British People, c. 1870-2000 (2005), p 121.
  7. Strachan, p 58.
  8. Sir William Howard Russell, The British Expedition to the Crimea (1858), p 46 and 248.
  9. Russell, p 247.
  10. Russell, p 231.
  11. http://www.rlcarchive.org/R0325.pdf, p 20.
  12. French, p 122
  13. French, p.
Posted in Barracks, Britain, Crimean War, Food, France, Health, History, Ireland, Urban | Comments Off on Rough and unpalatable, often unwholesome: a nineteenth-century British soldier’s diet

Greetings from Mullingar

postcardfront

Posted in either 1906 or 1908, this postcard featuring a mustachioed soldier walking across Mullingar Barracks Square is typical of many produced in Ireland from 1890 onward. To contemporary eyes, the image is striking in its ordinariness: where is the fabulous sunset or the remarkable architecture? This picture, with children mooching around on the right-hand-side and a lone cyclist on the left, does not portray a romantic or glamourous scene. It captures a moment in an Irish provincial barracks, a place of routine and grey skies. So why was there a commercial demand for this type of photographic postcard?

postcardreverse

The reverse gives us a clue: it is blank because this postcard was sent to a collector, for her album. In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many collected postcards avidly, and the printing and photographic industries were happy to supply their appetites. The subjects of postcards were therefore limitless. From heart-breaking eviction scenes, to tram stations, any aspect of about Irish life could appear on a postcard. (The Lawrence Collection is the most significant Irish postcard image archive.) But, although collecting postcards was a common pastime, collectors alone could not keep an industry in business.

As Guy Atkins explains, postcards were popular because they were a cheap, reliable, fast means of communication. Their appearance coincided with rising literacy levels across Britain and Ireland. Literacy in the nineteenth-century army was a particular problem, since ordinary soldiers were from the most disadvantaged section of the population, with correspondingly low education levels. Although regimental schools existed where enlightened commanding officers established them, it wasn’t until the humiliation of the British army in the Crimea that serious administrative attention was paid to the army school system. Colonel J.H. Lefroy was appointed Inspector-General of Army Schools, and statistics on literacy in the ranks were published. In 1859, nearly 40% were adjudged illiterate or semi-literate. By 1866, concerted reform efforts reduced the figure to 29%. 1 Alongside formal army schooling, the Soldiers’ Homes established by Elsie Sandes from 1869 provided reading and writing rooms, encouraging soldiers to fruitfully occupy their leisure time. By the time picture postcards were available, the ordinary soldier was not an unlettered reprobate but a literate man with leisure activities.

For newsagents and photographers in garrison towns, the trade in postcards was a valuable one. This image is unattributed but it may have been taken by a local studio photographer. The card was sold by a local shop, Day’s Bazaar, which was founded in 1879, 20 years before the postcard craze took hold.  Situated on the main shopping street of the town, Day’s was a short walk from Mullingar barracks, and its Soldiers’ home, built after 1903. And just across the road from the Bazaar was the Post Office; sending postcards was easy and convenient for a Mullingar-based soldier.

To soldiers, these military ‘life’ photographs must have been very appealing. A soldier posted in Mullingar could send an image of his own barrack, peopled with men who looked like himself, to his friends and family. He didn’t need to describe his accommodation, the photograph showed the stark barrack blocks and vast squares clearly. Not only was his workplace and home featured, but soldiers’ domestic life was also represented. The boys in the background of this image and the child walking across the walkway of the married quarters may be soldier’s children. In addition, these photographs were brilliantly composed and executed. They were eye-catching, memorable and topical, as well as personally relevant to their purchasers. It is hardly surprising that thousands were sold.

  1. Richard L. Blanco, ‘Education reforms for the enlisted man in the army of Victorian England’, History of Education Quarterly, vol. 6, no. 2 (Summer, 1966), p 69, ftnt 35, p 72.
Posted in Barracks, Britain, Co Westmeath, Crimean War, History, Ireland, Military, Photographs, Postcards, Urban | Comments Off on Greetings from Mullingar

A Plague of Plaques: memorialising war in urban Ireland

Just now, it seems that war commemorations are to the fore of public consciousness. Here in Ireland, the preparations for marking Easter Rising 1916 are beginning to gather pace. Since the Rising was almost entirely a Dublin-based event, people in the provinces are pondering how to commemorate a national event in a way that connects with local history. Of the 39 documented Easter Rising memorials in Ireland, 28 are in Dublin city. And since we have already named stations, roads, streets and housing developments after famous rebels, the search for other permanent memorials is underway. When we commemorated World War I, it was easy to renovate old war monuments, such as the cenotaph in Cork city.

Cork cenotaph with new lights, benches and paving
It looks clean and new when the sun is shining, honest!

However, statues of 1916-era fighters such as Michael Collins are already well-kept, so what can be done to satisfy the desire to say something about the Easter Rising? Cork County Council held public consultations on the matter, which were attended by 200 people. From the suggestions made, it is clear there is an appetite among this audience for memorialisation in a very specific form: plaques. Three separate plaques were proposed for Fermoy, while the first recommendation from the meeting in Mallow was simply ‘Commemoration Plaques’. 1
Plaques are ubiquitous in the Irish streetscape, but historical ones are far outnumbered by ‘official opening’ plaques. Every piece of major infrastructure, most shopping centres, every school and hospital has a plaque marking the politician that ‘officially’ opened it. The headstone-style markers next to busy motorways are particularly curious examples of official Ireland’s passion for plaques: unreadable, inaccessible memorials to political good deeds. (I cannot photograph an example, for obvious reasons.) Some places even have more multiple plaques, as in the case of Haulbowline Island bridge, where Simon Coveney’s name is now above two older plaques marking Sean Lemass’ moment with the little velvet curtains.

Sadly, many of these plaques are uninspiring and unremarkable, as this one from 1981 on Cork’s Half Moon Bridge shows.

'Official opening' plaque, Half Moon Bridge, Cork
‘Official opening’ plaque, Half Moon Bridge, Cork

Cultural theorists can have plenty of fun with these efforts to inscribe and possess the landscape; it is surely no coincidence that these plaques are frequently tagged with graffiti. But most ordinary citizens recognise that these official openings are photo opportunities for politicians. So why would those outside the political sphere think plaques are the answer to our commemoration needs? I would like to suggest that a plaque addresses a number of needs and is often the least divisive option.
Sculpture and statuary is very expensive, must be commissioned years in advance and can take up street space. Then there is the vexed question of who to put on the plinth, and who to ignore. Historically, the war memorials that have populated the Irish streetscape featured uniformed men: from Nelson’s pillar in Dublin to the World War I cenotaphs, men in military dress were the iconography of heroism in war. But now that the contribution of women to the Easter Rising is recognised, a man with a gun is no longer an appropriate symbol. If the memorial is to be non-figurative, the problem of artistic taste arises. What if an artist creates something that nobody locally appreciates or understands? Or worse, what if the art work becomes a public eyesore due to littering and poor maintenance?
In contrast, a plaque is often unobtrusive. Placed on a building, it does not take up physical space, and because of this, it does not easily offend. Only those who take the time to stop and read will know about the plaque’s existence. This is not to argue that choosing an inscription is an apolitical or simple matter. This stone book, recently added to the National Monument in Cork city, is an attempt to include everyone that may deeply offend some.

New addition to the National Monument, Cork
New addition to the National Monument, Cork

The date range – 1916-23 – includes anyone who claimed to be fighting for Irish freedom, from Easter 1916 to the end of the Civil War in May 1923. Since this includes self-declared enemies of the new 26-county Irish state, a state still in existence today, the inscription is attempting to square the freedom fighter/terrorist circle. Only time and the looming commemoration of the 1919-21 War of Independence will tell if it succeeds in uniting or dividing opinion.
Of course, no one may even notice this or any other 1916 plaque. The last orgy of commemoration to change the Irish landscape arose during the 150th anniversary of the Great Irish Famine. The large-scale sculptures that emerged, such as the memorial on Dublin’s Custom House Quay and the Famine Ship in Co Mayo, are now iconic, but smaller memorials have struggled to make an impression on the national consciousness. In Cork city, this plaque to victims of the Great Famine was placed on the walls of St Finbarr’s hospital.

Famine Memorial, Douglas Road, Cork.
Famine Memorial, Douglas Road, Cork.

Source

Unfortunately, it presumes that a casual passerby would know that the hospital was once the Cork Union workhouse. A small textual memorial cannot give much information, yet information is essential to participate in the commemorative act. Memorials that dare to create an iconography or visual language may well communicate better with an audience ignorant of – and largely disinterested in – historical facts.
In Cork, the search for appropriate imagery and text will be short, since community groups have just four weeks to submit proposals to the 1916 Centenary Fund. As the fund is lamentably small, the committee envisage granting money ‘for events and projects that range in cost from a few hundred euro to a few thousand.’ 2 Thus every local area can secure a small amount of money, and nobody ends with a bigger, more expensive memorial than the neighbouring parish. Perhaps it will all end gloriously, but I foresee a plague of plaques. It would be a shame to run out of wall space before the commemoration of the War of Independence, a conflict where British government forces torched the centre of Cork city and, ambushes and reprisals convulsed the countryside. Cork communities should have something substantial to say about memorialising war, but plaques alone seem a paltry response to violence, fear and death.
If you see a new war memorial in Ireland, why not submit it to www.irishwarmemorials.ie? Let’s ensure that the physical acts of remembering are saved for posterity, future scholarship and the occasional eyeroll.

  1. http://www.corkcoco.ie/co/pdf/176847919.pdf.
  2. http://www.corkcoco.ie/co/pdf/645686347.pdf, p 3
Posted in Co Cork, Co Dublin, Commemoration, History, Ireland, Memorials, Military, Street Names, Uncategorized, Urban, World War I | Comments Off on A Plague of Plaques: memorialising war in urban Ireland