Trench Life - Through A Poets Eyes

In 1915, at the age of 22, a man that would be remembered in history, enlisted in the British Army. His name ... Wilfred Owen.

For two tiresome years, he fought battle after battle until in 1917 he was sent home for treatment after suffering from shell-shock. He underwent the most modern and advanced treatment in mental health at the Craiglockhart hospital. Here he met fellow patient and poet Siegfried Sassoon. During their stay at the hospital they became good friends with Siegfried guiding Wilfred and encouraging him to put his experiences of war into poetry.

After his treatment finished, Wilfred returned to war. In October 1918, he was one of many brave soldiers that took part in the breaking of the Hindenburg Line and was awarded the Military Cross. Unfortunately just one month later on the 4th November 1918, just a couple of weeks before the end of the war, Wilfred was killed in the battle to cross the Sambre-Oise canal at Ors...

On the 11th November 1918 shortly before 11am, the Owen family opened their door to the devastating news that their beloved son had been killed in battle and would not be returning home. Whilst the family stood still in shock, in the background and all across the country, church bells were ringing and people were celebrating the end of the war.

For Wilfred it was to late but his memory still lived on through his poetry, where even today we still turn to for clues about the Great War. Without the support of Siegfried, Wilfred would not have found the passion and true talent to write these poems. Of Wilfreds poems there is one that for me sums trench life up and the poignant words used lingers in the air. No explanations or exploring are needed, it has been written without hidden meaning, to tell the real story of war. I therefore end this post with the very moving Dulce Et Decorum Est...

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, bloodshod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots,
Of gas-shells dropping softly 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,
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,
To old lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro Patria Mori