WILFRED OWEN
There's nothing like a GCSE syllabus to kill off any interest in a subject. I picked up a collected 'poetry and prose' volume a couple of days ago and have been struck by the intelligence and sensitivity of the man. Here's one of his letters:
16 January 1917
My own sweet Mother,
I am sorry you have had about 5 days letterless. I hope you had my two letters 'posted' since you wrote your last, which I received tonight. I am bitterly disappointed that I never got one of yours.
I can see no excuse for deceiving you about these last 4 days. I have suffered seventh hell.
I have not been at the front.
I have been in front of it.
I held an advanced post, that is, a 'dug-out' in the middle of No Man's Land.
We had a march of 3 miles over shelled road then nearly 3 along a flooded trench. After that we came to where the trenches had been blown flat out and had to go over the top. It was of course dark, too dark, and the ground was not mud, not sloppy mud, but an octopus of sucking clay, 3, 4, and 5 feet deep, relieved only by craters full of water. Men have been known to drown in them. Many stuck in the mud & only got on by leaving their waders, equipment, and in some cases their clothes.
High explosives were dropping all round, and machine guns splattered every few minutes. But it was so dark that even the German flares did not reveal us.
Three quarters dead, I mean each of us 3/4 dead, we reached the dug-out, and relieved the wretches therein. I then had to go forth and find another dug-out for a still more advanced post where I left 18 bombers. I was responsible for other posts on the left but there was a junior officer in charge.
My dug-out held 25 men tight packed. Water filled it to a depth of 1 or 2 feet, leaving say 4 feet of air.
Our entrance had been blown in & blocked.
So far, the other remained.
The Germans knew we were staying there and decided we shouldn't.
Those fifty hours were the agony of my happy life.
Every ten minutes on Sunday afternoon seemed an hour.
I nearly broke down and let myself drown in the later that was not slowly rising over my knees.
Towards 6 o'clock when, I suppose, you would be going to church, the shelling grew less intense and less accurate, so that I was mercifully helped to do my duty and crawl, wade, climb and flounder over No Man' Land to visit my other post. It took me half an hour to move about 150 yards.
I was chiefly annoyed by our own machine guns from behind. The seeng-seeng-seeng of the bullets reminded me of Mary's canary. On the whole I can support the canary better.
In the Platoon on my left the sentries over the dug-out were blown to nothing. One of these poor fellows was my first servant whom I rejected. If I had kept him he would have lived, for servants don't do Sentry Duty. I kept my own sentries half way down the stairs during the more terrific bombardment. In spite of this, one lad was blown down and, I am afraid, blinded.
This was my only casualty.
The officer of the left Platoon has come out completely prostrated and is in hospital.
I am now as well, I suppose, as ever.
...........
Your very own Wilfred.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
His letters as riveting and powerful as his poems.
There's nothing like a GCSE syllabus to kill off any interest in a subject. I picked up a collected 'poetry and prose' volume a couple of days ago and have been struck by the intelligence and sensitivity of the man. Here's one of his letters:
16 January 1917
My own sweet Mother,
I am sorry you have had about 5 days letterless. I hope you had my two letters 'posted' since you wrote your last, which I received tonight. I am bitterly disappointed that I never got one of yours.
I can see no excuse for deceiving you about these last 4 days. I have suffered seventh hell.
I have not been at the front.
I have been in front of it.
I held an advanced post, that is, a 'dug-out' in the middle of No Man's Land.
We had a march of 3 miles over shelled road then nearly 3 along a flooded trench. After that we came to where the trenches had been blown flat out and had to go over the top. It was of course dark, too dark, and the ground was not mud, not sloppy mud, but an octopus of sucking clay, 3, 4, and 5 feet deep, relieved only by craters full of water. Men have been known to drown in them. Many stuck in the mud & only got on by leaving their waders, equipment, and in some cases their clothes.
High explosives were dropping all round, and machine guns splattered every few minutes. But it was so dark that even the German flares did not reveal us.
Three quarters dead, I mean each of us 3/4 dead, we reached the dug-out, and relieved the wretches therein. I then had to go forth and find another dug-out for a still more advanced post where I left 18 bombers. I was responsible for other posts on the left but there was a junior officer in charge.
My dug-out held 25 men tight packed. Water filled it to a depth of 1 or 2 feet, leaving say 4 feet of air.
Our entrance had been blown in & blocked.
So far, the other remained.
The Germans knew we were staying there and decided we shouldn't.
Those fifty hours were the agony of my happy life.
Every ten minutes on Sunday afternoon seemed an hour.
I nearly broke down and let myself drown in the later that was not slowly rising over my knees.
Towards 6 o'clock when, I suppose, you would be going to church, the shelling grew less intense and less accurate, so that I was mercifully helped to do my duty and crawl, wade, climb and flounder over No Man' Land to visit my other post. It took me half an hour to move about 150 yards.
I was chiefly annoyed by our own machine guns from behind. The seeng-seeng-seeng of the bullets reminded me of Mary's canary. On the whole I can support the canary better.
In the Platoon on my left the sentries over the dug-out were blown to nothing. One of these poor fellows was my first servant whom I rejected. If I had kept him he would have lived, for servants don't do Sentry Duty. I kept my own sentries half way down the stairs during the more terrific bombardment. In spite of this, one lad was blown down and, I am afraid, blinded.
This was my only casualty.
The officer of the left Platoon has come out completely prostrated and is in hospital.
I am now as well, I suppose, as ever.
...........
Your very own Wilfred.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
His letters as riveting and powerful as his poems.
