July MGWAT

[ypres1418]

Sorry if i have made this one difficult but it was the first thing that came into my head.

Ready?

THEN AND NOW!

Hope you can do something with this.

Mandy

[Ozzie]

This ought to bring out the artists talents, Mandy.

Great idea.

Love to see more people have a go. How about some more poetry?

Cheers

Kim

[ypres1418]

Thanks Kim,

Now all I have to do is get something to post!

Mandy

[Ozzie]

YES, you have been such a support to everyone in these threads ! Time for you to have a go.

Looking forward to seeing everyone's response to this topic.

Cheers

Kim

[ypres1418]

and yours Kim,

Mandy

[spike10764]

Then and now it is....

[Ozzie]

Thankyou Mandy, for this one.

I was wondering what the hell am I going to write about this one? Then I realised it was there, had been for a long time. It just came out.

This very brief story is part fiction, and part memory of an interview with a man who fought in the AIF, 1915-1919.

It is my everlasting shame that I did not record his name, his battalion, or his life. But back then, when I had this opportunity, I was young and ignorant.

Then and Now.

In the trench, wrapped in his great coat, a thin, tall man crouched, made small by the need to conserve his body heat. His eczema coated finger, cracked and bleeding from the constant freezing air, rested gently on the trigger of his rifle, not feeling the cold steel, but there by instinct, borne of experience.

He listened. The low coughs of men behind him, the breeze causing the cans on the wire to rustle ever so slightly, a moan here and there, these were sounds he knew. They were not the sounds that terrified him.

The high pitched whine of a shell coming from the German lines would cause him to stiffen and hold his breath, waiting. That was something that would cause his heart to race. The relief, when it fell elsewhere. Not him, not this time. The knowledge that someone else died, blown to bits, but still, it wasn’t he, …those thoughts scared him. Was he losing his humanity? It gnawed at him.

The hour before dawn, when the fog hovered, its gentle dampness on his face as he listened intently for the groans and grunts of men carrying heavy loads, signs of the enemy trying to make their way through the thick cloying mud to spring a surprise attack. The thought of having to kill again drove his mind into black despair, but he knew he would kill again.

Ah, but then came the dawn. The dawn breaking always lifted his spirits. It meant he had survived another day. He watched as the birds flittered above him, seemingly oblivious to the grey desolate scene beneath their beating wings.

Oh what he would give to be able to spread wings, and lift himself from this man made hell. What would he see, up there, where nature lifted its chosen ones on wings that beat faster than his heart.

He turned back towards the German lines.

From the corner of his eye, he saw a black four legged shape emerge from the fog. The animal ran in a strange crouching manner, weaving to and fro, as it dodged craters of murky water, and strands of cruelly, barbed wire. Around its neck, a collar of thick leather with a small metal cylinder attached, drew the soldiers eye.

‘We’ve telephones and men, but in this **** hole of a place, we’re reduced to relying on dumb animals to relay our commands. How pitiful are we?’ he muttered quietly, disgust filling him.

No sooner had he said the words than rifle fire rung out from the enemy trenches. The dog had veered up a slight incline, and momentarily exposed himself on a small ridge.

The labouring animal darted left, then right. His haunches hit the ground, and the dog rolled over and over, shrieking with pain. He struggled to his feet, fear and training driving him on. Looking back over his shoulder, he seemed to hesitate, but obeyed his instincts, and began to run forward again, carrying his left hind leg.

A heavy burst of rifle fire saw black hair and red flesh sent high into the air ; pieces of loyal, obedient servant drifted seemingly slowly downwards into a crater of glutinous, embracing mother earth.

The soldier laid down his rifle and buried his face in his hands, his tears warm against the cold skin of his fingers.

The old man was blind; bed ridden in an old people’s home that smelt of stale urine, talcum powder, and cold tea.

He lay, propped up on fresh white pillows, his top sheet turned down over the blanket at the correct, hospital perfect length.

Staring at his hands, with their transparent paper thin skin, that showed the blue veins carrying his life force in ever slowing cycles through his worn and tortured body, I could not help but think of his courage.

To lie day after day in a hospital ward, with the memories of horror and suffering, such as those he was sharing with me; was it stubbornness? To be blind, and not see the ever increasing pace of the world; was it spirit? To grimly hang on to what pitiful life he had, as his chest rose and fell irregularly from the effects of being gassed all those years ago; was it courage?

The tears rose over his thin lower eyelashes and dripped slowly down his scarred cheeks, as he told me of the dog. The hair stood up on the back of my neck, and my skin crawled as he spoke each word clearly and slowly, as if was all happening at that very minute, his blind eyes seeing a moment in time, seventy years ago.

Rest in peace, old mate, you deserve to.

[ypres1418]

Kim,

so moving I'm sure you had a tear in your eye again as you recounted that.

Mandy

[spike10764]

Powerful stuff Kim....

[spike10764]

Here's my July effort :-

Then And Now

He stood, slightly hunched against the driving rain as water dripped

off the rim of his hat and ran down his back. Around him the earthy aromas

of freshly wetted woodland and fields were rife as the sun began it's rise

on a chill morning.

He had come to Picardy, as so many had before him, in the company of

friends, but now in the hours of dawn, he never felt so alone. Something

told him this was a day of destiny, a day when questions would be

answered ( and he had so many) and finally he would achieve his goal.

Could days of destiny be so ordinary, so miserable ?

He pulled his overcoat tighteraround himself and looked across what

seemed a lifeless landscape in the twilight of early morning. As the hour

approached his mind started to wander, to people the thin light

to travel across miles and years to a place he did not know, but,

was a part of his being somehow.......

When his Great Grandad was here, it was hot and sunny, dry and dusty.

The land that looks quiet and idyllic now, was scarred and torn and the

noise was almost constant. They had peered out of the remnants of the

ancestors of these woods at the German Line and thought, They can't

live through this, surely. but every now and then a shell exploded too

close to be a 'short' and a rifle shot rang out (they couldn't be sure but

the old sweats said it was no Lee Enfield). They kept telling themselves

" They can't live through the barrage, they can't". And so they sat and

waited for zero hour, their date and day of destiny........

Standing in the wood, he glanced to his right, in the direction of La

Boiselle and tried to imagine how they all must have felt, those years ago.

When the mine had gone up two minutes before zero hour. He had read

debris was reported rising to 4000 ft by an RFC pilot who was in the area

on the morning.What must that have looked like and felt like to the boys

in the trenches, in this wood, barely a mile away ? It must have made

them think the Germans were all going to be dead after all. It would

be a walkover.

The hour approached now, not zero hour, but half an hour later, when it

must have been clear to the lads the enemy was not dead, it would be

no walkover. He tried to imagine how they might have felt, they were still

required to advance at walking pace ( to go any quicker might not leave

them in a condition to fight once they got to the opposing trenches, it

had been decided at HQ). But, the German lines would have been ablaze

with small arms and the gentle hill in front of him a maelstrom of shellfire

and bodies. He tried, but couldn't understand how they had the courage

to go over..........

It was time for A company to attack. The air was alive with bullets and

the ground riven by shells. They were not even at the front line, the

communication trenches were blocked with wounde men and no-one

could get through. The decision was made "we go over the top from

the second line". How had the enemy survived to fight like this ?

They crouched nervily in the trenches and the whistles blew.

"COME ON BOYS....OUT, OUT, OUT..... COME ON!"

Slowly, hesitantly at first, they rose, some fell on the parapet.

"ON, ON! ON........LEAVE HIM!........... FORWARD YOU *******!.....

....STRETCHER BEARERS!"

From somewhere a ragged cheer began, which rose to a crescendo as a

John Peel Horn was blown. The cheer sounded like the crowd at a football

match on a Saturday afternoon, and so over they went.........

He stood in the rain, no other sounds, bar the early morning call of the

birds and tried to imagine, to feel what they must have felt. Try as he

might he couldn't and disappointed he turned to leave.

What was that ? On the wind he thought he heard the slight whisper

of sound, like those heard several streets away from a football ground

on match day. It seemed to flutter in and out with the breeze, almost

a silent roar. And then he heard it, clear as day, the sound of a

John Peel horn......

He had to leave then. Would his companions notice the tears on

his cheeks in the rain when he rejoined them ? Could he wipe them

away surreptitiously ? Had he reached an understanding?.....No.....

It had not been how he expected, but, he would be back one day,

with a slightly different perspective...... to try again.

Could one of the other posters do the poll this month, as I'm away on holiday at the end of July...

Thanks .......Spike

[ypres1418]

So moving Spike,

Hopefully someone can do the poll as i have no idea how to do it, enjoy your holiday.

Mandy.

PS you two have done what i was going to do. M

[spike10764]

Thanks Mandy...but...no excuses mind you, you still can produce an effort for us

[Ozzie]

That gave me shivers, Spike. Well done!

C'mon Mandy.

Cheers

Kim

[Soren]

Sorry in advance if the likenesses are naff, but my only references were some grainy web page images that I had to work from..... Henry Allingham, then and now:

[marina]

and where?

MaRINA

[marina]

Flashed up now, Soren. very like him!

marina

[ypres1418]

Soren

WOW

Love it,

Mandy

[Soren]

cheers Pal's!

[spike10764]

Wow Soren....

[Ozzie]

Excellent Soren!

Cheers

Kim

[Landsturm]

Very good entries so far!!

[Jimothy]

This is a tough topic.

I considered all kinds of ways of representing the battle fields then and now but, of course, I didn't take any photographs back then!

So here's something that the battlefields of France and Flanders were known for during the war, and also something that they are equally well known for today.

Can I also post this image as a belated (should have been 1/7/06 really) tribute to all those men, of all natioanlities, who gave their lives for their country on the Somme?

[ypres1418]

Lovely photo wish i had thought of that! D*m!

Mandy

[Jimothy]

Actually I said all that stuff about the Somme and about Flanders. The picture was taken just west of Epernay - more battle of the Marne I would have thought?

[Frajohn]

Totally unable to draw, so I thought I'd try this

John