If from this maelstrom I survive, By pen and prose and poetry
I'll keep your sacrifice alive, I spoke to you of legacy
For when this hellish time is through, all those who hauled or charged or carried
Will be regarded heroes too
Some time ago, I received an email from Malcolm, a valued contributor here on patriotrealm.com
It said, so simply:
When Dad was in France in 1917 he was a driver of horses, and moved an 8 pounder gun around.
After the war they were not allowed to bring their horses home to Australia and many of them had the awful task of shooting them rather than leave them to a cruel life.
I had never spoken to him about this, and wonder if this cruel task was ever placed on his shoulders.
There is so much as youngsters we do not realise, and most of those men were understandably reluctant to talk about it anyway.
I saw this today …. and now it is difficult to stop the tears.
Like Malcolm, I was struck by the depth of human emotion in these words and sought to learn more about this particular man and the time he served our Nation of Australia and served in the protection of our freedoms.
Little did I know that it would take me down a path of such sadness and pride; such emotional energy that I would take weeks to finally sit at the keyboard and start to type.
Let me also proudly declare that I love animals and am grateful for the devotion and work they perform for us and with us.
So many military dogs and horses have died in war that they are often the unsung heroes.
Only recently we saw the disgraceful abandonment of United States Military Dogs in Afghanistan: how those dogs deserved so much better and who knows what they endured after their abandonment.
So I looked down through over one hundred years and arrived in France in 1916.
Many of the horses that survived the Middle Eastern Campaign were shipped to India or to France.
Malcolm’s father was an experienced horseman but I have been unable to find out where his horse came from.
However, Malcolm Snr, a young man in 1916, had followed his brother Gilbert to war and had hoped to meet up with him in Europe and embrace him and no doubt enjoy brotherly comradeship.
Sadly, Gilbert perished on 5th August 1916 at Villers-Bretonneux, Picardie, France and they were destined to not meet again on this earth.
Gilbert is recorded on the Roll of Honour at the Australian War Memorial Museum.
The young men who left for war over a century ago were full of hope and excitement.
They were proud young Australians and Patriots. They marched off to war and either perished in the mud of the battlefield or came home as different people.
Damaged, quietened, silenced in the turmoil that must have been their minds and memories of tragedy.
Yet their horses and the loyalty that these proud beasts displayed is so often forgotten.
We owe so much to those who are thanked so little.
I ask that we all stop and think for a moment:
When brothers band together for the sake of patriotism and suffer so much for those of us who stay at home to keep “ the home fires burning “
Do we not all serve and stand and wait?
The women that marry those wounded men and nurse them back to health as best they can by loving them and tending their heartache in the lonely dark hours…. Are they not just as brave as the men who went to the front line? And these women kept the home fires burning.
Are our dogs and cats and horses who sleep beside us, serve us in our worst moments … are they not just as great?
For if you want to have a true “ we are all in this together “ moment, it is, in my opinion, that, when the chips are down, it is the help we get from others that gives us strength to carry on.
Without the Brothers in Arms, the buddy who has your back and the dog or horse who shares your load – could we cope with the burden?
So I leave you with this.
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I SPOKE TO YOU IN WHISPERS
By Neil Andrew
I spoke to you in whispers
As shells made the ground beneath us quake
We both trembled in that crater
A toxic muddy bloody lake
I spoke to you and pulled your ears
To try and quell your fearful eye
As bullets whizzed through the raindrops
And we watched the men around us die
I spoke to you in stable tones
A quiet tranquil voice
At least I volunteered to fight
You didn't get to make the choice
I spoke to you of old times
Perhaps you went before the plough
And pulled the haycart from the meadow
Far from where we're dying now
I spoke to you of grooming
Of when the ploughman made you shine
Not the shrapnel wounds and bleeding flanks
Mane filled with mud and wire and grime
I spoke to you of courage
As gas filled the Flanders air
Watched you struggle in the mud
Harness acting like a snare
I spoke to you of peaceful fields
Grazing beneath a setting sun
Time to rest your torn and tired body
Your working day is done
I spoke to you of promises
If from this maelstrom I survive
By pen and prose and poetry
I'll keep your sacrifice alive
I spoke to you of legacy
For when this hellish time is through
All those who hauled or charged or carried
Will be regarded heroes too
I spoke to you in dulcet tones
Your eye told me you understood
As I squeezed my trigger to bring you peace
The the only way I could
And I spoke to you in whispers......
And if you want to weep,
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