It’s been 95 years since the Great War had ended, and
although bloodshed had halted, the consequences of sacrifice became ever so
more apparent. “Your country needs you!”
was the popular catchphrase of the day. Those who decided not to intervene with
military matters were deemed as conscientious objectors. Women ditched their
campaign to political rights, instead, demanding the ‘right to serve’. But
despite patriotic fervor capturing the hearts of many Britons, little did they
know of the catastrophe that was to unfold. With 995,939 military losses and a
total of 1,663,435 deaths in summary, disenchantment grew. Society came to one
question; what does it mean to be a hero?
To die for your country knowing that you’ve taken part in the effort to defend
it, or to simply walk away? Saving yourself from the mental scars that was to
be engraved due to brutality.
Below is one of my most favourite poems; Dulce Et Decorum
Est by Wilfred Owen. A perfect compendium. However, we must remember those who
sacrificed their lives for good and prosperity. Vital lessons were to be learnt
from the terrible tragedy – but for now, let’s remember.
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 tired, outstripped
Five-Nines 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 flound'ring
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
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