Wilfred Owen, WWI Poet and Veteran's Day

The honor our country gives to her veterans each year on November 11^th, Veterans Day, should be recognized by every man, woman, and child living in these great United States. Originally known as Armistice Day recognizing the "end of hostilities" of the Great War, now known as World War I, ceremonies across the land are held to honor our veterans.

While the Nation honors the service of our veterans of all the armed forces, Veterans Day becomes a personal introspection for many, me included. My father served in the US Army Air Corps in WWII, and my grandfather volunteered to serve with an American ambulance corps attached to the French Army in WWI. A photograph of his section mates carrying a wounded soldier from the field of battle in France, 1918, is attached to this article.

Wilfred Owen was a British soldier and aspiring poet. His works have become the most famous to come from this war. Ironically, Owen was killed on November 4^th, a mere seven days before the Armistice was declared on November 11^th. It is reported that his parents received the news of his death as the bells rang in celebration of the end of hostilities.

As you read Dulce et Decorum Est perhaps you will feel yet another twinge of emotion reinforcing your respect for our veterans and the sacrifices that all have made throughout the years in their defense of our country. (This poem was Owen's commentary on the words of Horace: Dulce et decorem est pro patria mori -- It is sweet and fitting to die for your country.)

Dulce et Decorum Est

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 tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped 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 I 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.