In The Last Bantam, the Great War is refracted through an unexpected lens: the Bantam battalions — men under 5’3″ who volunteered in their tens of thousands — and one fictional Dubliner navigating the mud of France and the politics of home. What follows is a conversation with the writer and performer, Michael Hughes, about research, storytelling, Irish identity, and the emotional weight of performing history alone on stage.
1. What first pulled you toward the bantam soldiers? Thirty thousand men under 5’3” signing up to fight is an extraordinary footnote in history — what moment made you realise it deserved centre stage?
I spent a year reading about the Bantams. I was fascinated by their story and inspired by their courage. And me being me, made notes about what I read. Lots of notes. Pages of notes under random headings. “Recruitment”. “Motivation”. “Where they came from” etc. I kept those notes in a folder. After finishing the fourth or fifth book I laid those pages out on the floor. And that’s when the show jumped out at me. The headings read like episodes in a TV series or beats in a screenplay. I moved them around into some sort of order and hey presto, I had a show!
2. Patrick Michael Wolfe is such a compelling lens — a Dubliner chasing Irish Home Rule through the mud of the Western Front. How did you shape him? Was he inspired by someone real, or did he emerge from the gaps in the archive?
The Last Bantam was actually going to be about someone else entirely! It was originally going to tell the story of Sgt. Albert Mountain, a Leeds Bantam who was awarded the VC. I was impressed with his courage and tickled by the contrast between his name and his short stature. Sadly, I doubted my ability to do his accent justice and decided to make my character, Patrick Michael Wolfe, a Dubliner like me.
Wolfe is a fiction, though named after my two grandfathers, Patrick and Michael. 200,000 Irishmen served in the Great War, and some of those men were Bantams, but I chose to create my protagonist because I was in a hurry to write the story. Had I used an actual Irish Bantam I’d have felt obliged to find his descendants, get their permission, keep them in the creative loop, and honour their Bantam’s memory. Using a fictional Bantam however, dispensed with having to do any of that. It also meant that I could, if I wanted, present him in a less flattering light without upsetting anyone.
Making my Bantam an Irishman, and a Dubliner at that, also presented huge dramatic possibilities. Mine wouldn’t be a conventional British Great War story. Wolfe is overseas fighting for Irish Home Rule while huge political changes are happening back home. How would he feel about those changes? Would the events back in Dublin actually impact upon his life in France? My reading indicated that events in Ireland impacted hugely on Irishmen serving in the British army. Many of those men felt angry with the rebels while British army high command began to regard their Irish regiments with suspicion. Could they be trusted not to mutiny? Would they desert?
3. The play deals with patriotism, prejudice, courage and betrayal — big words that often get flattened in war stories. Which of those themes felt most dangerous to write about, and which surprised you as you dug deeper?
Betrayal. There’s a lot of betrayal in The Last Bantam. Wolfe and his Bantams are betrayed by the French, by their God and by the army itself when poor planning results in huge Bantam losses.
Where the theme of betrayal becomes dangerous however, is when Wolfe tells us how he feels about the 1916 Easter Rising. He is horrified by the destruction of his city, the loss of life and the harsh response of British forces in Ireland. Like many Irishmen in the British army at the time however, he is also shocked by the rebellion. He cannot understand why, when Ireland was promised its own Home Rule government, the rebels would start a war with Britain. A war that would alienate the Unionists and scupper any dreams of an all-Ireland government. He feels betrayed by the rebels, as many Irish soldiers did.
This is the most contentious thing to write about. Wolfe challenges the idea that the 1916 rebellion, the foundational moment of today’s Irish Republic, was a necessary or good thing.
This may be why none of the Dublin theatres I’ve approached or the Dublin Fringe are willing to host The Last Bantam. The one Dublin venue that has expressed an interest in my production is not a theatre.
4. Ireland’s role in the Great War is still strangely under‑examined. When you were researching, what did you discover that challenged your own assumptions about Irish soldiers and their motivations?
Ireland’s role in the Great War is under-examined, at least from a theatrical perspective. As far as I’m aware — and I’m very open to correction — there are only three other theatrical works examining the experience of Irish nationalists in the Great War: Sean O’Casey’s The Silver Tassie; George Bernard Shaw’s O’Flaherty V.C.; and Dermott Bolger’s Walking the Road. When you consider that 200,000 Irishmen were involved in the Great War, and Ireland’s flair for the literary, you might expect more works than that.
I knew that many Irishmen signed up for the same reasons as English, Scots or Welsh did: adventure, patriotism and money. Some Irishmen, like my character Wolfe, signed up because they believed it would help secure Home Rule. There were even some Irishmen who joined the British army to learn how to fight that same army later.
What surprised me though, was that the majority of Irishmen who signed up — about two thirds of them — were not from the Unionist northern counties. They were from what is today known as the Republic. They never taught us that in school!
5. The bantams were dismissed by the army before they’d even picked up a rifle. How do you approach that mix of ridicule and resilience on stage without turning it into either sentimentality or easy heroism?
First of all, I did my research. I got to know the Bantams. The majority of Bantams were volunteers and they were very proud to serve their country. They did their training, made friends and helped each other. They were practical, hardworking men — shipbuilders, miners and labourers. These men were not given to sentimentality or self‑pity.
Secondly, I’m short myself and I was never going to present the Bantams as tragic figures to be pitied, or as compensatorily heroic. I see them as short men who simply got on with it, ignoring the abuse and overcoming whatever came their way.
And finally, my background in character comedy helps. There is humour in The Last Bantam. It’s not a comedy show but there are laugh‑out‑loud moments. There has to be. There was humour in the trenches and my work should reflect that. Furthermore, humour gives the audience a chance to recover and it increases the dramatic impact when bad things happen to Wolfe and his men.
6. You’ve taken The Last Bantam through multiple Fringes, across the UK, and soon into the Chelsea History Festival and Dublin. How has the show changed as audiences have changed — especially younger ones encountering this history for the first time?
The Last Bantam has doubled in length, from a slim‑trim 25‑minute show to a lean 55–60 minutes today! The original version was just 25 minutes because it was my first foray into acting and the prospect of having to learn anything longer terrified me. Extending the show to an hour means that I can take it beyond the Fringe environment to theatre venues that need a longer run time. Making the show an hour has also enabled me to add additional action and detail and take the audience on a more varied, informative and emotionally satisfying journey.
Sadly, I don’t get too many younger people coming to my production, my audience tending to be mainly over 40. It’s a pity, but I think older people tend to be more interested in early 20th‑century history than younger people.
7. The Western Front is a place we think we already know — trenches, mud, horror. What details did you uncover that felt fresh, human, or painfully intimate enough to bring into the performance?
There were huge problems dressing the Bantam recruits. Bantams wore their own clothes for a long time before being issued with old Boer War uniforms, railwaymen’s overalls or uniforms made of Post Office blue serge. Boots were a specific challenge for the Bantams, the average Bantam having a size 6 foot. Trenches were also a problem. Being shorter is an advantage in trenches, but the fire step you’d stand on to look over the top of the trench was often too low. Bantams had to be issued with two sandbags that would be filled and placed on the fire step for them to stand on!
Another issue was the social class and poverty of many of the Bantam recruits. In my play my character says, “Some of the men came with nothing but the clothes on their backs.” And it’s true. While some Bantams signed up with spare clothes, food and money, others came with nothing apart from a desire to serve. They trusted, in a touching and perhaps naive way, that the state that called for them to enlist would look after them when they did.
Some Bantams were underage and that was probably to be expected. A 5‑foot‑tall 15‑year‑old had no hope of joining a regular‑sized battalion but he might be able to join a Bantam battalion if he lied about his age. And some did.
Some Bantams were illiterate. Receiving only the most basic schooling, young men living in poverty had to work from early childhood. In my play my character talks about this and describes how he helps them: “I read their letters out to them. And they hang on every word.” This aspect of the Bantam story is heartbreaking. Back then, letters and postcards were the key form of communication and Bantams who could not read or write would struggle to maintain contact with their families back home.
8. Your critics talk about “a masterclass in storytelling” and “another perfect example of the great Irish storyteller.” What does storytelling mean to you in a one‑man play? How do you keep the emotional thread taut without another actor to bounce off?
I was surprised when I saw myself described as a “storyteller”! It conjured up images of me standing by a peat fire in an Aran geansaí, telling mythical tales to an appreciative circle. But there’s different ways of telling stories, aren’t there? So I guess I am a storyteller after all!
Storytelling for me is the process in which I take my audience on an educational, entertaining and emotional journey. They come into my world, we begin in one place, end up in another and take several diversions along the way! I know where we’re going, I’ve mapped out the route, and they’re happy to come along with me.
Maintaining the “emotional thread” is essential. Without another actor to bounce off, I have to generate and maintain the emotional energy myself. The script is important in this regard. It’s hard to have a good show without a good script! This is where I believe the discipline of comedy writing influenced how I wrote the play. If a line isn’t really needed in comedy, it goes. If a word isn’t really needed in comedy, it’s out. That concise style of writing keeps things moving and makes for more dynamic work I think.
Just as important though — maybe more perhaps? — is how I perform my script. In addition to words, I use volume and tone, different accents, pauses, facial expressions and physical movements. If I do these things authentically I can hold the attention of the audience and communicate what my character is feeling. I’ve been a teacher a long time and I’ve been using these techniques for years, not realising they would help me become an actor!
9. The bantams fought to prove themselves; Wolfe fights for a political future; the audience watches knowing how history actually unfolded. How do you navigate that tension between hope and hindsight?
Interesting question! I wrote Wolfe from the perspective of an ordinary man who doesn’t know what the future holds. He gets letters from his sister and friends in Dublin. They tell him what’s going on and they send him newspapers. It’s March 1918 and Wolfe knows about the 1916 rebellion and execution of the ringleaders. He knows about the destruction of Dublin city centre and the internment of thousands of Irish men and women. He knows that the national mood is changing and Sinn Féin is growing in power. He knows these things. He still hopes for Home Rule but he is very afraid it will not happen.
British audiences generally don’t know well what happened in Ireland. They know that there was a rebellion in 1916 and that that is somehow related to today’s Irish Republic, but they are generally unaware that in 1914, Ireland was all set to get Home Rule, its own devolved government. Audience members often confuse Home Rule with independence and they tend to be ignorant of the 1919–1921 Anglo‑Irish War of Independence and the Irish Civil War that followed partition. This lack of knowledge is disappointing, but not unexpected. Many of my audience tend to be over 50 and I gather that Irish history has not always been well taught in British schools. Irish history is political!
10. After living with this story for years — Fringe runs, awards, tours — what still catches in your throat when you perform it? What moment refuses to soften with repetition?
My character goes through a lot in the play. But there is one line that gets me almost every time I say it.
Wolfe establishes a relationship with a nurse while he’s in hospital and she writes to him, inviting him to visit when he gets leave. He tells the audience about the invitation, bashful but also clearly delighted. He’s written a letter back to her, agreeing to meet. He’s been carrying it for days. He tells the audience, “It would be nice to see her again. Away from this.”
That’s the line that gets me. Wolfe’s coyness and delight change. He tries to remain upbeat and cheerful but he knows, because of what he has to do later, that he may not see her again. It’s why he hasn’t posted the letter. He knows he may not survive and he is filled with grief for a love lost. Should he post it or simply let her go?
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