The author of In Flanders Fields, Lt-Col John McCrae, commander of No. 3 Canadian General Hospital (McGill), died of pneumonia on 28 January 1918 at Boulogne, France.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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The author of In Flanders Fields, Lt-Col John McCrae, commander of No. 3 Canadian General Hospital (McGill), died of pneumonia on 28 January 1918 at Boulogne, France.
“1916” - Motorhead
16 years old when I went to the war,
To fight for a land fit for heroes,
God on my side, and a gun in my hand,
Chasing my days down to zero
And I marched and I fought and I bled
And I died & I never did get any older,
But I knew at the time, That a year in the line,
Was a long enough life for a soldier
We all volunteered,
And we wrote down our names,
And we added two years to our ages,
Eager for life and ahead of the game,
Ready for history’s pages
And we brawled and we fought
And we whored ‘til we stood,
Ten thousand shoulder to shoulder
A thirst for the Hun,
We were food for the gun, and that’s
What you are when you’re soldiers
I heard my friend cry,
And he sank to his knees, coughing blood
As he screamed for his mother
And I fell by his side,
And that’s how we died,
Clinging like kids to each other
And I lay in the mud
And the guts and the blood,
And I wept as his body grew colder
And I called for my mother
And she never came,
Though it wasn’t my fault
And I wasn’t to blame
The day not half over
And ten thousand slain, and now
There’s nobody remembers our names
And that’s how it is for a soldier.