Never Again

Passchendaele

They say it rained fire and steel
for days at the Marne,
where forests melted from your sight
if you were crazy enough to lift
your head above the trench line.
For to do so was to risk a messy death.

History tells me some British soldiers,
Tommies they were called, sunk without
hope of rescue into murderous mud holes
during the forever rain of Passchendaele. Or,
if they were lucky, one of their mates would
shoot them first before they went under.

You know, of course, while generals pondered
their strategies of bleeding out
the other side of its youth over months
of shelling, or deciding when to send more
into the Hindenburg Line meant grinder,
thousands still lost limbs, minds and lives.

I know for a fact that flyers who climbed
skyward in crates of wood and canvas,
did so without parachutes. To survive
another day was less important than trying
to save a burning airplane, which,
they were told, had more value than they did.

This happened only a century ago,
after which most who ever felt the whiz
of bullets pass their faces, smelled the gas
that killed and the stench of the killed,
who saw friends turned to pulp
before their eyes, said “Never again.”

They said such a war was too terrible
to repeat for King and Country, for ideology,
for gains on a balance sheet or a map.
It wasn’t worth repeating that horror. Many tried.
All failed. Yet they called it The Great War.
But they aren’t, not even if you “win.”

They’re Hell.

I’m pretty sick right now. Flu, depression, and a mind that never stops yet can’t bring forth anything with meaning, even to myself. Yet, as a student of history, I felt moved today to write something about the end of the First World War, where mankind saw death and carnage on a super-industrial scale. I wish I could write more, about how the war bled out nations on so many scales. Who it Ended nations. How it began others. But, ultimately, war is about people. The men and women who served, fought and died in Belgium, France, Italy, the Middle East, Africa and elsewhere deserve better than they’re getting. It’s been one hundred years since the War to End All Wars ended and some of us don’t know, don’t care or don’t care to know or do anything about it. His loss.

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