Lest We Forget: Do not Swallow the Old Lie

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood shod. All went lame; all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys! —An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime. —

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight,

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin;

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues, —

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

Bent Double like old Beggars

Wilfred Owen’s opening stanza thrusts us into the visceral reality of trench warfare. The soldiers are depicted not as heroic figures, but as “old beggars under sacks,” highlighting their physical and mental exhaustion. This imagery powerfully conveys the degradation and dehumanisation experienced by troops on the front lines.

The comparison to “old beggars” and “coughing like hags” vividly captures the debilitating fatigue and illnesses that plagued soldiers. Trench foot, a condition caused by prolonged exposure to damp, unsanitary conditions, often led to severe infections and, in extreme cases, amputation. The constant wet and frigid conditions exacerbated respiratory illnesses, leaving those soldiers that survived perpetually sick.

The soldiers’ boots, worn and lost in the harsh terrain, led them to limp “blood shod.” This phrase starkly illustrates the agony of marching on wounded, blistered feet. In World War I, soldiers often marched for miles through thick mud, carrying heavy packs and equipment, which only compounded their suffering. The mud was so pervasive that it swallowed boots and even whole men on occasion.

The line “Men marched asleep” underscores the severe sleep deprivation. Soldiers were often on the move or on guard duty for days with little to no rest. Fatigue was so overpowering that it dulled their senses and reactions, rendering them vulnerable to enemy attacks and accidents. The relentless bombardments and the constant threat of attack meant that sleep was a rare and fitful luxury.

The reference to being “deaf even to the hoots of gas-shells dropping softly behind” alludes to the constant threat of artillery and chemical weapons. Soldiers lived with the perpetual fear of gas attacks, which required them to carry and fumble with gas masks. The use of chlorine, mustard gas, and other chemical agents caused excruciating deaths and left survivors with lingering respiratory issues and blindness. The ceaseless shelling not only caused physical injuries but also led to “shell shock,” a condition now recognized as PTSD.

Today, the horrors of trench warfare echo in modern conflict zones where soldiers and civilians alike face extreme conditions and constant danger. In places like Syria and Yemen, the relentless shelling, lack of medical care, and severe humanitarian crises remind us of war’s brutal reality remains unchanged. Civilians live in fear of airstrikes, reminiscent of the soldiers who dreaded the gas-shells in Owen’s poem.

By peeling back the romanticised veneer of war, Owen forces us to confront its grim truth: war is not noble or glorious, but a relentless grind of suffering and survival.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!

In this stanza, Owen thrusts us into the immediacy and panic of a gas attack, evoking a visceral sense of chaos and terror. The sudden exclamation, “Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!” propels us into a frenzied moment, capturing the soldiers’ desperate scramble to don their gas masks.

When inhaled, chlorine gas reacts with the moisture in the lungs to form hydrochloric acid, causing severe respiratory distress. Victims experience a burning sensation in their throat and lungs, intense coughing, and difficulty breathing, often leading to suffocation. Imagine breathing in fire, with each gasp bringing a searing pain that feels like inhaling shards of glass.

Eyes exposed to chlorine gas suffer intense irritation, leading to tearing, redness, and temporary blindness. The victims stumble blindly, their vision obscured by a watery haze, as if drowning in a toxic fog.

Chlorine gas can also cause chemical burns on the skin, leaving painful, blistered areas. The feeling is akin to being scorched by acid, a relentless burning that eats away at the flesh.

Mustard gas inflicts severe blistering on contact. The skin reddens and forms large, painful blisters that burst and become infected. It is a slow, agonizing process, with the initial exposure often going unnoticed until the painful blisters begin to erupt.

When inhaled, mustard gas causes acute respiratory issues, including coughing, shortness of breath, and severe damage to the mucous membranes. Victims feel as if their lungs are being slowly corroded from the inside.

Eyes exposed to mustard gas suffer intense pain, swelling, and potential blindness. The gas attacks the delicate tissues, causing them to swell shut in a desperate attempt to block out the toxic assault.

Despite the international agreements banning chemical warfare, such as the Chemical Weapons Convention, the use of poisonous gases has persisted:

Iraq-Iran War (1980-1988): Iraq used mustard gas and nerve agents against Iranian forces and Kurdish civilians. The infamous Halabja chemical attack in 1988 resulted in thousands of civilian deaths.

Syrian Civil War (2011-present): Various reports and investigations have documented the use of chlorine gas and sarin by the Syrian government against rebel-held areas, causing significant civilian casualties and international outrage.

Yemen (ongoing): Allegations have surfaced regarding the use of chemical weapons by various factions involved in the conflict, though verifiable evidence remains sparse.

The haunting imagery of Owen’s words serves as a timeless reminder of the horrors of chemical warfare. It compels us to remember that the suffering caused by these weapons extends far beyond the battlefield, leaving lingering scars on both survivors and society. In a world where the use of such weapons continues, the poet’s cry against the inhumanity of war resonates with undiminished power.

Dreams Before my Helpless Sight

Owen’s third stanza lingers in the tormenting aftermath of the gas attack, capturing the relentless haunting of a soldier’s psyche. The poet’s dreams are not sanctuaries but nightmarish realms where the gruesome death of a comrade replays incessantly, a living hellscape etched into his memory.

The image of a soldier “guttering, choking, drowning” is a heart-wrenching indictment of the brutality and futility of war. This line is a poignant reminder that the victims of warfare are not only those who perish on the battlefield but also those who survive, forever scarred by the horrors they have witnessed. Owen’s dreams are saturated with the agonizing reality of war, where no amount of heroism can wash away the blood and terror.

The word “guttering” evokes the image of a dying flame, flickering and struggling for life, like the soldier in the throes of death. This metaphor is strikingly vivid, illustrating the fragility of life amidst the machinery of war. In an era where the glorification of battle was rampant, Owen’s portrayal of a dying soldier gasping for breath serves as a powerful counter-narrative, a plea for humanity to recognise the full cost of conflict.

The repetition of “choking, drowning” further intensifies the horror. These words encapsulate the sheer helplessness and agony experienced by soldiers subjected to chemical warfare. It is as if the very essence of life is being cruelly snatched away, one agonizing breath at a time. The imagery of drowning in a sea of gas not only highlights the physical torment but also the psychological suffocation that soldiers endure long after the battle has ended.

In today’s world, the echoes of Owen’s anti-war message resonate with undiminished urgency. The ongoing conflicts across the globe continue to inflict unimaginable suffering on millions, both on the frontlines and within civilian populations. The harrowing scenes in Syria, where chemical weapons have been used against civilians, serve as a grim reminder that the horrors Owen described are not confined to history but are a present and persistent reality.

The poet’s dreams are a testament to the enduring trauma of war, a call to remember the human cost that transcends the boundaries of time and geography. Owen’s words demand that we confront the stark truth: war is not a stage for glory, but a pit of suffering that ensnares all who come near.

Behind the Wagon

Owen’s final stanza is a relentless denouncement of the romanticised notion of war. It is a plea, a harrowing testament to the grotesque reality faced by soldiers. In this stanza, Owen conjures the image of a nightmare, urging those who glorify war to witness the true face of its horrors.

Imagine the smothering dreams Owen describes a purgatory where one cannot escape the sight of death, where the writhing of the gas-poisoned soldier haunts every thought. The “white eyes writhing in his face” evoke the grotesque, almost supernatural agony inflicted by war—a vision that should sear the conscience of any who advocate for its glory. This image, as vivid as it is horrifying, is a stark reminder that the victims of war are not abstract heroes but flesh and blood, writhing in their last moments.

Owen’s depiction of the soldier’s “hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin,” is a powerful metaphor for the moral corruption of war. It is not just the soldier who suffers, but the very essence of humanity that is debased. The reference to blood “gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs” paints a visceral picture of the aftermath of gas warfare, where every breath is a struggle, a slow descent into death.

The comparison to “cancer” and “incurable sores” strips away any veneer of nobility associated with war. It is a disease, a blight upon the innocent, inflicted by those who send young men to their deaths with promises of glory. The “bitter cud” of this reality is vastly different from the sanitised narratives fed to the public.

While the soldiers endure this living hell, politicians and generals often remain removed from the immediate carnage. In the safety of their offices and war rooms, they discuss strategies and make decisions that send others into the fray. For them, war can be an abstract concept, a matter of numbers and outcomes, devoid of the intimate suffering experienced by those on the front lines.

Politicians that never set foot on a battlefield, speak of sacrifice and duty, wrapped in the comfort of their positions of power. They rally the nation with speeches that glorify service, yet they are insulated from the blood and pain that their decisions bring about. Their vision of war is often shaped by ideological beliefs and political objectives rather than the raw reality of combat.

Even those with military experience, often operate at a strategic level, far from the immediate danger. Their decisions, while informed by tactical and operational needs, are made with a certain detachment. They plan offensives and defences, balancing risks, and rewards, yet the immediate consequences— the deaths, the maiming, the suffering—are borne by the soldiers they command.

Today, as wars continue to rage in various parts of the world, the disconnect between decision-makers and those who withstand the worst of conflict persists. In conflicts like those in Syria, Yemen, and Ukraine, it is often civilians and rank-and-file soldiers who suffer the most, while political leaders negotiate and strategize from afar.

Owen’s closing lines, calling out “the old Lie” that “Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori,” challenge us to reject the glorification of war. The phrase, which translates to “It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country,” is revealed as a bitter falsehood. The genuine cost of war is measured in human lives, shattered bodies, and scarred souls.

In a world where the drumbeat of war still resounds, Owen’s words echo with an urgent clarity: the glory of battle is a cruel illusion, and the price paid by those on the front lines is far too high. The responsibility of remembering and honouring this truth falls upon us all, to ensure that the horrors faced by those like Owen and his comrades are never repeated in blind pursuit of so-called noble causes.

Dulce et Decorum Est Pro Patria Mori

Ah, the old Lie: “Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori”—”It is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country.” What a grotesque masquerade of honour and glory, spun by those who sit in gilded halls, far removed from the blood-soaked trenches and the cries of the dying. This phrase, this insidious mantra, is nothing but a gilded poison, a siren song luring the young and the brave to their untimely graves.

Imagine the generals and politicians, those rear-echelon motherfuckers, who craft these lies with silver tongues while they sip their champagne and toast to victories won by the blood of others. They are the architects of death, cloaked in the finery of their offices, untouched by the mud, the gas, the relentless shellfire. They speak of sacrifice and duty, yet their hands remain clean, their consciences unburdened by the weight of the lives they so casually expend.

These men, who have never felt the searing pain of shrapnel or the suffocating grip of mustard gas, dare to preach the nobility of dying for one’s country. They send others to the front lines, to the slaughter, while they remain ensconced in safety, their only battles fought over strategy maps and political manoeuvring. They are the true cowards, hiding behind their desks, insulated from the horrors they unleash.

The soldiers, the true heroes, are left to grapple with the reality of war—their bodies broken, their minds scarred. They march through hell, not for glory, but for survival, driven by the primal instinct to live another day. They are the ones who bear the actual cost of war, their lives shattered by the very lie that those in power perpetuate.

And what of the aftermath? The politicians and generals return to their comfortable lives, their reputations intact, while the soldiers are left to pick up the pieces. They are haunted by the ghosts of their comrades, plagued by nightmares and memories that no amount of time can erase. The old Lie continues to echo, a cruel reminder of the betrayal they endured.

In today’s world, this lie persists, dressed in new rhetoric but no less deadly. Leaders speak of patriotism and duty, yet the reality remains unchanged. The young are still sent to die in wars conceived in the minds of those who will never face the consequences. The cycle of sacrifice and suffering continues, fuelled by the same deceitful promise of honour and glory.

So let us tear down this lie, expose it for the vile deception it is. Let us remember the genuine cost of war, paid in the blood and lives of those who deserve far better than to be pawns in the games of the powerful. Let us honour the fallen not with empty platitudes, but with a commitment to seek peace and justice, to ensure that no more lives are wasted in the name of a hollow ideal.

Reflections on Armistice Day: Honouring Loss Over Deeds

Armistice Day, November 11th, marks a solemn occasion to remember the end of World War I—a conflict that wrought unimaginable suffering and devastation. As we gather each year to honour this day, it is crucial to focus not on the glorified tales of battles fought and victories claimed, but on the profound loss and the human cost of war.

Too often, our commemorations risk veering into territory that venerates the deeds of war rather than lamenting its tragic consequences. While it is natural to acknowledge acts of bravery, we must remember that these acts were born out of necessity in the face of horror, not from a pursuit of glory. The true focus of Armistice Day should be on the lives lost, the families torn apart, and the societies scarred by the ravages of conflict.

The millions of soldiers who perished, the civilians caught in the crossfire, and the countless lives forever altered by physical and psychological wounds—they are the true subjects of our remembrance. We must honour their memory by recognising the futility of war and committing ourselves to peace. It is a disservice to the fallen to romanticise their sacrifices without acknowledging the pain and destruction that war inevitably brings.

It is imperative to call out those who, from positions of power and safety, continue to stoke the flames of conflict. Politicians and leaders who preach patriotism and valour from the comfort of their offices, sending others to die while they sip champagne, are the true architects of tragedy. They invoke the old Lie—Dulce et decorum est Pro patria mori—to justify their agendas, all the while remaining insulated from the bloodshed their decisions cause.

These war mongers, who see human lives as mere pawns in their geopolitical games, must be held accountable. Their rhetoric of honour and duty masks the grim reality of war, perpetuating cycles of violence that devastate generations. By glorifying combat, they obscure the suffering it entails, and in doing so, they betray the very people they claim to serve.

As we stand in silent reflection on Armistice Day, let our thoughts be with those who suffered and died. Let our ceremonies be a testament to the necessity of peace, a call to reject the glorification of war in all its forms. We should celebrate not the deeds of war, but the enduring human spirit that seeks to rise above conflict, the resilience of communities rebuilding in the aftermath, and the relentless pursuit of peace.

Our wreaths of poppies should symbolize not just remembrance, but a vow to strive for a world where such loss is no longer necessary. We must educate future generations about the genuine cost of war, ensuring that the lessons of the past are not forgotten. Let Armistice Day be a day of profound reflection, a day when we pledge to work towards a world where the horrors of war are a distant memory.

By honouring loss over deeds, we affirm our commitment to peace and justice. We honour the memory of those who suffered by vowing to prevent such suffering from recurring. In doing so, we not only pay tribute to the past but also pave the way for a more hopeful future.

REMF