Faidel
14-11-2005, 02:06 PM
So for some reason I feel quite emotionally attached to rememberance day, and any sort of war memorial in general.
It probably has something to do with Wilfred Owen, and war poetry in general. I'm not someone who revels in war, war movies, that sort of stuff, but the sacrifices of war hit me hard.
I wrote this on rememberance day, and rather than losing it in the blather and clutter on my computer, I figured I'd post it. It's a bit of a knock up, and I'm not a writer, so please excuse any glaring problems with.
--------------
The world was young and new for these men, bundled onto ships, sent across a sea, to fight a war.
Some were eager, chomping at the bit to get away from their lives back home, to see the world and fight The Hun.
Some of these were not even old enough, but had lied, and forged, and the recruiters had given sly smiles, and knowing winks.
Wars are fought with blood, sweat, death and screams, and even a 16 year old child can give those as he holds his rifle over the trench and squeezes the trigger in terror.
Others were there because it was the right thing to do.
Some were forced, if they hadn't, if they'd stayed in their small towns with their cowardice, well, who would marry a coward?
What man of the town could you become known as, as a yellow hearted coward?
"Conscientious objector" is just a pretty phrase that doesn't change a mans heart.
So they left. They left their loves, their homes, their families, mothers, sisters, fathers and friends.
And they were given a new family. One that didn't love them, not yet, but one that they could rely on until the day they died.
This was the family that would teach them how to live in Hell. A Hell that man had created for it's own pleasure, and for convenience, had made it here on earth.
All families teach you something, a father to show you how to tie your shoes, a mother to show you how to act with civility, a sister to show you how to treat women, and a brother to show you how not to be taken advantage of.
All of this and more you got in the war. A General to show you that men don't matter, just how their lives are used.
A dead friend to show you how the world is temporary, and that one day, we all go back to the earth.
A sergeant to show you that you can be tough.
It's a poor trade, what with the fact that you would die in misery and pain, and be glad of it.
But millions have made that trade, and stood proud as they walked the halls of death.
Proud of their sacrifice.
Proud of their determination.
Proud of the inheritance they were giving to their children.
And what do we have to do with this? These were other mens struggles, these were the tribulations of another time.
Mourn them if you will, celebrate them if you can, but never lose what they taught us, never take for granted what they gave.
Lest We Forget.
Dulce Et Decorum Est
-by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
It probably has something to do with Wilfred Owen, and war poetry in general. I'm not someone who revels in war, war movies, that sort of stuff, but the sacrifices of war hit me hard.
I wrote this on rememberance day, and rather than losing it in the blather and clutter on my computer, I figured I'd post it. It's a bit of a knock up, and I'm not a writer, so please excuse any glaring problems with.
--------------
The world was young and new for these men, bundled onto ships, sent across a sea, to fight a war.
Some were eager, chomping at the bit to get away from their lives back home, to see the world and fight The Hun.
Some of these were not even old enough, but had lied, and forged, and the recruiters had given sly smiles, and knowing winks.
Wars are fought with blood, sweat, death and screams, and even a 16 year old child can give those as he holds his rifle over the trench and squeezes the trigger in terror.
Others were there because it was the right thing to do.
Some were forced, if they hadn't, if they'd stayed in their small towns with their cowardice, well, who would marry a coward?
What man of the town could you become known as, as a yellow hearted coward?
"Conscientious objector" is just a pretty phrase that doesn't change a mans heart.
So they left. They left their loves, their homes, their families, mothers, sisters, fathers and friends.
And they were given a new family. One that didn't love them, not yet, but one that they could rely on until the day they died.
This was the family that would teach them how to live in Hell. A Hell that man had created for it's own pleasure, and for convenience, had made it here on earth.
All families teach you something, a father to show you how to tie your shoes, a mother to show you how to act with civility, a sister to show you how to treat women, and a brother to show you how not to be taken advantage of.
All of this and more you got in the war. A General to show you that men don't matter, just how their lives are used.
A dead friend to show you how the world is temporary, and that one day, we all go back to the earth.
A sergeant to show you that you can be tough.
It's a poor trade, what with the fact that you would die in misery and pain, and be glad of it.
But millions have made that trade, and stood proud as they walked the halls of death.
Proud of their sacrifice.
Proud of their determination.
Proud of the inheritance they were giving to their children.
And what do we have to do with this? These were other mens struggles, these were the tribulations of another time.
Mourn them if you will, celebrate them if you can, but never lose what they taught us, never take for granted what they gave.
Lest We Forget.
Dulce Et Decorum Est
-by Wilfred Owen
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.