October MGWAT

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

It's a bit late, owing to UCAS and other commitments, but hopefully individuals such as Gunboat and Landsturm should still have sufficient time to think. This month's topic is:

A Burying Party

(please let me know if it's too difficult, I can change it if necessary)

[squirrel]

Sounds fine to me - I'll have a think.

[Ozzie]

Good topic. It should bring in a variety of work!

Hope that more people feel comfortable enough to have a go.

It is a great way to express your feelings for the war, but in a friendly enviroment.

Cheers

Kim

[Ozzie]

The Burial Party.

A voice made them turn. Instinctively they drew together, shielding the body that lay at their feet

"You blokes get moving, you’re needed for a carrying party."

Clarry, his face drawn and grey, drew himself up to his full height, making the others about him seem small. He stared down at the mud splattered officer in front of him

"We has business here, Sir."

"What the hell do you mean ,’you have business here’ ? I have given you a direction, now get going!"

Dave leant forward, "No, Sir, we have to take care of our mate. Then we can do as you say."

The officer, a veteran of Gallipoli, recognised the type of men in front of him. They were of the stamp of many he had seen in the past few years. Humans who has seen the worst of humanity, and had drawn a shield about themselves. Men who had built up a wall against the horror and loss. Men who, when , one of their own were lost, felt their own mortality, felt the futility of what they were doing. He understood that these men were at a point where nothing else mattered. It was in their slightly aggressive stance, their clenched hands, their remote eyes. He knew what the men were proposing was mutiny, but what was mutiny when all they wanted was time to take care of one of their own. Fifteen minutes out of years of war.

His heart battled with his head. He should not give in, but he had been in this situation, and he still carried the hurt at having to leave mates to rot on the battlefield. Images started to race through his mind, flashes of laughing men around a table in the officer’s mess, of crosses at Lone Pine. He shook his head, trying to clear it, to focus on these men.

A brown and white shape caught his eye.

"What the hell is a dog doing out here?" he asked, his voice tight with his inner conflict.

Dave reached down and stroked Bandy’s ears. "Sammy’s dog. He knew."

The officer audibly sucked in his breath, and then let it escape with a slight whistle.

"You men….., " He said slowly. "You blokes know that a burial party, and a chaplain, will be along to do their duty. Say your goodbyes and get going."

The men did not move. They did not look at each other, nor did they take their eyes from the man in front of them.

The officer felt their collective anger, and their grief, as a physical force. He rocked backwards, and took a deep breath. Before he could say anything, Dave stepped forward.

Dave put his hands out, palms upward. “Sir, with all the respect for those things on your uniform, that say we should do as you say, we can’t. Sammy was not a Christian, he was an Aboriginal. He grew up in white man’s world, but he also had his black ways and beliefs. If we were of his belief, we would not be even saying his name now. So, Sir, let us bury one of the bravest, most generous soldiers that ever stepped onto this godforsaken place, and let us do it our way.â€

An eerie silence enveloped the men, as around them the war went on.

"Please, Sir?"

With a concentrated effort, the officer dragged his eyes from Dave’s tear streaked face, for them only to fall upon the spaniel that lay with his head across the dead man’s chest.

With his face rigid, his eyes watering, the officer turned and walked slowly away, his mind seeing those laughing faces, the rotting bodies, and a whisper ran along with the images.

"Why did you not do as these men have done? Why did you leave your mates to die alone. To rot in the foul air of war? Why did you leave it for others to bury them?"

[HERITAGE PLUS]

I thought I'd have a go this time.

BURIAL PARTY - A SERGEANTS THOUGHTS

This was not the first time me and the lads had been allotted this task and as we made our way out of the trench we had occupied for what seemed an eternity, with an air of resignation I don’t think any of us were prepared for what we were to find that morning.

The air was crisp with a light mist moving gently over the ground around us bringing back the grim memories of another day a few months before when clouds of gas – which for some meant a agonising death or choking pain(which made them wish they were dead) - had been the ground covering.

This morning however was providing the calm after the storm. The day before and into the night fighting had been fierce with many a mother, wife, brother, sister losing a loved one.

We could see not far off a detachment of men in grey about to commence the same task as us. Both they and we carried on as if the others weren’t there – despite the fact that only hours earlier each had been intent on destroying the other.

As I said this wasn’t the first time that me and the lads had drawn this unenviable task – burial duty. On previous occasions we had carried out this duty as reverently as we could, as we had laid to rest men from our regiment, and others, who had left this mortal coil as a result of this ‘war to end all wars’.

This day was to be different. This time however we had the sad duty of burying three of our closest comrades, men who we had lived and fought with us for nearly three years. Privates Jones, York and O’Neill better known to us more familiarly to us as Taff, Yorkie and Mick.

I had been a Private with them from the outset and had for the past year been their Sergeant. As we trudged forward to the place, chosen by a random act of war as their burial place it was as if I could feel the others in the party thinking the same as me, remembering good times and bad spent with these pals.

I thought of Taff, a wiry little man from the valleys with a sing song accent which at times could grate on your nerves particularly when things got tough. He was a tough little chap who had been with us from the start. Whilst his accent grated at times his singing voice had to be heard – he had been lead tenor in his local Male Voice Choir and a soloist of note. When he sang it was if the world had stopped and we forgot all our troubles. Meg his wife of twenty years would now be left to look after their two kids – a girl and a boy –alone – I had met them just once when on leave – a real family they were. Taff’s great dream was to see his son, a budding rugby player, pull on the red shirt of Wales to play against the English. Whether the dream comes true who knows… Taff will though I’m sure.

Yorkie was as different to Taff as chalk and cheese, a big bluff chap from somewhere up north near Manchester. Always joking he was even when, as was the case most of the time, he was the butt of the joke. He had won the M.M. for rescuing a young wounded lad from no-mans-land whilst under fire. ‘Just looking after our own anyone would have done it’ was his comment when praise was heaped on him. Yorkie had been an orphan with no brothers or sisters and the grand-parents who had raised him had long passed on. I recall thinking ‘will anyone remember him’ and as if talking to myself think of course they bl**dy well will – I will for one.

Mick hadn’t been with us long, barely three months. In that short time he had become one of us in the sense that we couldn’t remember him not being there. He was quiet spoken – yet opinionated and with the gift of the blarney when raised. Probably the best looking of us longing to see his girl Kitty at home in Galway. He carried a photo’ of her in his breast pocket – a lovely looking lass. Mick, with his shock of thick black hair, was the eldest in his family and his widowed mother would miss him sorely. So would I.

We reached the spot and commenced our grim task. Three holes dug in the frozen ground – hard digging but somehow this time not a chore. I remember thinking at the time; it seems somewhat irreverent now though, that it was incongruous to have three holes of the same dimensions for three men of such different sizes.

We gently lowered our pals into their resting places as the padre intoned his invocation. He was visibly moved and his voice, usually so strident, trembled for they were his boys too.

No coffins, just blankets. The only mourners there were us the motley crew that had been their mates. They had been good mates… the best.

No bugle call or roll of drums for them. We could just hear the faint sound of guns firing way off down the line and the muffled sobs of our mates standing near the open graves.

No word was said as we covered them in…each silent with his own thoughts.

I didn’t need to record their names to be painted on the wooden cross that had been made ready for them – I knew them so well.

I had burial duties many times after but never such as this.

As I grow older I remember them – never to be old like me…Taff…. Yorkie… Mick.

Fine men never to be forgotten.

[Ozzie]

Thanks for having a go.

What a beautiful but sad memory for your Sergeant, that you have created.

Cheers

Kim

[Landsturm]

please let me know if it's too difficult, I can change it if necessary

It's not Good topic... and BTW, Katie... the MGWAT is all about challenges.

[Michael Johnson]

The Song of Private Charles Johnson

34^th Casualty Clearing Station R.A.M.C.

(late English Master, St. Swithin's College)

Curfew tolls the knell of parting day

Thud

The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea

Thud

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way

Thud

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

And that's the last for this day.

You see how neat and straight those graves are?

As straight as the desks in my Form Room once

(But never were my pupils as quiet as those out there)

With each new year the faces changed,

Jones Minor following Jones Major

(Tertius, Quartus and Quintus in some families )

But these will stay until the Last Trumpet sounds

Stewart, Captain of the First XI

(He's buried in the first row)

I had such hopes for him at Oxford

He told me he wanted to teach.

Williams, he was class of 1908,

He added the M.C. to his school ribbons

I've seen too many Old Boys return

Who will return no more.

Yes, they used to daydream through my lectures

Gray's "Elegy" was too old and dull

But each has now learned its eternal truth:

"The paths of glory lead but to the grave."

[marina]

That gave me the shivers, Michael.

Marina

[Gunboat]

What a start! The bar has been raised to a high level this month

Excellent entries all three.

Kim that was wonderfully written excellent characterisation

Heritage Plus, It may be your first entry but I hope its not your last wonderful

Michael, last month you gave us a marvlous piece of prose, and now you show your versatility with a fine poem

I think I may have to develop IT problems this month

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

I think it was quite a harrowing topic to set, and it's certainly yielded Literature to the full.

Kim, your vision of a circle of silent men, standing in a field, with the distress of one small dog speaking louder than the words of any men could was magnificent, and I really mean that. And I loved the way you ended it, with the poor Officer in his mind just asking 'why?' over and over again into the emptiness.

Heritage Plus, thank you for contributing to the thread, your piece was extremely thought-provoking. Of course, every one of the men was an individual. Of course it is hard to reconcile the image of a group of men laughing as though there is no tomorrow with the stillness and emptiness of a cadaver laid out on the ground. In fact, one or two of your lines, where was it...

"No bugle call or roll of drums for them. We could just hear the faint sound of guns firing way off down the line and the muffled sobs of our mates standing near the open graves."

really brought to mind:

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 for them from prayers or 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 silent maids,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

We must look past the rows of wooden crosses, and that is something I believe every one of this month's entries so far has done.

Michael, you did it in a way every bit as poignant with your free verses of observation. A very individual yet distressing outlook as well, likening the graves to rows of desks, and compassionate, remembering that these men too had ambitions.

Marvellous work, everybody. I look forward to reading more.

[susanhemmings]

These entries are excellent.

I think I will develop writers cramp this month!

Joking aside, the entries so far really are superb. Each one told from a different perspective. Harrowing, haunting and evocative each one.

Susan.

[Michael Johnson]

Harrowing, haunting and evocative each one.

St. Swithin's, not Harrow.

[susanhemmings]

Michael....... I will get out my cane!!!!

Ok, you put me to shame. Note the time......

THE BURIAL PARTY

The crunch of their feet on the snow could be heard

And although we all knew them, no-one said a word

The assault was now over each man utterly drained

Looking wildly around him, wondering what had been gained

By the numerous onslaught of bullets and shell

Most of the company had perished as well

“The party’s expected, it’s always the case”

Joe whispered to Jack “someone’s got to clear up the place”

Jack made no reply – thought of memories cherished

Each of his mates, most of them perished.

“The party’s expected – did you hear what I said”

“Yes I heard you, for gawd sake, give some thought to the dead”

The Party grew nearer – their chatter was heard

Joe constantly talking, Jack still not uttered a word

Both sat recalling their mates, all of them gone

The laughter, the good times, camaraderie so strong…

“They’ll treat them ok then Jack finally mused

Joe answered him quickly- " 'course they will - they’ve been in our shoes”

Jack poignantly glanced - Joe had started to quake

His shoulders were trembling, his hands were a-shake

The Party arrived with their stretchers and spades

To gather remains of the fallen comrades

Joe watched as they went out to bring in the dead

Jack stood silently by, hands holding his head

The Party returned – the fallen men found

The graves had been dug in the ice-frozen ground

The bodies been buried - each man did his best

Jack finally uttered “now I know they’re at rest”

The Party departed – in silence they went

Each one of them sobered by the recent event

Of seeing the Joes and the Jacks trying hard not to cry

And remembering the line – There but for the grace of God go I

[Michael Johnson]

It takes courage to take on rhyme, Susan, which is why I chose free verse. (that and the fact that Robert Browning is one of my favourite poets - and he also influenced Rudyard Kipling, another of them).

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

Michael, I'd agree with you about Rudyard Kipling. 'If' in particular is one of my favourite poems - I've got a printed teatowel with it on the inside of my bathroom door!

Susan, I particularly liked your final stanza. It's another one of those that brings the poem to a shudder-provoking culmination by sort of setting everything into perspective, humbling all the 'Joes and the Jacks' (Tommy Atkins, I suppose!) by looking at them on the whole massive scale of things.

Burial in 'ice-frozen ground' as well is a very moving piece of imagery - it's as though the earth itself is reluctant to see the fallen soldiers put to rest.

My entry might be a little belated again, I'm afraid - I haven't even given it much thought yet! And besides, as Gunboat said, anything that I do will look meagre in contrast to this lot!

[susanhemmings]

Michael, your free verse is lovely and sometimes free verse has more impact somehow. To be honest I have never even tried to write free verse. If I ever sit down to write a poem about something I can't get past the fact that lines should rhyme. Crazy I suppose. Must give it a go sometime and if I am ever brave enough will post something ......

Katie. after I had scribbled the latest offering and had already posted it I was relaxing in the bath and suddenly thought of a story and i was jawing away to myself about lines that soldier's may have said to one another. Things like one grumbling that he hated the burial duty, moaning and groaning - only to find when he got there that the unit had actually been swopped at the last minute and the dead were from a unit that contained his young brother. And at the end he had to admit that it had been worth it as he could tell his old mum that "our Billy" had been laid to rest ..... Then it all began to go into rhyming verses.

By the time I had got out of the bath I was then thinking that you could write something from the dead soldiers' points of view where they would be half buried and hoping and praying to be found by the people above ground and somehow having a silent conversation with other dead comrades.....

One thing this part of the forum has made me realise is that pieces of work can be written from so many different perspectives - that has been a big revelation to me...... I wished I had paid more attention at school. Also that things can be portrayed totally differently, yet have equal effect. Strange old world......

The bit about the Joe's and Jack's came to me from a poem I wrote about researching my family tree....... it was contained in the last line of a verse in the poem and goes "..... my quest has been worthwhile

the John's and Jack's flat on their backs, you really have to smile"

And I felt it needed saying to portray Joe and Jack (as you rightly say) as those representing the feelings and emotions of all gathered to witness the burial (the Tommy Atkins').....

And my line in my family history poem was absolutely true - as both my great grandad (Jack) and grandad (John) liked to have their fill of booze before it had all gone!!!!

I think I am in need of some therapy.........shame I don't drink.

Look forward to your piece.

Susan.

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

Yes, it's interesting what you say about different perspectives. There ARE some poems written from the point of view of dead soldiers - most famously 'In Flanders Fields' I suppose, ...oh, but that's the dead talking to the living, isn't it?... and then I think there is one called 'A Soldier Adresses His Body'? Can't remember who it is by though.

If everything had to be portrayed in the same light for it to be effective, it would be a bit of a boring old world! Best not to think about it too much though... that's when your head begins to hurt!!

[AlanCurragh]

Katie - the poem you are thinking of is by Edgell Rickwood - here is a link to it - http://books.google.com/books?id=D4Nb97xWX...Kfhq9e3_VYDQR_w

Must admit, i find it very odd....

Alan

[Michael Johnson]

One thing this part of the forum has made me realise is that pieces of work can be written from so many different perspectives - that has been a big revelation to me...... I wished I had paid more attention at school.

Susan, I don't think whatever talent I have came from school. More likely wide reading.

I just have these ideas that roll around in my head, until in some cases I have to write them.

[Dragon]

I don't think that A Soldier Addresses his Body is necessarily written from the point of view of a dead soldier. I think he could well be saying - to his living body - let's look after ourselves, let's try to get through unscathed, because there are so many things we still haven't done or seen, but let's make the most of what's happening now, too. Whether it's influenced by the fact that he lost an eye, I don't know.

None of Edgell Rickword's poetry was written during the war. He became a literary critic and political journalist.

Strange Meeting (Owen) is one of the few communications by a dead soldier that comes to my mind without going in search of examples.

Susan - it's odd where inspiration happens, isn't it! Whoever told you that poetry had to rhyme was wrong. I don't think that the person we were at school should restrict what we feel we can do now, creatively. I find my creative energy varies from year to year; occasionally poetry flows, usually I write prose (which I prefer to poetry), often it's visual (photography, sometimes it needs to be hands-on and physical, my black paintings). Often one liberates the other: if I'm stuck, trying a visual piece may be the starting point for a prose piece. So much depends on what sort of inner chaos one is living with and the inner light or healing one is searching for and how one needs to connect with other human beings, say something to them, whether it's telling a story or sharing a moment or whatever. Sometimes you just know intuitively that something is right, but I think one of the important things is trying not to care too much about what other people will think and just getting started. Easy to say.....!

Gwyn

[Katie Elizabeth Stewart]

I got the poem from 'The Penguin book of First World War Poetry'. And I think perhaps I just assumed it would take the form of a narrative from a dead soldier because of the title without actually taking time to read through the poem properly! I agree with Gwyn about 'Strange Meeting' - it has the subterranean feel of hell, but then Owen is also disregarding the idea of hell, because at that time I think what faith he had felt was all but dead - he's saying 'there is no hell. Hell is right here, in the war, and after death there is nothing but silence and the faces of 'the enemy you killed.' It reminds me in a way of the closing line in Hamlet; 'The rest is silence.'

Another poem that springs to mind is this by Siegfried Sassoon:

He stood alone in some queer sunless place

Where Armageddon ends. Perhaps he longed

For days he might have lived; but his young face

Gazed forth untroubled: and suddenly there thronged

Round him the hulking Germans that I shot

When for his death my brooding rage was hot.

He stared at them, half-wondering; and then

They told him how I’d killed them for his sake—

Those patient, stupid, sullen ghosts of men;

And still there seemed no answer he could make.

At last he turned and smiled. One took his hand

Because his face could make them understand.

Anway, that was an interesting debate about poems from a dead soldier's narrative! Perhaps we should return to the original topic now!

[Landsturm]

Decided to go for something more simple this month, since my contribution last month quite well matched this month's title... so here's mine.

[Gunboat]

The Burial Party

He walked hesitantly along the well worn track wishing with every step that he could turn about and head back toward his dugout. Although they were some way away from the frontline they were still well within range of enemy guns and so all burials were to be conducted in the evening. It was dusk, and a dozen or so figures stood solemnly, silhouetted against the last vestiges of the sunset.

As he came toward the end of the path he could just make out in the near distance partly hidden behind the wreck of a GS wagon, where they could avoid the censorious gaze of the padre, the orange tips of the cigarettes of the burial detail as they sat or stood leaning on their picks and shovels, laughing and joking. He wished he could join them. Yet he knew he had to do his duty as an officer, a holder of the Military Cross to face his greatest battle so far, the battle of his conscience, whether to steel himself to endure another burial service or to turn away and leave.

He quietly joined the mixed congregation of officers and other ranks who stood at the graveside, they acknowledged him with nods of recognition. He looked at the six bodies laid out adjacent to the freshly dug graves. Would they have been so eager, he thought, to volunteer to die for their country if they knew their reward would be a shroud of sack -cloth and internment in soil that was not even theirs to till, in a country which before the war they would have been hard-pushed to find on a map.

Even so, would they be comforted by the words spoken over them now? Did they at the moment of their death or when they lay in agony still believe in God?

Could the God who supposedly loved us man so much that he gave up his only son for our salvation, sanction such a waste of so many young sons? He had confided his doubts in the RC chaplain who ministered to the catholic troops (he no longer trusted the hypocrisy of the Church of England who had thumped the pulpits with such patriotic fervour at the outbreak of war and still did so now, for the most part in safety behind the lines). The priest had consoled him with Christ’s own agony in the Garden of Gethsemane, that if the Lord himself had a crisis of faith, then how could he a mere man be expected not to have doubts; God the priest assured him, would show him the way. He had taken some comfort from this but after much anguish he could not reconcile the horrors of this war with the God he had believed in. This war was real he could see the evidence all around him but he could not see any evidence of God, so how could He be real.

He wanted to interrupt the service tell the men assembled that it was all a lie, there was no God, no better life to follow. But he knew he couldn’t. He knew the men standing heads bowed, some holding crosses with crudely carved inscriptions, needed to believe that the suffering of their friends was not in vain, that they had gone to a better life beyond this living hell. They needed to believe this, not just for the sake of their fallen comrades but for themselves. He must, therefore, face his Gethsemane alone.

He said a silent prayer “Lord if you exist, give me the strength to do my duty” put the Book of Common Prayer and Bible to his lips and kissed them and turned to mourners, “we are gathered here today….”

[Gunboat]

Decided to go for something more simple this month, since my contibution last month quite well matched this month's title... so here's mine.

Wonderful Landsturm .....yet again we were both inspired by the imagery of men sillouhetted against the twighlight.