IN MEMORIAM BERNARD ADAMS

Nothing of Importance
       A record of eight months at the front with a Welsh
              battalion, October, 1915, to June, 1916

John Bernard Pye Adams was born on November 15th, 1890, at Beckenham, Kent. From his first school at Clare House, Beckenham, he obtained an entrance scholarship to Malvern, where he gained many Classical and English prizes and became House Prefect. In December, 1908, he won an open Classical scholarship at St John’s College, Cambridge, where he went into residence in October, 1909. He was awarded in 1911 Sir William Browne’s gold medals (open to the University) for a Greek epigram and a Latin ode, and in 1912 he won the medal for the Greek epigram again, and graduated with a First Class in the Classical Tripos. In his fourth year he read Economics.

On leaving Cambridge he was appointed by the India Office to be Warden and Assistant Educational Adviser at the Hostel for Indian Students at Cromwell Road, South Kensington. “He threw himself,” writes Dr. T. W. Arnold, C.I.E., Secretary of Indian Students, “with the enthusiasm of his viii ardent nature into the various activities connected with 21 Cromwell Road, and endeared himself both to the Indian students and to his colleagues.” Adams was always a quiet man, but his high abilities, despite his unobtrusiveness, could not be altogether hidden; and in London, as in Cambridge, his intellect and his gift for friendship had their natural outcome. Mr. E. W. Mallet, of the India Office, bears testimony to “the very high value which we all set on his work. He had great gifts of sympathy and character, strength as well as kindliness, influence as well as understanding; and these qualities won him—in the rather difficult work in which he helped so loyally and well—a rare and noticeable measure of esteem.” On his side, he felt that the choice had been a right one; he liked his work, and he learned a great deal from it.

His ultimate purpose was missionary work in India, and the London experience brought him into close touch with Indians from every part of India and of every religion.

In November, 1914, he joined up as lieutenant in the Welsh regiment with which these pages deal, and he obtained a temporary captaincy in the following spring. When he went out to the front in October, 1915, he resumed his lieutenancy, but was very shortly given charge of a company, a position which he retained until he was wounded in June, 1916, when he returned to England. He ix only went out to the front again on January 31st of this year. In the afternoon of February 26th he was wounded while leading his men in an attack and died the following day in the field hospital.

These few sentences record the bare landmarks of a career which, in the judgment of his friends, would have been noteworthy had it not been so prematurely cut short. For instance, here is what his friend, T. R. Glover, of St John’s, wrote in The Eagle (the St John’s College magazine) and elsewhere:

“Bernard Adams was my pupil during his Classical days at St John’s, and we were brought into very close relations. He remains in my mind as one of the very best men I have ever had to teach—best every way, in mind and soul and all his nature. He had a natural gift for writing—a natural habit of style; he wrote without artifice, and achieved the expression of what he thought and what he felt in language that was simple and direct and pleasing. (A College Prize Essay of his of those days was printed in The Eagle (vol. xxvii, 47-60)—on Wordsworth’s Prelude.) He was a man of the quiet and reserved kind, who did not talk much, for whom, perhaps, writing was a more obvious form of utterance than speech.

It was clear to those who knew him that he put conscience into his thinking—he was serious, above all about religion, and he was honest with x himself. Other people will take religion at secondhand; he was of another type. He thought things out quietly and clearly, and then decided. His choice of Economics as a second subject at Cambridge was dictated by the feeling that it would prepare him for his life’s work in the Christian ministry. There was little hope in it of much academic distinction—but that was not his object. A man who had thought more of himself would have gone on with Classics, in the hope (a very reasonable one) of a Fellowship. Adams was not working for his own advancement. The quiet simple way in which, without referring to it, he dismissed academic distinction, gives the measure of the man—clear, definite, unselfish, and devoted. His ideal was service, and he prepared for it—at Cambridge, and with his Indian students in London.

When the war came he had difficulties of decision as to the course he should pursue. Like others who had no gust for war, and no animosity against the enemy, he took a commission, not so much to fight against as to fight for; the principles at stake appealed to him, and with an inner reluctance against the whole business he went into it—once again the quiet, thought-out sacrifice.”

In this phase of his career his characteristic conscientiousness was shown by the thoroughness and success with which he performed his military duties “He is a real loss to the regiment,” wrote a senior xi officer; “everybody who knew him had a very high opinion of his military efficiency.”

As is so often the case, a quiet and reserved manner hid a brave heart. When it came to personal danger he impressed men as being unconscious of it. “I never met a man who displayed coolly more utter disregard for danger.” And in this spirit he led his men against the enemy—and fell. From the last message that he gave the nurse for his people, “Tell them I’m all right,” it is clear that he died with as quiet a mind and as surrendered a will as he lived.

“What we have lost who knew him,” writes Mr. Glover, “these lines may hint—I do not think we really know the extent of our loss. But we keep a great deal, a very great deal—quidquid ex illo amavimus, quidquid mirati sumus, manet mansurumque est. Yes, that is true; and from the first my sorrow (it may seem an odd confession) was for those who were not to know him, whose chance was lost, for the work he was not to do. For himself, if ever a man lived his life, it was he; twenty-five or twenty-six years is not much, perhaps, as a rule, but here it was life and it was lived to some purpose; it told and it is not lost.”