In 1914 they began leaving the slums, taking the King’s shilling, to escape the dirt and the disease, to send some worthless pennies home to feed the wives and children they had left behind in buildings swarming with humanity and rotting with piss, shit, and vomit. You may think I’m being crass, but if we could revisit those dwellings, these rude words would be the least of our worries. The government that sent them to war had caged them like animals in these hell holes to work and to die for the good of the empire and the ruling class.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old: Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn. At the going down of the sun and in the morning We will remember them.
Follow @UrFhasaidh We might as well call this the general ignorance round. While taking in a few of the splendid beers Belgium has to offer, during our fortnight in Flanders, we were frequently accosted by the advertising banner for The Wipers Times beer, and it is only now that I am making the connection. ‘Wipers’ … Continue reading Are You a Victim of Optimism?
Remembrance is the lifeblood of modern Ypres. Every night of the week military and paramilitary style bands flock to the Menin Gate to pay homage to the dead. In many respects this is a noble gesture, and few can pause beneath the lists of the butchered engraved on the panels of the gate and be unmoved by the scale of the slaughter.
Flanders, like every theatre of the so-called Great War, was a place of genocide; it was where the ruling classes conspired to cull their excess labour force, and they achieved this goal with stagger effect.
From this early stage in the assault the War Diary reports that these artillery pieces were “too light for destroying the enemy’s trenches and wire entanglements.” The commanders knew fine well they were sending the Scots on a suicide mission.
Crossing over the street we could make out, under the bellow of the greater bells above us, the clanging of the bells of St. George’s chapel. We had decided to go Catholic today
He was twenty-nine, came from an Ayrshire family of coal miners, and died far from his family in no-mans-land. The poor lad probably, certainly as a conscript, didn’t know why he was even over there in the first place.