Abbot's Cliffe, Kent, England (2010)
This article originally appeared on VICE UK.
There
are numerous grand memorials to Britain's wartime dead. But alongside
the buffered plaques and the striking limestone statues, countless muted
physical remnants of the war in the UK and Northern Europe remain
strewn across the country, great hulking concrete structures becoming a
silent part of the scenery.
Photographer
Marc Wilson spent six years visiting 143 of these locations for his book,
The Last Stand, which was
released late last year.
Despite the fact I wasn't alive while the bunkers and gun batteries he
documented were in use, turning the pages and looking at the
exoskeletons of war embedded on the landscape, I knew they captured some
of my experience.
The images illustrate the thread that has run through the tapestry of
British life since these structures were built. Or, as Marc himself puts
it, "The period of time in between their construction and today is made
up of the histories, stories, and memories that the work hopes to
reflect. The objects can be seen as full stops in the timeline."
Widemouth Bay, Cornwall, England (2011)
The blockhouses of Marc's photos, in other words, have slept along
coastlines and hilltops since their assembly, waiting for someone to
chance upon and find a place for them within their own personal
timeline. Growing up in Norfolk, the outlook for me was always very much
horizontal; we looked to the countryside, out over the fields, for
direction, and happened upon many war remnants similar to those shown in
Marc's book.
The fields around us hid both a tumbledown castle behind spiked gates
and a Cold War observation post among a thicket of thorns. The castle,
what's left of it, and the unroofed rooms of the observation post
allowed us to smoke away from prying eyes, and their walls became the
boundaries of our own worlds.
Brean Down II, Somerset, England (2012)
Looking at Marc's photo of Brean Down Fort, which juts out of the crest
of the Somerset hillside, it's hard not to see myself in the photo,
looking out the window, cursing the wind and quickly running out of
matches.
These places became the settings for our realities away from home, and,
as we grew older, venues in which we could escape everything else,
through raves and free parties. Any concrete creation that provided some
kind of shelter in our local forests, fields, dunes, and quarries was
fair game for the sound system mafia who kept Norfolk's outdoor party
free-for-all alive.
Portland, Dorset, England (2011)
The link between the rave scene and the structures in Marc's photos is
perhaps most salient in the image of the front gun placements in
Portland, Dorset. Had we lost the Battle of Britain, these guns would
have helped to prevent invasion by shore. Yet, part of me can't help but
look at those curved battery walls and wonder if there's any better
place to position a sound system rig, with room to spare behind for the
generator and jerry cans (unfortunately, however, there's not actually a
path that a van could drive down to drop off all the gear).
A party that comes to mind while looking at these images is the AZTEK
multi-rigger at Kings Cliffe, Northamptonshire, on the Easter bank
holiday in 2006. Blackened concrete structures with arched roofs of
corrugated iron echoed the sound of happy hardcore and hard trance from
sound systems in the adjacent trench.
When the sun come up, I noticed that the hangar, control tower and
runway—which was now packed with hundreds of Fiestas and Escorts—had
once been part of an RAF base. In 1944, it was home to the
Americans—specifically, the 20th Fighter Group, known as the "Loco
Group" for their acuity when it came to dropping bombs on locomotives.
As the morning chill began to set in, I realized that the trembling
teenagers and the hum of the generators remained the only constants
there since the Loco Group last flew.
It sounds odd, but I glean a far greater sense of identity from looking
at these photos than I do via scrolling through old Facebook pictures. I
can hear the music boom beyond the frame, and that feels unique to me.
For my father and grandfather, the photos hark back to a collective
nationalism that was rooted in identity for all, and the strength of an
empire in the face of fascism. They represent a time when the
anachronisms of imperialism and the nuances of civil defense found their
way into common conversation. They were tangible evidence of war,
objects that brought the headlines to life and made the danger feel
graver. I'm not sure if my generation could really fathom the thought
that anti-tank barricades were once necessary defense expenditure.
Studland Bay I, Dorset, England (2011)
Marc has gone to great lengths to disguise these wartime narratives,
though. In his image of a pillbox leaning into the surf at Studland Bay,
he shot the cold obelisk with a slow shutter speed, giving the water a
milky appearance. In doing so, he takes objects that represent great
violence and creates scenes of peace.
To achieve this, Marc would often venture out of hotels well before
dawn and stand around in the freezing sea was, waiting for that moment
when the light illuminates the remnants just right and he sees them as
he wants them to be seen.
Wissant II, Nord-Pas-De-Calais, France (2012)
There's a lot of debate as to whether the structures in Marc's photos
should be left erect as tribute, or whether they should be removed. In
the case of the Wissant II, photographed above, the decision was the
latter, after a child was injured on the wrought iron bars extending
from its concrete torso. Marc thinks that's a shame, and I can't help
but feel he's right. The structures stand for something much more
important than we're maybe capable of grasping right now.
We live in a time where character is defined by the variety of stickers on our MacBooks.
The Last Stand hints at something more complete; dilapidated
stone works that look to me like blood and sinew. The broken cartilage
of a nation with its nose cracked all out of sorts.
Lossiemouth II, Moray, Scotland (2011)
When documenting the past, it's important to remember that you're also
capturing the present, and the future. A collective nostalgia doesn't
merely observe, it echoes.
Marc's photos, then, are like wormholes, through which we can see
Britain's past, present and future. I just hope that the objects he's
shot will be around for another generation of kids like me.
By James Baines, Photos: Marc Wilson