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Remembered Today:

January MGWAT


Gunboat

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He drew the blankets closer to him, his body curled in upon itself, as if he were a babe in the womb. But there was no warmth, as would have been in the body of his mother. Instead, his skin shivered with the memory of crawling, biting creatures. His limbs trembled with their memory of weariness and effort. Behind his closed eyelids, flashes of light, voids of blackness, and faces of men each crowded for attention. The worst was the noise. Not just a humming in the ears, not an annoying buzz, but a full percussion orchestra, made of whizz bangs, mortars and Big Berthas; crashing and banging with no end to the symphony, over and over, the devil’s instruments playing the same horrendous notes.

His nose wrinkled as he smelt again the vomit, the urine, the fear, as the men stood facing the parapet, staring at the ladders that would take them to glory, or to hell. His fingers wound themselves into the blanket, the jerking but timed movements strangely alike to lifting, cocking, squeezing and lifting, cocking, and….

The orchestra began another symphony. His lips drew back, and the skin stretched taunt across his cheekbones as the devil’s instruments became entwined with the screams of the wounded and dying.

Night was always upon him; no sun, no spring mornings, no autumn glow. To open his eyes and see light was to be crushed by guilt. No other from his platoon would ever see the sun, or the spring, or the autumn. Some were in one piece in the cold hard ground. Others were in pieces, the resting place of which no-one knew where.

He had no recollection of time. It was yesterday that he had lain down in the mud, and tried to die. Laid down his rifle, placed his bayonet beside it, and put his head in the putrid water of the shell hole. He had no idea of why he had done this, no memory of conscious thought in doing such an act.

He did not know that five years had passed since that day. That the stretcher bearers had thought that they had saved him from death.

They had not saved him. He was living death, over and over and over.

The nurse moved quietly along between the rows of beds, her mind noticing with out conscious thought, the state of each patients sleep, or wakefulness. Her ears registered the moans, the weeping or the snores, that came from each bed. She knew without looking at the records, which patients were on heavy sedation, which patients were strapped to their beds, and which patients would never make a sound again.

They had been her boys when they had first been brought in, blood streaming from their wounds, maggots crawling from their flesh, the stench of gangrene filling her nostrils. They had been her boys when she bathed the sweating bodies, dressed the stumps, and cleaned the rotting flesh from their wounds.

They had been her boys when she sat with them as they died, as they wept for their mothers, their wives, their children.

She had waved the cured goodbye and wished them well.

They had been her boys when she accompanied the incurable to their beds in the stark grey building hidden behind rows of elms.

Her boys that she tended with the loving care of a mother, and whom she laid a nightly kiss upon, each and every one of them, and watched them sigh in their sleep, or quieten their thrashing, just for a moment, before their horrors returned.

He felt the soft caress of her lips, and for one moment, the orchestra stopped, and the sun shone. His limbs were still, and hell was pushed back…

For one moment.

Kim

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Beautiful Lands....

We often forget that whilst people of every race, colour and creed are capable of such inhumanity to their fellow man we are all united by our capacity to love and that is often expressed by the simplest of gestures a kiss

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Well said Gunny.

Bad week has just been topped offf by the fact I can't remember how to do a poll, and can't find the post that explained how to do it!!! <_<

Kim

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The Kiss

Father Michael Ryan clambered into the trench ahead of the two stretcher bearers and helped them ease the stretcher over the parapet and stepped nimbly aside let them pass. The casualty on his way, the priest allowed himself a moments rest seated on the firestep. He took off his helmet and wiped the lining and then his brow with a handkerchief and bowed his head for a moment.

He must have dozed as one of the sentries shook him gently awake.

“I wouldn’t sleep there padre…why not go back and get some rest you’ve been out there half the night”

The priest rubbed his eyes and managed a weak smile

“You’re probably right lad”

He stretched his tired, stiff limbs and would have struggled to get to his feet were it not for a number of willing hands that pushed and pulled him upright, because despite this division being mainly protestant, Father Ryan was a popular chaplain. The troops respected him, not only his unfailing good humour but his willingness to put his own life at risk to bring comfort to any man regardless of his creed.

As he wend his way through the communication trenches having to pause now and again exchange greetings with those that recognised him, he decided he would visit the Advance Dressing Station before he turned in for the night.

He arrived to scene that Dante could not have imagined himself. Every conceivable available space was taken up by wounded men on stretchers, seated or standing. There was a low murmur amongst the walking wounded as they chatted quietly but more noticeable was that the most seriously wounded, despite the agony of their wounds, seldom made a sound despite the odd groan. Orderlies walked down the lines of men, stopping to adjust dressings or to make a man more comfortable, some carried a ladle and bucket to dispense drinking water. A few harried looking doctors moved purposefully between the rows attending the most severely injured and prioritising those men to be evacuated to the Casualty Clearing Station. At the arrival of the priest many visibly brightened and some of the stretcher cases propped themselves on an elbow or tried to sit up to greet the cheerful cleric.

“hahhhh I see some of you have got the “blighty one” we’ve been praying for ” the priest blustered to no one in particular

This caused a laugh among some of the less serious wounded who seemed happy enough with their chance to get out of it all for a while.

Father Ryan walked amongst the rows of stretchers and one of the men reached up and took hold the priest’s hand.

“could you spare me a moment or two father” a voice said pleadingly.

“Is that young Kevin Byrne…ah so it is, I should’ve known you’d find yourself a comfortable billet…what you got there Kevin….bullet to the leg… a nice clean wound hey?. I’ll be back in a minute…I just need to…”

The priest nodded in the general direction of a row of stretchers placed a little distance away from the main body of the dressing station. The boy seemed to know what he meant and nodded…the priest patted his hand and let go.

Father Ryan approached the orderly standing next to a line of about twenty or so men and took his arm gently and asked if any of the men stood a chance.

The orderly shrugged his shoulders and moved aside.

These were those so seriously wounded, some grossly disfigured and mutilated, that they were not expected to survive the journey down the line. A decision had been taken to leave them aside so those with a better chance of survival could take priority for the limited spaces in the field ambulances, wagons and hand carts that moved in slow procession to the Casualty Clearing Station. Some were already covered by their blankets.

The priest moved down the line conversing to those who could and checking the labels of those who were unable to respond to him. He stopped and prayed with some and with others he took letters and personal effects that they wanted to be sent home. The last but one man, a Munster Fusilier was a catholic and the priest administered the last rites. The fusilier followed the service with his eyes and was able to gasp a final amen before his eyes closed for the final time. The priest drew the blanket over the dead man's face and sighed.

He turned to the final stretcher a young man his with a bandage wound turban like over most of his head. Where it was visible his once fair hair was matted with blood. His eyes were swollen and blackened like a boxers, his lips cracked and purple and yet he spoke with a clarity that surprised the cleric.

“No point stopping here padre …I’m not one of you’re lot, I don’t even believe in god”

“well there’s many a man here who doubts his belief in God” the priest replied.

Without speaking he looked to the orderly who was standing nearby making a note on a ledger, the orderly looked up briefly and reading the priest’s furrowed brow as query as whether a mistake had been made with this man. The orderly shook his head and returned to his notebook.

The priest looked at the label

Harold Owen…head wound…shrapnel in brain …loss of both legs.

Father Ryan was not the kind of priest to be deterred easily from an act of kindness he rubbed his chin as if pondering on a new idea.

“well Harold…Harry is it…” trying to read an expression from the grotesquely swollen face was nearly impossible but he was able to ascertain that Harry was the preferred epithet, “ what if I don’t stay here as a priest but stay as a friend?”

Owen moved his eyes and the priest took that as an approval. He solemnly took he stole from his neck kissed it and placed it inside his tunic he put his prayer book in his pocket

“In that case” the priest said regaining some of his usual jollity “Harry Owen…I am Michael Ryan and it is a great pleasure to meet you sir”

The young man started to shudder violently as if having a nightmare

“I’ll be back Lucy….I’ll be back…say you’ll wait for me Lucy…Lucy”

He said the same name over and over his voice getting increasingly louder until the priest took his hand and started to hush the boy

“Shhhhh try and settle Harry, try and Settle ….” and as if comforted by his mother's voice Harry settled.

The priest was aware that the orderly was standing at his side.

“It sometimes happens like that with a head case padre, he has been drifting in and out like that for a few hours now..one minute he is talking quite normally, next he is barely understandable...it shouldn’t be long now...in fact its a miracle he has lasted this long.”

Harry looked feverish and his mouth parched. The father looked up at the orderly

“Is it alright to give him a drink?”

The Orderly shrugged his shoulders

“It can't do any harm Padre there is nothing we can do for him now, we can manage his pain that's about it, he might as well have a drink”

The priest knew that despite his seemingly uncaring tone the orderly was a man who cared deeply for those under his care, indeed the way he tenderly lifted the head of the soldier to adjust the sacking pillow proved this. He had just been exposed to such horrors and misery that he had to shave slithers off own humanity to simply endure what he did. The priest wondered how many mental scars the doctors and the other medical staff would suffer after this war finally ended.

Harry was coming around again and he squeezed the priests hand, his voice full of concern.

“Did I swear Padre, did I swear...the medic said that last time I swore terribly”

The priest smiled “No Harry you didn't swear, not that it would have bothered me much if you had, I have been known to say the odd swear word myself - God forgive me” The priest became serious. “No Harry you said the name Lucy over and over again, is she your wife?”

“No my sweetheart....in my pocket”

The priest let go of his hand to open his breast pocket he took out a letter inside the folds of which was a photograph The priest went to show to him the photograph but Harry moved his eyes, which the priest took as an invitation for him to look.

The photograph was well worn, creased and with frayed edges, but the image itself was still clear, that of a plump, pretty woman, her fair hair bunched high on the back of head. She was sat stiffly on a studio chair her hands folder primly on her lap. Yet the formal setting and rigid unsmiling pose couldn't hide the fact that she was a jolly girl who had laughter in her eyes.

“She is a fine looking Girl Harry...a fine looking girl” The priest held the photograph to Harry's face...but the young man averted his gaze.

“we got engaged before I came out here...her father gave his consent, we are going to be married on my first leave” Harry looked back to the priest “That was eighteen months ago and no sign of it....oh I prayed for a blighty one so I could go 'ome and marry Lucy and I get this”...his voice cracked for a moment “...oh when I left her she smothered me with kisses Padre...her lips were so soft and her kisses were like honey...Oh I'm sorry Padre...of course you can't you wouldn't know...”

“ Tsk not a bit of it Harry Lad, I was a young man before I became a priest, I had my moments....there that surprised you didn't it?...yes there was Mary Donnelly...oh she was a flamed haired temptress that girl, forged by the devil himself..no doubt. She asked me to take her to America...kissed me to seal the bargain”

“But why didn't you ...?” Harry asked

“I knew even then that if I was to go to America it would be at his His beckoning....not Mary Donnolly's...I married her... to a publican called Flanagan..and there is a flame haired army of little demons running around Tipperary as testimony to their union...”

“Do you ever think about that kiss, Father?”

“Truth is Harry, I hadn't until you asked me...but do you know I can remember now the taste of her kiss....”

“Like Honey?” Harry filled in the pause

“No Cabbage!” The priest chuckled

Harry laughed until he started coughing and choking, blood started from the corner of his mouth, the coughing abated and the priest cradled his head and put his water flask to Harry's lips. He drank greedily.

“I am so sorry lad.....”

“No father,I am glad I got to laugh....”

Father Ryan knew Harry he was going to say “one last time” but he didn't let him finish the sentence.

“Come on Harry Lad..let's get you lay down and comfortable again.

Harry reached for the photograph and the priest placed it in his hand. Harry kissed the image and let it drop back on the pillow next to his head.

“will you write to Lucy for me, Padre, send her this picture back to her, I want her to have it...tell her I was thinking of her”

Father Ryan promised her would and asked whether Harry wanted him to read Lucy's letter to him. Harry nodded and turned his head toward the photograph.

The priest put his spectacles on and unfolded the letter. He cleared his throat.

“Dear Harry My Sweetheart,

I hope this letter finds you well. I got your last letter and was so sad that you even had to ask me whether I still love you. Of course I love you my darling...”

Father Ryan lifted his eyes from the page, Harry was moving his lips forming the words of the letter he must have read a thousand times...

“I cannot wait for you to take your leave so that we can be married, please tell me you have some news of when that will be, oh please let it be soon”

Harry's breathing faltered in a way that the priest recognised as being very near the end, as he read the letter aloud he said a prayer in his head

“I cannot wait to be Lucy Owen and have a little family...”

Harry lifted his head slightly... “Oh Lucy!”

His head fell backwards and he spoke no more.

Father Ryan closed Harry's eyes, crossed himself and said a silent prayer. He folded the letter and put it back in Harry's pocket. He picked up the photograph, across the sepia image was the bloody imprint of Harry's lips in his final kiss.

The priest covered the body with the blanket and rose stiffly to his feet. He put away his spectacles and picked up his helmet. He paused for a moment before turning briskly on his heels.

“Now where is my boy Kevin Byrne” he bellowed to no one in particular.

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Thanks Kim

I am toying with the idea of developing a number of short stories around this character a kind of Father Brown of the Chaplain Service. As you say it is an area that hasnt been much explored

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Will you be staying with the RC Chaplain or including clerics of other denominations?

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Thanks Kim

I am toying with the idea of developing a number of short stories around this character a kind of Father Brown of the Chaplain Service. As you say it is an area that hasnt been much explored

An interesting angle, Gunnie - the unsung heroes, the non-combatants (both clerical and medical), who have to deal with the horrors and the personal danger but don't have the "safety-valve" of fighting back. As you say, a much-ignored facet of war - good luck with your quest to develop the character.

Cheers-salesie.

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Will you be staying with the RC Chaplain or including clerics of other denominations?

I had thought of that especially as some of the anglican chaplains got an undeserved bad press and I was going to introduce an anglican chaplian also doing his rounds but I was drifiting further away from the theme of the kiss. I think will stick to the same central character but may include some storylines that include Chaplains from other demoninations as they interact woith Father Ryan. I will need to do a bit of research but I would imagine that there was some interaction with other faiths.

I have a somewhat whimsical imagination I think I was rather too influenced by the cheerful goings on in Inisfree in the film The Quiet Man where the Anglicans and Catholics lived happilly side by side and the Catholics cheered on the Anglican bishop to ensure the Anglican clergyman retained his parish....that was surelyt based on fact ;)

And thanks Salesie Father Ryan may be back in MGWAT as I try a few ideas

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I had thought of that especially as some of the anglican chaplains got an undeserved bad press and I was going to introduce an anglican chaplian also doing his rounds but I was drifiting further away from the theme of the kiss. I think will stick to the same central character but may include some storylines that include Chaplains from other demoninations as they interact woith Father Ryan. I will need to do a bit of research but I would imagine that there was some interaction with other faiths.

I have a somewhat whimsical imagination I think I was rather too influenced by the cheerful goings on in Inisfree in the film The Quiet Man where the Anglicans and Catholics lived happilly side by side and the Catholics cheered on the Anglican bishop to ensure the Anglican clergyman retained his parish....that was surelyt based on fact ;)

And thanks Salesie Father Ryan may be back in MGWAT as I try a few ideas

Ah, The Quiet Man - a nice and cosy piece of Hollywood; good to watch as long as you suspend disbelief (which in some ways is not a bad thing, but in others?). My own feelings about such things can be summed up by what a reviewer said of a particular piece of mine; "he captures the mood of the times through a soldier’s eyes without drenching us in Irish-dew sentimentality or Quiet Man ‘Pad-wackery’."

That said, I still watch the damn thing when I'm in that kind of mood.

Cheers-salesie.

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Nice idea Gunboat - the book Happy Days in France & Flanders was written by a C of E Chaplain and has some references to interacting with Chaplains of other denominations.

He was known as "Happy Days" as it was one of his favorite expressions.

Also gives some descriptions of the fighting on the Belgian coast around Nieuport etc.

Might be useful for some background research.

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Here's my entry.

Regards,

Earl of Berkhamsted.

post-38356-1232667229.jpg

"The Kiss"

Watercolour 10x8"

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E of B that is awesome. My entry was going to be the kiss of death but am having too many problems with it to share

Diane

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Excellent entry EoB I particularly like the image of the girl resting under his chin.

(The painting of the rifle would stand as a study in itself)

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Still quiet - here's another.

Cheers-salesie.

Where are those lips...? Not for polling

When marching off to the Kaiser's war,

Plenty of girls; kisses galore.

But when hobbling back; one leg

And ne'er but half a face.

Where are those lips?

Those arms that embrace?

They look away, can't bear to see

What this war has done to me.

Those who rushed to kiss, to hug,

Of that heady, reckless thrill to tell

Absent friends what they had missed,

Now cannot confront what I earned in hell?

Where are those lips so eager to kiss?

Those arms that embrace thrown by many a miss?

Sunk in the mire outside of Ypres.

Gone in a flash, devoured by the mud,

Along with limb, and nose and chin,

And gallons and gallons of young British blood.

© John Sales 2009

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An excellent entry John

I particularly liked these lines

"Those who rushed to kiss, to hug,

Of that heady, reckless thrill to tell

Absent friends what they had missed,

Now cannot confront what I earned in hell "

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I've only been a member for a few weeks but I feel very welcome here. Thank you everyone. :)

Starting to learn about The Great War has been hard. I guess it would be the same for many people? So much sadness. The few facts I've always known are nothing compared to the real story.

However reading the MGWATs (please, what does that stand for? :blush:) and looking at the beautiful artwork there, has helped in a strange way.

There are some beautiful pieces of work each month.

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Monthly Great War Art Thread

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