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Lions
Led by Donkeys
As
World War One progressed and the ‘it’ll
be over by Christmas’ mentality diminished there
was a growing disquiet amongst the regular front line soldiers
that they
were being abandoned by those in the higher echelons of military
command. This attitude intensifies in the literature that
was
written in the aftermath of The Battle of the Somme (commenced
July 1st 1916). The noble visions of warfare epitomised by
Rupert Brooke’s sonnets of 1915 had now been eclipsed
by literature that questions the ‘callous complacency’ of
Generals and a home front mentality that is detached from
the horrors that men are enduring. Foremost amongst this
shift
in consciousness was Siegfried Sassoon who made a daring
political statement (1917) to the government of the day outlining
his
many objections concerning the continuance of the war. His
poetry reflects this attitude, with many of his works offering
satirical portrayals of military incompetence. Sassoon's Declaration against the War
"
I am making this statement as an act of wilful defiance of
military authority, because I believe that the War is being
deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.
I am a soldier, convinced that I am acting on behalf of soldiers.
I believe that this War, on which I entered as a war of defence
and liberation, has now become a war of aggression and conquest.
I believe that the purpose for which I and my fellow soldiers
entered upon this war should have been so clearly stated as
to have made it impossible to change them, and that, had this
been done, the objects which actuated us would now be attainable
by negotiation. I have seen and endured the sufferings of the
troops, and I can no longer be a party to prolong these sufferings
for ends which I believe to be evil and unjust. I am not protesting
against the conduct of the war, but against the political errors
and insincerities for which the fighting men are being sacrificed.
On behalf of those who are suffering now I make this protest
against the deception which is being practised on them; also
I believe that I may help to destroy the callous complacency
with which the majority of those at home regard the contrivance
of agonies which they do not, and which they have not sufficient
imagination to realize".
Base
Details
If
I were fierce, and bald, and short of breath,
I'd live with scarlet Majors at the Base,
And speed glum heroes up the line to death.
You'd see me with my puffy petulant face,
Guzzling and gulping in the best hotel,
Reading the Roll of Honour. "Poor young chap,"
I'd say—"I used to know his father well;
Yes, we've lost heavily in this last scrap."
And when the war is done and youth stone dead,
I'd toddle safely home and die—in bed.
The General
"Good-morning; good-morning!" the
General said
When we met him last week on our way to the line.
Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead,
And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine.
"
He's a cheery old card," grunted Harry to Jack
As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack.
* * * * *
But he did for them both by his plan of attack.
The Glory of Women
You love us when we're heroes, home on leave,
Or wounded in a mentionable place.
You worship decorations; you believe
That chivalry redeems the war's disgrace.
You make us shells. You listen with delight,
By tales of dirt and danger fondly thrilled.
You crown our distant ardours while we fight,
And mourn our laurelled memories when we're killed.
You can't believe that British troops "retire"
When hell's last horror breaks them, and they run,
Trampling the terrible corpses--blind with blood.
O German mother dreaming by the fire,
While you are knitting socks to send your son
His face is trodden deeper in the mud.
The
Hero
'Jack
fell as he'd have wished,' the Mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed. Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt.
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
They
The Bishop tells us: 'When the boys come back
'They will not be the same; for they'll have fought
'In a just cause: they lead the last attack
'On Anti-Christ; their comrades' blood has bought
'New right to breed an honourable race,
'They have challenged Death and dared him face to face.'
'We're none of us the same!' the boys reply.
'For George lost both his legs; and Bill's stone blind;
'Poor Jim's shot through the lungs and like to die;
'And Bert's gone syphilitic: you'll not find
'A chap who's served that hasn't found some change.'
And the Bishop said: 'The ways of God are strange!'
Wilfred Owen
The Dead Beat
He dropped,—more
sullenly than wearily,
Lay stupid like a cod, heavy like meat,
And none of us could kick him to his feet;
Just blinked at my revolver, blearily;
—Didn't appear to know a war was on,
Or see the blasted trench at which he stared.
"I'll do 'em in," he whined, "If this hand's spared,
I'll murder them, I will."
A low voice said,
"It's Blighty, p'raps, he sees; his pluck's all gone,
Dreaming of all the valiant, that aren’t dead:
Bold uncles, smiling ministerially;
Maybe his brave young wife, getting her fun
In some new home, improved materially.
It's not these stiffs have crazed him; nor the Hun."
We sent him down at last, out of the way.
Unwounded;—stout lad, too, before that strafe.
Malingering? Stretcher-bearers winked, "Not half!"
Next day I heard the Doc.'s well-whiskied laugh:
"That scum you sent last night soon died. Hooray!"
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