Lest We Forget: An Eyewitness to Carnage

On Passing the New Menin Gate – Siegfried Sassoon

Who will remember, passing through this Gate,
the unheroic dead who fed the guns?
Who shall absolve the foulness of their fate,-
Those doomed, conscripted, unvictorious ones?

    Crudely renewed, the Salient holds its own.
    Paid are its dim defenders by this pomp;
    Paid, with a pile of peace-complacent stone,
    The armies who endured that sullen swamp.

Here was the world’s worst wound. And here with pride
‘Their name liveth for ever’, the Gateway claims.
Was ever an immolation so belied
as these intolerably nameless names?
Well might the Dead who struggled in the slime
Rise and deride this sepulchre of crime.

Themes

Faced with war, emotions swirl within the hearts and minds of those involved, leaving a profound impact on their physical being. Fear, that primal instinct, courses through their veins, triggering a cascade of physiological responses. Hearts pound in chests, pounding so forcefully that they threaten to burst free, echoing the thunderous sounds of battle. Muscles tense and quiver, preparing the body for fight or flight, fuelled by a surge of adrenaline that heightens senses and sharpens focus.

Yet, amidst the fear, another emotion often takes hold – anger. It burns like a raging fire, coursing through the body, igniting a fierce determination. Faces flush with heat, mirroring the intensity of the emotions within. Veins bulge, carrying the weight of this anger, as muscles tighten, ready to strike out at the perceived enemy. Sweat beads upon brows, mingling with the dust and grime of battle, leaving trails down furrowed brows.

But war is not without its moments of sorrow. Grief, like a heavy fog, descends upon those who witness the horrors of conflict. It weighs upon shoulders, causing them to hunch and sag under its burden. Eyes, once filled with vibrancy, grow dim and weary, reflecting the profound sadness that settles deep within. Tears flow freely, leaving trails down dirt-streaked faces, as aching sobs escape from wounded souls.

Yet, even amidst the chaos of war, there is a glimmer of hope. Love, that beacon of light in the darkest of times, finds its way into the hearts of those who fight. It wraps around them like a warm embrace, providing solace and strength. Faced with danger, hearts flutter with a mix of anxiety and affection, causing a tender ache. Eyes, filled with longing, search for familiar faces, seeking reassurance in their shared connection. A smile, heartfelt, forms on weary lips, offering comfort amid turmoil.

From the pounding hearts and tense muscles fuelled by fear and anger to the hunched shoulders and tear-streaked faces burdened by grief, to the fluttering hearts and longing eyes filled with love and hope. These physical manifestations remind us of the profound impact that war has on the human body, serving as a testament to the enduring power of emotions in the face of such folly. The so-called ‘glory’ of war is but a mirage, a cruel joke played on the living by the dead. The valorous dead, we are told, are to be remembered with stone and bronze, their sacrifices etched into the very fabric of our societies. Yet, what purpose do these memorials serve but to sanitize the brutality of war, to render it noble and just in the collective memory of a populace all too eager to forget the blood spilled in the mud?

Sassoon, with the incisive wit of a man betrayed by the very nation he sought to protect, lays bare the hypocrisy of commemoration. His words are not just a lament but a scathing indictment of the collective amnesia that afflicts society post-conflict. The irony is palpable, as the very act of remembrance becomes an exercise in selective memory, a curated narrative that glosses over the grim realities of war. The bitterness that permeates his verse is the bitterness of truth, a truth that reveals the absurdity of honouring the architects of slaughter.

The war poem, then, becomes an act of rebellion, a refusal to partake in the charade of honour and glory. It is a literary critique of the highest order, one that challenges the reader to confront the uncomfortable realities of war. The poet’s voice, aristocratic in its eloquence, speaks not to the elite but to the common man, urging a collective awakening to the senseless carnage that is romanticised by history. The poet’s words serve as a stark reminder to the nation, that war is a brief interruption in the lure of human progress, a deviation from the path leading to enlightenment and true prosperity.

Thus, the educated gentleman, in his contemplation of such themes, must arrive at the inexorable conclusion that war is anathema to the very principles of civilization. It is a relic of a bygone era, a visceral taste of the basest instincts of humanity, and it is the duty of the enlightened to reject its false allure. The true battle, then, is not waged on fields of blood and bone, but in the hearts and minds of those who dare to dream of a world unmarred by the scourge of war. It is a battle for the soul of humanity, and it is one that must be fought with the pen, the brush, and the indomitable spirit of those who have seen the abyss and chosen to turn away. For in the end, it is not the memory of war that should be commemorated, but the promise of peace.

Imagery

In the solemn verses of Siegfried Sassoon’s “On Passing the New Menin Gate,” one finds a scathing indictment of the futility and hypocrisy of war memorials. Sassoon, with the acerbic wit of a disillusioned soldier, lays bare the stark contrast between the grandeur of monuments and the grim reality of war’s carnage. The Menin Gate, erected as a celebration of valour, stands instead as a mute witness to the senseless slaughter of countless souls, its very stones a mockery of the notion of glory in death. Sassoon’s imagery is unflinching in its depiction of destruction and ruin, painting a landscape blighted by the ravages of conflict, where the earth itself seems to weep for the blood spilled upon it.

The symbolism of the gate is multifaceted; it is both an arch of triumph and a portal of despair. To Sassoon, this edifice is not a bridge to remembrance but a barrier to truth, obscuring the visceral horrors of war beneath a veneer of noble sacrifice. The poet’s language is a dirge for the dead, a lamentation for the living, and a condemnation of the architects of war who, from the safety of their parlours, orchestrate the symphony of destruction. The Menin Gate serves as a hollow tribute, its inscriptions and accolades an irony to the faceless, “unheroic” dead, who “fed the guns” with their flesh and bone.

Sassoon’s critique extends beyond the physical monument to the very concept of remembrance. What value is there in a stone edifice when it stands on the graves of those whose names it bears? The New Menin Gate becomes a symbol of the empty gestures of a society eager to forget the full cost of war, wrapping itself in the flag of patriotism while ignoring the agony of its youth, sent to die in foreign fields. The poem is a clarion call to awaken from the stupor of nationalistic fervour and to recognize the shared humanity of all those lost to the insatiable maw of war.

The poem transcends mere literary criticism; it is a profound moral statement on the nature of remembrance and the legacy of conflict. It challenges the reader to look beyond the grand brush strokes of history and to see the individual tragedies that they comprise. In the end, “On Passing the New Menin Gate” is not just a poem but a monument in its own right, more enduring and honest than the cold stone of any memorial could ever be. It stands as a warranty to the truth that Sassoon so fiercely defended: that the only true remembrance of war is to ensure that its horrors are never repeated.

In the grandiloquent lexicon of the educated aristocracy, one might find a plethora of words to describe the folly of war, yet none so piercing as the sardonic quill of Siegfried Sassoon. Sassoon delivers a scathing critique of the ceremonial pomp and hollow reverence that often accompanies the commemoration of war. With a caustic wit, he lays bare the absurdity of glorifying the slaughterhouse of war under the guise of noble sacrifice. The Menin Gate, an edifice erected to honour the fallen, becomes in Sassoon’s hands a symbol of the grotesque paradox of war: that we extol the very thing which signifies our moral bankruptcy.

Sassoon’s verse is a vitriolic attack not just on the physical monument, but on the home front’s penchant for sanctifying war’s butchery. He sees the gate not as a portal to hallowed ground, but as a gaping maw leading to an abyss of human folly. His words are a mirror held up to the face of a society that adorns its murderous legacy with laurels and calls it heroism. The poem is a reflective pool of sombre thought, inviting the reader to peer into the depths of collective memory and question the price of glory bought with blood.

The New Menin Gate stands, in Sassoon’s eyes, as accreditation to the charade, the ultimate irony where the names of the dead are etched in stone, yet their voices and stories are lost in the winds of time. It is a monument to amnesia, a structure that speaks less of remembrance and more of the human propensity to forget the lessons of the past. Sassoon’s cynicism is not without merit, for what is the value of a memorial if it serves only to sanitize the past and perpetuate the cycle of conflict?

The “On Passing of the New Menin Gate” is a masterclass in the use of sarcasm and reflection to convey a powerful message. It is a poignant reminder that in the grand theatre of war, the cost is always too high, and the act of remembrance must not become a farce that dishonours those it seeks to venerate. The poem stands as a sentinel, warning us against the seductive lure of martial glory and urging us to remember not with stone and ceremony, but with a commitment to peace and a rejection of the barbarism that is war. Sassoon’s voice, though from a bygone era, resonates with a timeliness that is both tragic and enlightening, a call to awaken from the slumber of glorified violence and to strive for a world where such memorials are relics of a history never to be repeated.

Structure and Form

In “On Passing the New Menin Gate,” Sassoon’s free verse serves as a stark canvas, mirroring the tumultuous and disordered nature of war. The absence of a rigid structure is a deliberate choice, echoing the unpredictable and chaotic essence of the battlefield. Each line spills forth with a rawness that is unencumbered by the traditional constraints of meter and rhyme, allowing the poet’s condemnation of war to resonate more profoundly.

The brevity of the stanzas in Sassoon’s work is not merely a stylistic preference but a calculated instrument of emphasis. By distilling his verses into concentrated bursts of thought, Sassoon ensures that each word strikes with the weight of a bullet, each phrase detonates with the impact of an artillery shell. The short stanzas are like the rapid gunfire of the front lines, each one a salvo that targets the glorification of war and the monuments erected in its honour.

Sassoon’s vitriol is not reserved for the battlefield alone; it extends to the very act of remembrance. The New Menin Gate, a monument to those lost in the Great War, becomes a focal point of his scorn. Sassoon views these stone memorials as a mockery, a hollow attempt to sanitize the grim reality of war’s carnage under the guise of honour and glory. He suggests that such monuments serve as a facade, a means by which society may avert its gaze from the true horrors that they commemorate.

The poet’s language is incisive, his imagery primordial. He does not shy away from depicting the grotesque tableau of war, where men are reduced to mere entries on a roll of honour, their individuality stripped away as they are subsumed into the collective narrative of nationalism and sacrifice. Sassoon’s work is a powerful plea to the living, demanding they look past the imposing grandeur of memorial arches and recognize the individual tragedies hidden behind each name etched in stone.

“On Passing the New Menin Gate” is a powerful indictment of war and the rituals of remembrance that seek to ennoble it. The poem’s free verse structure and short stanzas are not mere poetic devices but are integral to the delivery of its message. They amplify the chaos of war and the futility of seeking to contain its horrors within the confines of stone and ceremony. Sassoon reminds us of the enduring need for a candid reckoning with the past, one that honours the dead not with edifices of stone but with a commitment to peace and the preservation of life.

Historical Context

In the wake of the Great War’s devastation, Siegfried Sassoon’s “On Passing the New Menin Gate” is not merely as a poem but as a scathing indictment of the futility and horror of war, cloaked in the solemnity of remembrance. Sassoon, with the acerbic wit of a disillusioned soldier, dismantles the glorified narrative of war. He sees the Menin Gate, not as a monument to valour, but as a mausoleum of wasted youth, an edifice built upon the broken bodies of men too young to have known life beyond the trenches.

The poem, a raw and searing commentary on the futility of war, is a masterpiece of irony. The man, who has seen the carnage firsthand, laces each line with a razor-sharp contempt, refusing to let the dead be reduced to mere symbols. Sassoon’s language is that of the educated elite, yet it is accessible, bridging the gap between the aristocratic officer and the common soldier. He employs his literary prowess to eviscerate the notion that war is noble, instead painting it as a grotesque tapestry of misguided patriotism and senseless slaughter.

Sassoon’s firsthand experiences imbue his verses with an authenticity that cannot be denied. His words are not the detached observations of a bystander, but the visceral outpourings of a man haunted by the faces of comrades whose lives were extinguished in the mud of No Man’s Land. The New Menin Gate stands as a pallbearer to their sacrifice, yet Sassoon challenges the reader to look beyond the stone and mortar, to see the gate as a grim reminder of humanity’s penchant for self-destruction.

The poem’s structure, with its abrupt transitions and jarring imagery, mirrors the chaos of battle, the unpredictability of life at the front. Sassoon’s critique is not just of the war itself but of the society that allows such conflicts to occur, of the leaders who speak of honour while sending young men to die in droves. His disdain for the romanticization of war is palpable, his syntax a weapon wielded with the precision of a veteran.

“On Passing the New Menin Gate” offers a sharp, emotional critique of war, highlighting the devastating impact it has on both individuals and the world. Sassoon, with the clarity of one who has seen the worst of human accomplishments, offers not just a criticism but a moral imperative: to remember not with a sense of pride, but with a sense of sorrow and a determination to prevent future generations from being subjected to the same horrors. It is a call to awaken from the stupor of nationalism and to recognize the shared humanity that war so callously disregards. Sassoon’s poem is a timeless reminder that the full cost of war is measured not in victories or defeats, but in the irrevocable loss of human potential.

Let Us Talk About Wipers

Why Ypres? Why fight five times over a ruined Belgian town?

In the death and glory of the Great War, people often describe the early skirmishes, yet the devil, as they say, is in the details. The Western Front, a litany of death and valour, was a stage where the old world danced its last waltz amidst the thunder of guns. A force of steel and flesh, the German juggernaut, tore through Belgium and Northern France, its thirst for conquest as insatiable as the underworld. The Allied forces, a coalition of empires and kingdoms, stood defiant, their lines bending under the onslaught but not breaking.

The Battle of Mons, an accolade to British tenacity, was but a prelude to the symphony of retreats and counterattacks that would define this war of movement. The Great Retreat, a manoeuvre as strategic as it was harrowing, saw the British and French forces withdraw over a hundred miles, a chessboard reset under the shadow of the looming Marne. Here, at the banks of this fateful river, the Allied forces stemmed the tide and halted the German advance, a mere stone’s throw from the heart of Paris.

The Race to the Sea, a term almost romantic in its euphemism, belied the grim reality of trench warfare that was to follow. It was a mad dash, a desperate bid for strategic coastal positions, where the armies moved with the desperation of men chased by the spectre of defeat. Blood stained the landscape, once a peaceful European postcard, transforming it into a checkerboard of death. Each square came at a bloody cost, and the reaper’s gaze shadowed every move.

In this grand game, the soldiers were but pawns, their aristocratic generals moving them with a detached precision that spoke of a bygone era of warfare. The cost was steep; the casualty lists grew like some grotesque tally, where the currency was human lives, and the debtors were nations. Yet, amidst the carnage, there were moments of profound humanity—acts of courage, of sacrifice — that transcended the madness that enveloped them.

As the year 1914 drew to a close, the Western Front had solidified into a line of trenches that stretched from the Swiss border to the North Sea. The war of movement had ended, and the war of attrition had begun. Churned by shell and boot, the ground bore witness to the folly of man, a warning against the hubris that led to this cataclysm. The years of stalemate that followed were now in motion, with each sunrise bringing the same grim reality and each sunset moving the world one day closer to the end of an era. The Great War, a conflict that would redefine the world, had only just begun.

The Race to the Sea

Ah, the so-called Race to the Sea, a term as ironic as it is misleading, for there was no grand sprint across the pastoral landscapes of France and Belgium. No, it was a deadly dance of military manoeuvres, where each side sought to outflank the other in a desperate bid for tactical supremacy. The German and Allied forces, locked in a macabre waltz, found themselves constrained not by the will or wit of their adversary, but by the finite geography that would soon become the stage for trench warfare’s grim debut.

The 24th of September bore witness to the German army’s aggressive push, compelling the French into a reluctant defensive posture. Meanwhile, the British Expeditionary Force, those weary travellers draped in khaki, threaded through the sinews of French communication lines, starting their fragmented offensive. The ground trembled with the incessant barrage of artillery fire, a cacophony of destruction that echoed the ambition of the Allied forces – a coalition of French and British might – as they attempted to advance to the River Lys, but the relentless German counterattacks pushed them back repeatedly.

As the armies trudged through farmer’s fields, they scarred the earth beneath them, marring it with the burgeoning networks of trenches and fortifications. These were the nascent lines of a war, the swift advance of cavalry or the bold charges of infantry would define that not, but by the slow, inexorable creep of the front lines, inching forward through mud and blood.

A victor’s laurel, but by the occupation of the last open corridor to the sea by Belgian forces, a retreat from the smouldering ruins of Antwerp marked the culmination of this so-called race not. The subsequent skirmishes across Artois and Flanders, a series of futile clashes, led to the savage engagements around Ypres, a city whose name would become synonymous with the senseless slaughter of the Great War.

In the end, the Race to the Sea was neither race nor victory. It was the prelude to a four-year-long symphony of destruction, a testament to the futility of war, and a reminder of the human cost of imperial ambitions. The trenches, those serpents of soil and sandbag, would bury a generation, and the once beautiful countryside transformed into a desolate landscape. Such is the legacy of the Race to the Sea, a chapter in military history as tragic as it is instructive.

The Five Battles of Ypres

The fields around Ypres, a once charming Belgian town, became a horrific stage for some of the most brutal battles in military history. The scene unfolds with a haunting silence, interrupted only by the distant echoes of artillery fire. Acrid gunpowder smoke hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp soil. The sight of battered landscapes and shattered buildings serves as a chilling reminder of the destruction wrought by warfare. In this desolate setting, one can almost feel the weight of the past, a tangible presence that lingers in the air. The Allied forces, an amalgamation of Belgian tenacity, French vigour, and the indomitable spirit of the British Empire, clashed with the German war machine in a series of brutal confrontations. The toll was staggering, with whispers of the fallen exceeding a million deaths.

The inaugural clash, known colloquially as the First Battle of Ypres, unfurled from the 19th of October to the 22nd of November in the year of our Lord nineteen-hundred-and-fourteen. Over 220,000 casualties resulted from the infamous Race to the Sea. The Second Battle of Ypres, which spanned from the 22nd of April to the 15th of May in nineteen-hundred-and-fifteen, marked the ghastly debut of chemical warfare, as chlorine gas choked the battlefield, claiming close to 100,000 men.

The Third Battle of Ypres, etched into history as the Battle of Passchendaele, begun on the 31st of July and drew its final breath on the 10th of November in nineteen-hundred-and-seventeen. Ranging from 400,000 to 900,000, the fluctuating casualty figures painted a grim picture of the senselessness of war. The Fourth Battle of Ypres, also known as the Battle of the Lys, unfurled its bloody petals from the seventh to the 29th of April in nineteen-hundred-and-eighteen, adding approximately 200,000 names to the roll call of the departed.

The series culminated in what is known informally as the Fifth Battle of Ypres, which lasted from September 29th to October 2nd, 1918. This series of skirmishes, also referred to as the Advance of Flanders or the Battle of the Peaks of Flanders, saw the Allied forces incur around 10,000 casualties, with the German losses shrouded in the mists of time.

The Battle of Ypres, with its five harrowing chapters, remains a grave reminder of the horrors of war, a series of engagements that reshaped the landscape, both geographically and politically, forever altering the course of human history. The echoes of the guns have long since faded, but the legacy of those who fought and fell continues to resonate through the ages.

WELL MIGHT THE DEAD WHO STRUGGLED IN THE SLIME RISE AND DERIDE THIS SEPULCHRE OF CRIME