June, 1917
Another piece of writing. Wrote this back during my B.Ed, following a trip to the War Museum (the old one, before the redesigned it). It was meant as an exemplar of a possible activity following such a visit--writing a diary entry from the point of view of one of the figures studied at the musuem, or in War Poetry studies. The artifacts viewed at the museum really helped--like the mace Henderson has below, and some of the trench details.
***
June, 1917
An hour ago Fritz sent down a barrage. No real point to it. I think they do it on general principle. Then again, so do we. A war fought on general principles. Last week we raided a trench at midnight, it wasn’t a surprise since we knew we’d have to go at least once before our tour was up. Strangest thing, we took them completely by surprise. Went over the top and walked across the broken and blasted land and straight up to the trench. At night No Man’s Land doesn’t look terrestrial, it’s all grey and pale whites and things jump out in sharp relief, except when artillery lights up the landscape like a false dawn, and then the shadows skew across the mud in a crazy dance. We got to the trench and jumped in and took down the first few before they knew what was happening. I remember feeling envy when we hit their trench. Some young blond-haired kid standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand, his rifle leaning against the wall, and I took off half his jaw with a single shot before his eyes even widened with surprise—and I felt envy at their trench, cleaner and dryer and better built than ours.
Stick a bayonet in someone and it’s hard to shoot after, sometimes, what comes out gums up the rifle something terrible. Another kid came up from the left and we went at it up close, and when he went down he took my rifle with him. I felt wet but didn’t know if it was blood or sweat, mine or his. Henderson went down and I went to help him, took that club of his he’d made and I’m not sure after, somehow dragged him away and pulled him from the trench. The machineguns stuttering behind and the rattle of the rifles.
Eight wounded that night. A couple of French Canadians, a guy from New Zealand, Henderson, Bryce…
What of it? Wounded and killed on both sides. We continue to bombard, ceaselessly. Everything still stinks and we stand in water up to our knee and nothing changes. What currency does courage hold when it is squandered without thought? Henderson won’t be back. His legs were too red. Wasted, and to what end? This war feels as if it is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.
Some kind of protest or declaration must be written.
S. Sassoon
***
Some of the details are hard to appreciate if you don't know Sassoon and his stuff... the bits at the end are drawn from his 'declaration', and the sound of the machine guns I pulled from one of his poems. Actually, I also based myself a bit on a WW1 diary entry I found online. So, not entirely original, but I reckon enough of it is to call it my own. I'm kinda proud of a couple of the lines I managed up there.
Anyway, brought this into class to help my year ten girls with their 'Original Writing' coursework--writing an 'I Was There' story, from the perspective of someone else, somewhere else. Don't think it helped. Some of them are so damn set on making this harder and refusing to do the activities I assign for them. They don't trust me, I think, since I'm new at teaching the GCSE. It's true, it's my first time walking students through their coursework. But creative writing... yeah, I'd like to think I know something about that, thank you.
***
June, 1917
An hour ago Fritz sent down a barrage. No real point to it. I think they do it on general principle. Then again, so do we. A war fought on general principles. Last week we raided a trench at midnight, it wasn’t a surprise since we knew we’d have to go at least once before our tour was up. Strangest thing, we took them completely by surprise. Went over the top and walked across the broken and blasted land and straight up to the trench. At night No Man’s Land doesn’t look terrestrial, it’s all grey and pale whites and things jump out in sharp relief, except when artillery lights up the landscape like a false dawn, and then the shadows skew across the mud in a crazy dance. We got to the trench and jumped in and took down the first few before they knew what was happening. I remember feeling envy when we hit their trench. Some young blond-haired kid standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand, his rifle leaning against the wall, and I took off half his jaw with a single shot before his eyes even widened with surprise—and I felt envy at their trench, cleaner and dryer and better built than ours.
Stick a bayonet in someone and it’s hard to shoot after, sometimes, what comes out gums up the rifle something terrible. Another kid came up from the left and we went at it up close, and when he went down he took my rifle with him. I felt wet but didn’t know if it was blood or sweat, mine or his. Henderson went down and I went to help him, took that club of his he’d made and I’m not sure after, somehow dragged him away and pulled him from the trench. The machineguns stuttering behind and the rattle of the rifles.
Eight wounded that night. A couple of French Canadians, a guy from New Zealand, Henderson, Bryce…
What of it? Wounded and killed on both sides. We continue to bombard, ceaselessly. Everything still stinks and we stand in water up to our knee and nothing changes. What currency does courage hold when it is squandered without thought? Henderson won’t be back. His legs were too red. Wasted, and to what end? This war feels as if it is being deliberately prolonged by those who have the power to end it.
Some kind of protest or declaration must be written.
S. Sassoon
***
Some of the details are hard to appreciate if you don't know Sassoon and his stuff... the bits at the end are drawn from his 'declaration', and the sound of the machine guns I pulled from one of his poems. Actually, I also based myself a bit on a WW1 diary entry I found online. So, not entirely original, but I reckon enough of it is to call it my own. I'm kinda proud of a couple of the lines I managed up there.
Anyway, brought this into class to help my year ten girls with their 'Original Writing' coursework--writing an 'I Was There' story, from the perspective of someone else, somewhere else. Don't think it helped. Some of them are so damn set on making this harder and refusing to do the activities I assign for them. They don't trust me, I think, since I'm new at teaching the GCSE. It's true, it's my first time walking students through their coursework. But creative writing... yeah, I'd like to think I know something about that, thank you.
posted by Emlyn | 3:11 PM
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