War and Vanity

Abstract

In my childhood, visits to Gothenburg would always include a long (it seemed at the time) tram ride with my mother, from the centre of town to the north-eastern districts, past the old, red brick, ball-bearing factory of SKF to the vast Kviberg Cemetery to put flowers on my grandmother’s grave. I never ventured on any longer excursions among the neat flower-decorated graves on these well-kept lawns, but had I done so I would perhaps have discovered a different, more uniform, part of the cemetery that relatives seldom visited: the war graves. War graves form a somewhat unexpected discovery in the suburbs of a country that was neutral in both world wars, but there it is. Among the mostly German, American, and British graves we find, in the Commonwealth section, that of Arthur Cownden who, at 17, was probably the youngest to be buried there. He was boy telegraphist on a Royal Navy destroyer, and on the morning of 1 June 1916 his body was washed ashore close to the small fishing village of Fiskebäckskil on the Swedish west coast. His ship, the HMS Shark , was one of many British losses during the preceding day’s Battle of Jutland—the only clash between the main forces of the Royal Navy and the German Hochseeflotte during World War I. By all accounts this was a terrible battle, with loss of lives in the thousands on both sides, and one of the largest naval battles ever fought. The Battle of Jutland remains somewhat controversial for two reasons: the enduring argument between the two British commanders, David Beatty and his superior John Jellicoe, and the purported role of the Royal Navy’s smokeless gunpowder cordite in the sinking of a number of its own ships. We have no business with naval tactics, but the cordite question is related to one of the lesser-known supply problems of World War I, that of acetone. You may be familiar with this molecule as nail varnish remover, but perhaps you also know the disastrous effect it has on the glossy surface of cars.