Armistice Day
At the eleventh hours of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, ninety-four years ago to the day, 11 November 1918, the Armistice silenced the guns on the Western Front. 'Twas not yet a peace, but 'twas no longer a war. But for a few trifling details, such as the lives of the ten of thousands who would perish as the German, Austro-Hungarian, Ottoman, & Russian Empires convulsed & disintegrated, the Great War was ended. A world met its grisly demise in the four unspeakable years of the Weltkrieg; a generation was lost, slaughtered or otherwise broken in body & spirit; the cultures, morals, & societies for which that doomed generation fought & died perished with them. We are, all of us, maimed by the First World War. We have never recovered what was lost, we have never found our way again, we have never restored our faith. We are, all of us, maimed, even unto the present day. We dare not forget those dark & terrible years, we dare not, lest we fall victim to those same dreadful mistakes. We dare not think ourselves immune to the same folly, we dare not, lest we hasten its repetition. Lest we forget.


"Achilles in the Trench"
by Patrick Shaw-Stewart (1888-1917)*

I saw a man this morning
Who did not wish to die;
I ask, and cannot answer,
If otherwise wish I.

Fair broke the day this morning
Upon the Dardanelles:
The breeze blew soft, the morn's cheeks
Were cold as cold sea-shells.

But other shells are waiting
Across the Aegean Sea,
Shrapnel and high explosives,
Shells and hells for me.

Oh Hell of ships and cities,
Hell of men like me,
Fatal second Helen,
Why must I follow thee?

Achilles came to Troyland,
And I to Chersonese;
He turned from wrath to battle,
And I from three days' peace.

Was it so hard, Achilles,
So very hard to die?
Thou knowest, and I know not;
So much the happier am I.

I will go back this morning
From Imbros o'er the sea.
Stand in the trench, Achilles,
Flame-capped, and shout for me.





"On Receiving News of the War"
by Isaac Rosenberg (1890-1918)

Snow is a strange white word.
No ice or frost
Has asked of bud or bird
For Winter's cost.

Yet ice and frost and snow
From earth to sky
This Summer land doth know.
No man knows why.

In all men's hearts it is.
Some spirit old
Hath turned with malign kiss
Our lives to mould.

Red fangs have torn His face.
God's blood is shed.
He mourns from His lone place
His children dead.

O! ancient crimson curse!
Corrode, consume.
Give back this universe
Its pristine bloom.




*Poetry has been a part of The Secret Base's commemoration of Armistice Day since '07. Both of this year's poets, Patrick Shaw-Stewart & Isaac Rosenberg, were killed in the Great War. We have also spotlighted the poets John McCrae, Wilfred Owen, Rudyard Kipling, Rupert Brooke, Laurence Binyon, & Robert Graves; McCrae (1872-1918), Owen (1893-1918), & Brooke (1887-1915) all died in uniform during the Great War.

The Explorers' Club
№ CCCXIV - The Fokker D.VII, the best fighter plane of the Great War.







The Rebel Black Dot Song of Armistice Day
Dropkick Murphys, "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya" from The Meanest of Times (T.L.A.M.)

Commentary: The tune of my beloved "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" originated with the unambiguously anti-war song, "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye," here presented in a punk rock rendition, slightly retitled as "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya," by Dropkick Murphys.