Daikaijuzine

The problem of research always looms large on the minds of fiction writers who seek to write about subjects related to military history. Due to the constraints of time, many such writers find themselves forced to limit the scope of their research to a small number of sources that they can manage without compromising either their writing time or their real-life concerns, and for them the main question is which sources they should read from among the bewildering variety of books, websites, and audio-visual media available to them. Those who are unfamiliar with the field of military history naturally gravitate towards the kind of works that historians would regard as "secondary" sources — particularly modern books and articles written within a relatively modern time frame. This is quite a reasonable choice, since such sources are generally easier to find and the style of their presentation places fewer demands on the reading brain of a busy, overworked writer. But it is by no means the only reasonable choice they can take.

One of the most enticing alternatives is to go for the first-hand accounts related by the people involved in the historical events in question. Such sources are termed "primary" sources by academic historians and form the most fundamental basis of their research. Unfortunately, people in history did not always speak English, and so many of these primary sources are written in foreign languages; this should not deter an astute researcher since finding good English translations of these sources is not always such a difficult task as it may seem. Sites like Project Gutenberg (http://www.gutenberg.net), De Re Militari (http://www.deremilitari.org) and Paul Halsall’s Internet Medieval Sourcebook (http://www.fordham.edu/halsall/sbook.html) are rich repositories of both translated and untranslated primary sources in military history. In fact, from this point on I will mostly refer to the English translations of primary sources unless they were written in English in the first place.

The strongest reason for researching primary sources actually comes from the nature of historical research itself. Modern history books, whether popular or academic in nature, are constrained by the need to present interpretations of fact instead of fiction. They display historical events through a filter that often prevents the reader from seeing the anecdotal, speculative, or even outright sensationalistic aspects in the primary sources, but ironically these less "factual" aspects may actually be of more interest to the fiction writers. Just to take an example, there are many books that deal with the decline and fall of the Roman Empire and the "barbarian" migrations related to it but very few (if any) of them mention this passage from Procopius’s account of the 6th-century siege of Rome:

‘In this action Cutilas was struck in the middle of the head by a javelin, and he kept on pursuing with the javelin still embedded in his head. And after the rout had taken place, he rode into the city at about sunset together with the other survivors, the javelin in his head waving about, a most extraordinary sight. During the same encounter Arzes, one of the guards of Belisarius, was hit by one of the Gothic archers between the nose and the right eye. And the point of the arrow penetrated as far as the neck behind, but it did not shew through, and the rest of the shaft projected from his face and shook as the man rode. And when the Romans saw him and Cutilas they marvelled greatly that both men continued to ride, paying no heed to their hurt.’ (Procopius, bk. VI, ch. ii)

It may be a little difficult at first to believe this account, but in all likeliness this was a true story that Procopius witnessed with his own eyes since he was the personal secretary of Belisarius, the Eastern Roman general who recaptured and defended Rome against the Goths during the events related in his books. And this is hardly the only example of hilarity to be found in the primary sources. Just look at this account of night exercises in a World War I infantry training camp:

‘We took off our equipment, hafted the entrenching tools which we always carry, and bent to our work in the wet clay. The night was close and foggy, the smell of the damp earth and the awakening spring verdure filled our nostrils. In the distance was heard the rumbling of trains, the jolting of wagons along the country road, the barking of dogs, and clear and musical through all these sounds came the song of a mavis or merle from the near hedgerows. In the course of ten minutes we were sweating at our work, and several units of the party took off their tunics. One hapless individual got into trouble immediately. His shirt was not regulation colour, it was spotlessly white and visible at a hundred yards. A whispered order from the officer on the left faltered along the line of diggers.

"Man with white shirt, put on his tunic!"

The order was obeyed in haste, the white disappeared rapidly as the arms of the culprit slid into sleeves, and the covering tunic hid his wrong from the eyes of man.’ (MacGill, 80-81; ch. VI)

Philippe de Commynes, a renowned French diplomat of the late 15th and early 16th centuries, also has something to say about his experiences as a young knight on the night after the Battle of Montlhery:

‘I had an extremely tired old horse. He drank a pail full of wine into which by chance he had put his muzzle. I left him to drink it: never did I find him so strong and fresh!’ (Commynes, bk. I, ch.4)

This kind of minor, anecdotal passages is precisely the sort that fiction writers can borrow or adapt for the sake of adding both color and verisimilitude to their works, and in most cases they can only be had by going directly for the primary sources. Not rarely, the primary sources themselves are written by renowned stylists in their languages, whose narratives are so fresh and distinctive that translation does little to dilute their original character. Such is the case with Julius Caesar’s account of the conquest of Gaul and the early stages of his civil war with Pompey¹). His work in particular is far livelier than most books written by modern historians, and as exciting to read as any fantasy, historical fiction, or military science fiction novels I know. Xenophon’s Kyrou Anabasis²), the story of ten thousand Greek mercenaries and their dramatic retreat from the wreck of a Persian civil war, is another historical document of similar caliber that I’d recommend to a reader who wants to hear the tale straight from the horse’s mouth.

So far I’ve been talking only about the advantages of researching by means of primary sources. What of the disadvantages? The downside of primary source research is the same as that of writing-related research in general: many of the primary sources are worth reading for their own sake, and it is very easy to get carried away while poring through their pages. This often ends with the writer looking up from the source and realizing that there is no time left to write. Surely this is not a desirable situation, since the very act of writing is the only thing that distinguishes writers from non-writers!

In conclusion, researching primary sources is a recommended and potentially beneficial activity for fiction writers who aim to include military aspects within their works. However, like any other kinds of research, it is only good when done in moderation so that it would not prevent the writers in question from actually writing.

Works Cited:

Commynes, Philippe de. Memoirs. Trans. Michael Jones. London: Penguin Books, 1972. (http://www.r3.org/bookcase/de_commynes)

MacGill, Patrick. The Amateur Army. London: Herbert Jenkins Ltd, 1915. (http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/16078)

Procopius of Caesarea, History of the Wars: Books V and VI – The Gothic Wars. Trans. H. B. Dewing. London: William Heinemann Ltd., 1919. (http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/20298)

1. Gaius Julius Caesar. "De Bello Gallico" and Other Commentaries. Trans. W. A. Macdevitt. London: Everyman, 1915.(http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/10657 [↩]
2. Xenophon. Anabasis Trans. H.G. Dakyns. (http://www.gutenberg.org/etext/1170 [↩]

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