The Trench Dog

France
Somme
1916

Seventeenth birthday and he celebrated by eating two pieces of stale hard candy instead of one hidden in an oilskin pocket of his rucksack. Thank you God for letting me see this day even though you must be busy as f----. § In the infantry supposedly formed by one of the Royals for almost two years now. Beat the odds so far. Don’t bear to think about how the dice are being rolled. Rolled them himself way back when he run off the farm, nothing but dumb sheep and dumber chickens along with someone calling herself his mother who had whipped him like she did the plough horse – poor old Steady – and see what the tumble got you: stupid officers and stupider orders and no better off than you had been before. § But he obeyed the orders, managed not to run when he received the terrible fire, sent some back – who knows where just pull the godd--- trigger – and hurled only twice when he saw the first dead body, torn into quarters and the lowest piece hanging from branch stubs  of a ruined tree alongside a few rotting peaches. None of that fruit for him ever after. Lots of tin food: beans and peas, stews that would make a starving mule flinch, beans and soups, beans. Dried salt beef (maybe the mule) and hardtack. The rare pudding – where the hell had that come from? Lime juice to keep the remaining teeth in his head and tea, always tea, enough tea to put bees in his ears and make his hands shake. § In between, taught only what the officers want him to know. Nothing complicated, nothing smart – soon enough he would be dead, and education was useless to a corpse. What he learned was to march and salute, just so; instant obedience to orders and never mind why or what; no talking; how to clean and shoot and shoot and shoot the rifle issued, and how to dig holes for sleeping and for his scat and piss and for the dead. § He had been punished for mistakes, sometimes his, more often, not. He had been beaten because it pleased the man beating him. He never heard a word of praise. He bent his back and bowed his head, and stayed ever on the watch for the enemy. That meant the ones from the other country. But as the fighting continued he took to thinking it was anyone who threatened him and never mind which uniform which flag, it was whoever said the words called ‘orders’ and wouldn’t explain why, it was whoever kept treating him like a dog to be used any which way. Dogs bite, he thought as he worked the bolt and fired again and again, dogs bite and go for the throat—

Poetic Observations • 6

.         .         .
Further than fame
are fleas and visions,
the hermit's cave
under the mountain
.         .         .

From Song: Further than Hoy
George Mackay Brown

St Patrick's Day

By all means, on this day lift a favorite beverage in a toast, dance and sing to the extraordinary place called Ireland and the remarkable people who inhabit it.                                                                                                But please, remember that it is, above all, the day celebrating the man called Patrick - taken from his home at the age of sixteen and made a slave, surviving years of base servitude by holding fast to his faith in the most trying circumstances. He risked his mortal life by escaping, walking hundreds of miles across the country until he reaches a harbor and talks his way aboard a boat, eventually reaching Britain, and home.
   The trial seems to strengthen his faith and encourages him to return - return, of all things - to the land of his captivity, bringing forgiveness and God’s love. The rest you know.
   The day given to Patrick, freeborn, then a slave, then free again to help others walk into the light.
   Bless him.                            

In the Lion's Mouth • 1

There was no real warning of what was about to happen. The occupation was hated and there was an undercurrent of tension and restlessness no less bearable for being longstanding. Recruiting agents for the Imperial armed forces, under pressure from their superiors to fill perpetual levies for the war that would eventually devour millions, roamed the city using every method short of outright kidnapping to meet the need. The native language was still forbidden; a school teaching it was closed, to speak it at work meant instant dismissal and no hope of finding another job. Informers were everywhere, some paid, others eager to ingratiate themselves with the ones holding power.  Families  divided even as they struggled       to feed and clothe themselves and keep the landlord at bay. Once, people claimed they could actually hear an artillery barrage from the front on the continent, and might‘nt that mean that the enemy was on the verge, at last, of defeat? Some dared to state that the enemy of the occupiers was not their enemy. They looked around carefully before saying so. The faithful continued to fill the churches, praying they would be delivered from their illnesses, their torments and their doubts. A few prayed that what they had planned would succeed,   and forever change. What they knew was about to take place was a secret held by them. Revealing it too soon could lead to their deaths. Acting upon it probably would. 

The Rebellion

This April marks the 100th anniversary of the Easter Rebellion in Ireland, 1916.

This revolt against British occupation and rule in Eire first took hold of my imagination when I was in my late 'teens. It immediately became part of a private collection of large and small moments in history that I find instructive and intensely moving; for example, the American Civil War, the Paris Commune, the U.S.S. Constitution against what seemed like the entire Royal Navy, and many many more. It accompanies my passion for traditional gaelic music and fueled a need for a greater understanding of the long and complex relationship between two countries that have always fascinated me. Then, too, a fair number of my ancestors have come from the countries involved, and emigrated "across the pond" because their lives were in danger from both rulers and others being ruled.

During the next few months there will be a number of posts about different aspects of this. I know that for many it might as well be ancient history. But consider this: I am by no means an ancient, and one month before the Rebellion ignited my father was born.