{"id":140961,"date":"2020-11-11T06:12:15","date_gmt":"2020-11-11T11:12:15","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=140961"},"modified":"2020-11-11T08:17:18","modified_gmt":"2020-11-11T13:17:18","slug":"armistice-day-at-100","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/?p=140961","title":{"rendered":"Armistice Day Anniversary"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

\nRobert Graves, who enlisted in the Royal Welch Fusiliers on the outbreak of war, was injured so badly in the Battle of the Somme he was expected to die. He saw unimaginable horrors and lived to tell the tale. His war poetry was known for its realism, and its frank facing of the horrors of war. Along with poets like Wilfred Owen and Siegfried Sassoon, he gave voice to the reality, the actual experience of soldiers in those horrifying trenches. The opposite of jingoistic. Poetry like this was an enormous break with tradition. That war broke with tradition. It was like nothing the world had ever seen before. Not on that scale. <\/p>\n

Armistice Day, 1918<\/big><\/strong>
\nby Robert Graves<\/i><\/p>\n

What’s all this hubbub and yelling,
\n Commotion and scamper of feet,
\nWith ear-splitting clatter of kettles and cans,
\n Wild laughter down Mafeking Street?<\/p>\n

O, those are the kids whom we fought for
\n (You might think they’d been scoffing our rum)
\nWith flags that they waved when we marched off to war
\n In the rapture of bugle and drum.<\/p>\n

Now they’ll hang Kaiser Bill from a lamp-post,
\n Von Tirpitz they’ll hang from a tree….
\nWe’ve been promised a ‘Land Fit for Heroes’—
\n What heroes we heroes must be!<\/p>\n

And the guns that we took from the Fritzes,
\n That we paid for with rivers of blood,
\nLook, they’re hauling them down to Old Battersea Bridge
\n Where they’ll topple them, souse, in the mud!<\/p>\n

But there’s old men and women in corners
\n With tears falling fast on their cheeks,
\nThere’s the armless and legless and sightless—
\n It’s seldom that one of them speaks.<\/p>\n

And there’s flappers gone drunk and indecent
\n Their skirts kilted up to the thigh,
\nThe constables lifting no hand in reproof
\n And the chaplain averting his eye….<\/p>\n

When the days of rejoicing are over,
\n When the flags are stowed safely away,
\nThey will dream of another wild ‘War to End Wars’
\n And another wild Armistice day.<\/p>\n

But the boys who were killed in the trenches,
\n Who fought with no rage and no rant,
\nWe left them stretched out on their pallets of mud
\n Low down with the worm and the ant.<\/p>\n

Another poem, this one by Henry Chappell, is nigh-on impossible to read without getting choked up. It’s about the bravery of a particular war horse: horses were used in great numbers in WWI. <\/p>\n

A Soldier’s Kiss<\/strong><\/big>
\nby Henry Chappell<\/em><\/p>\n

Only a dying horse! pull off the gear,
\nAnd slip the needless bit from frothing jaws,
\nDrag it aside there, leaving the road way clear,
\nThe battery thunders on with scarce a pause.<\/p>\n

Prone by the shell-swept highway there it lies
\nWith quivering limbs, as fast the life-tide fails,
\nDark films are closing o\u2019er the faithful eyes
\nThat mutely plead for aid where none avails.<\/p>\n

Onward the battery rolls, but one there speeds
\nHeedlessly of comrades voice or bursting shell,
\nBack to the wounded friend who lonely bleeds
\nBeside the stony highway where he fell.<\/p>\n

Only a dying horse! he swiftly kneels,
\nLifts the limp head and hears the shivering sigh
\nKisses his friend, while down his cheek there steals
\nSweet pity\u2019s tear, \u201cGoodbye old man, Goodbye\u201d.<\/p>\n

No honours wait him, medal, badge or star,
\nThough scarce could war a kindlier deed unfold;
\nHe bears within his breast, more precious far
\nBeyond the gift of kings, a heart of gold.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Robert Graves, who enlisted in the Royal Welch Fusiliers on the outbreak of war, was injured so badly in the Battle of the Somme he was expected to die. He saw unimaginable horrors and lived to tell the tale. His … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[39],"tags":[1638,141],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140961"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140961"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140961\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":163124,"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140961\/revisions\/163124"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140961"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140961"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.sheilaomalley.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140961"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}