And so comes another 11th of November: Veterans’ Day, Rememberence Day. The Great War produced a great cannon of poetry that laid down the full spectrum of emotions that are served up with the rations of combat. Here is one of my favorites.
In Memoriam
Private D. Sutherland, Killed in Action in the German trench May 16 1916 and Others Who Died
So you were David’s father,
and he was your only son,
and the new-cut peat’s a rotting,
and the work is left undone
Because of an old man weeping
just an old man in pain
For David, his son David,
who will not come again
Oh, the letters he wrote you,
and I can see them still,
not a word of the fighting,
just the sheep upon the hill
And how you should get the crops in,
‘ere the year got stormier
And the Bosches have got his body
and I was his officer
You were only David’s father,
but I had fifty sons,
When we went up in the evening,
under the arch of the guns
And we came back in the twilight —
Oh God! I hear them call
To me for help and pity,
who could not help at all
Oh, never will I forget you,
my men that trusted me,
More my sons than your fathers,
for they could only see
the helpless little babies,
and the young men in their pride,
They could not see you dying
and hold you as you died
Happy young and gallant,
they saw their first-born go
But not the strong limbs broken,
the beautiful men brought low
the piteous writhing bodies,
They screamed “Don’t leave me, Sir”
For they were only your fathers
but I was your Officer
Ewart Alan Macintosh 1893 - 1917
The man who wrote these words was twenty-three years old.
He died in the Battle of Cambrai, November 1917, aged 24.
The older I get, the more emotional Nov. 11 becomes for me as I think about my great uncles and grandfather who came home gassed, injured, carry shrapnel for the rest of their days and memories that in the case of one great uncle, took over 50 years to talk about. Not one of them ever glorified war. They’d seen too much in those mud and blood filled trenches and early cavalry charges.
Young Fellow My Lad
“Where are you going, Young Fellow My Lad,
On this glittering morn of May?”
“I’m going to join the Colours, Dad;
They’re looking for men, they say.”
“But you’re only a boy, Young Fellow My Lad;
You aren’t obliged to go.”
“I’m seventeen and a quarter, Dad,
And ever so strong, you know.”
* * * *
“So you’re off to France, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you’re looking so fit and bright.”
“I’m terribly sorry to leave you, Dad,
But I feel that I’m doing right.”
“God bless you and keep you, Young Fellow My Lad,
You’re all of my life, you know.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll soon be back, dear Dad,
And I’m awfully proud to go.”
* * * *
“Why don’t you write, Young Fellow My Lad?
I watch for the post each day;
And I miss you so, and I’m awfully sad,
And it’s months since you went away.
And I’ve had the fire in the parlour lit,
And I’m keeping it burning bright
Till my boy comes home; and here I sit
Into the quiet night.
* * * *
“What is the matter, Young Fellow My Lad?
No letter again to-day.
Why did the postman look so sad,
And sigh as he turned away?
I hear them tell that we’ve gained new ground,
But a terrible price we’ve paid:
God grant, my boy, that you’re safe and sound;
But oh I’m afraid, afraid.”
* * * *
“They’ve told me the truth, Young Fellow My Lad:
You’ll never come back again:
(Oh God! the dreams and the dreams I’ve had,
and the hopes I’ve nursed in vain!)
For you passed in the night, Young Fellow My Lad,
And you proved in the cruel test
Of the screaming shell and the battle hell
That my boy was one of the best.
“So you’ll live, you’ll live, Young Fellow My Lad,
In the gleam of the evening star,
In the wood-note wild and the laugh of the child,
In all sweet things that are.
And you’ll never die, my wonderful boy,
While life is noble and true;
For all our beauty and hope and joy
We will owe to our lads like you.” Robert Service