June MGWAT

[Ozzie]

Topic as put forward by Squirrel for June.

Micheal's idea of a topic, "Allied Co-operation" next time?

And could someone with more knowledge than this dumb sheila, please put up the Poll for last month???

Cheers

Kim

[squirrel]

Can't do the Poll thingy either.

Have the start of a sort of verse penned but it needs tidying and editing and probably rewriting altogether.

Have to be next week as I have a lot of work on at present.

[Landsturm]

Sekhmet still wants to add her entry for the May topic! I told her to hurry. So if it's ok, by you, I'll put up the poll when she's done.

[Ozzie]

All right by me, Lands, and hopefully other members.

Cheers

Kim

[Ozzie]

Marching.

March - no smoking, no talking.

The beat of the hooves, muffled by the sand of the Ancient Land, - squelching through the mud of Europe.

Marching? How can a horse march? But it does.

Offside, nearside.

Rhythmic, instinctive, primeval movement.

Sand, grit, red eyes; sweaty, chaffed skin.

Cold, wet, snow covered.

Saddled for hours - days, no green feed, - iron rations, fighting rations, and on they marched.

Flies, heat, dust, chill desert nights, scarce water.

Frightening lights, bombarding crashes, wet marshy ground.

And still they marched.

Marched to the battle, marched to their death, carrying their human masters onwards, - to fight, to loss, to despair, to agony, and why?

Because they are a wild beast tamed, given to the understanding that man is stronger? Deluded into the understanding that a bit in the mouth, is power in the hands of the human?

But what of the horse that lies down beside his master, allowing his master to shoot over his whither? To stand in the column, at the ten minute rest, dead still, allowing his soldier ten minutes of sleep. To gallop from the danger of Taubes, but show no fear of Allied aircraft? What of the horse that stands fast beside his soldier, while all about him, hell is let loose, urging all his eon old instincts to run, to flee, but fast, he stands?

What of the horse, his mane and tail stiff with ice, his memories of a warm distant land gone forever, who gives warning of incoming, through his highly evolved senses, that sense which is lost to humans, - and so, saves the soldier.

What of the horses, strapped in leather bindings, bringing the guns, dragging them through hock deep mud, hundred weights of metal, the apocalypse reigning around them, horses hauling their load to aid mankind?

Marching to the frontline, only to be bogged down in the morass, to be eaten alive by rats, drowning slowly, to suffer silently, as the hours dragged until they died.

Desert or Mud, it made no difference.

Suffer, you gallant, elegant, great beast.

March?

A human word.

So march on, horse.

March to your death, equine friend. History will not remember you. Only the soldier who rode you, will remember your gentle nicker, your soft muzzle as you searched his hat for water, your gaunt ribs beneath his legs as you carried him through the desert, through the mud, to yet another battle. Only he will know of your great thudding heart as you galloped towards the enemy amongst the hail of bullets.

Only he will remember your soulful eyes as you died in agony, your stomach blown apart by shrapnel.

March.

Offside, nearside.

March to your death, proud shining equine friend.

[Landsturm]

Great start! BTW, Kim; In May topic, did you already decide which one is your "the" entry? The first or the second one?

[Ozzie]

The second one, thanks, Lands.

Cheers

Kim

[Gunboat]

A great start Kim I can really see the images clearly in my mind almost like a cinema newsreel edited to show the different environments the horses were exposed to with your verse the commentary that threads the images together.

[squirrel]

Good start Kim.

I'll have to get my thinking head on over the weekend.

[Ozzie]

Thanks guys. A bit of anger over the waste. Sadness for the forgotten ones.

Kim

[squirrel]

Had a bit of spare time this afternoon and came up with this.

I have had further ideas on the theme since................

I marched from the depot to billets

And from billets to the train.

And I marched to the docks at Dover

And at Le Havre I marched again.

I have marched to different places

Whose names I can’t even say.

And marched back again from some of them

To where we started the day.

I marched from Mauberge to Mons

And from Mons to Le Cateau

From there through the Forest of Mormal

Are there many more miles to go?

The question was soon answered

For we marched both day and night.

And we asked another question,

Are we ever to turn and fight?

We gave them a pasting by the Mons canal

At Landrencies and Le Cateau.

We’ll do it again if you’ll give us the chance

You’ve only to tell us so!

Good news lads, we’re to turn about

And take them on at the Marne!

Which we did in style with our rapid fire

And the Frenchies, arm in arm.

And now we were marching in pursuit

Advancing once again.

Until Gerry decided to make a halt

On that river called the Aisne.

The fighting there was desperate.

We were shelled both day and night.

But we’d got the measure of Gerry

And made him stand and fight.

We marched away from the river

For some rest and well earned sleep.

And now we’re due to march again,

Where is this place called Ypres?

The more I think about this the more I have ideas for expanding on it.............

[Ozzie]

Suirrel, love it.

And you can always add. That's why first drafts are honest and then you build on them.

Cheers

Kim

[squirrel]

Thanks Kim.

Already jotted down a few ideas - just have to do them over the weekend!

[Gunboat]

Squirrel

I really like this. Its the real voice of the soldiers. I could imagine it being tagged to some popular tune and turned into a song... I look forward to seeing the additional lines....make sure you edit your original post thoughyou know what a tartar Lands is for only one posting per subject being eligble for voting

[squirrel]

Thanks Gunboat, warning heeded.

The way it is heading at the moment, the core of the subject has been condensed to cover one action but there looks to be enough narrative detail for two lengthy poems.

Perhaps I might post all three and let somebody else pick one for voting orI might just leave that one as it is and save the other material for future reference.

[squirrel]

Two further lengthy poems, one on the march up to Mons and the other on the action there and start of the retreat, were the result of rehashing my posted effort which I will leave as is.

[michaeldr]

Forward, March!

It had rained almost continually during his training in a bleak northern county, and after marching all day, he had been glad for the extra pairs of socks knitted by his sisters. It had also been a moist, misty day when he marched through that south coast town to board the channel steamer. Once in Flanders the weather barely broke. They marched along muddy roads to damp quarters and then marched on again into sodden trenches. Trenches that were often as not flooded, with no where to keep dry or even to sleep when your turn came.

He had marched forward with his pals on the eve of the big push. Been with them as they went over the top. But was not among those who returned. That was one march which he had missed; more's the pity.

His mind was a blank. He remembered nothing. Just march after march, in soaking rain or wet mist, with mud up to the eye-balls and the cold, cold, cold.

The Corporal had ensured that he had polished his boots that morning, and it was just as well, for it was raining again as he marched across the stable yard towards the big house. There, he was marched into a room filled with officers, none of whom he recognised; bar one, that is. The orderly had been none too careful in laying the blanket over the trestle-table, and, with his head hung low, he could easily see the boots of the gentlemen sitting there, on the other side. His mind wandered and he fell to wondering exactly how much marching those highly polished boots had done in all this rain and mud. The proceedings were short and he was quickly marched out again.

Just over a week later he woke to a fine dawn. The rain had stopped and he was marched out into the light of a bright new day. He kept step with the Corporal as they marched to the spot. The birds were still singing the last of their morn chorus when he arrived at his place. He had had a spring in his step you might have thought. But he was just glad it was all over; this endless marching.

[Gunboat]

Excellent a really clever take on the subject matter...that final "spring in step" motif was heartbreaking..

[michaeldr]

Many thanks for your comments GB

I've been keeping a low profile recently as I thought that I would have nothing to contribute this month,

but after a two hour walk yesterday morning I managed the above effort

I've enjoyed the reading pieces by Kim and Squirrel,

particularly as each has approached the subject from such different and original angles

Now, where are the rest?

best regards

Michael

[Ozzie]

And you have introduced another angle!

He seems to have become a child, to be led about.

Well done.

Kim

[michaeldr]

He seems to have become a child, to be led about.

Well spotted Kim

also see the opening sentence - sisters knitting socks

I had in mind the family's only son to whom the world outside was perhaps a surprise, never mind the war.

Thanks again for your comments

Michael

[Landsturm]

I have mine ready, just need to be resized for scanner... so I guess I'll have it here next week.

[squirrel]

Look forward to seeing t.

[Gunboat]

Marching

We left the railhead marching in good order chins up, chests out shoulders back . We swung past other troops returning from the frontline. They looked weary and bedraggled, for all intents and purposes a wandering herd of animals rather than a disciplined force of men. They would give way to us on the road taking the opportunity to fall on the grass and smoke. The colonel sitting on his charger could be heard tutting as he rode through the khaki mass pushing them aside as if they were tall grass in a meadow. The RSM passed a message down “heads up men lets show them the 2nd…are not slackers”

The guns were barely audible in the distance; we sang songs

Ten hours later we trudged on relentless, shoulders haunched and heads on our chests any effort to keep in step had ceased long ago. Strong men carried the kit of the weak and platoon sergeants ran back and forth angrily grabbing the webbing straps of those that had fell out by the roadside and hauling them bodily too their feet screaming curses at them.

The senior major had pleaded with the colonel to let the men rest but he had refused point blank. He begged to let some of the men ride on the officers horses the colonel nearly struck him no officer in his battalion will march along with the other ranks. As if to reinforce his point he rode down the line telling us to pick our feet up and to march properly someone nearby shouted “give us your horse you *******”. As the colonel rose in his stirrups to search the mass of men for the culprit I thought he was going to explode…his horse reared and I thought he was going let it trample us as he wielded his riding crop and cursed the weak for being dishonourable dogs. He galloped back to the front of the column and issued an order that each man was to carry his own kit and we would march in good order from now on and any man who fell out would be given field punishment or shot on the spot.

We could hear the guns clearly now.

We had marched like this for a further agonising two hours when we were forced to halt. The road was blocked for miles as an ammunition column had been shelled earlier. The colonel made us stand at the attention for half an hour until the senior Major convinced him that were not going to be moving for sometime and that surely the men could fall out for a rest.

We fell out and slumped into the wet turf . We knew not to take off our kit or our boots and to ignore the pain

We could feel the concussions of the shells as they fell almost upon us. We could see great plumes of fire and smoke heaving up great mounds of earth.

At first we flinched as the earth shook beneath us followed by the sickening thump of sound that hit your ears like a fist. But we were so tired that soon we learnt to ignore it all, crawling into the ditches that ran along the road covering our heads against the flashes of brilliant light and the patter of earth falling on us like a light rain.

We had come fight a war, sold on a promise of glory. Tell me what glory there is in being lead into our baptism of fire like cattle what glory there is cowering in a ditch somewhere in Flanders.

[Landsturm]

The scene takes place in Serbia, November 1915.

Little background information: Against all odds, the small Serbian army had beaten back the invading Austro-Hungarian forces back in 1914. But in autumn 1915 their battered troops were unable to resist the renewed invasion made by the Austro-Hungarians, Germans and Bulgarians. The Serbian army along with many civilians retreated over the mountains, through Montenegro into Albania.