[Gimlet]

Ah! Yes...the old lie---Dulce et decorum est From the ode by Horace - It is a sweet and proper thing to give up one's life for one's county...Not. How different that poem is from Rubert Brooke's sentimental poem above. What a difference a few years of war make! When they wrote Owen had seen battle, had spent months in the miserable trenches; Brooke had not. I think too of Sassoon's bitter poems about armchair warriors, of incompetent staff officers, and the pathetic ignorance of those at home wrapped in their cosy notions of heroism.

[Gimlet]

The Hero '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.

Siegfried Sassoon, 1917
>
Where are our poppies?