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Atmosphere Ocean and Climate Dynamics An
Introductory Text 1st Edition John Marshall Digital
Instant Download
Author(s): John Marshall, R. Alan Plumb
ISBN(s): 9780080556703, 0080556701
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 16.23 MB
Year: 2007
Language: english
 ATMOSPHERE, OCEAN,
AND CLIMATE DYNAMICS:
AN INTRODUCTORY TEXT
This is Volume 93 in the
INTERNATIONAL GEOPHYSICS SERIES
A series of monographs and textbooks
Edited by RENATA DMOWSKA, DENNIS HARTMANN, and H. THOMAS ROSSBY
A complete list of books in this series appears at the end of this volume.
 ATMOSPHERE, OCEAN,
AND CLIMATE DYNAMICS:
AN INTRODUCTORY TEXT

JOHN MARSHALL AND R. ALAN PLUMB

Massachusetts Institute of Technology
Cambridge, Massachusetts

AMSTERDAM • BOSTON • HEIDELBERG • LONDON

NEW YORK • OXFORD • PARIS • SAN DIEGO
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Atmosphere, ocean, and climate dynamics: an introductory text/editors
John Marshall and R. Alan Plumb.
p. cm. – (International geophysics series; v. 93)
ISBN 978-0-12-558691-7 (hardcover)
1. Atmospheric circulation. 2. Ocean-atmosphere interaction. 3. Ocean circulation.
4. Fluid dynamics. 5. Atmospheric thermodynamics. I. Marshall, John, 1954-
II. Plumb, R. Alan, 1948-
QC880.4.A8A877 2007
551.5’246–dc22
2007034798

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 13: 978-0-12-558691-7

For all information on all Elsevier Academic Press publications

visit our Web site at www.books.elsevier.com

Printed in China
07 08 09 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 The material that makes up this book evolved from notes prepared for an undergraduate
class that has been taught by the authors at MIT over a period of ten years or so. During this
time, many people, especially the students taking the class and those assisting in its teaching,
have contributed to the evolution of the material and to the correction of errors in both the
text and the problem sets. We have also benefited from the advice of our colleagues at MIT
and Harvard; we especially thank Ed Boyle, Kerry Emanuel, Mick Follows, Peter Huybers,
Lodovica Illari, Julian Sachs, Eli Tziperman and Carl Wunsch for generously giving their
time to provide comments on early drafts of the text.
Responsibility for the accuracy of the final text rests, of course, with the authors alone.
We would also like to thank Benno Blumenthal for his advice in using the IRI/LDEO
Climate Data Library, Gordon (Bud) Brown for help with the laboratory equipment and
Russell Windman for his advice on the book design and final preparation of the photographs
and figures.
John Marshall and R. Alan Plumb
This page intentionally left blank
 Contents

0.1 Outline, scope, and rationale of the book xiii

0.2 Preface xiv
0.2.1 Natural fluid dynamics xv
0.2.2 Rotating fluid dynamics: GFD Lab 0 xvii
0.2.3 Holicism xix

1. Characteristics of the atmosphere 1

1.1 Geometry 1
1.2 Chemical composition of the atmosphere 2
1.3 Physical properties of air 4
1.3.1 Dry air 4
1.3.2 Moist air 5
1.3.3 GFD Lab I: Cloud formation on adiabatic expansion 7
1.4 Problems 7

2. The global energy balance 9

2.1 Planetary emission temperature 9
2.2 The atmospheric absorption spectrum 13
2.3 The greenhouse effect 14
2.3.1 A simple greenhouse model 14
2.3.2 A leaky greenhouse 16
2.3.3 A more opaque greenhouse 16
2.3.4 Climate feedbacks 19
2.4 Further reading 20
2.5 Problems 20

3. The vertical structure of the atmosphere 23

3.1 Vertical distribution of temperature and greenhouse gases 23
3.1.1 Typical temperature profile 23
3.1.2 Atmospheric layers 24

vii
viii CONTENTS

3.2 The relationship between pressure and density: hydrostatic balance 26

3.3 Vertical structure of pressure and density 28
3.3.1 Isothermal atmosphere 28
3.3.2 Non-isothermal atmosphere 28
3.3.3 Density 29
3.4 Further reading 29
3.5 Problems 29

4. Convection 31
4.1 The nature of convection 32
4.1.1 Convection in a shallow fluid 32
4.1.2 Instability 33
4.2 Convection in water 34
4.2.1 Buoyancy 34
4.2.2 Stability 35
4.2.3 Energetics 36
4.2.4 GFD Lab II: Convection 36
4.3 Dry convection in a compressible atmosphere 39
4.3.1 The adiabatic lapse rate (in unsaturated air) 39
4.3.2 Potential temperature 41
4.4 The atmosphere under stable conditions 42
4.4.1 Gravity waves 42
4.4.2 Temperature inversions 44
4.5 Moist convection 46
4.5.1 Humidity 47
4.5.2 Saturated adiabatic lapse rate 49
4.5.3 Equivalent potential temperature 50
4.6 Convection in the atmosphere 50
4.6.1 Types of convection 51
4.6.2 Where does convection occur? 55
4.7 Radiative-convective equilibrium 56
4.8 Further reading 57
4.9 Problems 57

5. The meridional structure of the atmosphere 61

5.1 Radiative forcing and temperature 62
5.1.1 Incoming radiation 62
5.1.2 Outgoing radiation 63
5.1.3 The energy balance of the atmosphere 64
5.1.4 Meridional structure of temperature 64
5.2 Pressure and geopotential height 67
5.3 Moisture 70
5.4 Winds 73
5.4.1 Distribution of winds 74
5.5 Further reading 78
5.6 Problems 78
 CONTENTS ix

6. The equations of fluid motion 81

6.1 Differentiation following the motion 82
6.2 Equation of motion for a nonrotating fluid 84
6.2.1 Forces on a fluid parcel 84
6.2.2 The equations of motion 86
6.2.3 Hydrostatic balance 87
6.3 Conservation of mass 87
6.3.1 Incompressible flow 88
6.3.2 Compressible flow 88
6.4 Thermodynamic equation 89
6.5 Integration, boundary conditions, and restrictions in application 89
6.6 Equations of motion for a rotating fluid 90
6.6.1 GFD Lab III: Radial inflow 90
6.6.2 Transformation into rotating coordinates 93
6.6.3 The rotating equations of motion 94
6.6.4 GFD Labs IV and V: Experiments with Coriolis forces on a parabolic
rotating table 96
6.6.5 Putting things on the sphere 100
6.6.6 GFD Lab VI: An experiment on the Earth’s rotation 103
6.7 Further reading 104
6.8 Problems 104

7. Balanced flow 109

7.1 Geostrophic motion 110
7.1.1 The geostrophic wind in pressure coordinates 112
7.1.2 Highs and lows; synoptic charts 114
7.1.3 Balanced flow in the radial-inflow experiment 116
7.2 The Taylor-Proudman theorem 117
7.2.1 GFD Lab VII: Taylor columns 118
7.3 The thermal wind equation 119
7.3.1 GFD Lab VIII: The thermal wind relation 120
7.3.2 The thermal wind equation and the Taylor-Proudman theorem 122
7.3.3 GFD Lab IX: cylinder ‘‘collapse’’ under gravity and rotation 123
7.3.4 Mutual adjustment of velocity and pressure 125
7.3.5 Thermal wind in pressure coordinates 126
7.4 Subgeostrophic flow: the Ekman layer 129
7.4.1 GFD Lab X: Ekman layers: frictionally-induced cross-isobaric flow 130
7.4.2 Ageostrophic flow in atmospheric highs and lows 130
7.4.3 Planetary-scale ageostrophic flow 133
7.5 Problems 135

8. The general circulation of the atmosphere 139

8.1 Understanding the observed circulation 140
8.2 A mechanistic view of the circulation 141
8.2.1 The tropical Hadley circulation 142
8.2.2 The extratropical circulation and GFD Lab XI: Baroclinic instability 145
x CONTENTS

8.3 Energetics of the thermal wind equation 149

8.3.1 Potential energy for a fluid system 149
8.3.2 Available potential energy 150
8.3.3 Release of available potential energy in baroclinic instability 152
8.3.4 Energetics in a compressible atmosphere 153
8.4 Large-scale atmospheric energy and momentum budget 154
8.4.1 Energy transport 154
8.4.2 Momentum transport 156
8.5 Latitudinal variations of climate 157
8.6 Further reading 158
8.7 Problems 159

9. The ocean and its circulation 163

9.1 Physical characteristics of the ocean 164
9.1.1 The ocean basins 164
9.1.2 The cryosphere 165
9.1.3 Properties of seawater; equation of state 165
9.1.4 Temperature, salinity, and temperature structure 168
9.1.5 The mixed layer and thermocline 171
9.2 The observed mean circulation 176
9.3 Inferences from geostrophic and hydrostatic balance 182
9.3.1 Ocean surface structure and geostrophic flow 183
9.3.2 Geostrophic flow at depth 184
9.3.3 Steric effects 186
9.3.4 The dynamic method 187
9.4 Ocean eddies 188
9.4.1 Observations of ocean eddies 188
9.5 Further reading 189
9.6 Problems 190

10. The wind-driven circulation 197

10.1 The wind stress and Ekman layers 198
10.1.1 Balance of forces and transport in the Ekman layer 199
10.1.2 Ekman pumping and suction and GFD Lab XII 201
10.1.3 Ekman pumping and suction induced by large-scale wind patterns 203
10.2 Response of the interior ocean to Ekman pumping 206
10.2.1 Interior balances 206
10.2.2 Wind-driven gyres and western boundary currents 206
10.2.3 Taylor-Proudman on the sphere 207
10.2.4 GFD Lab XIII: Wind-driven ocean gyres 211
10.3 The depth-integrated circulation: Sverdrup theory 213
10.3.1 Rationalization of position, sense of circulation, and volume transport of
ocean gyres 214
10.4 Effects of stratification and topography 216
10.4.1 Taylor-Proudman in a layered ocean 217
10.5 Baroclinic instability in the ocean 218
10.6 Further reading 220
10.7 Problems 220
 CONTENTS xi

11. The thermohaline circulation of the ocean 223

11.1 Air-sea fluxes and surface property distributions 224
11.1.1 Heat, freshwater, and buoyancy fluxes 224
11.1.2 Interpretation of surface temperature distributions 231
11.1.3 Sites of deep convection 232
11.2 The observed thermohaline circulation 234
11.2.1 Inferences from interior tracer distributions 234
11.2.2 Time scales and intensity of thermohaline circulation 239
11.3 Dynamical models of the thermohaline circulation 239
11.3.1 Abyssal circulation schematic deduced from Taylor-Proudman
on the sphere 239
11.3.2 GFD Lab XIV: The abyssal circulation 241
11.3.3 Why western boundary currents? 243
11.3.4 GFD Lab XV: Source sink flow in a rotating basin 245
11.4 Observations of abyssal ocean circulation 245
11.5 The ocean heat budget and transport 247
11.5.1 Meridional heat transport 248
11.5.2 Mechanisms of ocean heat transport and the partition of heat transport
between the atmosphere and ocean 251
11.6 Freshwater transport by the ocean 255
11.7 Further reading 256
11.8 Problems 256

12. Climate and climate variability 259

12.1 The ocean as a buffer of temperature change 261
12.1.1 Nonseasonal changes in SST 262
12.2 El Niño and the Southern Oscillation 264
12.2.1 Interannual variability 264
12.2.2 ‘‘Normal’’ conditions—equatorial upwelling and the Walker
circulation 266
12.2.3 ENSO 269
12.2.4 Other modes of variability 273
12.3 Paleoclimate 273
12.3.1 Climate over Earth history 275
12.3.2 Paleotemperatures over the past 70 million years: the δ18 O record 277
12.3.3 Greenhouse climates 280
12.3.4 Cold climates 280
12.3.5 Glacial-interglacial cycles 282
12.3.6 Global warming 291
12.4 Further reading 292
12.5 Problems 292

Appendices 295
A.1 Derivations 295
A.1.1 The Planck function 295
A.1.2 Computation of available potential energy 296
A.1.3 Internal energy for a compressible atmosphere 296
xii CONTENTS

A.2 Mathematical definitions and notation 296

A.2.1 Taylor expansion 296
A.2.2 Vector identities 297
A.2.3 Polar and spherical coordinates 298
A.3 Use of foraminifera shells in paleoclimate 298
A.4 Laboratory experiments 299
A.4.1 Rotating tables 299
A.4.2 List of laboratory experiments 300
A.5 Figures and access to data over the web 302

References 303
Textbooks and reviews 303
Other references 303
References to paleo-data sources 304

Index 307

Online companion site:

http://books.elsevier.com/companions/9780125586917
 0.1. OUTLINE, SCOPE, AND RATIONALE OF THE BOOK

This is an introductory text on the circulation of the atmosphere and ocean, with an
emphasis on global scales. It has been written for undergraduate students who have no prior
knowledge of meteorology and oceanography or training in fluid mechanics. We believe
that the text will also be of use to beginning graduate students in the field of atmospheric,
oceanic, and climate science. By the end of the book we hope that readers will have a
good grasp of what the atmosphere and ocean look like on the large scale, and, through
application of the laws of mechanics and thermodynamics, why they look like they do. We
will also place our observations and understanding of the present climate in the context of
how climate has evolved and changed over Earth’s history.
The book is roughly divided in to three equal parts. The first third deals exclusively
with the atmosphere (Chapters 1 to 5), the last third with the ocean and its role in climate
(Chapters 9 to 12). Sandwiched in between we develop the necessary fluid dynamical
background (Chapter 6 and 7). Our discussion of the general circulation of the atmosphere
(Chapter 8), follows the dynamical chapters. The text can be used in a number of ways.
It has been written so that those interested primarily in the atmosphere might focus on
Chapters 1 to 8. Those interested in the ocean can begin at Chapter 9, referring back as
necessary to the dynamical Chapters 6 and 7. It is our hope, however, that many will be
interested in learning about both fluids. Indeed, one of the joys of working on this text—and
using it as background material for undergraduate courses taught at the Massachusetts
Institute of Technology (MIT)—has been our attempt to discuss the circulation of the
atmosphere and ocean in a single framework and in the same spirit.
In our writing we have been led by observations rather than theory. We have not written
a book about fluid dynamics illustrated by atmospheric and oceanic phenomena. Rather
we hope that the observations take the lead, and theory is introduced when it is needed.
Advanced dynamical ideas are only used if we deem it essential to bring order to the
observations. We have also chosen not to unnecessarily formalize our discussion. Yet, as far
as is possible, we have offered rigorous physical discussions expressed in mathematical form:
we build (nearly) everything up from first principles, our explanations of the observations
are guided by theory, and these guiding principles are, we hope, clearly espoused.
The majority of the observations described and interpreted here are available electron-
ically via the companion Web site, http://books.elsevier.com/companions/9780125586917.
We make much use of the remarkable database and web-browsing facilities developed at
the Lamont Doherty Earth Observatory of Columbia University. Thus the raw data pre-
sented by figures on the pages of the book can be accessed and manipulated over the web,
as described in Section A.5.
One particularly enjoyable aspect of the courses from which this book sprang has been
the numerous laboratory experiments carried out in lectures as demonstrations, or studied
in more detail in undergraduate laboratory courses. We hope that some of this flavor comes
through on the written page. We have attempted to weave the experiments into the body of
the text so that, in the spirit of the best musicals, the ‘song and dance routines’ seem natural
rather than forced. The experiments we chose to describe are simple and informative, and
for the most part do not require sophisticated apparatus. Video loops of the experiments
can be viewed over the Web, but there is no real substitute for carrying them out oneself.
We encourage you to try. Details of the equipment required to carry out the experiments,
including the necessary rotating turntables, can be found in Section A.4.
Before getting on to the meat of our account, we now make some introductory remarks
about the nature of the problems we are concerned with.

xiii
xiv 0.2. PREFACE

0.2. PREFACE

The circulation of the atmosphere and oceans is inherently complicated, involving the
transfer of radiation through a semi-transparent medium of variable composition, phase
changes between liquid water, ice and vapor, interactions between phenomena on scales
from centimeters to the globe, and timescales from seconds to millennia. But one only has
to look at a picture of the Earth from space, such as that shown in Fig. 1, to appreciate that
organizing principles must be at work to bring such order and beauty.
This book is about the large-scale circulation of the atmosphere and ocean and the
organizing fluid mechanical principles that shape it. We will learn how the unusual
properties of rotating fluids manifest themselves in and profoundly influence the circulation
of the atmosphere and ocean and the climate of the planet. The necessary fluid dynamics will
be developed and explored in the context of phenomena that play important roles in climate,
such as convection, weather systems, the Gulf Stream, and the thermohaline circulation
of the ocean. Extensive use is made of laboratory experiments to isolate and illustrate
key ideas. Any study of climate dynamics would be incomplete without a discussion of
radiative transfer theory, and so we will also cover fundamental ideas on energy balance.
In the final chapters we discuss the interaction of the atmosphere, ocean, and ice and how
they collude together to control the climate of the Earth. The paleoclimate record suggests
that the climate of the past has been very different from that of today. Thus we use the

FIGURE 1. A view of Earth from space over the North Pole. The Arctic ice cap can be seen in the center. The
white swirls are clouds associated with atmospheric weather patterns. Courtesy of NASA/JPL.
 0.2. PREFACE xv

understanding gleaned from our study of the present climate to speculate on mechanisms
that might drive climate change.
In these introductory remarks we draw out those distinctive features of the fluid mechanics
of the atmosphere and ocean that endow its study with a unique flavor. We are dealing with
what can be called ‘‘natural’’ fluids, which are energized thermally on a differentially-heated
sphere whose rotation tightly constrains the motion.

0.2.1. Natural fluid dynamics

Fluid dynamics is commonly studied in engineering and applied mathematics depart-
ments. A typical context might be the following. In a fluid of constant density, shearing
eddies develop whenever circumstances force a strong shear (velocity contrast over a short
distance). For example, flow past a solid obstacle leads to a turbulent wake (see Fig. 2), as in
the flow of water down a stream or in air blowing over an airfoil. The kinetic energy of the
eddying motion comes from the kinetic energy of steady flow impinging on the obstacle.
The problem can be studied experimentally (by constructing a laboratory analog of the
motion) or mathematically (by solving rather complicated differential equations). However,
shear-induced turbulence, and indeed much of classical hydrodynamics,1 is not directly
applicable to the fluid dynamics of the atmosphere and ocean, because it assumes that the
density, ρ, is constant, or more precisely, that the density only depends on the pressure,2 p
such that ρ = ρ(p). The energy source for the eddies that form the turbulent wake in Fig. 2 is
the kinetic energy of the incoming steady stream. There is a superficial resemblance to the
ubiquitous large-scale eddies and swirls observed in the atmosphere, beautifully revealed
by the water vapor images shown in Fig. 3. However, the energy for the eddies seen in Fig. 3
comes directly or indirectly from thermal rather than mechanical sources.
Let us consider for a moment what the atmosphere or ocean would be like if it were
made up of a fluid in which the density is independent of temperature and so can be
written ρ = ρ(p). Because of the overwhelming influence of gravity, pressure increases
downward in the atmosphere and ocean. If the arrangement is to be stable, light fluid

FIGURE 2. Schematic diagram showing a fluid of constant density flowing past a solid obstacle, as might happen
in the flow of water down a stream. Shearing eddies develop in a thin layer around the obstacle and result in a
turbulent wake in the lee of the obstacle. The kinetic energy of the eddying motion comes from the kinetic energy
of the steady flow impinging on the obstacle.

1
See, for example, the treatise on classical hydrodynamics by Horace Lamb: Hydrodynamics, Cambridge, 1932.
2
A fluid in which the density depends only on the pressure, ρ = ρ(p), is called a barotropic fluid. A fluid in which the
density depends on both temperature and pressure, ρ = ρ(p, T), is called a baroclinic fluid.
xvi 0.2. PREFACE

FIGURE 3. A mosaic of satellite images showing the water vapor distribution over the globe at a height of
6–10 km above the surface. We see the organization of H2 O by the circulation; dry (sinking) areas in the subtropics
( ± 30◦ ) are dark, moist (upwelling) regions of the equatorial band are bright. Jet streams of the middle latitudes
appear as elongated dark regions with adjacent clouds and bright regions. From NASA.

ρ =ρ p

FIGURE 4. Because of the overwhelming importance of gravity, pressure increases downward in the atmosphere
and ocean. For gravitational stability, density must also increase downward—as sketched in the diagram—with
heavy fluid below and light fluid above. If ρ = ρ(p) only, then the density is independent of T, and the fluid cannot
be brought into motion by heating and/or cooling.

must be on top of heavy fluid, and so the density must also increase downward, as
sketched in Fig. 4. Now if ρ does not depend on T, the fluid cannot be brought into motion
by heating/cooling. We conclude that if we make the assumption ρ = ρ(p), then life is
abstracted out of the fluid, because it cannot convert thermal energy into kinetic energy. But
everywhere around us in the atmosphere and ocean we find fluid doing just that: acting as
a natural heat engine, generating and maintaining its own motion by converting thermal
energy into kinetic energy. The fluid can only do this because ρ is not just a function
of p. If ρ depends on both pressure and temperature,3 ρ = ρ(p, T), as sketched in Fig. 5,
then fluid heated by the Sun, for example, can become buoyant and rise in convection.
Such a fluid can convect by converting thermal energy into kinetic energy—it is full of life
because it can be energized thermally.

3
The density of the ocean depends on salinity as well as temperature and pressure: ρ = ρ(p, S, T). Then, for example,
convection can be triggered from the surface layers of the ocean by the formation of ice; fresh water is locked up in the ice,
leaving brackish and hence heavy water behind at the surface.
 0.2. PREFACE xvii

FIGURE 5. In contrast to Fig. 4, if ρ depends on both pressure and temperature, ρ = ρ(p, T), then fluid heated
by the Sun, for example, can become buoyant and rise in convection. Such a fluid can be energized thermally.

In meteorology and oceanography we are always dealing with fluids in which

ρ = ρ(p, T, . . .) and turbulence is, in the main, thermally rather than mechanically main-
tained. Rather than classical hydrodynamics we are concerned with natural aerodynamics or
geophysical fluid dynamics, the fluid dynamics of real fluids. The latter phrase, often going
by the shorthand GFD, is now widely used to describe the kind of fluid dynamics we are
dealing with.

0.2.2. Rotating fluid dynamics: GFD Lab 0

In climate dynamics we are not only dealing with the natural fluids just described, but
also, because Earth is a rapidly rotating planet, with rotating fluids. As we shall see during
the course of our study, rotation endows fluids with remarkable properties.
If one looks up the definition of fluid in the dictionary, one finds:
something that can ‘‘change rapidly or easily’’ or
‘‘fill any container into which it is poured.’’
But fluid on a rotating planet cannot move in arbitrary paths because, if the scales of
motion are sufficiently large and sluggish, they are profoundly aware of and affected by
rotation. In a very real sense the atmosphere and ocean are not ‘‘fluid’’ at all; they are tightly
constrained by the rotation of the Earth. This constraint makes the two fluids more similar
than one might expect—the atmosphere and ocean can, and we would argue should, be
studied together. This is what we set out to do in this text.
The unusual properties of rotating fluids can be demonstrated in the following very
simple laboratory experiment.

GFD Lab 0: Rigidity imparted to rotating fluids

We take two tanks and place one on a rotating table and the other on a desk in the
laboratory. We fill them with water to a depth of ∼ 20 cm, set the rotating table turning at
a speed of 15–20 revolutions per minute (see Section A.4 for discussion of rotating table)
and leave them to settle down for 15 minutes or so. We gently agitate the two bodies
of water—one’s hand is best, using an up-down beating motion (try not to introduce a
systematic swirl)—to generate motion, and wait (1 minute) for things to settle down a
little, but not so long that the currents die away. We observe the motion by introducing dye
(food coloring).
xviii 0.2. PREFACE

In the nonrotating tank the dye disperses much as we might intuitively expect. But in
the rotating body of water something glorious happens. We see beautiful streaks of dye
falling vertically; the vertical streaks become drawn out by horizontal fluid motion into
vertical ‘curtains’ which wrap around one another. Try two different colors and watch the
interleaving of fluid columns (see Fig. 6 here and Fig. 7.7 in Chapter 7)
The vertical columns, which are known as Taylor columns after G. I. Taylor who discovered
them (see Chapter 7), are a result of the rigidity imparted to the fluid by the rotation of the
tank. The water moves around in vertical columns which are aligned parallel to the rotation
vector. It is in this sense that rotating fluids are rigid. As the horizontal spatial scales and
timescales lengthen, rotation becomes an increasingly strong constraint on the motion of
both the atmosphere and ocean.
On what scales might the atmosphere, ocean, or our laboratory experiment, ‘‘feel’’
the effect of rotation? Suppose that typical horizontal currents (atmospheric or oceanic,
measured, as they are, in the rotating frame) are given by U, and the typical distance over
which the current varies is L. Then the timescale of the motion is L/U. Let’s compare this
with τrot , the period of rotation, by defining a nondimensional number (known as the Rossby
number; see Section 7.1):

U × τrot
Ro =
L

FIGURE 6. Taylor columns revealed by food coloring in the rotating tank. The water is allowed to come into
solid body rotation and then gently stirred by hand. Dyes are used to visualize the flow. At the top we show the
rotating cylinder of water with curtains of dye falling down from the surface. Below we show the beautiful patterns
of dyes of different colors being stirred around one another by the rotationally constrained motion.
 0.2. PREFACE xix

FIGURE 7. A schematic diagram showing the interplay between radiative transfer and circulation. The absorption
of radiation by the atmosphere is very sensitive to the distribution of water vapor. But the water vapor distribution
depends on the motion, which in turn depends on the heating, completing a closed cycle.

If Ro is much greater than one, then the timescale of the motion is short relative to a
rotation period, and rotation will not significantly influence the motion. If Ro is much less
than one, then the motion will be aware of rotation.
In our laboratory tank we observe horizontal swirling of perhaps U ∼ 1 cm s−1 over the
scale of the tank, L ∼ 30 cm, which is rotating with a period τtank = 3 s. This yields a Rossby
number for the tank flow of Rotank = 0.1. Thus rotation will be an important constraint on the
fluid motion, as we have witnessed by the presence of Taylor columns in Fig. 6.
Let us estimate Ro for large-scale flow in the atmosphere and ocean.
• ATMOSPHERE (e.g., for a weather system), discussed in Chapter 5 and Chapter 7:
L ∼ 5000 km, U ∼ 10 m s−1 , and τrot = 1 d ≈ 105 s, giving Roatmos = 0.2, which suggests
that rotation will be important.
• OCEAN ( e.g., for the great gyres of the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans, described in
Chapter 9): L ∼ 1000 km, U ∼ 0.1 m s−1 , giving Roocean = 0.01, and rotation will be a
controlling factor.
It is clear then that rotation will be of paramount importance in shaping the pattern
of air and ocean currents on sufficiently large scales. Indeed, much of the structure and
organization seen in Fig. 1 is shaped by rotation.

0.2.3. Holicism
There is another aspect that gives our study of climate dynamics its distinctive flavor.
The climate is a unity. Only if great care is taken can it be broken up and the parts studied
separately, since every aspect affects every other aspect. To illustrate this point, let us
consider the interplay between the transfer of radiation through the atmosphere (known
as radiative transfer) and the fluid motion. As we shall see in Chapter 2 and Chapter 3,
the radiative temperature profile depends on, among other things, the distribution of water
vapor, because water vapor strongly absorbs radiation in the same wavelengths that the
Earth principally radiates. But the water vapor distribution is not given because it depends
on the motion, as can be clearly seen in Fig. 3. The motion in turn depends on the heating,
which depends on the radiative transfer. The closed cycle sketched in Fig. 7 must be studied
as a whole.
Other documents randomly have
different content
themselves in action again. It was a remarkable feat, brought about
by sheer muscle and will power, every inch of the way a battle, up
slopes that were almost vertical, over small boulders, round big ones
with straining drag ropes for about two miles and a half. The 75’s
refused to believe it until they had visited the advanced positions.
They bowed and said “Touché!”

11

Then the snow came in blinding blizzards that blotted out the whole
world and everybody went underground and lived in overcoats and
stoked huge fires,—everybody except the infantry whose rifle bolts
froze stiff, whose rations didn’t arrive and who could only crouch
behind their stone sangars. The cold was intense and they suffered
terribly. When the blizzard ceased after about forty-eight hours the
tracks had a foot of snow over them and the drifts were over one’s
head.
Even in our little farmhouse where the Colonel and I played chess
in front of a roaring fire, drinks froze solid on the mantelpiece and we
remained muffled to the eyes. Thousands of rock pigeons appeared
round the horse lines, fighting for the dropped grain, and the starving
dogs became so fierce and bold that it was only wise to carry a
revolver in the deserted villages. Huge brutes some of them, the size
of Arab donkeys, a cross between a mastiff and a great Dane. Under
that clean garment of snow which didn’t begin to melt for a fortnight,
the country was of an indescribable beauty. Every leaf on the trees
bore its little white burden, firm and crisp, and a cold sun appeared
and threw most wonderful lights and shadows. The mountains took
on a virgin purity.
But to the unfortunate infantry it was one long stretch of suffering.
Hundreds a day came down on led mules in an agonised string, their
feet bound in straw, their faces and hands blue like frozen meat. The
hospitals were full of frost-bite cases, and dysentery was not
unknown in the brigade. Pot-face in particular behaved like a hero. He
had dysentery very badly but absolutely refused to let the doctor send
him down.
Our rations were none too good, and there were interminable spells
of bully beef, fried, hashed, boiled, rissoled, au naturel with pickles,
and bread became a luxury. We reinforced this with young maize
which grew everywhere in the valley and had wonderful soup and
corn on the cob, boiled in tinned milk and then fried. Then too the
Vet. and I had a wonderful afternoon’s wild bull hunting with
revolvers. We filled the wretched animal with lead before getting near
enough to give the coup de grâce beside a little stream. The Vet.
whipped off his tunic, turned up his sleeves and with a long trench
knife conducted a masterly post mortem which resulted in about forty
pounds of filet mignon. The next morning before dawn the carcase
was brought in in the cook’s cart and the Headquarters Staff lived on
the fat of the land and invited all the battery commanders to the
discussion of that excellent bull.
From our point of view it wasn’t at all a bad sort of war. We hadn’t
had a single casualty. The few rounds which ever came anywhere
near the batteries were greeted with ironic cheers and the only
troubles with telephone lines were brought about by our own infantry
who removed lengths of five hundred yards or so presumably to
mend their bivvies with.
But about the second week of December indications were not
wanting of hostile activity. Visibility was very bad owing to early
morning fogs, but odd rounds began to fall in the valley behind us in
the neighbourhood of the advancing wagon lines, and we fired on
infantry concentrations and once even an S.O.S. Rifle fire began to
increase and stray bullets hummed like bees on the mountain paths.
In the middle of this I became ill with a temperature which
remained for four days in the neighbourhood of 104°. The doctor
talked of hospital but I’d never seen the inside of one and didn’t want
to.
However, on the fourth day it was the Colonel’s order that I should
go. It transpired afterwards that the doctor diagnosed enteric. So
away I went labelled and wrapped up in a four-mule ambulance
wagon. The cold was intense, the road appalling, the pip-squeaks not
too far away until we got out of the valley, and the agony unprintable.
That night was spent in a Casualty Clearing Station in the company of
half a dozen infantry subalterns all splashed with blood.
At dawn next morning when we were in a hospital train on our way
to Salonica, the attack began. The unconsidered right flank was the
trouble. Afterwards I heard about a dozen versions of the show, all
much the same in substance. The Bulgars poured over the right in
thousands, threatening to surround us. Some of the infantry put up a
wonderful fight. Others—didn’t. Our two advanced batteries fired over
open sights into the brown until they had exhausted their
ammunition, then removed breech blocks and dial sights, destroyed
the pieces and got out, arming themselves with rifles and ammunition
picked up ad lib. on the way down. “Don” and “AC” went out of one
end of the village of Valandovo while the enemy were held up at the
other by the Gunners of the other two batteries. Then two armies,
the French and English, got tangled up in the only road of retreat,
engineers hastening the stragglers and then blowing up bridges.
“Don” and “AC” filled up with ammunition and came into action in
support of the other brigades at Causli which now opened fire while
“Beer” and “C” got mounted and chased those of our infantry who
“didn’t,” rounded them up, and marched them back to face the
enemy. Meanwhile I was tucked away in a hospital bed in a huge
marquee, trying to get news from every wounded officer who was
brought in. The wildest rumours were going about but no one knew
anything officially. I heard that the infantry were wiped out, that the
gunners had all been killed or captured to a man, that the remnants
of the French were fighting desperately and that the whole thing was
a débâcle.
There we all were helpless in bed, with nurses looking after us,
splendid English girls, and all the time those infernal guns coming
nearer and nearer.—At night, sleepless and in a fever, one could
almost hear the rumble of their wheels, and from the next tent where
the wounded Tommies lay in rows, one or two would suddenly
scream in their agony and try and stifle their sobs, calling on Jesus
Christ to kill them and put them out of their pain.—
The brigade, when I rejoined, was in camp east of Salonica, under
the lee of Hortiac, knee-deep in mud and somewhat short of kit. It
was mighty good to get back and see them in the flesh again, after all
those rumours which had made one sick with apprehension.
Having pushed us out of Serbia into Greece the Bulgar contented
himself with sitting on the frontier and making rude remarks. The
Allies, however, silently dug themselves in and prepared for the
defence of Salonica in case he should decide to attack again. The
Serbs retired to Corfu to reform, and although Tino did a considerable
amount of spluttering at this time, the only sign of interest the Greeks
showed was to be more insolent in the streets.
We drew tents and moved up into the hills and Woodbine joined us
again, no longer a shipwrecked mariner in clothes off the peg, but in
all the glory of new uniform and breeches out from home, a most
awful duke. Pot-face and the commander of “C” battery went to
hospital shortly afterwards and were sent home. Some of the Brass
Hats also changed rounds. One, riding forth from a headquarters with
cherry brandy and a fire in each room, looked upon our harness
immediately on our return from the retreat and said genially that he’d
heard that we were a “rabble.” When, however, the commander of
“Don” battery asked him for the name and regiment of his informant,
the Brass Hat rode away muttering uncomfortably. Things were a little
strained!

12

However, Christmas was upon us so we descended upon the town

with cook’s carts and visited the Base cashier. Salonica was a modern
Babel. The cobbles of the Rue Venizelos rang with every tongue in the
world,—Turkish, Russian, Yiddish, Serbian, Spanish, Levantine, Arabic,
English, French, Italian, Greek and even German. Little tin swords
clattered everywhere and the place was a riot of colour, the Jew
women with green pearl-sewn headdresses, the Greek peasants in
their floppy-seated trousers elbowing enormous Russian soldiers in
loose blouses and jack boots who in turn elbowed small-waisted
Greek highlanders in kilts with puffballs on their curly-toed shoes.
There were black-robed priests with long beards and high hats, young
men in red fezzes, civilians in bowlers, old hags who gobbled like
turkeys and snatched cigarette ends, all mixed up in a kaleidoscopic
jumble with officers of every country and exuding a smell of garlic,
fried fish, decaying vegetable matter, and those aromatic eastern
dishes which fall into no known category of perfume. Fling into this
chaos numbers of street urchins of untold dirt chasing turkeys and
chickens between one’s legs and you get a slight idea of what sort of
place we came to to do our Christmas shopping.
The best known language among the shopkeepers was Spanish,
but French was useful and after hours of struggling one forced a
passage out of the crowd with barrels of beer, turkey, geese, pigs,
fruit and cigarettes for the men, and cigars and chocolates, whisky,
Grand Marnier and Cointreau for the mess. Some fund or other had
decided that every man was to have a plum pudding, and these we
had drawn from the A.S.C. on Christmas Eve.
In Egypt letters had taken thirteen days to arrive. Here they took
from fifteen to seventeen, sometimes twenty-one. Christmas Day,
however, was one of the occasions when nothing came at all and we
cursed the unfortunate post office in chorus. I suppose it’s the streak
of childhood in every man of us that makes us want our letters on the
day. So the morning was a little chilly and lonely until we went round
to see that the men’s dinner was all right. It was, with lashings of
beer.
This second Christmas on active service was a tremendous contrast
to the first. Then there was the service in the barn followed by that
depressing lonely day in the fog and flat filth of Flanders. Now there
was a clear sunny air and a gorgeous view of purple mountains with a
glimpse of sea far off below.
 In place of Mass in the barn Woodbine and I went for a walk and
climbed up to the white Greek church above the village, surrounded
by cloisters in which shot up cypress trees, the whole picked out in
relief against the brown hill. We went in. The church was empty but
for three priests, one on the altar behind the screen, one in a pulpit
on each side in the body of the church. For a long time we stood
there listening as they flung prayers and responses from one to
another in a high, shrill, nasal minor key that had the wail of lost
souls in it. It was most un-Christmassy and we came out with a shiver
into the sun.
Our guest at dinner that night was a Serbian liaison officer from
Divisional Headquarters. We stuffed him with the usual British food
and regaled him with many songs to the accompaniment of the banjo
and broke up still singing in the small hours but not having quite
cured the ache in our hearts caused by “absent friends.”

13

The second phase of the campaign was one of endless boredom,

filthy weather and the nuisance of changing camp every other month.
The boredom was only slightly relieved by a few promotions, two or
three full lieutenants becoming captains and taking command of the
newly arranged sections of D.A.C., and a few second lieutenants
getting their second pip. I was one. The weather was characteristic of
the country, unexpected, violent. About once a week the heavens
opened themselves. Thunder crashed round in circles in a black sky at
midday, great tongues of lightning lit the whole world in shuddering
flashes. The rain made every nullah a roaring waterfall with three or
four feet of muddy water racing down it and washing away everything
in its path. The trenches round our bell tents were of little avail
against such violence. The trench sides dissolved and the water
poured in. These storms lasted an hour or two and then the sky
cleared almost as quickly as it had darkened and the mountain peaks
gradually appeared again, clean and fresh. On one such occasion, but
much later in the year, the Adjutant was caught riding up from
Salonica on his horse and a thunderbolt crashed to earth about thirty
yards away from him. The horse stood trembling for full two minutes
and then galloped home in a panic.
The changing of camps seemed to spring from only one reason,—
the desire for “spit and polish” which covers a multitude of sins. It
doesn’t matter if your gunners are not smart at gun drill or your
subalterns in utter ignorance of how to lay out lines of fire and make
a fighting map. So long as your gun park is aligned to the centimetre,
your horse lines supplied conspicuously with the type of incinerator
fancied by your Brigadier-General and the whole camp liberally and
tastefully decorated with white stones,—then you are a crack brigade,
and Brass Hats ride round you with oily smiles and pleasant remarks
and recommend each other for decorations.
But adopt your own incinerator (infinitely more practical as a rule
than the Brigadier-General’s) and let yourself be caught with an
untidy gun park and your life becomes a hell on earth. We learnt it
bitterly, until at last the Adjutant used to ride ahead with the R.S.M., a
large fatigue party and several miles of string and mark the position
of every gun muzzle and wagon wheel in the brigade. And when the
storms broke and washed away the white stones the Adjutant would
dash out of his tent immediately the rain ceased, calling upon God
piteously, the R.S.M. irritably, and every man in the brigade would
collect other stones for dear life.
Time hung very heavy. The monotony of week after week of
brigade fatigues, standing gun drill, exercising and walking horses,
inspecting the men’s dinners, with nothing to do afterwards except
play cards, read, write letters and curse the weather, and the war and
all Brass Hats. Hot baths in camp were, as usual, as diamonds in
oysters. Salonica was about twelve miles away for a bath, a long
weary ride mostly at a walk on account of the going. But it was good
to ride in past the village we used to call Peacockville, for obvious
reasons, put the horses up in a Turkish stable in a back street in
Salonica, and bathe and feed at the “Tour Blanche,” and watch the
crowd. It was a change, at least, from the eternal sameness of camp
and the cramped discomfort of bell tents, and there was always a
touch of mystery and charm in the ride back in the moonlight.
The whole thing seemed so useless, such an utter waste of life.
There one sat in the mud doing nothing. The war went on and we
weren’t helping. All our civil ambitions and hopes were withering
under our very eyes. One hopeless dawn succeeded another. I tried
to write, but my brain was like a sponge dipped into khaki dye. One
yearned for France, where at least there was fighting and leave, or if
not leave then the hourly chance of a “blighty” wound.
About April there came a welcome interlude. The infantry had also
chopped and changed, and been moved about and in the intervals
had been kept warm and busy in digging a chain of defences in a
giant hundred-mile half-circle around Salonica, the hub of our
existence. The weather still didn’t seem to know quite what it wanted
to do. There was a hint of spring but it varied between blinding snow-
storms, bursts of warm sun and torrents of rain.
“Don” battery had been moved to Stavros in the defensive chain,
and the Colonel was to go down and do Group Commander. The
Adjutant was left to look after the rest of the brigade. I went with the
Colonel to do Adjutant in the new group. So we collected a handful of
signallers, a cart with our kits and servants, and set out on a two-day
trek due east along the line of lakes to the other coast.
The journey started badly in a howling snow-storm. To reach the
lake level there was a one-way pass that took an hour to go down,
and an hour and a half to climb on the return trip. The Colonel went
on ahead to see the General. I stayed with the cart and fought my
way through the blizzard. At the top of the pass was a mass of Indian
transport. We all waited for two hours, standing still in the storm, the
mud belly-deep because some unfortunate wagon had got stuck in
the ascent. I remember having words with a Captain who sat
hunched on his horse like a sack the whole two hours and refused to
give an order or lend a hand when every one of his teams jibbed,
when at last the pass was declared open. God knows how he ever got
promoted.
 However, we got down at last and the sun came out and dried us. I
reported to the Colonel, and we went on in a warm golden afternoon
along the lake shore with ducks getting up out of the rushes in
hundreds, and, later, woodcock flashing over our heads on their way
to water. As far as I remember the western lake is some eight miles
long and about three wide at its widest part, with fairy villages
nestling against the purple mountain background, the sun glistening
on the minarets and the faint sound of bells coming across the water.
We spent the night as guests of a battery which we found encamped
on the shore, and on the following morning trekked along the second
lake, which is about ten miles in length, ending at a jagged mass of
rock and thick undergrowth which had split open into a wild, wooded
ravine with a river winding its way through the narrow neck to the
sea, about five miles farther on.
We camped in the narrow neck on a sandy bay by the river, rock
shooting up sheer from the back of the tents, the horses hidden
under the trees. The Colonel’s command consisted of one 60-pounder
—brought round by sea and thrown into the shallows by the Navy,
who said to us, “Here you are, George. She’s on terra firma. It’s up to
you now”—two naval 6-inch, one eighteen-pounder battery, “Don,”
one 4.5 howitzer battery, and a mountain battery, whose commander
rode about on a beautiful white mule with a tail trimmed like an hotel
bell pull. “AC” battery of ours came along a day or two later to join
the merry party, because, to use the vulgar but expressive phrase,
the Staff “got the wind up,” and saw Bulgars behind every tree.

14

In truth it was a comedy,—though there were elements of tragedy

in the utter inefficiency displayed. We rode round to see the line of
our zone. It took two days, because, of course, the General had to
get back to lunch. Wherever it was possible to cut tracks, tracks had
been cut, beautiful wide ones, making an enemy advance easy. They
were guarded by isolated machine-gun posts at certain strategic
points, and in the nullahs was a little barbed wire driven in on
wooden stakes. Against the barbed wire, however, were piled masses
of dried thorn,—utterly impassable but about as inflammable as gun-
powder. This was all up and down the wildest country. If a massacre
had gone on fifty yards to our right or left at any time, we shouldn’t
have been able to see it. And the line of infantry was so placed that it
was impossible to put guns anywhere to assist them.
It is to be remembered that although I have two eyes, two ears,
and a habit of looking and listening, I was only a lieutenant with two
pips in those days, and therefore my opinion is not, of course, worth
the paper it is written on. Ask any Brass Hat!
An incident comes back to me of the action before the retreat. I
had only one pip then. Two General Staffs wished to make a
reconnaissance. I went off at 3 a.m. to explore a short way, got back
at eight o’clock, after five hours on a cold and empty stomach, met
the Staffs glittering in the winter sun, and led them up a goat track,
ridable, of course. They left the horses eventually, and I brought
them to the foot of the crest, from which the reconnaissance was
desired. The party was some twenty strong, and walked up on to the
summit and produced many white maps. I was glad to sit down, and
did so under the crest against a rock. Searching the opposite sky line
with my glasses, I saw several parties of Bulgars watching us,—only
recognisable as Bulgars because the little of them that I could see
moved from time to time. The Colonel was near me and I told him.
He took a look and went up the crest and told the Staffs. The Senior
Brass Hat said, “Good God! What are you all doing up here on the
crest? Get under cover at once,”—and he and they all hurried down.
The reconnaissance was over!
On leading them a short way back to the horses (it saved quite
twenty minutes’ walk) it became necessary to pass through a wet,
boggy patch about four yards across. The same Senior Brass Hat
stopped at the edge of it, and said to me, “What the devil did you
bring us this way for? You don’t expect me to get my boots dirty, do
you?—Good God!”
 I murmured something about active service,—but, as I say, I had
only one pip then.—
It isn’t that one objects to being cursed. The thing that rankles is to
have to bend the knee to a system whose slogan is efficiency, but
which retains the doddering and the effete in high commands simply
because they have a quarter of a century of service to their records.
The misguided efforts of these dodderers are counteracted to a
certain extent by the young, keen men under them. But it is the
dodderers who get the credit, while the real men lick their boots and
have to kowtow in the most servile manner. Furthermore, it is no
secret. We know it and yet we let it go on: and if to-day there are
twenty thousand unnecessary corpses among our million dead, after
all, what are they among so many? The dodderers have still got
enough life to parade at Buckingham Palace and receive another
decoration, and we stand in the crowd and clap our hands, and say,
“Look at old so-and-so! Isn’t he a grand old man? Must be seventy-six
if he’s a day!”
So went the comedy at Stavros. One Brass Hat dug a defence line
at infinite expense and labour. Along came another, just a pip senior,
looked round and said, “Good God! You’ve dug in the wrong place.—
Must be scrapped.” And at more expense and more labour a new line
was dug. And then a third Brass Hat came along and it was all to do
over again. Men filled the base hospitals and died of dysentery; the
national debt added a few more insignificant millions,—and the Brass
Hats went on leave to Alexandria for a well-earned rest.
Not only at Stavros did this happen, but all round the half circle in
the increasingly hot weather, as the year became older and disease
more rampant.
After we’d been down there a week and just got the hang of the
country another Colonel came and took over the command of the
group, so we packed up our traps and having bagged many woodcock
and duck, went away, followed after a few days by “AC” and “Don.”
About that time, to our lasting grief, we lost our Colonel, who went
home. It was a black day for the brigade. His thoughtfulness for every
officer under him, his loyalty and unfailing cheeriness had made him
much loved. I, who had ridden with him daily, trekked the snowy hills
in his excellent company, played chess with him, strummed the banjo
while he chanted half-remembered songs, shared the same tent with
him on occasions and appreciated to the full his unfailing kindness,
mourned him as my greatest friend. The day he went I took my last
ride with him down to the rest camp just outside Salonica, a wild,
threatening afternoon, with a storm which burst on me in all its fury
as I rode back miserably, alone.
In due course his successor came and we moved to Yailajik—well
called by the men, Yellow-Jack—and the hot weather was occupied
with training schemes at dawn, officers’ rides and drills, examinations
A and B (unofficial, of course), horse shows and an eternity of
unnecessary work, while one gasped in shirt sleeves and stupid felt
hats after the Anzac pattern; long, long weeks of appalling heat and
petty worries, until it became a toss-up between suicide or murder.
The whole spirit of the brigade changed. From having been a happy
family working together like a perfect team, the spirit of discontent
spread like a canker. The men looked sullen and did their work
grudgingly, going gladly to hospital at the first signs of dysentery.
Subalterns put in applications for the Flying Corps,—I was one of their
number,—and ceased to take an interest in their sections. Battery
Commanders raised sarcasm to a fine art, and cursed the day that
ever sent them to this ghastly back-water.
I left the headquarters and sought relief in “C” battery, where,
encouraged by the sympathetic commanding officer, I got nearer to
the solution of the mysterious triangle T.O.B. than I’d ever been
before. He had a way of talking about it that the least intelligent
couldn’t fail to grasp.
At last I fell ill and with an extraordinary gladness went down to the
5th Canadian hospital, on the eastern outskirts of Salonica, on the
seashore. The trouble was an ear. Even the intensest pain, dulled by
frequent injections of morphia, did not affect my relief in getting away
from that brigade, where, up to the departure of the Colonel, I had
spent such a happy time. The pity of it was that everybody envied
me.
They talked of an operation. Nothing would have induced me to let
them operate in that country where the least scratch turned septic.
After several weeks I was sent to Malta, where I was treated for
twenty-one days. At the end of that time the specialist asked me if
my career would be interfered with if he sent me home for
consultation as to an operation. One reason he could not do it was
that it was a long business, six weeks in bed, at least, and they were
already overfull. The prison door was about to open! I assured him
that on the contrary my career would benefit largely by a sight of
home, and to my eternal joy he then and there, in rubber gloves,
wrote a recommendation to send me to England. His name stands out
in my memory in golden letters.
Within twenty-four hours I was on board.
The fact that all my kit was still with the battery was a matter of
complete indifference. I would have left a thousand kits. At home all
the leaves were turning, blue smoke was filtering out of red chimneys
against the copper background of the beech woods—and they would
be waiting for me in the drive.
 PART III

THE WESTERN FRONT

 1

E ngland had changed in the eighteen months since we put out so

joyously from Avonmouth. Munition factories were in full blast,
food restrictions in force, women in all kinds of uniforms, London in
utter darkness at night, the country dotted with hutted training
camps. Everything was quiet. We had taken a nasty knock or two and
washed some of our dirty linen in public, not too clean at that. My
own lucky star was in the ascendant. The voyage completely cured
me, and within a week I was given a month’s sick leave by the
Medical Board,—a month of heaven more nearly describes it, for I
passed my days in a state of bliss which nothing could mar, except
perhaps the realisation, towards the end, of the fact that I had to go
back and settle into the collar again.
My mental attitude towards the war had changed. Whatever
romance and glamour there may have been had worn off. It was just
one long bitter waste of time,—our youth killed like flies by “dug-
outs,” at the front, so that old men and sick might carry on the race,
while profiteers drew bloated profits and politicians exuded noxious
gas in the House. Not a comforting point of view to take back into
harness. I was told on good authority that to go out to France in a
field battery was a certain way of finding death. They were being
flung away in the open to take another thousand yards of trench, so
as to make a headline in the daily papers which would stir the
drooping spirits of the old, the sick, and the profiteer over their
breakfast egg. The embusqué was enjoying those headlines too. The
combing-out process had not yet begun. The young men who had
never been out of England were Majors and Colonels in training
camps. It was the officers who returned to duty from hospital, more
or less cured of wounds or sickness, who were the first to be sent out
again. The others knew a thing or two.
 That was how it struck me when I was posted to a reserve brigade
just outside London.
Not having the least desire to be “flung away in the open,” I did my
best to get transferred to a 6-inch battery. The Colonel of the reserve
brigade did his best, but it was queered at once, without argument or
appeal, by the nearest Brass Hat, in the following manner. The
Colonel having signed and recommended the formal application,
spoke to the General personally on my behalf.
“What sort of a fellow is he?” asked the General.
“Seems a pretty useful man,” said the Colonel.
“Then we’ll keep him,” said the General.
“The pity of it is,” said the Colonel to me later, “that if I’d said you
were a hopeless damned fool, he would have signed it.”
On many subsequent occasions the Colonel flung precisely that
expression at me so he might just as well have said it then.
However, as it seemed that I was destined for a short life, I
determined to make it as merry as possible, and in the company of a
kindred spirit, who was posted from hospital a couple of days after I
was, and who is now a Bimbashi in the Soudan, I went up to town
about three nights a week, danced and did a course of theatres. By
day there was no work to do as the brigade already had far too many
officers, none of whom had been out. The battery to which we were
both posted was composed of category C1 men,—flat-footed
unfortunates, unfit to fight on medical grounds, not even strong
enough to groom horses properly.
A futile existence in paths of unintelligence and unendeavour
worshipping perforce at the altar of destruction, creating nothing, a
slave to dishonesty and jobbery,—a waste of life that made one mad
with rage in that everything beautiful in the world was snapped in half
and flung away because the social fabric which we ourselves had
made through the centuries, had at last become rotten to the core
and broken into flaming slaughter, and was being fanned by yellow
press hypocrisy. Every ideal cried out against it. The sins of the
fathers upon the wilfully blind children. The Kaiser was only the most
pitch-covered torch chosen by Nemesis to set the bonfire of
civilisation ablaze. But for one branch in the family tree he would
have been England’s monarch, and then——?
There have been moments when I have regretted not having sailed
to New York in August, 1914,—bitter moments when all the
dishonesty has beaten upon one’s brain, and one has envied the pluck
of the honest conscientious objector who has stood out against the
ridicule of the civilised world.
The only thought that kept me going was “suppose the Huns had
landed in England and I had not been fighting?” It was unanswerable,
—as I thought then.
Now I wish that the Hun had landed in England in force and laid
waste the East coast, as he has devastated Belgium and the north of
France. There would have been English refugees with perambulators
and babies, profiteers crying “Kamerad!” politicians fleeing the House.
There would have been some hope of England’s understanding. But
she doesn’t even now. There were in 1918, before the armistice, men
—men!—who, because their valets failed to put their cuff links in their
shirts one morning, were sarcastic to their war-working wives, and
talked of the sacrifices they had made for their country.
How dared they have valets, while we were lousy and unshaved,
with rotting corpses round our gun wheels? How dared they have
wives, while we “unmarried and without ties” were either driven in
our weakness to licensed women, or clung to our chastity because of
the one woman with us every hour in our hearts, whom we meant to
marry if ever we came whole out of that hell?

Christmas came. They would not let me go down to that little

house among the pines and beeches, which has ever been “home” to
me. But the day was spent quietly in London with my best pal. Seven
days later I was on my way to Ireland as one of the advance
representatives of the Division. The destination of my brigade was
Limerick, that place of pigs, and smells, and pretty girls and
schoolboy rebels, who chalked on every barrack wall, “Long live the
Kaiser! Down with the King!” Have you ever been driven to the depths
of despair, seen your work go to pieces before your eyes, and spent
the dreadful days in dishonest idleness on the barrack square, hating
it all the while, but unable to move hand or foot to get out of the
mental morass? That is what grew up in Limerick. Even now my mind
shivers in agony at the thought of it.
Reinforcements had poured into the battery of cripples, and the
order came that from it a fighting battery should be formed. As senior
subaltern, who had been promised a captaincy, I was given charge of
them. The only other officer with me was the loyalest pal a man ever
had. He had been promoted on the field for gallantry, having served
ten years in the ranks as trumpeter, gunner, corporal and sergeant.
Needless to say, he knew the game backwards, and was the
possessor of amazing energy and efficiency. He really ought to have
had the command, for my gunnery was almost nil, but I had one pip
more than he, and so the system put him under my orders. So we
paraded the first men, and told them off into sections and were given
a horse or two, gradually building up a battery as more
reinforcements arrived.
How we worked! The enthusiasm of a first command! For a
fortnight we never left the barracks,—drilling, marching, clothing and
feeding the fighting unit of which we hoped such great things. All our
hearts and souls were in it, and the men themselves were keen and
worked cheerily and well. One shook off depressing philosophies and
got down to the solid reality of two hundred men. The early
enthusiasm returned, and Pip Don—as my pal was called—and I were
out for glory and killing Huns.
The Colonel looked us over and was pleased. Life wasn’t too bad,
after all.
And then the blight set in. An officer was posted to the command
of the little fighting unit.
 In a week all the fight had gone out of it. In another week Pip Don
and I declared ourselves beaten. All our interest was killed. The
sergeant-major, for whom I have a lasting respect, was like Bruce’s
spider. Every time he fell, he at once started reclimbing. He alone was
responsible for whatever discipline remained. The captaincy which I
had been promised on certain conditions was filled by some one else
the very day I carried out the conditions. It didn’t matter. Everything
was so hopeless that the only thing left was to get out,—and that was
the one thing we couldn’t do, because we were more or less under
orders for France. It reached such a pitch that even the thought of
being flung away in the open was welcome. At least it would end it
all. There was no secret about it. The Colonel knew. Didn’t he come
to my room one night, and say, “Look here, Gibbs, what is the matter
with your battery?” And didn’t we have another try, and another?
So for a time Pip Don and I smoked cigarettes on the barrack
square, strolling listlessly from parade to parade, cursing the fate that
should have brought us to such dishonour. We went to every dance in
Limerick, organised concerts, patronised the theatre and filled our
lives as much as we could with outside interests until such time as we
should go to France. And then.—It would be different when shells
began to burst!

In the ranks I first discovered that it was a struggle to keep one’s

soul alive. That struggle had proved far more difficult as an officer in
the later days of Salonica. The bitterness of Limerick, together with
the reason, as I saw it, of the wholesale slaughter, made one’s whole
firmament tremble. Rough hands seemed to tear down one’s ideals
and fling then in the mud. One’s picture of God and religion faded
under the red light of war. One’s brain flickered in the turmoil, seeking
something to cling to. What was there? Truth? There was none. Duty?
It was a farce. Honour? It was dead. There was only one thing left,
one thing which might give them all back again,—Love.
 If there was not that in one’s heart to keep fragrant, to cherish, to
run to for help, to look forward to as the sunshine at the end of a
long and awful tunnel, then one’s soul would have perished and a
bullet been a merciful thing.
I was all unconscious that it had been my salvation in the ranks, in
Salonica. Now, on the eve of going out to the Western Front I
recognized it for the first time to the full. The effect of it was odd,—a
passionate longing to tear off one’s khaki and leave all this
uncleanness, and at the same time the certain knowledge that one
must go on to the very end, otherwise one would lose it. If I had
been offered a war job in New York, how could I have taken it,
unwounded, the game unfinished, much as New York called me? So
its third effect was a fierce impatience to get to France, making at
least one more battery to help to end the war.
The days dragged by, the longer from the new knowledge within
me. From time to time the Sinn Fein gave signs of renewed activity,
and either we were all confined to barracks in consequence,
presumably to avoid street fighting, or else we hooked into the guns
and did route marches through and round about the town. From time
to time arrests were made, but no open conflict recurred. Apart from
our own presence there was no sign of war in Ireland. Food of all
kinds was plentiful and cheap, restrictions nil. The streets were well lit
at night. Gaiety was the keynote. No aeroplanes dropped bombs on
that brilliant target. The Hun and pro-Hun had spent too much money
there.
Finally our training was considered complete. The Colonel had
laboured personally with all the subalterns, and we had benefited by
his caustic method of imparting knowledge. And so once more we sat
stiffly to attention while Generals rode round us, metaphorically
poking our ribs to see if we were fat enough for the slaughter.
Apparently we were, for the fighting units said good-bye to their
parent batteries—how gladly!—and shipped across to England to do
our firing practice.
 The camp was at Heytesbury, on the other side of the vast plain
which I had learnt so well as a trooper. We were a curious medley,
several brigades being represented, each battery a little distrustful of
the next, a little inclined to turn up its nose. Instead of being “AC,”
“Beer,” “C” and “Don,” as before, we were given consecutive numbers,
well into the hundreds, and after a week or so of dislocation were
formed into brigades, and each put under the command of a Colonel.
Then the stiffness wore off in friendly competition of trying to pick the
best horses from the remounts. Our men challenged each other to
football, sergeant-majors exchanged notes. Subalterns swapped lies
about the war and Battery Commanders stood each other drinks in
the mess. Within a fortnight we were all certain we’d got the best
Colonel in England, and congratulated ourselves accordingly.
Meanwhile Pip Don and I were still outcasts in our own battery, up
against a policy of continual distrust, suspicion, and scarcely veiled
antagonism. It was at the beginning of April, 1917, that we first got
to Heytesbury, and snow was thick upon the ground. Every day we
had the guns out behind the stables and jumped the men about at
quick, short series, getting them smart and handy, keeping their
interest and keeping them warm. When the snow disappeared we
took the battery out mounted, taking turns in bringing it into action,
shooting over the sights on moving targets—other batteries at work in
the distance—or laying out lines for indirect targets. We took the staff
out on cross-country rides, scouring the country for miles, and
chasing hares—it shook them down into the saddle—carrying out little
signalling schemes. In short, we had a final polish up of all the
knowledge we had so eagerly begun to teach them when he and I
had been in sole command. I don’t think either of us can remember
any single occasion on which the commanding officer took a parade.
Embarkation leave was in full swing, four days for all ranks, and the
brigade next to us was ordered to shoot. Two range officers were
appointed from our brigade. I was one. It was good fun and
extremely useful. We took a party of signallers and all the rations we
could lay hands on, and occupied an old red farmhouse tucked away
in a fold of the plain, in the middle of all the targets. An old man and
his wife lived there, a quaint old couple, toothless and irritable, well
versed in the ways of the army and expert in putting in claims for
fictitious damages. Our job was to observe and register each round
from splinter proofs, send in a signed report of each series, stop the
firing by signalling if any stray shepherd or wanderer were seen on
the range, and to see that the targets for the following day’s shoot
had not been blown down or in any other way rendered useless. It
was a four-day affair, firing ending daily between three and four p.m.
This left us ample time to canter to all the battery positions and work
out ranges, angle of sight and compass bearings for every target,—
information which would have been invaluable when our turn to fire
arrived. Unfortunately, however, several slight alterations were
intentionally made, and all our labour was wasted. Still, it was a good
four days of bracing weather, with little clouds scudding across a blue
sky, never quite certain whether in ten minutes’ time the whole world
would be blotted out in a blizzard. The turf was springy, miles upon
endless miles, and we had some most wonderful gallops and
practised revolver shooting on hares and rooks, going back to a huge
tea and a blazing wood fire in the old, draughty farmhouse.
The practice over, we packed up and marched back to our
respective batteries. Events of a most cataclysmic nature piled
themselves one upon the other,—friction between the commanding
officer and myself, orders to fire on a certain day, orders to proceed
overseas on a certain later day, and my dismissal from the battery,
owing to the aforesaid friction, on the opening day of the firing. Pip
Don was furious, the commanding officer wasn’t, and I “pursued a
policy of masterly inactivity.” The outcome of the firing was not
without humour, and certainly altered the whole future career of at
least two of us. The Captain and the third subaltern left the battery
and became “details.” The commanding officer became second in
command under a new Major, who dropped out of the blue, and I was
posted back to the battery, together with a new third subaltern, who
had just recovered from wounds.
The business of getting ready was speeded up. The Ordnance
Department, hitherto of miserly reluctance, gave us lavishly of their
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