Welcome to English Language at BSFC, and to this bootylicious (blended word!) blog.
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We go regularly to see Granddad at the Nursing Home. Mother said he could stay with us but the Doctor that Grandad sees told us his health is constantly deteriorating. I don’t know why Mother suggests this when she knows there is no where for us to put ourselves barely, in our small home, that is me, my sister Elizabeth and Mother. I haven’t seen Father for a long time now. He left England in World War 2 to go to war in France. He would send us letters and postcards at first, but one day they stopped coming. Mother said this was because they transferred him to another army camp. But Elizabeth told me she was lying, so did Scott Paisley, our neighbour. He said “your father was blown to bits by a gas bomb.” I may have been a young child but we all knew he was dead. It was after this that my Mother would cry constantly and we had to move to Windsor to be closer to Granddad. Our home before we moved to Windsor was much better, Elizabeth said the only reason Mother moved us was “because of the pitiful looks.” Anyway, now in 1958, Elizabeth and I knew today was different. Granddad talked to us about the war. The war sounds horrible. Granddad fought in the First World War you see, from 1914 to 1917. He fought in the war when he was sixteen, which is my age now. He served with honour in the 9th battalion York and Lancaster Regiment seeing front line action in Flanders and Northern Italy from the end of 1914 to January 1917. It was quite odd that Granddad spoke about his time during the war. I now understand why he hardly does. It was his Dad that made him sign up for war. He didn’t want be to be shamed like his nephew, Andrew’s father had been. So Jack Frederick signed up for the war, unknown to the harsh realities of it. The war is anything but glorious. It was all fake, he told us. I don’t know how he coped after witnessing the traumatic deaths of his friends. He said “Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on blood-shod” They had no choice but to do what they were told and continue marching until they could see a glimmer off rest and hope. It was due to the war that Granddad’s hearing is so bad. He needed people to shout at him then, and he still does now. When the enemy threw gas bombs, it was terror for Granddad and some of his bestest friends. That was the only good outcome from the war for Granddad, meeting young men that would be part of his life forever. But the worst was, losing these people that he had spent so much time with. “Gas, GAS! Quick, boys!” the commander would shout. And then came the ecstasy of fumbling. But there was always someone that was still yelling out and stumbling, and then you would see him; wallowing around like a man in fire or lime. No one could do anything because more danger was coming from the enemy lines. They would just look away and cry, because these men were sons, husbands, brothers and fathers even, to families who needed them. The wounded surviving soldiers felt helpless and weak when the dying soldiers plunged at them. They would then gather the few that had little life left in them and fling them into the wagon. That was the worst part, seeing the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face, like a devils sick of sin. The blood would come gargling from his froth corrupted lungs. You would feel guilt for being glad it wasn’t you, but you would feel immense sorrow for these poor men. Granddad thought it was unfair. He often questioned himself as to why he survived, because living with the terrifying memories of war was in some ways, just as bad as dying at war. Granddad said you would not tell to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie: Dulce et decorum est, Pro patria mori.
Here I am, at war. The weathers not been much of a support ever since we’ve been transferred to Katowice; it’s a city in Silesia which is in the southern part of Poland.
I do remember it is your birthday today and at the moment the best thing I can do is write a letter to you. I sure do hope you have a splendid day back home, I really do miss you.
I’ve been sleeping on the ground since a week in a tent with a dozen of other fellows in it. I can now probably tell you what we do around here, well; a few weeks ago we were presented with an atomic bomb and just lat week we had an experimental bomb in the north of Silesia. I was quite fortunate enough to observe this and I’ll probably never be able to forget it as long as I have life in me. It was a terrible sight, the sound was so unbearable and the sight was if a huge mushroom floated in the air leaving a big mess on the earth. It was terrible.
We had some visitors last night, firing away injuring a few, luckily. Our shells went over our front line into enemy zone. If we made a mistake in, we would have killed our own men, but this very rarely happens. Shells from other batteries are going over our heads day and night. In some positions, we can see the enemy in the distance our gun is a just a bit small, but makes more noise than a 60 pounder, when fired.
I read your letter and I know you want me to come home but remember your brother is taking part in a struggle to defend the rights of mankind and secure the future peace of the world.
Write again soon Lots of love for all and self From your brother Andy
The ache is too great to bear, so unfair. The hurt and grief, I wish I could share. My beloved has been taken from me, There is a God I know, how could he? The good lord almighty forgives and loves, The heavens above, more pure than doves. He died in a too cruel a time, The steepest mountain of faith I must climb. So many men - too many men gone, Released from the pain now, my heart has shone. Pain and suffering, gas and coughing, “Hell on earth”, is what you were saying. The soldiers fought on with all their glory, Things they witnessed, oh what a story. Described as the dullest green, like dying grass, Nothing my love, could prepare for this mass.
I've done a poem from the oppositions perspective, comparing the men to ants on the ground :)
The ants on the ground, Trudging through the dirt, Hands elbow-deep with black, Bodies all blooded and hurt.
One boot and no socks, Helmet with a hole, Bones ripping his skin, Bomb dug deep, Like a mole.
Circling the grey sky, Finger hovering the option of death, Holding our supply, Then released from its prison cell, It drops, it fires, it bangs, And grew a hole where it fell.
Silence for the dead now, The ants have been cut in two, Blood and body parts, But I only killed a few!
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteDiary entry of the Grandson of Jack Fredrick
ReplyDeleteDear Diary, 5th April 1958
We go regularly to see Granddad at the Nursing Home. Mother said he could stay with us but the Doctor that Grandad sees told us his health is constantly deteriorating. I don’t know why Mother suggests this when she knows there is no where for us to put ourselves barely, in our small home, that is me, my sister Elizabeth and Mother.
I haven’t seen Father for a long time now. He left England in World War 2 to go to war in France. He would send us letters and postcards at first, but one day they stopped coming. Mother said this was because they transferred him to another army camp. But Elizabeth told me she was lying, so did Scott Paisley, our neighbour. He said “your father was blown to bits by a gas bomb.” I may have been a young child but we all knew he was dead. It was after this that my Mother would cry constantly and we had to move to Windsor to be closer to Granddad. Our home before we moved to Windsor was much better, Elizabeth said the only reason Mother moved us was “because of the pitiful looks.”
Anyway, now in 1958, Elizabeth and I knew today was different. Granddad talked to us about the war. The war sounds horrible. Granddad fought in the First World War you see, from 1914 to 1917. He fought in the war when he was sixteen, which is my age now. He served with honour in the 9th battalion York and Lancaster Regiment seeing front line action in Flanders and Northern Italy from the end of 1914 to January 1917. It was quite odd that Granddad spoke about his time during the war. I now understand why he hardly does.
It was his Dad that made him sign up for war. He didn’t want be to be shamed like his nephew, Andrew’s father had been. So Jack Frederick signed up for the war, unknown to the harsh realities of it.
The war is anything but glorious. It was all fake, he told us. I don’t know how he coped after witnessing the traumatic deaths of his friends. He said “Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, but limped on blood-shod” They had no choice but to do what they were told and continue marching until they could see a glimmer off rest and hope. It was due to the war that Granddad’s hearing is so bad. He needed people to shout at him then, and he still does now. When the enemy threw gas bombs, it was terror for Granddad and some of his bestest friends. That was the only good outcome from the war for Granddad, meeting young men that would be part of his life forever. But the worst was, losing these people that he had spent so much time with. “Gas, GAS! Quick, boys!” the commander would shout. And then came the ecstasy of fumbling. But there was always someone that was still yelling out and stumbling, and then you would see him; wallowing around like a man in fire or lime. No one could do anything because more danger was coming from the enemy lines. They would just look away and cry, because these men were sons, husbands, brothers and fathers even, to families who needed them.
The wounded surviving soldiers felt helpless and weak when the dying soldiers plunged at them. They would then gather the few that had little life left in them and fling them into the wagon. That was the worst part, seeing the white eyes writhing in his face, his hanging face, like a devils sick of sin. The blood would come gargling from his froth corrupted lungs. You would feel guilt for being glad it wasn’t you, but you would feel immense sorrow for these poor men.
Granddad thought it was unfair. He often questioned himself as to why he survived, because living with the terrifying memories of war was in some ways, just as bad as dying at war. Granddad said you would not tell to children ardent for some desperate glory, the old lie: Dulce et decorum est, Pro patria mori.
By Safra
My Dearest Agnes,
ReplyDeleteHere I am, at war. The weathers not been much of a support ever since we’ve been transferred to Katowice; it’s a city in Silesia which is in the southern part of Poland.
I do remember it is your birthday today and at the moment the best thing I can do is write a letter to you. I sure do hope you have a splendid day back home, I really do miss you.
I’ve been sleeping on the ground since a week in a tent with a dozen of other fellows in it. I can now probably tell you what we do around here, well; a few weeks ago we were presented with an atomic bomb and just lat week we had an experimental bomb in the north of Silesia. I was quite fortunate enough to observe this and I’ll probably never be able to forget it as long as I have life in me. It was a terrible sight, the sound was so unbearable and the sight was if a huge mushroom floated in the air leaving a big mess on the earth. It was terrible.
We had some visitors last night, firing away injuring a few, luckily. Our shells went over our front line into enemy zone. If we made a mistake in, we would have killed our own men, but this very rarely happens. Shells from other batteries are going over our heads day and night. In some positions, we can see the enemy in the distance our gun is a just a bit small, but makes more noise than a 60 pounder, when fired.
I read your letter and I know you want me to come home but remember your brother is taking part in a struggle to defend the rights of mankind and secure the future peace of the world.
Write again soon
Lots of love for all and self
From your brother Andy
Recasting - War Poem
ReplyDeleteThe ache is too great to bear, so unfair.
The hurt and grief, I wish I could share.
My beloved has been taken from me,
There is a God I know, how could he?
The good lord almighty forgives and loves,
The heavens above, more pure than doves.
He died in a too cruel a time,
The steepest mountain of faith I must climb.
So many men - too many men gone,
Released from the pain now, my heart has shone.
Pain and suffering, gas and coughing,
“Hell on earth”, is what you were saying.
The soldiers fought on with all their glory,
Things they witnessed, oh what a story.
Described as the dullest green, like dying grass,
Nothing my love, could prepare for this mass.
I've done a poem from the oppositions perspective, comparing the men to ants on the ground :)
ReplyDeleteThe ants on the ground,
Trudging through the dirt,
Hands elbow-deep with black,
Bodies all blooded and hurt.
One boot and no socks,
Helmet with a hole,
Bones ripping his skin,
Bomb dug deep,
Like a mole.
Circling the grey sky,
Finger hovering the option of death,
Holding our supply,
Then released from its prison cell,
It drops, it fires, it bangs,
And grew a hole where it fell.
Silence for the dead now,
The ants have been cut in two,
Blood and body parts,
But I only killed a few!