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#1915
Tie your shuka on your shoulder Gather your shield and spear of death The white God for now you are to soldier Find your courage and take one last deep breath. You thought war was made of Those things that you gathered, You were wrong, so we shoved A gun and ammo for you to lather. This is your duty, and that's what you believe   This is your duty, go out and try not to bleed This is your duty, and that of thy enemies. You held the gun like we showed You walked to the place we told You believed the lies we sold All while wearing the white man's blindfold. With a smile and a glimmer of hope The men you sought Found you first And now you rest Under the dry dirt. But that's ok for they Were only shooting In the name of Duty, So Hooray!
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Jun 29, 2018
Jun 29, 2018 at 7:07 PM UTC
Africa, 1915
Sleep wants to claim you. The shells exploding about and sharp whistling shrapnel prevents that claim to a large degree. You watch rats run along the trench with your tired eyes. You dream of home and homefires burning. You catch laughter somewhere over. Fritz and their Deutschland humour. Some of the boys shout obscenities back which carries over no-man's land and coal black. You smell the stink of too many men in too little space and death and dying. You lean against the wall of the damp trench and stare at stars in that canvas of sky. You will be out of the trench tomorrow you muse if you only survive the night and bombs you might.
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Mar 27, 2018
Mar 27, 2018 at 11:44 AM UTC
Sleep Wants to Claim 1915
There was a skeleton of a German soldier in a ditch; his helmet still in place, the uniform mud-stained. In a pocket a sepia photo of some girl smiling with curly hair, looking out with her dark eyed stare. His comrades and army had moved away; pushed back with last week's shelling. Albert inhaled his cigarette. It was hard to picture him now crippled with arthritis and age in war's fight and mud and lice, singing an old song amidst the throng. He gazed at me; his eyes glassy; smoke from the cigarette rising past eyes. We left him there, Albert said, had to move on, Haig's orders, our sergeant said. Death was all around us; bodies, limbs and heads; horses lying in mud wounded moaning or dead. The stink of war, boy; gets in your hair and clothes and nose and skin, in the soul, if we have one, within.
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Sep 30, 2017
Sep 30, 2017 at 3:33 PM UTC
Skeleton of a Dead Soldier MCMXV.
Some poor sod had it up the line: his nerves went or lost his way in war's battlement, was charged and shot against some wall by other soldiers down from the Front. But he'd been quite brave up until then, boys in half a year turned into men; bombs, mud, lice and rats and all around death in dark colours, yet he'd seen and shouldered that and sat and smoked and joked like the rest- then something turned him or he lost his way in noise and shell. Some poor sod lies where other bodies lay waiting silently to be moved away. Albert said no more on that memory of war, but sat and smoked and waited for the chime for dinner as he had before.
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Sep 24, 2017
Sep 24, 2017 at 2:57 AM UTC
Some Poor Sod 1915.
July Twenty Fourth, Nineteen Fifteen The river was murky, The weather was seen The steamer Eastland, firm on her bow, loaded with coal, port side and sound A captain, that's ***** and stout in his manner stands on his bridge with an arrogant cantor Mooring lines set, stern to the bow Gangplanks are steady, awaiting a crowd Employees of Western dressed to their nines, a picnic awaits, everything's fine Families with smiles and tickets in hand looks up in wonder, the Eastland she stands Boarding commences and loaded up full Twenty Five Hundred, no more to call Port side list, a lean to the river Ballast is leveled, some felt the shiver Worries amount to settling fears, a starboard list and beckoning tears Back to the port, no coming back tipped on her side, everything's black Panic in fever, screams are abound echoes in motion, no silence no sound The river's chaotic with bodies afloat Kenosha stands ready and rescues the most Eight forty four lost their lives In the armory they lay and Chicago cries The Eastland still rests in our hearts and our mind Not a second or hour can turn back the time
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Jul 25, 2015
Jul 25, 2015 at 12:08 PM UTC
Eastland Disaster