Lest We Forget
Been reading quite a bit of war literature these past few days, where the incessant suffering of the soldiers 'entrenched' (no pun intended) in their trenches elucicated that war was not a mere word that conjures images of fighting men and machinery. It is in fact much more and every soldier can lay a claim to feeling its crippling effects from the suffering and starvation to the loss of family and fraternal ties. One can count himself fortunate to be born in an era where Peace has blessed us and Ambition has sought not to make a travesty of peace. Yet, what a loss for Mankind that young soldiers standing on the brink of entering adulthood should have their lives so mercilessly ended by the stray bullet from a direction-less rattling machine gun or the odd shrapnel from the nearby artillery shower.Lest we forget.
In war, an incomprehensible sense of camaraderie forms between the two opposed armies and it is true only the enemy can experience the same grief and loss. No single episode displays this more clearly than the Christmas of 1914 where the troops from both sides crossed their lines and met in No Man's Land, exchanging uniforms and photos in observance of the true Christmas spirit. Karl von Clausewitz famously once said, 'War is the continuation of policy by other means'. Yet, for the men who gave up their lives serving this policy, surely it has been too heavy a price to pay?
Lest we forget.
A oft-neglected group of people in stories about war are the pining mothers awaiting their sons' return from the frontline. In 'All Quiet on the Western Front', Remarque tells of the hero's mother during the hero's two week break from the frontline. During his brief return, she willingly whipped up sumptuous after sumptuous meal with what ever little precious foodstuff the family has tediously hoarded over the war years. However, while she was making her son's return comfortable, the hero's mother was also battling the pains from her own debilitating illness. She was fighting her own war and still she had enough in her reserve to care for someone else. Such is the strength and magnitude of her maternal love that pushed her on despite her own sufferings.
Tears invariably formed and rolled off as the story continued.. I shall end this off with a poem by Sassoon..
The Hero, Siegfried Sassoon, 1917
'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quivered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.
Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.
He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.
Lest we forget.
posted by -tourniquet- @ 7/30/2006 11:57:00 am
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