Since he started his pointless war of choice against Iran,
the Kleptocrat has apparently discovered that a lot of wars in history have
lasted years. This he finds agreeable, because he’s able to compare a war
lasting (so far) eight weeks favorably against ones that last four, six or 18 years
(World War I, World War II, Vietnam—although the last seems to vary in his mind;
that appears as whatever two-digit number that pops into the porridge that
occupies his cranium).
He still expects that Nobel Peace Prize, dammit.
The First World War is one of my research concentration
areas as a military historian. It was a cataclysmic convergence of
technological advances, imperial and nationalistic
policies, and just plain unfuckingbelievable stupidity. What a
way to usher in the 20th Century, eh?
Rather oddly, a lot of poetry came out of those four
years—at least amongst the British forces. Robert Graves, Rupert Brooke,
Siegfried Sassoon are a few of the best-known. My favorite, though, is Wilfred
Owen, who was killed in action just seven days before the Armistice of 11
November 1918.
It’s hard to choose which of his poems to share; every one
of them puts you through some horror that the Western Front vomited forth to
everyone in the vicinity of the trenches. “Anthem
for Doomed Youth” could be applied to any soldiers of any war
But the first poem of Owen's I ever read was “Dulce et
Decorum est”, so that’s what I’m giving you.
One of the examples of monumental stupidity during that war
was the use of lethal gas, either delivered via artillery or just released.
It’s like the morons running the show never considered that they were
surrounded by winds, which can shift and send your hot-shot latest
chemical weapon…well, anywhere, including through your own lines.
Chlorine, phosgene, mustard and other types were all deployed by
armies on both sides. They caused serious damage to individual pulmonary
systems without having any serious effect on strategy. The descriptions of
poison gas victims are not for the faint of heart: imagine being
blind and feeling your lungs being on fire even as they fill up
with fluid and drown you.
The green referenced in the poem is chlorine
gas. One of the effects of chlorine gas was to react with fluid in the
lungs to form hydrochloric acid, which caused death, or (at a minimum)
permanent scarring of the lung tissue. In smaller doses, it caused irritation
of the eyes, coughing and vomiting. Chlorine's green clouds made it less
effective over time because it could be seen; chemists quickly iterated to come
up with something invisible.
But, hey, good news: there are still stockpiles of poison
gas on hand in nations around the world, in case someone wants to start a war
of territorial expansion. It's a mark of progress, I guess. (Saddam Hussein
used it in his war against Iran back in the last century.)
BTW—Cadet Bonespurs famously declined to visit an American WWI
cemetery during the Centenary commemoration of the end of that war, because the
weather was inclement and he couldn’t fathom why they would have given the last
full measure of devotion, since there wasn’t really anything in it for them.
In this poem Owen describes the aftermath of such an
attack. It, also, is not for the faint of heart. It would do our white Christian nationalist glory hound SecDef some good to read it; like that'll ever happen.
“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 disappointed shells 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 floundering 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.
If you’re unfamiliar with the final line, it’s from an ode
by the Roman poet Horace. It translates roughly to, “It is
sweet and fitting to die for one’s country”
©2026 Bas Bleu
