Remembering...

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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