General Chat

Guinevere,you beet me to it regarding Harry Patch, the following are interviews Harry had with the bbc, there are 15 altogether.

Harry Patch: Never spoke about the war until he turned a 100 years old he was born 17 June 1898.

A rude awakening.
I had a brother who was a regular soldier. He was in Africa when the war broke out. He was a sergeant major in the Royal Engineers, who fought and was wounded at Mons. And they kept him in England after that, as an instructor. He never went back and he used to tell me what the trenches were like. I didn’t want to go. I knew what I was going to. A lot of people didn’t and when they got to France they had a rude awakening.

The trenches were about six feet deep, about three feet wide - mud, water, a duckboard if you were lucky. You slept on the firing step, if you could, shells bursting all around you. Filthy.

~~~~~~~~~~
Infected by lice.
From the time I went to France - the second week in June 1917 - until I left 23rd December 1917, injured by shellfire, I never had a bath. I never had any clean clothes. And when we got to Rouen on the way home they took every stitch of clothing off us: vest, shirt, pants, everything and they burnt it all. It was the only way to get rid of the lice. For each lousy louse, he had his own particular bite, and his own itch and he’d drive you mad. We used to turn our vests inside out to get a little relief. And you’d go down all the seams, if you dared show a light, with a candle, and burn them out.

And those little devils who’d laid their eggs in the seam, you’d turn your vest inside out and tomorrow you’d be just as lousy as you were today. And that was the trenches.

~~~~~~~~~~~~
Fighting for their lives.
You daren’t show above otherwise a sniper would have you. You used to look between the fire and apertures and all you could see was a couple of stray dogs out there, fighting over a biscuit that they’d found. They were fighting for their lives. And the thought came to me – well, there they are, two animals out there fighting over dog biscuit, the same as we get to live. They were fighting for their lives. I said, ‘We are two civilised nations - British and German - and what were we doing? We were in a lousy, dirty trench fighting for our lives? For what? For eighteen pence a flipping day.’

Some mothers' sons lie in watery graves
Far from home, unseen by human eye.
They gave their all so we could live a life,
Theirs cut short by battles, wars and strife.

No graveside mourning for these families.
No knowing where their loved ones lie.
Only tears from parents deep in thought,
Only prayers for all those lost and sought.


A family tribute.

To Germany, by Charles Hamilton Sorley

You are blind like us. Your hurt no man designed,
And no man claimed the conquest of your land.
But gropers both through fields of thought confined
We stumble and we do not understand.
You only saw your future bigly planned,
And we, the tapering paths of our own mind,
And in each others dearest ways we stand,
And hiss and hate. And the blind fight the blind.

When it is peace, then we may view again
With new won eyes each other's truer form
And wonder. Grown more loving kind and warm
We'll grasp firm hands and laugh at the old pain,
When it is peace. But until peace, the storm,
The darkness and the thunder and the rain.

Thank you Guinevere for the quote by Harry Patch.
He knew better and had more time to think about it than anybody else.

JOCK GREY SAID…

There ain’t no angels in foxholes,
Jock Grey once said to me.
He was looking at a different scene;
That I could clearly see.
Just tension and maybe boredom
And expectation among the boys,
Just waiting for the action,
Waiting for the noise
That soaks into your being
Once it all kicks off again;
Then it’s all action and panic
Shouting and screaming men.
There’s no glory down in foxholes
Ask any man who’s been there.
God and King and Country, no
Let me live is all you care;
And whether it’s hot or cold
Dry or wallowing in mud
Only one thing is certain
You’ll see lots of blood.
There ain’t no pride and glory
Just a sense of desolation;
If there is a god he ain’t gonna
Just back one lot of nations.
He’s probably packed his bags
Closed heaven down in haste,
Sickened by the carnage;
The awful bloody waste.
Perhaps that awful god
Hangs his head in shame
That they dare to do this killing
In his honour and his name.
Let the fountain pen warriors write
Of war’s glory and war’s pride
How many have seen a foxhole
Let alone been down inside.
I could see his shoulders heave
See the blankness in his gaze
Feel the raw emotion before
He came back from those days.
No there ain’t no angels in foxholes.
I wish they’d get that right.
Now whose round is it lads?
The beer’s bloody slow tonight.

"I felt then, as I feel now, that the politicians who took us to war should have been given the guns and told to settle their differences themselves, instead of organizing nothing better than legalized mass murder."

-Harry Patch

http://goo.gl/WlprwE

Munition Wages
Earning high wages?
Yus, Five quid a week.
A woman, too, mind you,
I calls it dim sweet.

Ye'are asking some questions –
But bless yer, here goes:
I spends the whole racket
On good times and clothes.

Me saving? Elijah!
Yer do think I'm mad.
I'm acting the lady,
But – I ain't living bad.

I'm having life's good times.
See 'ere, it's like this:
The 'oof come o' danger,
A touch-and-go bizz.

We're all here today, mate,
Tomorrow – perhaps dead,
If Fate tumbles on us
And blows up our shed.

Afraid! Are yer kidding?
With money to spend!
Years back I wore tatters,
Now – silk stockings, mi friend!

I've bracelets and jewellery,
Rings envied by friends;
A sergeant to swank with,
And something to lend.

I drive out in taxis,
Do theatres in style.
And this is mi verdict –
It is jolly worth while.

Worth while, for tomorrow
If I'm blown to the sky,
I'll have repaid mi wages
In death – and pass by.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young.
Straight of limb, true of eyes, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted,
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old;
Age shall not weary them , nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning,
We will remember them.
We will remember them.

Commemorating the past.

Remembering all the fallen this cold November day,
For all they sacrificed for us so we can live work and play.
Never will they be forgotten we keep them in our hearts,
We thank them for our freedom and hope that peace can start.
Allow all war soon be over let us learn from the past,
Let’s treat each other with kindness so no flag fly half-mast.

Remembering



ALWAYS REMEMBER.

ALWAYS remember them.

LEST we forget we will always have gratitude for those who fought in the war.

ATTENTION is given to the people that have been in battle.

YEARS have gone by since the World Wars have happened.

STAND with pride while listening to the national anthem.

RED poppies are worn to remind people.

EARTH would be a better place for everyone if there was no conflict.

MEN and WOMEN lost their lives while fighting in war.

EXPLORE a new war monument.

MANY soldiers never came home from war.

BATTLES have come and gone and there is still battles going on today.

EVERYONE should never forget those who have given their lives for peace.

REMEMBER THEM.

WARS OF YESTERDAY

Bombs exploding in the air
This occasion so unrare
All of this meant to scare
No time for victims to prepare
So many countries are involved
Trying to get this thing resolved
All this telling of our past
Which we seem to forget so fast
These are the wars of yesterday
Remembering back in dismay
Hoping not to come again
If they do where and when
These are the wars of yesterday
Remembering back in dismay.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~


Cannot see the GR Poppy because I have had a Remembrance Poppy top left corner of my desk top since I started this thread .
shaun

Nice to see the poppy at the top of this page. On the counter in my shop, we offer pins to go with your poppies. We also had self adhesive poppies in the box. they were mixed in with the normal ones
:-)

GR have now put up a poppy at last.


Thank you GR. Better late than never

HOW WE SURVIVED

Left in a field to die, this soldier asks why,
Seeing faces all around, life is lost with no bounds.
We will remember this night, when we didn’t fight,
It makes me wonder, the enemy is under plunder.

The guns sounding so near, the fighting from the rear,
Nothing happening now, all I can think is how.

Bodies lay all about, they shout, I close my eyes and dream, of home.

THE FINAL LETTER

Daddy told me he’d be back soon,
That he was woeful, he’d been gone since June.
He told me all was fine,
That he and his comrades felt simply divine.
Even though I was only eight,
I could imagine why he’d be a little late.
Thoughts of booming and banging from the guns of men,
Kept me up till half past ten.
Why, oh why, had he gone away,
Now the world felt so dull and grey.
In the back of my mind I understood,
That he was doing only good.
My dearest father was giving all he possessed,
So me, and you, could live without being depressed.
So when I got the final letter,
I felt a tiny bit better.
My loving dad had shone with bravery and pride,
He’d faded away with a bounce in his stride.
He’s not the only one,
Who wasn’t able to outrun a rattling gun.
Let us never forget,
We are in the soldier’s debt.

GR Poppy appeal/promise failure. Shame! :-P

THE DAY THE EARTH STOOD STILL

We marched up the hill as quiet as mice the enemy hurdling quickly,
Soldiers around me prepared their guns for open fire.

The guns went off and soldiers went down but all with a reason,
Just to leave the world with pride and the ones they love to remember them.

I felt a hurting in my heart making me fall down with them,
Staying still forever along with the world.

I knew I wasn't coming home not today but I will know,
That today was the day the Earth stood still.

On this day, November 4, 1918 - a week before the war ended Wilfred Owen was killed in action.

Anthem for Doomed Youth
Wilfred Owen

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,--
The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of good-byes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DxkhBvO8_kM

1. Well, how'd you do, Private William Mcbride?
Do you mind if I sit here down by your graveside?
I'll rest here awhile in the warm summer sun,
I've been walking all day, Lord, and I'm nearly done.

And I see by your gravestone you were only 19
When you joined the glorious fallen in 1916--
Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean,
Or, Willie Mcbride, was it slow and obscene?

Chorus:
Did they beat the drum slowly,
Did they sound the fife lowly,
Did the rifles fire o'er you as they lowered you down?
Did the bugles sing "The Last Post" in chorus?
Did the pipes play "The Flowers of the Forest?"

2. Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind?
In some faithful heart is your memory enshrined
And, though you died back in 1916,
To that loyal heart are you always 19?

Or are you a stranger without even a name,
Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,
In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,
And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

3. The sun's shining down on these green fields of France;
The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.
The trenches have vanished long under the plough;
No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.

But here in this graveyard it's still No Man's Land
The countless white crosses in mute witness stand
To man's blind indifference to his fellow man.
And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

4. And I can't help but wonder, now Willie Mcbride,
Do all those who lie here know why they died?
Did you really believe them when they told you 'The Cause? '
Did you really believe that this war would end wars?

Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame
The killing, the dying, it was all done in vain,
For Willie Mcbride, it all happened again,
And again, and again, and again, and again.

Am disgusted, they said on the 27th October the poppy was on its way.

when will they realise out of respect for the fallen, one poppy on this site
is not too much to ask.

Jan x

THE FOLLOWING POEMS ARE FROM CHILDREN, THERE AGES RANGE FROM 7 to 18 years.

Trench life.

Waiting
Hungry
Cold
Wet

Waiting for something to happen
Writing to loved ones
cleaning my gun
talking with friends
about life back home
Hearing the Sergeant scream
Over the top!

As our team rushes forward
Seeing friends die left and right
While we continue to fight
Hoping to live another day.

Waiting and waiting for the war to end
While I'm trying to survive,
Trench life.
~~~~~~~~~~

THE BATTLE OF MUD

Battle began in a Belgian town
All of the troops never backed down
Also known as the battle of mud
The fields were covered in puddles of blood.

The plan was to break through Flanders
All of the troops depending upon their commanders
Sir Arthur Currie wanted to become involved
While the troops lines slowly dissolved.

The allies fought in the trenches day after day
The soldiers did not have time to stop and play
They gobbled down rations like it was the last food on earth
In the end our grandfathers proved their worth.

There were 100 000 injured or killed
When they won their families were thrilled
They fought the battle and did not fail
That Belgian town was Passchendaele.

SUICIDE IN THE TRENCHES

By Siegfried Sassoon

I knew a simple soldier boy
Who grinned at life in empty joy,
Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,
And whistled early with the lark.
In winter trenches, cowed and glum,
With crumps and lice and lack of rum,
He put a bullet through his brain.
No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowds with kindling eye
Who cheer when soldier lads march by,
Sneak home and pray you'll never know
The hell where youth and laughter go.