Arguably our greatest war poet Wilfred Owen wrote this poem focusing in particular on one moment in the First World War, when Owen and his platoon are attacked with poison gas. ‘Dulce et Decorum Est’ is a studied analysis of suffering and perhaps the most famous anti-war poem ever written. The full title of the poem is 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori', which is Latin for ‘it is sweet and fitting to die for one’s country’. Need I say more? This year is the centenary of the end of the First World War - Wear Your Poppy With Pride.
'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 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.
Written by
sufferer2
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Owen was killed in action on 4 November 1918 during the crossing of the Sambre–Oise Canal, exactly one week (almost to the hour) before the signing of the Armistice which ended the war, and was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant the day after his death. His mother received the telegram informing her of his death on Armistice Day, as the church bells in Shrewsbury were ringing out in celebration
Indeed what you say is oh so sadly true and his death must have come as an awful shock to his poor, poor mother. It is interesting to note that though there are several memorials and plaques dedicated to Wilfred in Oswestry and around the Shropshire area it has taken Oswestry (where he was born) 100 years to erect a properly fitting memorial of a Bronze Statue to him (designed by local artist Tim Turner) in Cae Glas Park. I bet it doesn't take them 100 years to erect a staue whenever a civic dignitary shuffles off this mortal coil. What think you my friend?
My mom's brother, Edward Gish, arrived at Demarcation Hospital #5, in Hampton Rds., Virginia on March 28, 1919, and passed away on March 29, 1919. Like his contemporaries, and as Owen writes, Uncle Ed was gassed in a forest and was hospitalized, I believe Mom said, in Paris, where he remained until the Army could ship him home. My ma was a widow, my mom her oldest child at home. It was up to the two of them to get Uncle's body home from Virginia. A daunting task facing two women whose hearts were crushed, they learned quickly that they would not face the sad task alone. The respect and honor my uncle received from this, his community was still palpable 81 years later as a local WWII hero recited to me the events surrounding Uncle's return home and his funera. I arrived 24 years later, in the chaos of WWII. Owen's words cause me to even better understand the hardships faced by Uncle in that long ago War. I have often wondered if he could have been waiting just long enough to reach his home shores to pass over into Heaven. Thx for publishing it. Jan
Hi Jan, Like your Uncle Ed my father William (who served in the Worcester Royal Artillery having joined at 16 years of age due to all the hype that it was right to fight and die for your country) got gassed. His platoon were in positions on the Western bank of the Yser canal (a couple of kilometres North of Ypres) when, on September 11th 1917, a day described in the War Diaries as "uneventful," the Brigade lost 8 men killed when a gas shell struck the entrance to their dugout. Fortunately my father wasn't in the dugout, but received a dose of gas from the same shell. In a way he was one of the lucky ones and survived the war but, as a child, I vividly remember him sitting in front of the fire coughing and spitting to try and clear the mucus that built up in his chest and lungs. I never remember him as being a well man and he passed away Easter Sunday 1968 aged 69 years of age having spent the last 3 years of his life house-bound due to having suffered a stroke. I was 18 at the time.
So, as you no doubt realise, this poem is particulary poigent to me and, I believe, describes the evil, wicked and vile suffering that these poor soles went through.
As a footnote it was written in response to the jingoistic pro-war verses being written by people like Jessie Pope. Indeed, Pope is the ‘friend’ whom Owen addresses directly in the closing lines of the poem. It remains Owen’s best-known poem and perhaps his greatest statement about the war.
All the best to you Jan, may the Good Lord watch over you, Kind Regards, Eric 🙋
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